Racing Manhattan (16 page)

‘Yes.'

She nods. ‘I'll tell Angus.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkinson.'

‘Now leave us alone,' she says. ‘Second lot will be going out soon. You've got a racehorse to work.'

I leave the big house, blinking in the sunshine as I stand on the steps, looking across the paddocks.

My heart is thumping in my chest. I'm no longer just a lad. I'll be riding work with professional jockeys. Soon I'll take the first step to becoming one myself.

But none of that is the reason why a big smile settles on my face as I walk slowly back to the yard for second lot.

Something important has happened. I am riding into the future.

Me.

And.

Hat.

I CHANGE INTO
my new clothes, dark blue jodhpurs and boots, in one of the empty boxes in the main yard, then make my way to the stable of Poptastic, the horse I am riding for the second lot.

He is a big, gangling bay three-year-old who has yet to grow into his strength, but he is bred for speed.

His lad, Tommy, is running a body brush over him when I arrive. He glances at me in my new gear.

‘Getting the leg-up today, are we?'

‘Yup.' I undo Poptastic's head collar, put the reins over the horse's head and slip the bridle on him. ‘What's this one like?' I ask.

‘Bit of a baby, but there's no harm in him. He wasn't strong enough to race as a two-year-old. Hasn't even done any serious work before today.' Tommy pats him on the neck. ‘Got to look his best, he has. The owner's in today.' He darts a look over his shoulder in my direction. ‘Now that you're a work jockey you'd better be at your best too.'

I frown, not quite clear what he means.

‘Look outside the door.'

I do. There, on the ground, is a whip.

‘Angus left it for you,' Tommy calls out from the box.

I pick the whip up. It brings back bad memories of when I first rode Manhattan, but I know it means a lot. Unless they are riding ‘problem horses', only jockeys and lads who ride work can carry a whip. It is a sign of promotion, like the first stripe on the arm of a soldier.

On the way to the covered yard, Poptastic is on his toes, as if he can sense that today is the day when he has to grow up, become a racehorse. He jigs restlessly, looking about him with wild-eyed, babyish enthusiasm.

Maybe because my thoughts are still on Manhattan, I'm completely relaxed. As we walk around the covered yard, I notice that the other lads are taking in the change to the way I look.

I look smarter. I am carrying a whip. I am riding a main-yard horse whose owner will be watching this morning. I may be small, and I may be a girl, but I'm not the kid who helps out in the yard any more.

Poptastic is seeing spooks in every shadow as we make our way out to the heath and, when the string does a slow canter on the all-weather track, he pulls hard, throwing his head around.

Easy, boy. You'll get your moment.

He's a strong horse, but he is clumsy and needs to be held together to avoid him striking into himself. By the time we pull up, Mr Wilkinson's battered estate car has arrived. When the trainer gets out, there are two people with him – a small, powerfully built man wearing a green checked suit, the sort of clothes a city dweller wears when visiting the country, and tottering behind him is a younger, taller woman with red hair and a short skirt. Her high heels make walking difficult on the springy turf.

One of the lads gives a low whistle. Angus mutters something sexist under his breath.

Behind me, Deej says, ‘Here come your owners, Bug.'

I glance towards him, mouthing the word ‘Who?'

‘Pete Lukic. Most of the nightclubs in Essex belong to him. And I'm guessing that's probably not his daughter.'

The eyes of the trainer and his guests are on Poptastic as the string circles around them.

‘Jay.' Mr Wilkinson beckons me in.

‘This my jockey?' The small man, Mr Lukic, has an I'm-just-about-to-make-a-joke look on his face. ‘Shouldn't she be at school?'

I smile politely.

‘That horse looks dead frisky, Pete.' His girlfriend giggles. ‘A bit like his owner.'

‘Leave it, Paloma,' mutters Mr Lukic.

Mr Wilkinson calls Liam and Deej to join us. Liam is on Poker Face, a useful three-year-old who has won a couple of races, and Deej is riding Norewest.

‘Serious piece of work from the five-furlong pole,' the trainer says. ‘Pass the two-furlong mark. Let them stride out. Bug in the middle on the three-year-old. Bit green. Don't go mad.'

We canter away from the string, with Deej and Liam joking about the red-headed girl as they go. When we reach the five-furlong post, I pull my leathers up three or four notches. I want to feel and look like a jockey. Deej and Liam take their positions on each side of me. While they are not looking, I do the heart trick, tracing a shape on Poptastic's shoulder. It is more to calm me, than him.

When we turn and set off, it takes a while to settle Poptastic. I play with the reins, changing the pressure on his mouth to keep him distracted, and soon he begins to relax into his stride.

There you go, boy. This is the way it's done.

I drop my hands on his neck and crouch lower in the saddle.

To my right Liam is going easily. Deej, on the other side, gives a little whoop of joy as the wind whistles past our ears.

At the four-furlong pole, I change my grip on the reins and begin to push him out, hands and heels.

Let's see what you can do, boy. Here we go.

For the first time in his life, Poptastic gets a taste of what he has been bred to do. He lengthens his stride and, by the time we pass the group of onlookers beside the gallop, we are half a length ahead of the other two and going well within ourselves.

We pull up, canter back to the trainer.

‘Said don't go mad.' Mr Wilkinson is scowling at me, but by now I know him well enough to see that he is quite pleased by what he has seen.

‘I had a lot more in hand, sir.'

‘Oh, he's so sweet, Pete.' The girl is holding onto Mr Lukic's arm and jumping up and down like a little girl at a birthday party. The owner turns and says something quietly to Mr Wilkinson.

‘Want you to keep him covered up at Lingfield, Jay,' the trainer mutters.

Covered up? I have no idea what he is talking about.

Mr Wilkinson senses my uncertainty. ‘He'll need the outing.'

I'm no wiser, but I'd be a fool to give myself away. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘His moment will come.' The trainer nods. ‘Take 'em home, then.'

As I follow Deej back to the string, I call out to him, ‘What was all that about?'

‘The guv'nor was telling you that you won't be riding a winner in your first race.'

I laugh. ‘Just watch me.'

‘You don't get it,' he says. ‘You're not riding a winner. That's what he was telling you.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Covered up. Need the outing. Not his day. That's racing-speak and it all means the same thing. You're not meant to win.'

I'm aware of a lurch of disappointment within me. I've been in racing long enough to know that races are sometimes fixed. It's illegal, but not every trainer obeys the rules. Somehow I never thought that Mr Wilkinson would play that game.

‘I don't like it.' I say the words quietly, more to myself than to anyone else.

‘We're a gambling yard, Bug,' Deej calls over his shoulder. ‘It's all part of racing.'

The.

Real.

World.

YEARLING TIME HAS
arrived. Day to day I have too much to think about to spend time worrying about my first ride in a month or so.

Throughout November, many of the older horses leave the yard. Horseboxes arrive and take them to their new futures – at stud, or to go hurdling, or abroad. I try not to think too much about what is going to happen to the horses I've come to know so well.

Of mine, Norewest is to be trained in a jumping yard and Ocean Pacific has been sold as a stallion to Japan.

As the yearlings begin to arrive they are scruffy, wild-eyed, pot-bellied, more foals than horses. They look about them, amazed and scared. Until now, they have been in a field. Some come directly from sales. For them, everything is new and different.

It is our job over the winter months to turn these babies, who have never had a weight on their backs, or a bridle in their mouths, into racehorses.

The atmosphere in the yard changes at yearling time. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson are rarely to be seen.

Harry Bucknall, grumpy at being in charge during the darkest, coldest part of the year, shows how important he is by doing as little as possible.

The lads are in a bad mood too. Most of them hate breaking in the yearlings, and some of the older ones, including Angus, avoid the work altogether. You have to be patient. The weather is miserable. Any day, you risk getting hurt by an over-excited yearling.

I love it all – getting them to stand and become used to human company, grooming them gently, picking up their legs, putting on a breaking bit, lunging them in the paddock, long-reining them around the yard, through the starting-stall, getting them used to a saddle and girth, lying across them in the stable so that they become used to carrying weight, sitting quietly on them while they are led by another lad in the small paddock, then ‘riding away' when, snorting and confused, they are taken out for the first time to the part of the heath reserved for yearlings.

Each of them is different. One or two take a look around and accept their new life as if it was that they have been expecting all along. Others dash here and there whenever they can, play up when they should be learning how to work. A few want to fight you all the way.

It is like an unruly primary school class, but one where the pupils are big enough to kick you through a door or break your arm.

Whenever I have a spare moment, I am down in the bull-pen with Manhattan. She has fresh bedding now, and whenever I can I leave the door to the shed open. She can see sunlight, even if it is from the back of a cattle shed.

Her winter coat has covered up the nicks and marks left by Pete. Some horses become restless when they are groomed for too long. Manhattan loves it, as I whistle and sing while working. Once she wanted to be alone. These days, she has discovered she quite likes human company, so long as it's of the right sort.

‘Routine, that's what the horses like,' Ted used to tell me, and it was good advice. Manhattan has had so many shocks and surprises in her life that the reassuring rhythm of things being done in the same way and in the same order seems to calm her.

She has her own habits too. In the morning, she likes to wake slowly. I have learned that, when I arrive, I should walk quietly into the pen.

Morning, Hat.

I stand in front of her and gently rest my head against hers, forehead to forehead. We stay still for several seconds. It is a new day, and I am telling her that I am here, she can trust me. It is our moment.

Later, as I muck out the pen, she can sometimes be grumpy, like someone who wants to have a lie-in. When I ask her to move over, she swishes her tail in dozy irritation and at first doesn't move an inch.

Hey, Hat, wake up! I've got three other horses to do.

She turns her head and gives me a look under those long white eyelashes. I am getting her princess stare. It says: ‘Excuse me, are you talking to me?'

Enough, Hat!

I slap her lightly on the hindquarters and, game over, she moves.

She is odd about her food, I have discovered. However hungry she may be, she will stand, looking at her manger until I have left the pen. As soon as she hears the latch fall, she moves forward to eat.

Day by day, she is changing. The light is back in her eyes. She may be banished in disgrace to the back of a cattle shed but, in her own beautiful head, she is still special.

Two weeks after my return, Angus surprises me by visiting the bull-pen late one morning. He watches me for a moment as I run the body brush over Manhattan.

‘Don't spend too much time on the mare.' He speaks more quietly than he used to. It is as if, now that Pete has gone, he no longer has to pretend to be fiercer than he is. ‘Remember she's not making money for the yard.'

Manhattan turns to look at him. Her ears are half back, but at least she is no longer rolling her eyes, baring her teeth and swishing her tail.

‘She's calming down,' I say.

‘Aye. So it would seem.'

‘Maybe I can start taking her out with second or third lot again.'

‘Your risk.'

‘Of course.'

He looks from me to her, then gives a nod. ‘We'll try it tomorrow,' he says, then walks briskly out of the cattle shed, the heels of his boots echoing off the walls.

I wait five seconds after the door has closed, then give Manhattan a hug around the neck.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I know she will be a handful. Since she attacked Pete, her exercise has consisted of being led around the covered ride, and occasionally taken on the walker. Although her feed is more bran than high-energy nuts, she is still a racehorse in her prime.

When I saddle her up, she arches her back and gnashes her teeth, but by now I am beginning to understand her.

Leave it, Hat. No messing around today.

I clamber onto the metal manger in the bull-pen, and alight into the saddle. I let down my leathers a couple of holes, so that I am riding long and low in the saddle, like an old lady going for a quiet ride in the park.

Out of the bull-pen, into the daylight. Manhattan stops, stands stock-still, her head high, ears pricked. She gives a slow, superior snort.

I let her take in the sights and sounds of the day for a few seconds. Then I click my teeth. She walks towards the main yard, looking about her as if expecting – assuming – that she is the centre of attention.