Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (5 page)

And when he'd hit the front Jamie had been with him in spirit, pouring on the gas and riding a finish to the line. Once he'd been a far better rider than Richard. Given the chance, he now wondered if he could be again.

After just a few hours of freedom it seemed everything was possible.

Pippa broke into his thoughts. `You've got to help me, Jamie.'

He knew she'd been shattered by Lonsdale Heights' loss. Òf course,' he said. `Just ask.'

Ì'm missing something. I thought I was a good trainer but after today I'm not so sure.'

`Believe me, Pippa. You're one of the best.'

`So how come Toby's just taken one of my horses and improved it a stone in three weeks?'

'That's only one race. It's a fluke.'

27

She didn't reply for a bit, just concentrated on the road and the heavy traffic flow around her. It would be a long slog up to Yorkshire at this rate.

Jamie wished he could help but he wouldn't be driving for a long while, since a five-year ban had accompanied his prison sentence. This was the first occasion on which it had seemed significant.

`Look,' she said, `you're coming to the yard with a fresh eye. You've always had a great instinct for horses. Just watch what I'm doing. I don't believe I've turned into a lousy trainer overnight.'

He laughed out loud. `Don't be daft, Pippa.'

Ì'm serious. Many more days like today and I'm packing it in. Perhaps we should accept the offer on the land.'

A local developer had been after the house and surrounding acres that Pippa and Jamie had inherited from their mother. He'd recently put in a revised bid with a breathtaking number of noughts on the end and they'd discussed it on her last visit to Jamie in prison. But neither of them wanted to sell. The land was where they had grown up.

Jamie squeezed her shoulder and she managed a reluctant grin. `That's not all,' she added. `That lecherous old sod Toby pinched my bum.'

This time both of them laughed.

Marie Kirkstall cycled wearily up the rutted lane towards the row of houses on the edge of Ridgemoor village. The low sun picked out the slopes and planes of the moor above. On the track halfway up the hill she could see two figures in custard-yellow anoraks heading up towards the tree line. That's what she should be doing, making the most of the bright winter weather and enjoying the spectacular countryside that lay right there on her own doorstep.

But there were two good reasons why she would not be joining the hikers up ahead. The first was purely practical. She'd been on the early shift, cleaning offices in town, and she was hungry, dirty and tired. By the time she'd had lunch and a bath, the best of the day would be gone. All she'd be fit for was curling up on the front-room sofa and pretending to revise for 28

her A-level resit. Some hope. She'd be asleep before she'd read a page of notes.

The second reason was less easy to explain, even to herself. Alan had been dead for over two years now so it was about time she got back to normal.

Normal as in using her brain and enjoying those things that used to give her pleasure, like hiking the hills and riding horses. Her friends had given up nagging her about it. They respected how she felt but she knew they didn't really understand - not that she was entirely clear herself. She'd scarcely been on the moor since Alan's accident. The hillside behind the house had been their playground as children, and every beck and hollow reminded her of her brother. Even though they'd spent as much time fighting as having fun they'd always gone on long walks together, sometimes in gangs of other kids, sometimes just the two of them. So it made a kind of superstitious sense that she steered clear of the hills these days. They just made her sad.

Horses were different. Unlike Alan, she'd been good in the saddle. Rugby and cricket had been his games, horses were just for a laugh. She had this terrible feeling that if he'd been a better horseman he could have avoided the car that killed him. If she, Marie, had been on Misty, their little grey mare, she knew she could have skipped off the road somehow or done something to get out of the way. It was ironic it turned out to be a jockey driving. Very funny, I don't think.

She parked her bike carelessly round the side of the house and entered through the back door into the kitchen. Aunt Joyce was at the sink, her big red arms viciously scrubbing a pan.

`You're late today,' she said, without turning round. Marie could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was fed up about something. Aunt Joyce often was.

She dumped a frying pan on the draining board with a clang. As she turned to Marie her pink jowly face softened. `Sit down, love. I've got your dinner ready.'

`Don't you want to get away? Aren't you meeting Pam?' Her aunt usually had lunch with a friend on Thursdays.

Joyce shook her head; the jowls wobbled. Ì rang and put her off.' "Why?,

`There's something up with your dad.'

29

Marie's mind went blank. She watched a drip swell on the spout of the tap and fall with a plink into the washing-up water. Another one began to form and she couldn't tear her eyes away. `Have you called Dr Gooding?'

she heard herself say.

Joyce put a rough hand on her shoulder. Ìt's nothing physical, love, but I know something's up. He's stopped talking again.'

Clem Kirkstall had not spoken a word for three months following his son's death. Dr Gooding had put it down to shock and said it had nothing to do with his on-going emphysema. Èveryone has their own way of grieving,'

he'd said. Clem's, sympathetic though everyone had been to his suffering, had been hell on those around him.

`When I took his tray up he was fine,' Joyce told her. `Said it was a great day for going up Piecrust Hill and would I give him a piggyback. I said if we both lost four stone there'd be no problem.'

Ànd?'

Ì sorted the washing and put some whites on. But when I went back up for the tray, he was just lying there. Didn't turn his head to say hello, didn't reply when I asked him why he'd let his breakfast go cold. Three best back rashers and two fried eggs and he hadn't touched them. He hasn't got up, he's just lying there and I can't get a word out of him. I don't know what's up with the old fool.'

There was a note of indignation in her voice and her jaw was set firm, but her big pale eyes were misty with emotion. It wouldn't take much to set her aunt crying. More than anyone, she had borne the brunt of the recent misfortunes that had come their way. Marie squeezed her hand.

Ì'll go up and see him.'

Ì've just been. He's asleep, thank the Lord. You take your coat off and have a bite to eat.'

ÒK.' Her appetite had vanished but she knew better than to resist her aunt.

Joyce quickly laid the kitchen table and produced trays and pans from the oven, loading a plate high with meat pie and vegetables. Marie had given up the battle to persuade her aunt to serve lighter meals and smaller portions. She wouldn't eat again today.

30

Marie chewed mechanically and stared through the window. Shadows of clouds chased across the hillside, turning the patchwork of vivid greens and rich browns into a uniform grey. The day was fading already.

Her eye fell on the tray resting on top of the microwave. It had been cleared of dishes but one item still lay on it.

Ìs that Dad's paper?'

Clem Kirkstall, a devoted racing man, took the Racing Beacon every day.

It was his essential companion to afternoons spent in front of the television.

`He didn't want it.'

Ì thought you said he wasn't talking to you?'

Ì left it on his pillow but he chucked it after me. Waved his arm like he wanted to thump me.'

Marie stared at her aunt. It didn't sound like her father at all. Ì know,' said Joyce. `He's got me all of a bother.'

Marie reached for the paper and laid it face up in front of her. As a rule her father read it from cover to cover, folding and turning down pages as he went. It was clear that this edition had not even been opened. But, as Marie's eye fell on the photograph on the front page, the reason for her father's strange behaviour became obvious. It showed two men in a parade ring at a racecourse, one middle-aged and laughing, the other much younger with a drawn and serious face. Toby Priest, the leading trainer in the district, was shaking hands with Jamie Hutchison, the rider who'd killed her brother. The caption beneath the photo read

`Welcome back'.

No wonder Clem Kirkstall was out of sorts.

Shelley farmhouse had been rearranged since Jamie had been away. The big rambling building had remained unchanged since his Uncle Bob had bought it in the early 1970s. Now, after Jamie's mother's death, Pippa and Mal had built a conservatory, knocked down a couple of internal walls and added an en suite bathroom to Laura Hutchison's old room to turn it into a master bedroom. Pippa had asked Jamie during a prison visit for his permission to proceed with the alterations.

31

`Go ahead and do what you like,' he'd said, though he'd instinctively resisted the thought of any change. He didn't like the idea of life moving on without him. Ì trust you.'

Now, as he made himself at home in the top far corner of the house in the converted loft space, he was pleased with the result. Even though his surroundings were familiar, it seemed as if he was making a new start.

`You don't have to hide away up here, you know.' Malcolm was standing in the doorway. `We were expecting you to take your old room.'

Jamie hadn't fancied it. They'd left it pretty much alone, down to the football posters on the wall, which dated things all too clearly. He'd slept in there since he was eight; it was time for a change.

Ì used to crawl up into this loft when I was a kid,' he said. Ì like it.' He'd worried about moving in with Pippa and her husband. They'd got married before the trial and had set up home in Malcolm's bachelor flat. But once Jamie had been sent to prison and their mother took a turn for the worse, it made sense for Pippa to move back. Naturally, Malcolm had come too.

Jamie had taken a bit of persuading to return to the family home. `Where else are you going to go?' Pippa had asked.

`Hong Kong,' Jamie had said. A jockey could make a good living there, he knew. Òr Australia.'

Ì could use you in the yard.'

He hadn't really wanted to come back to Yorkshire. The shame of what he'd done was too much. His entire body went cold at the thought of meeting any of the Kirkstall family. Finally Pippa had convinced him of the .futility of running away. `Run now and you'll be running for ever,'

she'd said and he'd realised she was right.

Shortly afterwards he'd discovered he wouldn't be allowed to travel abroad immediately after getting out; he'd have a probation officer to report to once a fortnight instead. So he'd agreed to come back - to start with, anyway. He told himself he was better off than most ex-cons - at least he had a place to begin putting his life back together.

Malcolm stepped into the room. Ì see you haven't lost the old touch,' he said. Ì watched you ride out on Noddy.'

Pippa had told Jamie to lie in that morning but he'd woken at six as usual.

It had been strange lying there in the dark listening to the well 32

remembered creak of the old house as the wind blew from off the moor. It was quite a contrast to the constant noise of Garstone where even in the dead of night, when the last ghetto-blasters had been turned off, the snores, farts and screams of 500 men reminded him he was not alone.

He'd found some old shorts and a vest and gone for a run up the hill in the early morning light. He'd discovered running in prison - not that there was anywhere to go, but running on the spot in his cell burned up his energy and kept him fit. It was a treat to stride out across the rough grass and fill his lungs with clean air.

From up on the ridge he'd watched Pippa's first lot of a dozen horses wind their way up to the gallops. They set off in single file, doing a good strong canter between the bright orange markers. Today was an easy day. Jamie knew they wouldn't be doing anything too strenuous but, just by watching the cloud of each horse's breath condense in the cool winter air he could tell which were the fittest.

His sister had asked for his advice on what she was doing with her string.

He suspected this was partly to make him feel needed but he'd shared her anguish at seeing Black Knight win and he was keen to help if he could.

The fact was, there were dozens of ways of training a horse to fitness and as many dietary regimes that could be imposed to aid performance. But, in the end, if the horse didn't have an engine there was little that could be done. In Jamie's opinion, the most important thing was to keep the horses happy. If horses are content they will eat and can be trained. Then it's just a question of finding the right race for the animal in question. Easy. Except Jamie had never been a trainer. Later, after he had savoured a long, hot bath and a full breakfast, he had wandered out into the yard and found his sister in the office on the phone.

`Do me a favour,' she'd said, interrupting her conversation for a moment.

`We're short of a lad for second lot. Fetch your helmet and jump on Noddy, will you?'

`Which one's Noddy?' he'd asked a freckle-faced girl in the tack room. She led him to a box containing a sleek chestnut colt.

`Real name's Norwegian Wood,' she said. `Basically, he's a lazy sod and won't work. Put him on a racecourse though and he's a flyer. Won at Chester off ninety-three.'

33

`Yeah?' Jamie was intrigued. Ninety-three was the handicapper's rating.

The ratings ranged from 0 to 150, with 30 about the lowest for a very poor Selling Plater. The best were rarely above 140. The 1965 Derby winner Sea Bird had been rated 145. The average on the Flat was around 75, so Noddy was more than useful.

`That was back in May though. He's been taking it easy ever since.' The girl - Rosie - had been saddling the horse while she talked. She unclipped the head collar and led Noddy outside.

`Thanks,' he said as she gave him a leg up into the saddle. It was the first time he'd sat on a horse in a year and a half. Did she know that? he wondered as he fell in behind the other horses circling in front of the yard.