Racing Manhattan (14 page)

‘When she's had her fun at the racing stable, she'll just have to find a job.'

Uncle Bill murmurs something.

‘Jockey? That's not going to happen.' Aunt Elaine laughs. ‘Of course, she'll have no qualifications. A hairdresser, maybe. Or a shop assistant. I'll ask around.'

More mumbles from Uncle Bill, but Aunt Elaine has hit her stride.

‘Anyway, she'll probably be just like your sister. Some unsuitable man will get her pregnant and then run away. With that mother and that coward of a father, she was bound to be like this.'

Alone in the kitchen, I smile. It is the first time my father has been blamed for me. Aunt Elaine must be getting desperate.

The night before I leave for Racing School, Michaela sneaks to my bedroom while Uncle Bill and Aunt Elaine are busy with one of their favourite rituals – watching the ten o'clock news on the BBC.

‘I just wanted to thank you,' she whispers, sitting on the end of my bed. She has thanked me almost every time she has seen me without anyone around, and now I give her my usual reply.

‘There's nothing to thank for. I had nothing to lose. You did.'

‘You're a real friend.'

We sit in silence for a moment. From downstairs, there is a sound of chanting and shouting from the TV. More bad news is happening somewhere.

‘What did you tell Jean-Paul?' I ask.

‘I texted him that my parents had found out. He was really scared.' Michaela laughs. ‘Suddenly he wasn't such a hero.'

‘He was taking it a bit fast, M.'

She nods. ‘Suppose so. He was gorgeous, though.'

‘Yeah?' I yawn and, amazingly, Michaela gets the message.

Tomorrow I leave early.

Back.

To.

School.

ON THE SCREEN
in the classroom, we are watching a stewards' enquiry. Three middle-aged men in suits are behind a desk. Two jockeys, in their silks, stand before them. They look a bit like naughty children called to the headmaster's office.

Behind the stewards are four monitors. They ask one jockey if he felt his ground was taken. We now know what that means – one horse has blocked another from coming through.

The jockey is young and tongue-tied. He seems nervous that anything he says will get him into trouble.

The other jockey, who won the race, is older. He has done this before. He has an innocent who-me? expression on his face.

The stewards and the jockeys all watch the race on the screens. Now and then they freeze the footage, or rewind to catch the moment when the younger jockey snatches up his reins and stands up in his stirrups to avoid a collision.

Our teacher Barry Swinson, a small, wiry man in his forties, switches off the video and turns to the sixteen of us in the classroom.

‘Right,' he says. ‘Who wants to tell me if the horse which passed the winning post is going to keep the race?'

And so the discussion begins, each of us pitching in. Some of us understand the rules of racing, but most are guessing.

When Mr Swinson turns to me, the class listens. Although they are all older than me, they have seen me ride. I know more about racing than most of them.

‘It's true the winner did hang towards the rails,' I say. ‘But I don't think it affected the result, sir. The second horse was already beaten.'

Mr Swinson returns to the video and we hear the stewards' decision. I was right.

At first, I like the life at Racing School. We are all here to learn. There's no pretending that we know more than we do. From the moment we get up at six in the morning to the end of evening activities (diet, fitness, cooking), all we think and talk about is looking after racehorses, about riding, about racing in the past and today.

Some of the students get homesick, while others discover that their nerve isn't as good as they thought it was. After the first two weeks, our course is down to eleven – seven girls and four boys.

The teachers are different from those I remember from schools. They may be strict, and get angry sometimes, but they know what it is like to be in love with racing. They have worked with horses. They understand the fever, the madness.

There is more to Racing School than riding and messing about in the stables. Every afternoon we have lessons – about the rules of racing, about how important breeding is for horses.

The class which the others find boring, the history of racing, is the one I most enjoy.

On one occasion Mr Swinson asks which jockey won the most Classics. My hand goes up. ‘Lester Piggott. He rode thirty Classic winners between 1954 and 1992. He was fifty-six when he won the 2000 Guineas on Rodrigo de Triano.'

‘Very good, Jay.'

Because Piggott is my hero, I can't help adding, ‘They used to call him “Old Stoneface” because he didn't smile or talk very much.'

‘Bloomin' swot,' mutters Jimmy, who is sitting behind me.

It is the first time I have ever been called that, and I find myself smiling for the rest of the lesson.

I like the students here.

There is Nicky, who has been in trouble with the police. She loves horses all right, but she likes boys even more. Hannah is small, nervous, with a world of trouble in her dark eyes. There is Joe, who comes from a family of travellers and has ridden ponies all his life, but never with a saddle. He thinks he knows it all, and is at war with the instructors from the first day.

Racing, for most of them, is an escape. When we are talking in our hostels after a day's work, the truth emerges.

‘Horses calm me down.'

‘This is my chance to get my life together.'

‘Racing is in my blood. It's all I want to do.'

The dreams are still alive.

The staff at the school are tough, but they believe in us. They are more like teachers than racing people.

There are moments, though, when I become restless. I look at the students and know that few of them will pull on jockeys' silks. Some will never even get out on the gallops. Winning is not in their souls.

The truth is, we're in a pretend racing yard with retired racehorses who will never race again. To my surprise, I find myself missing the hard world of a real stable, the hopes that come with every new day, even the disappointments.

Although I think of Manhattan every day, I remember Mrs Wilkinson's warning about staying away from Edgecote House until I have finished my course.

I'll be there, Hat. I'll be back soon.

One day at the school, I visit the library and go online to find out more about Manhattan's famous ancestor The Tetrarch. I find a website about racing history with a blog called ‘The Spotted Wonder of the Turf'.

Then down the page, included almost as an afterthought, are words which make me gasp.

It is exactly as Manhattan does but, with her, ‘plaiting' has been seen as a problem.

Slowly, I begin to understand the Manhattan story. She was a strong character like The Tetrarch and, like him, she had a fiery rage within her.

She fought back, refusing to race, behaving fiercely in her stable. She was proud, like her great ancestor.

I sit alone in the library, gazing out of the window.

You never had a chance.

After two weeks at Racing School it is time for the better students to get out of the covered school and onto the gallops. Five of us, including Joe and me, are allowed onto the all-weather track where we canter, receiving instructions through an earpiece from Mr Swinson as he drives his jeep on a road beside the track.

By now I am beginning to feel different from most of the others here. For some, Racing School is an adventure, the first time they have been away from home. Others become a bit wild, get picked up by friends in the town, smuggle drink back into the hostel. There are romances, arguments, rivalries, dramas.

In the early days, I sense that Joe is interested in me. I catch him looking in my direction. His teasing has an edge to it. He jokes about me living for horses as if to embarrass me into being more like the rest of them.

He soon discovers he is wasting his time. I'm not here for fun – at least, not the fun he has in mind.

When the others are relaxing, at lunch break and on Sundays, I spend time in the gym, working out, building up my muscles, riding finishes on the racehorse simulator, getting stronger.

In my mind, there is one goal – to pass the course, get back to the Wilkinson yard and ride better than any lad there.

During the last week, each of the eleven of us go to Mr Swinson's office for a final chat. He has a report to complete for the trainers.

On his desk before him are the results of the exams and tests I took the previous week.

‘You did all right,' he says without enthusiasm. ‘Your spelling's not great, your maths is pretty appalling, but we can help you with that. You know your racing history, all right.'

I nod, knowing that more is to come.

‘I worry about you.' He takes off his glasses and sighs. ‘I can't make you out.'

‘Did I fail the exams?'

He shakes his head. ‘It's not just about exams in life, Jay. You have to have people skills. You seem a little' – he frowns – ‘solitary. You're allowed to have fun, you know. Go to parties.'

I go Old Stoneface on him. ‘I know. It's just that I'm better on the horse side.'

‘Clive Wilkinson told me that there were one or two problems with you at the yard. It was why he sent you on this course at such short notice.'

‘Sometimes I used to get a bit angry,' I say, choosing my words carefully.

He looks down at the notes in front of him. ‘I see we offered you an anger management module but you turned it down.'

‘It's all right. I've sorted that now.'

He nods. ‘Your behaviour here has been fine. What was the problem at Wilkinson's?'

A thug. A bully. A horse being treated badly. The answers I could give him flare briefly in my mind like little fires, but they quickly die. ‘I've learned my lesson,' I say quietly.

‘You ride well. You seem focused, professional. A couple of the trainers who have seen you ride on the gallops have asked about you. Big yards. Successful.'

‘Great.' My voice is less enthusiastic than he expects.

He glances towards the door, and drops his voice. ‘I didn't say this, right?'

‘Say what, sir?'

‘You've got talent. It may be a sensible idea at some point for you to further your career away from the Wilkinson yard.' He holds up a hand when I try to speak. ‘It's a known fact in racing that a girl will never get on there.'

‘Maybe I can change that.'

‘I've had girls go there from here,' says Mr Swinson. ‘They never last more than a few weeks. If you want to succeed, I would seriously suggest that you keep an eye open for other jobs. There's a trainer who has seen you ride. He has suggested that, after a few months back with old man Wilkinson, you might like to have a word with him about joining his yard. I've agreed that your Level Two Apprenticeship could be transferred. You'd get on. He'd have an excellent apprentice. We'd be delighted for you too. It would be win–win for us all.'

‘Except for the Wilkinsons. They stuck by me.'

‘Of course.' Mr Swinson smiles coldly. ‘And loyalty's an excellent thing. Very commendable but—'

‘I know. Racing's a tough game. People keep telling me that.'

‘Everyone looks after themselves. Clive knows the score.'

‘I have things I need to finish at Edgecote.'

‘Things?' He laughs. ‘I always thought you were ambitious, Jay.'

I consider for the briefest of split seconds whether I should tell Mr Swinson about Manhattan but, looking at his smiling face across the desk, I know that he would never understand.

‘I'm going back and I'm staying there.'

He pauses, and is about to say something. Then he thinks better of it and he closes my file. ‘Suit yourself,' he says coldly.

I thank him again and leave the office. Already I can imagine the words that will appear on my final report.

Stubborn.

Won't.

Be.

Told.