Blind Beauty (13 page)

“I will help you all I can, but expect nothing.”

“No,” said Tessa.

But in her heart she expected to become a good jockey and for Buffoon to win the Grand National. That was all.

H
er first race… she was trembling so hard she had to clench her teeth to stop them clattering. But it was cold – call it shivering. All the jockeys had white, pinched faces. She was the only girl. The men looked sideways at her, but when she weighed out Tom Bryant came over and put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

“Good luck! Keep out of trouble.”

He wasn't riding in her race, which was for apprentice jockeys, but his kind words were noticed by the others, and Tessa recognized the respect in their eyes. The top jockey was her friend. Her teeth stopped chattering.

“Once you're aboard out on the course, you forget about being nervous,” he said. “It's the same for us all.”

Well… maybe. Tessa smiled. She was riding Cantata – the Littlun – and she knew him as well as she knew Buffoon, so it wasn't like being thrown up on a strange horse. Jimmy had elected to be his lad, and was leading him round the paddock, a taut little liver-chestnut gelding with the wind in his tail. His price was twenty-to-one.

“There are some reasonable horses in this race, and much more experienced riders than Tessa. Don't expect too much.”

Peter was in the paddock with the horse's owners, a kindly pair of old hunting ladies who believed in “giving the gel a chance”.

“We'll all have a nice drink together afterwards, whatever,” they said. “What a jolly day!”

Imagine Maurice saying that! Tessa thought, speechless, when they shook her hand. She tried not to show how terrified she was.

Jimmy legged her up.

He said, “Winning's not everything. Keep safe, that's the main thing, for the horse too.”

“Have a lovely time, dear,” said the owners.

She rode the Littlun – Cantata for now – every day, after all. He had no bad ways and as soon as she was on his back she felt her confidence soar, just as Tom had predicted. Jimmy led her out, wished her luck and let the horse go. Cantata was a pony compared to Buffoon: he felt so different, slippy and spry. Riding Buffoon out on to a gallop was like taking a bus out on to a motorway, knowing there was miles of room to get going in the fast lane, in many ways easier than handling the nippy little hurdler who was now showing a great keenness to get on with the job. Tessa sat tight and held him in against the rails, terrified of being carted before the race had even begun. But she wasn't the only nervous rider. Cries of alarm and swearing echoed all round her. It was a big field and many of the riders were far less well trained than she was.

Everything she thought she knew went out of her head once the race started. The astonishing power of the galloping horses all around her was overwhelming, the pounding of hooves and the crack of brushwood when they jumped… placing the horse, seeing a stride in that mêlée – even seeing the jump – was beyond her. Stay on, stay there… that was all she could think of. The wet mud flew in her face, spattering her goggles, but the little horse knew what to do. The field thinned out ahead as Cantata galloped on and by the time Tessa heard the noise of the crowd above her own panting breath there were only two horses ahead of her.

Another one was close, coming up fast. She glanced round and saw a furious red face beside her, then there was a crack on her knee, and she was flying through the air with the horse apparently vanished from beneath her.

She never knew what happened. Even on the video, afterwards, it looked like a collision over the last jump, but the other jockey escaped unscathed and came third. Tessa knew she should have been third, might even have been second or first, but for the ignorant rider who barged her. But the pain in her wrist was too agonizing to bother about objecting. She walked back, trying not to cry (Tom Bryant never cried), choked with fury and disappointment. Jimmy had caught Cantata and said cheerfully, “No harm done. Great race – you'd have been in the frame.”

The old ladies were full of praise, even Peter was smiling. Tessa couldn't understand them at all. She could not speak, she was so angry. Yet they were praising her. She wanted to kill that jockey… She would make sure to find out his name… The pain flooded up her arm so that she almost cried out loud.

She could not hide it. She had to go to hospital and be X-rayed and be told her wrist was broken. She wouldn't ride for six weeks. When she was alone on a trolley in an empty corridor she let go the tears that choked her and sobbed into the hospital linen. Six weeks! To make such a hash of her first race!

“Only a Tom Bryant could have sat that mistake,” Jimmy said when he collected her later. “The horse went right down on his knees. What are you so cross about? The arm, yes, that's a shame, but it wasn't anything you did wrong. You've got to learn to take it.”

He was stern with her, but Tessa could not take such failure. She would not speak, and slammed into her caravan without even going to see Buffoon.

“Oh my!” said Gilly. “Our prima donna's back. I suppose I've got to do her horses?”

“I'll see to the Littlun,” Jimmy offered.

They left her alone, hoping the sleeping pills she had been given were doing their work. There was no light on in her caravan. They tapped softly on the door but there was no answer and they went away.

But Tessa sat on in the dark, the pills untouched. Her arm hurt, but not so much as her spirit. Maurice would know what had happened; Greevy would tell him; how they would laugh! The thought made her shiver with pure rage. She thought she didn't mind being beaten, but the humiliation of the day overwhelmed her.

The stables were done and it was silent outside, Wisbey's noisy motorbike having departed. Only later, just before bed, Peter would come out and with his torch look at every horse in the stable, to see that it was calm, eaten up, and well. Sometimes Jimmy. Tessa liked to see the torchlight flickering from box to box, hear the soft voice talking to the horse. She often went out to Buffoon in the evening, and sat in the straw talking to him, fending off Lucky who always thought she might have a titbit. She liked to see the two of them lying down together, nose to nose. They did not get up when she entered, but Buffoon's nose would quiver with a soundless whicker of affection. He loved her above all others, she knew that.

But the way things had gone today, she knew she would never ride him in a race, her great ambition in life. She would never be good enough. She hadn't been able to handle anything at all, just let it happen all round her. She cried.

From the lane came the sound of a car approaching. It came into the yard and stopped. Some one for Peter, Tessa thought. But suddenly there was a loud knock on her door and a shout.

“Hey, anyone in? You dead?”

The door was yanked open and a figure entered, tripped over the doormat, swore and groped for the light switch.

Tessa blinked and leapt to her feet. It was Tom Bryant. She gaped.

“Came to see how you were,” he said, smiling. “All nice jockeys enquire after the wounded, did you know? And you aren't on the phone, so I called round. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

Tessa shrugged, shook her head. He no doubt saw the tearstains on her face and was taking in her bedraggled despair.

“Oh, come on, it's all good practice,” he said. “It happens to us all. If you can't bounce back, you might as well give up now. Imagine it happening – the last fence in the Gold Cup, when you're five lengths ahead–”

That had happened to him, Tessa knew, a couple of years ago. She had to admit it did put it in proportion. She gave a shaky smile. She was astonished at his visit, knowing he had had five rides that afternoon and was probably pretty tired. Yet he was bothering…

“You shouldn't have come. I'm all right.”

“They said your wrist is broken.”

“Yes.”

“Bad luck. You'll have to learn to fall off properly. It's all part of the trade.”

He sat down on the end of her bed and grinned cheerfully. Tessa wasn't used to seeing him in social mode, not since the dinner party at home, and had never guessed that he might include her in his circle of friends close enough to take this sort of trouble for. It was balm to her despair, to be cared about by Tom. Tom was the best, and handsome with it, but quite free of conceit.

“The way you are,” he said, “so single-minded – potty – you stand a chance. Of making it. You're really mad now, aren't you? Furious with yourself. Want to get on again – show them – it's the right feeling. To be angry. If you're not angry with yourself you're no good.”

That was news to Tessa.

“The others think I'm stupid.”

“No. The others might say that, but they respect you for it. They none of them want to suffer, do they? Jimmy doesn't, yet he'd be at the top in no time if he chose – he's such a horseman. A natural.”

“He likes eating, he says.”

“Yes.” Tom's face dropped. “I can't eat. At least you'll never have that problem. That's the worst one.”

Tessa looked sideways at Tom. His face was drawn, she noticed, and had lines in it that made him look thirty, not twenty-two. He was fair and blue-eyed, the classic English public schoolboy, the sort you read about in old books. The only one she knew.

“Why did you become a jockey?”

“Oh, horses are in my family. Hunting, point-to-pointing. I rode point-to-point and my dad had some good horses so I won and got noticed. I never wanted to do anything else, not ever.”

“What if you'd been no good?”

“I'd have kept trying, I dare say. Lots of them are hooked on it, and not good enough, or lucky enough, to get the rides, but they keep on trying. They ride duff horses and get hurt. I admire them. I've had it easy.”

“I want to ride Buffoon.”

Tom laughed. “We all know that! Highly unlikely, I'd say. I want that ride!”

When Tom had gone, Tessa sat on, dreaming. She wondered if Tom liked her, in a soppy way. Why had he called? She found it hard to understand kindness. She did not think of boys, in the way other lads talked about sex – she never listened, or cared. There wasn't room in her head, and her feelings were used up on anxieties, ambition, Buffoon… “You never relax, do you?” Wisbey said. “You never laugh.”

“What is there to laugh about?” she retorted. She remembered Wisbey rolling his eyes. Was there something wrong with her?

Yes, her wrist was broken and her career in ruins before it had started. She got into bed and lay awake, staring at the stained ceiling of her caravan.

B
uffoon hitched his massive quarters on to the edge of his manger, sighed gustily, rested one hind leg and stood staring into the square of twilight through the open top door. What do horses think about, creatures of little brain as they are said to be? The large unfathomable eye, bright, blank, gazes giving back no clue. In the depths of Buffoon's eyes an almost indiscernible shadow lurks. He is aware of it, does not know that other horses do not have it, does not wonder when he stumbles over small jumps which he scarcely sees. He hears the word “clumsy” in reproach and doesn't know its meaning. It does not worry him. Horses at rest do not worry. They do not think of things they should have done, ways of improving themselves, what is going to happen to them when they are old. The unfathomable eye registers nil. The horse is well fed, worked only to a pleasant sufficiency, feels well, has his friends within sight. His mind is blank.

Buffoon is sometimes asked to work very hard. He is surprised but, when coerced, finds he enjoys it. Not something he would do without – coercion – but, willing and friendly beast that he is, he will do it to oblige. They seem to want it. When he comes back they pat him and kiss him – that girl kisses him – and he knows he has pleased them. He likes them. They feed him and are kind to him. He is contented. He doesn't know what it's all for, save it comes up regularly. His mane is plaited (boring!) and he is led into the horsebox and after that he knows exactly what is going to happen: a drive, long or short, a new stable yard, strange companions, a lot of bustle and tension, to which he responds, becoming a bit fidgety, anxious to be out there, to be where it's all happening, out on that wide river of green grass where he can take hold of his bit and go. This seems to be what they want of him. He likes it, it comes naturally, it's bred in him. If he didn't like it, they couldn't make him do it. He knows that, so do they.

Does he think of it when he dozes in the evening? No, he only thinks: Lucky is there, everything's all right. Take Lucky away and his life would fall apart. Great horse friendships are tedious for owners. Mostly owners try to wean friendships away, to avoid difficulties, but racehorses are allowed their foibles. Racehorses are special. They get the best of everything in life in exchange for the test of courage, the asking of all they can give, as often as the trainer sees fit. They live as herd animals and run as herd animals, their natural way of life, and very few would rather be riding-school hacks or ladies' pets.

Not that Buffoon knows anything about a different way of life. Not yet. He accepts. He yawns. He is at peace.

He doesn't know he is going to run in the Grand National.

 

Tessa told him, every day, while she was grooming him, but it meant nothing to him. Her voice was soft and loving, and he listened with one long ear held back, liking the sound. Her ant-like energy had worked up a golden burnish on his pale coat. He stood patiently, unlike some, not even minding the ticklish places behind his elbows and up round his stifle. She washed his mane and tail more times than any other horse had its mane and tail washed in the stable, and he stood happily, not minding. She hosed his legs off after exercise and rubbed them dry with a supply of elegant towels filched from Goldlands and, if it was cold, wrapped them in warm bandages. No horse could be given more.

Peter the trainer was nervous as a coot about the Grand National. Old Mr Cressington was adamant that the horse should run but Peter thought next year would be better.

Jimmy said, “But you'll say that next year as well. Don't be so funky. The old man might be dead next year. It's not like running a horse which isn't capable just to please the owner. Buffoon is capable all right.”

“He's not ready.”

He had missed a preliminary race over the National fences because of a bruised foot at the time, which troubled Peter. But it didn't trouble Jimmy.

“He's ready. He's made for that race. Stays for ever, great jumper, great heart. Stop worrying.”

But all trainers worried. How could they not?

Tessa worried. She did not see how she would get through the great race, watching. Her heart would give out, beating so hard. Wisbey said she would pass out in his arms. She could not put God Almighty out of her mind, and the fear that Buffoon might –

“Horses get killed in potty little hurdle races if they're unlucky,” Sarah said harshly. “It's stupid to think a horse like Buffoon is any more at risk – he's learned to get his legs together, he never panics, he's as safe as they come. You've got to get your brain round this, Tessa. You're in the wrong business if you can't take it.”

Tessa knew all this. They told her all the time. It made no difference.

Buffoon, the ill-made, bad-coloured, ugly son of Shiner, was now a racecourse favourite, a freak horse on his long, ungainly legs who never ran a bad race. He didn't always win, but he never let anyone down. The longer and tougher the race, the more likely he was to come home in front. For all these reasons he was high in the betting for the Grand National. Not the favourite. The favourite was Maurice's horse, San Lucar.

“Of all the likely scenarios, this is the craziest coincidence,” Gilly said in the tack-room, after exercise. “That Tessa's horse – in the biggest race of all – is going to come up against Mucky Morrison's.”

“They're first and second favourite in the paper this morning,” Wisbey said.

“Buffoon's first and Lukey's second,” Sarah said.

Tessa found this hard to believe. “Buffoon first!”

“It's a housewife's thing – the people who don't know anything are putting their money on him because he looks like a giraffe. For a lark,” said Wisbey.

There was an element of truth in this, but Tessa hit Wisbey with a metal curry-comb and cut his cheek.

“Tessa!” Sarah was furious. “It's time you grew up! For God's sake, can't you take a joke?”

“You know she can't. Not about Buffoon,” Gilly said.

“It's lucky you live on your own in that caravan. If you'd still been at home with Mucky and Greevy … I wonder…” Sarah's eyes sparkled. “I bet they don't like playing second fiddle to our old Buffoon.”

Tessa herself had wondered about this. Was Maurice as furious as she hoped he was, that his great horse was ranked with hers? She thought she might go up and see her mother in the afternoon, keep her fingers crossed that Maurice wouldn't be there. There were rumours about a falling-out between Raleigh and Tom Bryant. Myra might know the inside story. Tom hadn't said anything.

She was lucky. Myra was alone, eating chocolates and reading a love story in front of the fake coal fire. The room was very warm and Tessa remembered how she was always falling asleep in this house.

“Oh, darling, what a sight you look! If only you would come home again, you would get looked after properly!”

“No fear!”

Tessa thought her mother looked a sight too, in her shiny dress and high heels. (What a waste of a life! How could you do anything dressed like that?) Tessa wore jodhpurs (rather dirty) and an old Barbour jacket Sarah had thrown out (not without reason), and a red polo neck jersey from Oxfam.

“How can I come home, with him here? I came to see if he's getting excited about the Grand National.”

“Well, of course he is. It's all he thinks about. He put an enormous bet on when the horse was only twenty-to-one and stands to win a fortune if Lukey wins. Not to mention the prize money. He's very agitated about your horse – everyone seems to fancy it all of a sudden.”

“Did you know Buffoon is out of Shiner? Declan bred him.”

She didn't know why she threw this at Myra suddenly. She had never mentioned it before or told anyone at the yard of her link with the horse. Myra stared at her, amazed, and then burst into tears.

“Oh, my dear, you and Shiner, that's what went wrong, wasn't it – leaving Shiner? I've always known it, Shiner and your daddy, how you loved them – especially Shiner–”

She wept. Tessa didn't know what to say, embarrassed, wishing she had held her tongue about Buffoon's breeding. Her own emotion at seeing Shiner's name on Buffoon's passport was long forgotten. Tessa no longer dwelled on the past, only the future.

“I do miss you, Tessa. If only you'd come back here!”

“Oh, Mum, you know I can't. Talk sense. I'm only down the road if you want me, no distance. You could come and stay in my caravan and ride out with us – you'd love it. You rode well once. Why ever don't you?”

“Oh, don't be so silly! Maurice wouldn't stand for it. How can I?”

Tessa shrugged. It was useless talking to Myra. Why ever had she come? Only to find out about San Lucar.

“Who's going to ride him? There's a rumour Tom Bryant's fallen out with Mr Raleigh. Is it true? Peter wants Tom for Buffoon, so we thought there might be a chance if he's not going to ride San Lucar.”

“You know how it is, it's all Maurice's fault. He's hard on Bryant and Tom hates riding for him, because there's always so much money on. I'm afraid Maurice only cares about winning. It doesn't matter if the horse is half-killed of exhaustion as long as it wins. And Tom won't ride like that. He's refused to ride Lukey in the National, Raleigh's furious and Greevy says he's going to get the sack.”

“He'll ride Buffoon!” Tessa's heart leapt.

“Raleigh says he can afford to turn down the ride on Lukey because he knows he can ride Buffoon. But I think he's going to lose his job over it.”

“He can get any job he pleases, surely? Or freelance.”

“Raleigh's the top trainer though. Largely through Maurice's horses. Tom says Raleigh would like to give up training for Maurice, but if he did he'd lose at least four really good horses. Maurice has been very lucky with his horses this last year or two, but he needs it – he's a heavy gambler and a lot of his investments have gone wrong lately. He's really depending on winning with Lukey.”

“More fool him. Horses aren't like that. And the National, of all races – you need the luck.”

“Well, you can't tell him that, can you? It's very fraught round here at the moment. I'll be glad when it's over.”

“Only a fortnight.” Tessa knew she would too. The anxieties were getting to her.

Shortly afterwards the season would finish. Tom could afford arguments now, at the end of the season. Next season, a fresh start, and the quarrels would be forgotten. Tom would no doubt be back with Raleigh.

Tessa was pleased with the information she had picked up. The rumours were true. They usually were in racing. It sounded as if Tom was going to ride Buffoon, whatever it cost him. Did he really prefer him to San Lucar? He must do, else he would have timed his quarrel differently. Tessa was filled with a burst of proud, quivering emotion and flung her arms suddenly round the surprised Myra. The top jockey had chosen her Buffoon for the greatest race of them all! Out of all the horses in the world!

“Oh Ma, that's great news – if Tom rides Buffoon!”

Greevy stood in the doorway suddenly, and heard Tessa's exclamations of delight. Tessa might have guessed – he too took a couple of hours off after lunch.

He said, “Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. It's not settled yet.” And to Myra, who now looked embarrassed and frightened, “I suppose you've been shooting your mouth off to the opposition?”

“Don't talk to my mother like that!” Tessa hissed at him. “She can say what she likes. She didn't tell me anything I didn't know already. It's all in the papers, Tom being fed up with your place.”

Greevy seemed to soften. He sighed and shrugged. It occurred to Tessa then that he was in a dreadful situation, the buffer between Raleigh at work and his father at home. No wonder he looked so wan! She laughed.

“You ought to come and work at our place. It's all sweetness and light in our yard.”

Greevy scowled at her.

“I sometimes wonder… ” He shrugged again.

He certainly had grown up since she had last had to do with him, Tessa thought – no longer gangly and pimply, but broadened out and tough-looking. He must work hard in a big yard like Raleigh's, and Raleigh was known as a hard task-master. She was surprised he had stayed with it. No doubt commanded to by his father. But he was his own man now… surely he wouldn't dance to Maurice's tune for ever?

“Your horse well?” he asked, friendly now.

“Couldn't be better. And yours?”

“He's fine. Yes.” And he actually smiled.

“I'll see you at Aintree then.”

“Yeah. I dare say neither of them will win. A forty-to-one will beat them both.” And he actually laughed.

Tessa was amazed.

When she got home she reported what she had found out to Peter, and Peter said, “Yes, I know all that. But apparently Maurice is now bribing Tom to ride Lukey. So the story goes. Something huge. Tom hasn't decided yet.”