Midnight on Lime Street (51 page)
Read Midnight on Lime Street Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
We’re still being filmed, only I don’t care no more. Somebody from a newspaper asks if I’m happy and I tell him I am, because me horse is still alive and not needing his throat
opening so he can breathe. And yes, it is great to be the first woman to get the trophy, but will they bugger off, cos I want Murdoch back with Nicholas Nye.
That’s when they grab hold of my Gordy to get the tale about the donkeys and Murma and the geese and cats and dogs and chickens and the RSPCA. I hear somebody saying they want to do a
shoot at Wordsworth House, and I think to meself – well, as long as they don’t mean with a gun. I hear Nye’s bell, and here he comes to have his photo took next to Longshanks Mad
Murdoch and this dwarf of a female jockey.
I’m sitting proud as a peacock (peahen?) on my bareback horse while cameras flash. ‘It’s all right, Murdy,’ I whisper, ‘it’s just the price of fame. Never
mind, we’ll soon be home.
‘I promise,’ I tell him as I slide off, and he does that horrible grin, all tombstone teeth and quiet whickering. Honest, he’s a right case, this chap.
There’s a bit more pissing about with photos, leave me hat on, take me hat off, stand at his head, make him do that grin again. It’s boring. And I’ve a daughter waiting for me
at home . . .
We’re back at Dove Cottage. I give Gordy a goodnight kiss, and that’s that, cos I feel as if I’ve been dragged through me granny’s mangle. I should be
used to it by now, but the National’s a bloody killer, isn’t it? If I feel hammered, what’s my poor horse going through? I’ll massage him in the morning; he likes being
massaged.
Me eyes start drooping into the closed position. In that stupid world that lives at the edge of being awake and at the start of sleep, I see her standing there, a battleship in a frock, scarf
trying to cover them big plastic curlers she always used, pink ones, blue ones, yellow ones. And she’s grinning at me.
‘Hello,’ I say in my head.
‘I’m that proud of you, Babs,’ she says. ‘My girl, my daughter.’
‘Thanks, Mam.’ And I drift away from here, past her and into a world where there’s just me, Gordy, Ellie, Murdoch, his mother and our donkeys. This is my heaven, and here
I’ll stay until . . . until . . .
I sit up, muscles aching and complaining as I thump my beloved husband. ‘You’re snoring again,’ I tell him before settling back on the pillows. I must stop hitting him, or he
might begin to think I mean it.
S
OFT
E
CHOING
H
OOVES
Ankles strapped. Tightly wrapped
Against disease. Ran with ease
Across the sand, his own land.
Fences cleared, never feared,
Did not go under. Heard the thunder
Forty more with him before
Seldom behind. One of a kind.
Thrum, thrum, the beat of drum?
No. It’s the field; to him they yield
Hard and fast, riders cast
To lie on ground while wild hooves pound.
Yet still he rushes, still he pushes
For the line. ‘The prize is mine!’
And leaving space, he owned the race,
Took the crown. Then looking down
On mortals less, he nodded. ‘Yes,
I didn’t fall. I’ll never crawl.’
Within this book, you had a look
At Murdoch (Mad), who’s quite the lad.
An imitation, my own creation.
A paler horse who runs the course.
But Red Rum was the one I met
On Southport sands. I can’t forget
The scent of him, his gentle touch.
I fell in love and cared so much
I never watched the National,
Since love is rarely rational.
I should have known. No rider thrown
No fence refused, no skill unused.
A noble mount whose wins we count.
We had the best. He’s now at rest.
Though still I hear on Southport’s beach
Soft echoing hooves beyond my reach.
Reader, I hope you love my Mad Murdoch
as much as I do.
R
UTH
H
AMILTON
By Ruth Hamilton
A Whisper to the Living
With Love From Ma Maguire
Nest of Sorrows
Billy London’s Girls
Spinning Jenny
The September Starlings
A Crooked Mile
Paradise Lane
The Bells of Scotland Road
The Dream Sellers
The Corner House
Miss Honoria West
Mulligan’s Yard
Saturday’s Child
Matthew & Son
Chandlers Green
The Bell House
Dorothy’s War
A Parallel Life
Sugar and Spice
The Judge’s Daughter
The Reading Room
Mersey View
That Liverpool Girl
Lights of Liverpool
A Liverpool Song
A Mersey Mile
Meet Me at the Pier Head
Midnight on Lime Street
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Gail Stanton Friars (new researcher) and Avril Cain (my forever researcher).
I send heartfelt gratitude to my readership.
A
UTHOR’S NOTE
Although the books are fiction, I try hard to adhere to the (f)actualities of the era in which they are set. In this one I wander off a bit, for which misdeed I beg
tolerance.
Mad Murdoch is a pale imitation of the aforementioned horse, and his owners are . . . unusual.
I allow women to ride in the National rather earlier than they did in reality.
The phasing out of hospital matrons had already begun at the time.
We were relatively unaware of the long-term effects of LSD and similar drugs until later.
For these and all other mistakes, I ask pardon.
Ruthie
First published 2015 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-76909-0
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2015
Cover design and shop photography ©
www.blacksheep-uk.com
Main figure: © David Copeman / Alamy; Policeman: © Andrew Sole / Alamy; Porter: © Allan Cash Picture Library / Alamy; Old lady: © Jenny Matthews / Alamy. Author photograph
© Bolton News
The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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