Grand National (7 page)

There, before his eyes, this competent therapist suddenly became a typical mother, unsure and upset by a son coming into maturity. How strange, Jack thought, that he should travel three thousand miles to find a woman with the same problem as his own. The situation is like Stan’s and mine all over. She has a living to earn, a stable to run, and now this boy is bursting off on his own and becoming a man. I wish I could tell her some things about sons at this age.

Suddenly Jack found himself saying, “You know, Mrs. Hunting, it happens I’ve been through much the same thing. As I told you my only son suddenly dropped out of college to work and train for the Maryland Hunt Cup, one of our principal steeplechases. The moment he left college, his Army deferment ended, so naturally he got drafted.”

There was a pause. She rose nervously and poked the fire, which flamed up with a roar. “Yes, I know. Chester told me your story. Perhaps that’s one reason I drove down to see your horse that day. In a queer way, it reminded me of Tony. He’s ridden since he had a pony at eight, adores racing, which he does well. I really believe to ride in the National would be his idea of heaven. I keep telling him what a short life a jockey has, but he imagines he’ll be young forever. Whatever shall I do about him?”

“I wish I knew,” replied Jack. “My boy had his heart set on winning the Maryland Hunt and then bringing Quicksilver over for the National. We had a hell of an argument about it, one of our last talks together.” He became silent. The remembrance of those days was still with him. For just a moment Stanley was sitting across the room, his face stubborn and implacable.

“I know. I admire you. It’s wonderful that you haven’t given up.”

“What my experience tells me,” he said, slowly and very gently, “is that what you want for your son isn’t what he wants for himself.”

She shrank from his words, and he saw the anguish in her face. She’s having a hard time, he thought, and now a stranger is giving her advice.

“Look,” he continued. “You brought your boy up as a horse lover. He loves horses and understands them and wants a life shaped around them. Would he be any happier working in London in the Westminster Bank than down here helping you with Quicksilver’s damaged tendon? Would he?”

He stammered to a stop. She put her hands to her face. Beside the fire the Airedale caught her half sob, raised his head, saw her distress, slowly rose to his feet, and stumbled over to put his head in her lap. With one hand she caressed his shaggy, unkempt hair.

Jack sat without speaking. The woman, so voluble and confident around the stables, was quiet. “There are many worse things than being a top-class rider in England,” he said.

She dropped her hands. “No, it isn’t the riding I mind or even the racing. It’s the terrible risks that he takes. Someday they won’t come off. Of course, this is why owners want him. Bold riders win races—or kill themselves—in the end. It’s such a dangerous profession, Mr. Cobb. I believe that in the past ten years two hundred horses have entered the National and only ten percent have finished.”

There was another long silence. Finally Jack got up, stood before the fire, and remarked, “Yes, there’s a risk. But young riders should take chances to win. That’s the kind of horseman Tony is. I think he’s to be admired.”

The dog at her feet rose, tail wagging. The front door opened and banged shut. Then, shaking snow from his head and his boots, Tony Hunting entered the room.

“Good job you stayed with us, Mr. Cobb. The snow is thickening and starting to drift.” He looked at his watch. “What time is it?” He leaned over and switched on the television. “They’re interviewing Paddy Maguire on BBC 1. Do you mind if we listen?”

“Paddy Maguire? Isn’t he the man who broke his spine some years ago in the National?” Mrs. Hunting’s voice sounded frozen.

Tony nodded. “Bad luck, that,” he remarked with the casualness of youth. Then the clatter and buzz of television broke in, and there before them they watched a thin, pale, tragic little man talking to an exceedingly cheerful interviewer.

“…here’s the ex-champion jockey, Paddy Maguire, as he and his wife look back with John Stone. Despite his accident, Paddy still regards the Grand National as the greatest race in the world.”

The face of the little man lit up. “Ah, but it is, though,” he replied in an Irish accent. “A difficult course, full of traps and dangers, but it’s a wonderful thing to be riding in the National.”

Jack glanced across the room. The boy sat on a stiff chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, oblivious to everything but the two men on the screen.

“Tell me, do you feel the race should continue in its present location at Liverpool?”

“Indeed and I do,” answered the jockey crisply. “It must be at Aintree. Otherwise it just wouldn’t be the National, now would it?”

At this remark Tony Hunting came out of his trance, sat back, and nodded vigorously.

The man in the wheelchair went on. “You see, it’s the only place in the world you get jumps like those. It’s a thrill even to think about them.”

The announcer picked up on this response. “But surely it hasn’t been much of a thrill lately, has it? You have four sons, don’t you? Would you encourage any of them to become jockeys and ride in the National?”

The little man’s chin came up as he seemed to be thinking over the question. “I tell you very frankly, if they wanted to and were good enough, I’d not stop them. Believe I’d be pleased. Mind you, I’d feel a bit nervous when the race was on, but I think I’d be happy to have one of them a jockey.”

The three sitting there watched the television intently as the camera shifted to a woman beside the wheelchair. She looked worn, weary, her stringy gray hair betraying the strain of the years through which she had lived.

“Now, Mrs. Maguire, as the mother of four boys, how do you feel about their racing?”

“Ah well, when you’re married to a jockey, you pretty well know how things are. But this—” She cast a quick glance at her husband beside her in the wheelchair and stopped.

After a slight pause she went on. “The day of Paddy’s accident I went to Aintree and stood as close to the rails as I could manage. Then a riderless horse went by. It was Number 16, Paddy’s horse. Someone said, ‘Oh, he’s all right, missis.’ But the ambulance passed, and I recognized his boots sticking out….”

Mrs. Maguire could not continue. The remembrance of the day became too much.

Blandly the interviewer concluded the conversation. “That was Mrs. Paddy Maguire, whose husband rode Fire King at the 1952 Grand National and fell at the Canal Turn.”

Being horsemen, they all knew the danger of racing, yet they were shocked by this tragedy.

Young Hunting leaned over and turned the set off. “Too bad,” he said. “Care for a drink, Mr. Cobb?”

Outside the wind in a sudden burst whipped snow against the window.

A
S
C
HRISTMAS APPROACHED,
drifting snow often choked the lanes, blowing into the corners beside the thatch-roofed cottages and making riding on the Downs difficult. They did a lot more road-work. The days followed each other, often with a thick mist covering the countryside. But as if to greet Quicksilver on the morning of his return from Mrs. Hunting, the day was bright and filled with a welcome sun.

Jack stood on the steps of the office beside Chester, surveying the scene in the courtyard. He recalled the trainer saying that people in the village were eager to see the horse, but he had not really appreciated the impression Quicksilver had made until that morning. Besides some tradesmen, there were a dozen farmers from the vicinity interested in seeing for themselves the horse that had been cured of a bowed tendon. Directing the traffic was Mr. Henderson, the head groom, impeccable as ever in his clean jodhpurs, sports coat, cap, and necktie.

With a roar the horse van came up the lane, drew into the court, and stopped.

“Stand back there, lad, and you too, miss. Stand back now.” Mr. Henderson, arms outstretched, stepped briskly forward, unhooked the ramp, and threw back the bolt of the van. There stood Quicksilver ready to descend. Voices could be heard as the groom led him down the ramp.

“Ah, now there’s a horse….”

“He’s a horse, he is.”

Chester stepped forward and felt his leg. “Never know he had a bad leg, would you?”

Mr. Henderson led him up and down the yard, shoving a wide-mouthed stable lad out of his way. “Look sharp, you blokes. This isn’t just any horse, you know.”

Jack Cobb was pleased as Quicksilver, feeling the cobbles underfoot, tossed his head and mane at the familiar sights and sounds. His delight in returning was obvious, and he walked up and down easily with that wonderful springy gait. Then he passed his owner and whinnied his pleasure as Jack stepped down to caress his head affectionately.

“Yes, a magnificent horse,” said Chester at his side. “She’s done a great job on that tendon, Mrs. Hunting has. Just isn’t anyone like her.”

At this point George Atherton rolled up in his car. Seeing the horse led by the head groom, he stopped short, jumped out impatiently, and went over, an anxious look on his face. Stopping the groom, he kneeled down to touch the precautionary bandage around the foreleg. “Feels perfect. Not a trace of the injury that I can detect.”

That afternoon Chester merely permitted the groom to walk the horse up and down the lane for twenty minutes. But the next morning he was saddled, and Jack had the pleasure of seeing him under tack again. He was the picture of fitness, his quarters betraying the power of his frame. Jack on the gray mare watched attentively as Atherton, realizing that Quicksilver was taking a strong hold, gave him his head and let him stride along. Coming back to the stables, the jockey rode up beside Jack.

“Mr. Cobb, believe me, this horse is on good terms with himself, and he’ll be racing fit before long. What we have to do is run him in two races before the Grand National weights come out in January, so he can be handicapped.”

The following day Atherton was away, riding in the north of England, so Jack mounted Quicksilver in the first work ride. Being on him again was a joy. They walked, then cantered slowly down the lane to the Downs, something he scarcely had dared hope for several months previously. He rode along gaily, listening to the chatter and arguments of the stableboys around, all with an eye on his horse. Then he let him out for several hundred yards, feeling at the end that surge of power which had brought Stan to the front in the Maryland Hunt Cup. Yes, they were right, all of them. Now to prepare him for the National.

They rode back into the stable yard, and when the horses had been fed and watered, the sweat taken off, mouth and nose sponged, the stable lads left for breakfast and Jack found himself alone in the stall. Carefully he unwound the bandage over the tendon and lifted the foreleg, passing one hand gently over it to see whether, after exercise, there appeared to be any soreness or sensitivity. He worked over it several minutes. The animal remained quiet. No pain, no soreness left. The tendon was healthy again.

He left the box, shutting the door carefully. That’s it, he thought. Now for the National. What a damn lucky man I am.

As soon as possible Chester Robinson entered Quicksilver in a race at a place called Bognor. The horse ran away from the pack and won by four or five lengths, which brought Jack Cobb a purse of six hundred pounds. The next race was to be at Worcester.

The night before Jack sat in his digs alone. He wore heavy boots, flannel trousers, a thick pullover of Scottish wool, and a padded jacket used for riding. The British Isles were encased in bitter weather. Snow had fallen over Scotland and most of the Midlands.

On Jack’s lap was a pad he used for his infrequent letters to Truxton Bingham. First, he rose and poured coal from an iron scuttle into the tiny grate at his feet. Then he settled back to bring his friend up to date on the events of the last five weeks.

After describing Quicksilver’s treatment for the bowed tendon, Jack wrote, “The vet attached to the Hall feels that Mrs. Hunting is a bit of a crank because her methods differ from his. As of now, however, we seem to be standing well, and I still feel we have as much chance at the National as anyone.”

Suddenly there came a loud clanging of the outside door knocker. Whenever he heard this sound he feared for his horse. Mrs. Briggs, moving about her kitchen, shuffled into the hall as the knocking continued.

“Yes… yes… I’m coming,” she muttered, opening the front door. Someone entered, stamping his feet. Next came a few brisk words, followed by a sharp knock on his door.

“Mr. Cobb, sir. Your stable lad wants you.”

Alarmed, because he knew there were colds running through the stables, he jumped up and threw open the door. There stood Ginger, his stable lad, swathed in an enormous muffler of wool, his ears pink with cold.

“Good evening, sir. Mr. Robinson’s compliments, and he’s just heard the Worcester races have been cancelled. Ground too hard for racing.”

Jack, disturbed, yet relieved, gave him half a crown. After the door closed, he listened to the sound of Ginger’s ancient bike clanking down the lane in the sharp evening air.

“No Worcester. Ground too hard,” he scribbled at the bottom of his letter to Bingham. He had no heart for details.

E
VENTUALLY
Q
UICKSILVER WAS
handicapped for the Grand National, and Robinson continued to enter him in preparatory races whenever the timing was right. Toward the end of February, Chester Robinson, George Atherton, and Jack Cobb went off to Sandown Park, a racetrack southeast of London. Quicksilver was giving away nine pounds, and some first-class horses were running in the three-mile race.

Here and there a crocus peeped through the soil, and Chester at the wheel of the Rover was in the best of spirits. On the way up, Jack proffered some remarks in general about horses.

“Horses, I’ve always found, want to please and love attention. They thrive on routine and recognize a person by sound, voice, or smell.”

Atherton, however, didn’t seem to be paying the slightest attention, and Jack began to wonder whether he had heard him. “Do you agree, Atherton?”