Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (30 page)

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Last night he'd played cards with Marie, gin rummy, like they often did. It wasn't the greatest game but what card games were any good with just two players? And Joyce wouldn't join in, she never had done.

He'd played cards often with the kids when they were young. Alan had loved gambling games, which were the best sort, of course. Clem remembered the three of them playing poker and wagering with marbles.

Edie, his wife, had been upset. `You're giving them all your bad habits,'

she'd said when he'd tried to laugh it off. `You won't think it's so funny when your son's wasting his life in some casino.'

Shows how much you knew, Edie. Our poor lad never even got the chance to play the slot machine in a pub.

So they'd played rummy instead of poker and recently Marie had been keen to revive the habit.

`Haven't you got something more exciting to do with your life, young lady?' he'd grunted but they'd played all the same and he loved her for it.

Only sometimes, especially this winter when most of her friends had gone off to college, he'd wondered if he wasn't the one doing her the favour.

Last night her mind had not been on the game. Deep thoughts had been rolling round her pretty head and she'd kept them locked in there despite his probing.

Joyce had been distracted, too, brushing aside Clem's questions when he asked her what was up. Something was. She'd plonked his breakfast in front of him as if she didn't care if it ended up in his lap. And when he'd asked her to fetch him the TV remote control which had wandered from its place on his table, she'd said, `What now?' - as if he'd been nagging her all morning.

It was not like her. He wondered if he'd done anything to upset her.

Anything beyond being an invalid, that is. He was a burden, he knew that, and one that was getting heavier.

Today's televised race meeting was at Wetherby, a proper Yorkshireman's jumping course and one of his favourites. Clem subscribed to the view that if an animal could win at Wetherby he could win anywhere. He banished thoughts of domestic discontent and opened the racing paper.

But even there he found no refuge from his troubles. A horse he'd had his eye on for a while, Senegal Sunshine trained by Marcus Pine from across 196

the valley, was being ridden by one Jamie Hutchison. Marcus Pine was angling to be known as one of racing's eccentrics. He spoke like a toff and favoured coloured waistcoats, muttonchop sideburns and, on occasions, a monocle. He wasn't yet thirty, however, which rather spoiled the illusion from Jamie's point of view. However, since the TV cameras often singled him out at the racecourse, doubtless the charade was serving its purpose.

Fortunately there was no mucking around when it came to briefing his jockey.

`Sunny likes a run round here,' Marcus said to Jamie as Senegal Sunshine was led round the parade ring. `He jumps left-handed so this course is just up his street. And he should act on this ground - he's happy with a bit of cut in the turf.'

Jamie nodded; he had already looked up the horse's form. He'd run at Wetherby nine times, including his debut in a bumper. `How should I ride him?'

Marcus tugged thoughtfully on his sidewhiskers. `You handle it as you see fit but I'd be inclined to track the bay, Butterfingers - he's a grand sort who stays on. Finish ahead of him and you'll have done well.'

Jamie reconsidered his opinion of the trainer. He might be turned out like a clown but the number of trainers who could tell you anything about anyone else's horses could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

The instructions simplified things, especially when Butterfingers tucked in behind the leader who set off at a less-than-threatening pace around two and a half miles of the chase course. Jamie kept the bay in view and concentrated on giving his mount a clear sight of the fences whilst keeping tight to the running rail.

As an apprentice on the Flat he'd been taught that even if you weren't on the best horse in the race, you should at least give him the best chance of winning. That meant going the shortest way and anticipating any problems ahead.

He'd learnt that your whip should always be on the open side, or in the hand closest to the wing of a fence. When you rode with your leg against the paint there was always a chance that a horse might try and run out through the wooden uprights. A good rider could sense what was about to happen and, if your whip was in the correct hand, you could give the horse 197

a crack down the shoulder and save yourself. Jamie prided himself on being comfortable with his whip in either hand, but it amazed him how many of his competitors weren't.

Sunny was a nice horse to ride, with a broad back and a seat as comfortable as a familiar armchair. Fences, ditches and water jumps came all the same to him and he sailed over them with ease. Jamie felt he could have sipped a cup of tea at the same time and not spilt a drop.

Completing the first circuit, Butterfingers had had enough of the leader's sedate progress and slipped past him at an improved clip. Jamie was alert to the move and nudged Sunny on, not letting the bay horse steal a march on them. At the turn for home, Butterfingers' rider darted a quick look over his shoulder to gauge Jamie's proximity and began to pile on the pressure.

Jamie urged Sunny into another gear. The horse was still jumping with effortless style and seemed to have plenty left in the tank. Together they closed the gap on Butterfingers as the last obstacle arrived. Jamie kicked Sunny into the fence and the pair landed neck and neck. Next to him, Jamie could hear his rival whipping the bay on.

With no fences remaining, this was now a Flat race uphill to the winning post. Jamie realised that he'd been in this situation many times before. He felt his old confidence flow through him. The horse beneath him was tiring but still game - he just had to help the animal dig deep into his last reserves of strength. Keep his rhythm.

The post was arriving fast now and the bay had his neck in front. Jamie stayed cool. Time seemed to have slowed for him, just as it used to do.

Riding high on Sunny's shoulders, his hands in close contact with the horse's mouth, he applied the accelerator and Sunny slipped past Butterfingers on the line.

It was his first winner over jumps and it felt just like the old days. Clem witnessed Jamie's victory with ashes in his mouth. He could have predicted the outcome - in fact, he had. `Senegal Sunshine will win,' he'd said to his bookie on the phone. But he'd not been able to put his money down - not with Hutchison on the horse's back.

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Instead he'd kept his powder dry and watched the race with ghoulish fascination, hoping fervently that the winning jockey would fall off and break his neck.

Jamie spent an exhilarating five minutes in the unsaddling enclosure after the race. It seemed he knew more people on the course than he'd realised.

Among the crowd was Desmond Hartley, Vanessa's father.

'I'd recognise that smash-and-grab style of yours anywhere,' the owner said. Ìf you'd left it any later you'd have been in the next race. Good to see you back, old boy.'

So Jamie lined up for his second race - a two-mile novice hurdle - on a high. He banished the euphoria of his victory, and the deluge of congratulations that had followed, from his thoughts. He didn't deserve it.

The young lad he'd killed would never enjoy moments of success like this, so why should he?

He tried to push the guilt to the back of his mind but it was there all the same, like a cloud over the sun.

Many people, it seemed, shared Desmond Hartley's pleasure at seeing him back winning races. What's more, in a snatched phone call with Pippa, he'd learnt that Bertie Brooks, his former agent, had left a message for Jamie to give him a call. With Bertie representing him he could soon be very busy indeed. It was an enticing prospect.

He shut it out and focused on his mount, Brindisi, a well-made five-year-old trained by Ferdy Gates. The trainer had only recently taken charge of him and Jamie had the impression the horse was a bit of an unknown quantity. If he possessed any special attributes it would be up to Jamie to unearth them during the next four minutes.

Brindisi shot off brightly and Jamie had to pull him back into the pack.

The only advice Ferdy had offered was to keep the horse from hitting the front in the early stages. On the way down he'd felt relaxed, just taking a nice hold of his bit, but as the tapes flew up he'd suddenly come to life and Jamie had to take a firm grip.

The horse jumped well and, until halfway round, seemed keen on the task in hand. Then he began to lag. Jamie tried to shake him up a bit. But Brindisi's enthusiasm had faded. It seemed he'd come to the conclusion that this running and jumping lark was too much like hard work.

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On reflection - and Jamie had plenty of time for that as a result of what happened next - maybe he tried too hard with the horse in an effort to throw off his lethargy.

As they approached the last hurdle on the far side, he went after the horse with his stick. Brindisi took off two full strides from the obstacle, his front legs paddling desperately as he tried to clear it. He failed. The next moment Jamie was flying through the air and landing with a thump on the springy turf. As he rolled over, a hammer descended on his head.

Clem hadn't been enjoying his afternoon. Racing, particularly National Hunt racing, was the one thing that took his mind off his disability and made the time pass quicker. In the scheme of things his bets were not important - a few pounds here and there - but like any punter he enjoyed his winners and cursed his losers. This afternoon there had been plenty of cursing.

But the big blot on the landscape of his pleasure was Jamie Hutchison's victory. This was the first time he'd seen the jockey ride since his release from prison. Obviously it would not be the last. Despite his antipathy towards the man, Clem could recognise a skilful rider when he saw one and Hutchison, there was no denying, had a future in National Hunt. The thought of many more afternoons in this chair, gasping for breath as Jamie Hutchison rode winners, was profoundly depressing. Hadn't the man robbed him of enough?

He considered his prospects, as he had done many times before. He was hard-headed about his illness. It could not be cured or alleviated. Ahead lay only a further diminishing of his life and, in the end, a painful death.

He didn't intend to let it get that far. At some point, he had long ago decided, he would take matters into his own hands. But he'd hoped that would be at a time in the future when Marie had fled the family nest. In an ideal world she'd be with a good man, considering a family of her own.

That would be the point to relieve everyone, including himself, of the burden of his existence.

The next race, a novice hurdle, had begun while these unhappy matters churned around in his head. He was miserably aware that Jamie Hutchison was riding once more though not, thankfully, on his own fancy, Palace Party, a 10-1 chance who was running strongly in the leading group.

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Slowly the race began to exert its familiar magic. Clem's worries were pushed to one side as the excitement of the moment began to grip. Palace Party was lying second as the commentator announced a faller out of shot.

Clem cursed as the producer switched to a riderless horse then back again to the leading runners.

Approaching the last, Palace Party strode clear. The horse flew the final hurdle and galloped to the line to win by five clear lengths. `You beauty!'

growled Clem, savouring the small moment of satisfaction in the gloom of his afternoon.

Then, as the camera switched away from the winner's smiling connections back onto the course, Clem began to realise that something more momentous had taken place. The picture showed a knot of paramedics surrounding a man-shaped bundle lying on the track. An ambulance was in attendance and the voiceover spoke in concerned tones. The race began to run again onscreen, cutting to the point where a runner clipped a hurdle and unseated his rider. Clem clearly saw the jockey rolling over the turf ahead of the last runners in the race. His body spun towards the galloping animals. They passed within a whisker and then, at the last, a trailing hoof smacked the jockey squarely on the back of the head.

`Yes!' roared Clem in triumph.

He'd wanted Jamie Hutchison to break his neck - and it looked as if he just had.

The doctors insisted that Jamie spend forty-eight hours in hospital under observation. After the injuries he had suffered in the car crash, which included severe trauma to the skull, no one was prepared to take any chances. The consensus of opinion was that he had been lucky. All he appeared to have suffered was bruising and a nasty headache.

Jamie didn't mind the restriction - he was used to being confined in one room, as he reminded his many visitors. One of the first was Vanessa. She told him she'd been at the course with her father and seen the incident.

She'd followed the ambulance to hospital and kept Pippa up to date on his progress until she could get there herself. Then Vanessa had fielded all 201

enquiries, including press interest, and run errands for Pippa throughout the night. She'd been a heroine.

`You've been on my conscience,' she explained to Jamie when he'd said as much. Ì promised I'd find you a girlfriend and I've done nothing since that ghastly night with poor Georgie. Anyhow,' she continued, òrganising my wedding is turning out to be such a hassle, I just leapt at something else to do. Sorting out one crocked jockey is easy-peasy compared to dealing with my mother and a seating plan for two hundred.'

Back at Shelley Farm, Jamie found himself the recipient of get-well wishes from many quarters. One of the oddest came from Irene Bolt.

`You're a bloody fool, young man,' she bawled down the phone at him.

Ì've got High Sierra down for Catterick next Tuesday. I suppose you'll have to miss out now. Unless, of course, there's a chance the doc might give you the all clear?'

With a show of regret Jamie had dashed her hopes. What Palace Party had started, there was a good chance Psycho Sierra would finish off.