A Horse Called El Dorado (8 page)

I began to visit the Travellers on their halting site. Old man Tansey, the father of the three red-haired boys, let me ride Starlight bareback around the field. He had a broad grin with no teeth, and always wore a woolly cap on his head. Sometimes his mother, The Witch Tansey, came out of the caravan wearing her shawl over her head and pointed at me with one finger while the other finger pointed at the sky.

‘I can see it all, sonny, both up here and down below,’ she would cackle. ‘At night it’s up above for the likes of me to plainly see.’ I had trouble understanding her a lot of the time. ‘You’re a horsey boy, but maybe your people don’t know and you should tell ’em,’ she would point and stare at me meaningfully.

I got on well with the Tanseys. They told me a lot about trees and plants, and how to predict the weather by watching the clouds and the way that birds change their positions in the sky. The boys showed me fox holes, birds’ nests and places where rabbits and hares roamed. It was amazing how much they knew about nature, but they shook their heads when they talked about nearby towns and ‘settled’ people with all their houses, roads
and cars. I was able to ride Starlight any afternoon I wanted after school, once I filled her water bucket and gave her a rub down. I sometimes brought her a few apples from Grandma.

Grandad had phoned a place called Abbeyvale House in Clonwell, County Kildare, and a couple of weeks later we set off after breakfast for a visit. I didn’t mind where we were going, if it could get me out of my hated school.

CHASE, the school in Abbeyvale House, was a bit scary at first, with its big gates, long driveway and big, serious-looking buildings. There was a sign on the front of the main building which read ‘Countrywide Horse Association Standards & Education’. Grandad had made an appointment and he went inside while I took a quick look around. There were a few horses in a paddock not far off. They were well groomed, lean and fiery-looking. I thought that if I mounted one of those creatures, we might almost take off for the stars. I could feel the energy and the power in them.

Through an archway out of an enclosed yard came three young lads about my age. They eyed me briefly without saying anything as they passed, each carrying a polished saddle, with metal stirrups attached by leather straps. They wore riding caps with goggles around the rims, breeches, jerkins with zips up the front and black boots, a bit like the wellingtons Grandma and Grandad wore around the farm, but
much better-fitting and far shinier. The three young
jockeys
had just been for a late-morning gallop, at least that’s what I heard them say.

I was in a trance staring at everything as Grandad came over with another man. He introduced himself as Paddy Deveraux, and shook my hand. A small, springy man, he had been a jockey himself once, as I later found out.

‘So, you want to give us a try, Pepe? You rode in no less than Colombia? The Colombian Gold Cup?’ he joked, looking me up and down. ‘Well, now, you’re grand and wiry, like a greyhound.’

‘He’s a good steady fellow,’ said Grandad, smiling at me as if to say, ‘this sizing up of you will not take long.’

Paddy Deveraux disappeared around a corner of a building and called to someone, then returned to us.

‘Ah, damn, I thought I’d get a horse for twenty
minutes
, but they are being fed and watered. It’s buckets and brushes, oats and hay at this time of the day.’ He glanced at the complicated-looking watch on his wrist. It had little dials and buttons all over it.

‘Listen, go up to reception’ – he pointed and Grandad nodded – ‘You can get an application form and a
brochure
there. You should really get Pepe to come here for our open day in three weeks. Then he can get a mount and show us all what he’s got.’ He smiled and was soon gone around the building and out of sight.

Our talk in the Landrover on the way home never strayed
from one topic: horses. Grandad tried to think back to what his sister had once told him about the Carrolls and horsemanship. ‘While I can hardly say that any of us was born in the saddle, I think we had at least two ancestors who went to the races and the dogs,’ he said.

‘Did you ever ride a horse, Grandad?’ I asked him.

‘Oh, that I did, Pepe. I rode the odd nag, here and there, in the times when horses were used for ploughing. But when I was about your age, I rode to the hunt one Stephen’s Day – that’s the day after Christmas. You see, one of the locals had the ’flu, and there was a spare mount. I tell you, I jumped at it. That was the first time I tasted hot punch. By God, that was the day.’

We rolled along through the lush Kildare landscape. The Curragh, with its wide, green plains, looked as though it was designed for galloping across. We arrived back to Fordstown full of ‘the big plan’. I was very excited, but Grandad was cautious in order to avoid my being disappointed. ‘We must think about what to write in your application form,’ he said. ‘That is the next step.’ After that, I would have to prepare for the open day at CHASE. I didn’t have much time and I would need plenty of practice.

Grandad borrowed a saddle and a halter from a
neighbour
– I had never used one before, and it would take some getting used to. The Tanseys laughed when they saw me arrive the following afternoon with the
battered-looking
saddle – they also always rode bareback. But Old
Man Tansey helped me to fit it on to Starlight and every day after that I practised with it, trotting, cantering and galloping around the fields and along the road.

I was nervous on the morning of the open day. I wanted to wear my straw hat with the horses on it, but Grandma said that it might look a bit odd. When we arrived, my name was ticked off a list and I was given a proper jockey’s cap with a safety helmet inside it, in case I took a tumble. Grandma, Grandad and I watched as other hopefuls rode around the gallops at Abbeyvale House. When it was my turn, Paddy Deveraux was nearby and gave me a leg up into the saddle.

‘She’s a trusted mare,’ he whispered to me. ‘Talk to her with your legs and hands, d’you follow? Give her a “hoosh”; she’ll know what to do.’ He told me to find a rhythm, and to pick up on the horse’s rhythm. I was to take her into a trot, then a canter and finally into a gallop, and then to go for my best time over the five-furlong course. It sounded technical to listen to, but I didn’t have to think twice.

I lined up and waited to be given the ‘off’ by a man holding a stopwatch and a red flag. The flag came down with a swoosh and I leaned forward, staying low in the saddle. It felt great to ride this big, solid horse, as we thundered around the racecourse. It was like being back on El Dorado, riding along the banks of the Putumayo, between the green river and the shade of the tall trees. When we came back around to the starting line, Paddy Deveraux
caught the horse’s reins and called to the man who held the stopwatch, ‘What’s the time for Pepe Carroll?’

When he heard my time, he patted the horse, then looked up at me and winked. ‘I’ll tell you what, lad – you have it in you.’

I’m making it sound easy, but perhaps we are each made for one thing in life. As Paddy Deveraux would say, ‘You’ve got to be up for it.’ And so my story is nearly done, except for the best part.

I had done well enough at the open day to get noticed, so that by the time I was called for an interview with Paddy Deveraux, I knew that it would only be sheer weight of numbers that would keep me from getting a place. And, I had been told, if I didn’t get a place the first year I could reapply later.

So when the letter arrived with the blue-and-green CHASE logo on the envelope, I tore it open eagerly. It began, ‘Dear Pepe Carroll,’ but then I was reminded that my reading still needed to improve. I couldn’t understand a word of the rest of it. I dashed into the kitchen and stuck the page in front of Grandma’s nose. She took one glance at it, then gasped and ran outside, calling for Grandad. I followed right behind her, nearly stepping on her heels.

‘Is it a sick goat?’ Grandad came out of the growing tunnel in great haste, his hoe still in one hand.

‘The goats will be singing today,’ said Grandma. ‘Someone wants our little man here for the racetrack.’

‘Oh, I can’t believe it. Is it possible?’ Grandad wanted to see the letter and we went back into the house. There was much crunching and slurping as we all talked and interrupted each other over our lunch of soup, brown bread and goats’ cheese salad. I could scarcely believe it! Up until now, we had all been afraid to talk too much about CHASE, in case I wasn’t accepted. Now we talked and talked. I could leave the school at Angerstown! My grandparents hadn’t realised how much this would mean to me. There was a lot of planning to do. I would need new clothes, and a racing saddle. Of course, it had hardly struck me that I would actually be leaving Fordstown. For eight months, except for short visits some weekends, I would live in the school at CHASE.

I e-mailed Mama and Papa and, by the time I was ready to leave for Abbeyvale House, I got their delighted replies. Papa was working in a bar, and playing occasional gigs, in a place called Saskatoon in Canada. He was fitting his own songs into the act and looking for some company to bring out a CD for him.

He was amazed at my progress and called me ‘
perito
’ in his e-mail, which means ‘an expert’. ‘You are hardly an expert,’ Grandma said to me as we ate our bean stew and potatoes that evening. She didn’t want me to get a big head.

‘Ah, come on, Mary,’ said Grandad, sprinkling sea salt onto his potatoes. ‘He has the makings of a champion, with a bit of luck.’

Mama was still working at the hotel, but she was now living in an apartment of her own, with a boyfriend who was English. Mama’s e-mail left me worried. Who was this English man? It was strange to know that Mama had a new man, whom I had never met. It seemed that our lives were growing further and further apart.

Now was not the time for worrying, though. I had much to do, and an entire career to plan for.

There were thirty of us apprentice jockeys at CHASE – eight girls and twenty-two boys. Paddy Deveraux had a son called Liam in the group, and he would become a good friend, but all thirty of us got on well together. It would be a hectic eight months and we were all eager to learn and to work hard. I had a bed, a bedside locker, a desk of my own with a lamp and, best of all, a weekly wage – €60!

While I missed Grandma and Grandad, I wanted to make the grade at CHASE, and that meant working so hard that I collapsed, exhausted, into bed every night. Grandad had given me a present of a mobile phone, so I was able to stay in touch.

Every morning the bell rang at six. We had to get up straight away and give the horses their breakfast before we had our own. I never found it difficult rising early – I was used to early mornings at Fordstown – and the horses were always eager to get out for their morning gallop. This was the most challenging and exciting part of our daily routine, the part of the day that meant the most to me. We got to ride as many as five different horses
some days. It was a great pleasure to work with those beautiful horses, and I was never idle. I was all ears and eyes each day, learning and gaining experience. Each day flew by like a fast horse that I could barely catch a glimpse of, gone in a cloud of turf dust.

There were many different areas of ‘the industry’, as it is called, to learn about – grooming, feeding, exercising and transporting horses, the whole business and financial side of working with horses, as well as medical care and attention. I can never hope to know more than a little about that. I am not a horse doctor, one of those amazing people who can tell what is wrong with an animal simply by looking at its teeth or watching it walking. But we had to learn the basics about blood and urine tests and how to tell if a horse is overheated or distressed. A horse’s hooves and legs require special care, so that these
powerful
and beautiful creatures can perform their magic,
galloping
from point to point and leaping over fences.

We had to look after ourselves too, especially our diets. It is important for a jockey to stay slim and light, and we had to think of our weight continually. We were expected not to go off into cafés during our time off, indulging ourselves with burgers, chips and sugary drinks. The food policy at the school would have suited my grandparents, with its emphasis on lean meat and fresh vegetables.

We also had regular schooling, of course. I was still way behind in terms of reading and writing, but the other
students helped me, particularly with slang words and how to spell the wide variety of curses used about the place! Our teacher, Mrs Byrne, did all she could to help me catch up with the rest of the class. I would have to improve my English drastically in order to read form books and breeding manuals, and to keep up with the
Irish Field
and
Racing Post
. It was not all grind, though. We also had drama, art, swimming and sports classes, so as to give us a break from ‘the nags’ – the horses.

Not long before the end of the eight months, two of our class left the school – they weren’t cut out for ‘the life’. But I loved it, and looked forward to the next stage of my apprenticeship. Through the school I met a Mrs Harris of Killantubber Stud. Getting a place with Mrs Harris depended on my graduation, my first race and passing an interview with the Turf Club, the organisation that oversees the racing industry.

The day of my interview was a little scary. Grandad wore his good suit for the occasion and Grandma was also in her best clothes, wearing her hat with a pheasant feather sticking out of it. We had bought my suit in Naas, and Grandad tucked a handkerchief into the top pocket. ‘Now you look the part,’ he said. He drove us down to the Turf Club office, at the back of the Curragh
racecourse
. Grandma insisted on spreading clean polythene over the seats of the Landrover, so as not to get our suits dirty.

I waited with Grandad and Grandma outside the
interview room, fidgeting and looking at pictures in a magazine. Then my name was called. ‘Good luck, lad,’ said Grandad, putting a hand on my shoulder. I went into the interview room, where three stern-looking officials sat behind a long desk.

They asked me all sorts of questions about myself, nodding and giving me a good look over as I spoke. When they asked about Colombia, I did not say anything about AGRA or the commune. I just told them that I used to ride bareback through the jungle. They were pleased that I knew Spanish.

‘Do you know, lad,’ said one of the officials, ‘I
sometimes
hear the roar of the jungle on race days beyond.’ He pointed with one of those grand gestures that seem to be a feature of people who love horses. ‘That is the whole world to us,’ he said. ‘And now, if you will leave us to our deliberations, young man?’ I nodded and left the room, carefully closing the door behind me.

Grandad and Grandma seemed as nervous as I was as we waited in the hallway. None of us could finish our sentences. This was it. I was either in or out, and I would soon know. When the door opened, the three of us froze. The man who had asked me most of the questions at the interview looked at us seriously, then he reached out and shook my hand. He told me I had the approval of the Turf Club, and congratulated me on gaining a place with Mrs Harris at Killantubber Stud. ‘It all depends on your end-of-year exam results,’ he said,
looking me in the eye. ‘Pass your exams and you are in with us. Good luck.’

Grandad and Grandma nearly smothered me when he left, but then they stopped and considered the situation. ‘Of course he will pass the exams,’ said Grandad.

‘Of course,’ said Grandma.

‘Of course,’ I said weakly, echoing their voices.