Racing Manhattan (22 page)

To my left, one of the jockeys is punching the air.

I pull up, gasping with exhaustion, my muscles screaming with relief.

So near, girl. So near.

A jockey canters past me.

‘That one was finishing like a train,' he calls out, looking at Manhattan.

‘She was.'

He laughs, and I know that, like everyone who was watching the race, he will have one thought in his mind.

The girl left it too late.

Deej is ahead of us. He grabs Manhattan's reins and slaps her on the neck.

‘That was more like it.' He laughs. ‘If only you'd started racing earlier.'

‘The whip,' I manage to say. ‘I shouldn't have carried a whip down to the start.'

As we make our way through the crowds towards the winners' enclosure, I sense a curiosity among racegoers. I hear someone saying, ‘She should have won.'

When we enter the winners' enclosure, Deej leads Manhattan to the place for the second-placed horse. With one last pat for Manhattan, I slip my feet out of the stirrups and dismount.

Mr Wilkinson approaches, looking displeased.

‘Try to do it hard way. Too bloody cocky.'

‘She wasn't racing, sir. She only started taking an interest about four furlongs out. It was the whip. I should never have carried it in the paddock.'

Behind him, Mrs Wilkinson raises her eyebrows.

Mr Webber pats me on the back. ‘The prince will be relieved,' he says. ‘That's the first time she's even been involved in a finish. At least we know she isn't completely useless.'

I take off the saddle, and glance at Manhattan. She looks pleased with herself, but not exactly tired. I give her a pat on the neck, tip my cap to the Wilkinsons and Mr Webber, and run up the steps to weigh in.

As I sit on the scales, I hear the racecourse announcer giving the result of the photograph.

‘First, number two, Touch of Class. Second, number nine, Manhattan. Distance: short head.' There is a moment's pause. ‘Stewards' enquiry.'

Trouble.

On.

The.

Way.

IT IS LIKE
a trial. On our way upstairs to the stewards' room, Mr Wilkinson tells me that the racecourse officials – the stewards – will be asking us why I allowed Manhattan to lose the race by allowing her to be tailed off early in the race.

‘Leave it to me,' he tells me. ‘Been here before. I do the talking.'

In a small room, three middle-aged men in suits sit behind a desk. Standing nearby is another younger man who tells us he is the stewards' secretary. Behind them are four television screens, which show the race from different angles.

The chief steward, Mr Thompson-Smythe, is a tall, military-looking man in his fifties. ‘Not a very satisfactory race, jockey.' He speaks in a slightly bored voice. ‘This enquiry is to establish whether your horse Manhattan ran a true race. Should she have won? Let's have a look at it.'

The starting stalls appear on the screens. We watch as Manhattan starts slowly, then loses ground early in the race. It looks bad, because I am sitting still, allowing the rest of the field to get away from us. Then, at about the halfway point, it is as if Manhattan has decided to take an interest. Her ears go forward. She starts to gallop. We make our run. Too late.

The screens freeze as we pull up.

The four men are looking at me.

‘What on earth were you playing at, Barton?' asks Mr Thompson-Smythe.

‘She doesn't like the whip, sir. I left it at the start but it took a while for her to realise that I wasn't carrying it. That was when she began to race.'

There is a disbelieving harrumph from one of the stewards.

A cold smile appears on the chief steward's face as he turns his attention to Mr Wilkinson. ‘Clive? Any comment?'

The trainer looks irritated. ‘Tricky mare. Not genuine. Barton knows her well. Ridden her all winter. First time we've seen what she can do.'

‘Well, she didn't do enough to win,' the third steward says. The men make notes.

‘Girl's inexperienced.' Mr Wilkinson nods in my direction. ‘Promising. But a long way to go.'

Mr Thompson-Smythe looks up. ‘Any particular reason why you put an inexperienced girl up on such a difficult ride, Clive?' he asks.

‘Horse goes for her,' says Mr Wilkinson. ‘Bit of a gamble.'

‘I imagine the stable jockey will be getting the nod from now on,' he says with a knowing smile.

There is a low rumble of anger from Mr Wilkinson. ‘Why would you imagine that? Girl got the horse running. Can't ask for more.'

There's another thoughtful silence. The second steward murmurs the words, ‘Beginner's luck.'

‘Well, young lady,' Mr Thompson-Smythe speaks in a patronising, adults-know-best tone, ‘you're lucky to have such a supportive boss.'

‘And such a very good horse,' says the second steward. ‘Got you out of trouble there.'

Mr Thompson-Smythe reaches for a printed manual in front of him. I see on the front of it the words ‘Procedures and Penalties'. He waves it at me. ‘Book of rules,' he says. Opening it, he reads. ‘Here's rule 45.1. “The jockey must take and be seen to take all other reasonable and permissible measures throughout the race, however it develops, to ensure the horse is given a full opportunity to achieve the best possible placing”. You didn't do that, did you?'

‘I—'

Beside me, Mr Wilkinson clears his throat loudly.

I take the hint. ‘No, sir,' I say.

‘Well.' Mr Thompson-Smyth glances at his fellow stewards, then delivers his verdict. ‘If you were more experienced, you would be facing a fine and ban under Rule 45.1.' He pauses. ‘As it is, we'd like you to take this as a friendly but serious warning. Do not fall asleep at the start of a race. And' – a cold smile appears on his face – ‘most jockeys find it's quite a good idea to carry a whip.'

‘But—'

‘But what?' snaps the chief steward.

‘Nothing, sir. Yes, sir. I will.'

As we leave the office and head downstairs, Mr Wilkinson glances down at me.

‘Journalists. Will want a word. Say nothing.'

He turns out to be right. Four men, notepads and tape recorders in their hands, stand before us as we return to the weighing room.

Ignoring Mr Wilkinson, they start talking at me. What were my tactics? Why was I not carrying a whip? Would I ride the race differently if I had another chance?

Mr Wilkinson holds up a hand. ‘Talk about the horse. With me. Jockey has to go to the stables.'

He pushes me forward, and I make my way into the weighing room, ignoring the shouted questions.

By the time I have changed, the journalists have gone. I walk towards the stable, just another jockey and, once I put my saddle in the horsebox, just another lad.

Deej is on the course, watching Mr Wilkinson's other runner. I walk into Manhattan's box where she is munching hay, as if she has been there all the time.

There's my girl.

I run a hand down her neck, then under her stomach. She is only slightly warmer than usual.

You're all right, aren't you? You've hardly broken a sweat.

She turns her head towards me, as if expecting a carrot.

Just beaten in a Group Two race. You're safe now. You showed them that you could race.

It might be my imagination, but I sense an air of disappointment to her. She is a princess. Princesses don't come second.

They said I was lucky to be riding a good horse. And I suppose I was.

She nudges me with her nose, impatient with this chat. I give her a carrot which she munches with her eyes half closed.

I lean towards her, my forehead resting against her neck. She ignores me, returning to her hay.

Just.

Another.

Day.

THE NEXT MORNING
there is a picture of me on the racing page of one of the national papers. It shows me at the finishing line, my hands on Manhattan's neck, my mouth open as if trying to scream my horse across the line.

It is a strange photo. I look tiny on top of Manhattan. She has her ears pricked, like a horse who is ignoring the speck of humanity which happens to be riding her. There is desperation on my face.

The report of the race adds to the big joke:

Apprentice Jay ‘Bug' Barton had a race to remember when her second professional ride, on the ‘Magic' Wilkinson-trained 33-1 shot Manhattan, narrowly failed to edge out hot favourite Touch of Class in the Middleton Stakes.

First the 16-year-old seemed to have forgotten to carry a whip. Then she allowed the mare to dwell at the start, and inexplicably made no attempt to make up ground, appearing to go to sleep completely when her horse tailed off down the back straight.

Only when the field turned for home did Manhattan begin to race. Remarkably she almost won, in spite of her jockey's unusual tactics.

After the stewards had let off Barton with an official warning, veteran trainer ‘Magic' Wilkinson loyally defended his young employee's tactics, but declined to say whether Jay would be riding for him in the near future.

As for Manhattan, the trainer said he would be discussing future plans with her owner Prince Muqrin. She will be worth following, with a more experienced jockey in the saddle.

It gets worse. A journalist has a bright idea of looking at the TV footage of the race. Under the headline ‘WHAT
WERE
YOU THINKING, BUG?' a series of photographs are published. Down at the start, eyes closed, both hands on Manhattan's neck, like a person praying. Halfway through the race, at the back of the field and looking as if we were out for a morning canter. The crazy finish. Trotting back, having pulled up, with a look of desperate disappointment on my face.

It is a great story. Big horse. Little girl. Hope. Fear. Inexperience. Disappointment.

What fun people must be having as they read it and laugh at the pictures.

Surprisingly, the lads don't tease me. Angus is almost friendly towards me. Laura tells me I did all right, which as near to a compliment as I'm ever going to get from her. The others in the yard know the truth about Manhattan. They don't like one of them being laughed at. They feel sorry for me. ‘I told you, she's got a jinx on her, that mare,' Liam says one morning. ‘Even when she runs well, something goes wrong.'

As for Manhattan, the race has changed her. She has shown the world that she can race and now that is all she wants to do. Her eyes are brighter. She eats her food up as if needing all the energy she can get.

A couple of days after the race, I am crossing the main yard after third lot when I notice that Mrs Wilkinson is standing on the path leading from the house to the stables.

‘Jay.' The voice is low, drawled.

I walk over to her. ‘Mrs Wilkinson.'

She holds up a freshly-lit cigarette in her hand. ‘I'm having a quick ciggie break. Do you indulge?'

I shake my head.

‘Very sensible.' She takes a puff. ‘Hope you're not taking what you read in the press seriously.'

‘Not really.'

The trainer's wife looks at me more closely. ‘Tougher for girls,' she says. ‘If you'd been a boy apprentice, no one would have thought twice. They'll get used to it in the end, but for the moment we just have to live with it.'

‘I know I rode as good a race as I could,' I say quietly.

‘And so do we.' She speaks the words almost jokingly. ‘Mr Bucknall thinks we should run her again soon. At the moment, she is low in the handicap and won't have to carry too much weight.'

‘She could go again any time. It's as if she didn't have a race.'

‘The prince isn't keen on running her too soon. And I – we – think he's right.'

I'm curious. ‘What does he want to do?'

She smiles, takes a last drag at her cigarette, then throws the butt into a flowerbed nearby. She covers it, pushing the earth with the toe of her elegant boots.

‘He has a plan,' she says. ‘I'll let you know. Just keep your nose clean, and you can make those journalists eat their words.'

But I don't.

Late that night, just as I am drifting off to sleep, the mobile Uncle Bill gave me purrs gently on the bedside table. It is the call I am dreading.

‘Hi, Uncle Bill.'

‘Not bad, girl, not bad at all. Would have been better if you'd won, but I got a bet on you each way, so your coming second on the grey was just fine. Good odds too. You did all right.'

‘She ran well. She's a good mare.'

‘And?'

‘And what, Uncle Bill? I'm sorry, I'm really tired. I need to get some sleep.'

‘That's not how this works, doll. I need another tip. Pronto.'

I groan. ‘I can't do this. The Wilkinsons have been really good to me. I think we should stop this right now.'

‘And what about me? Haven't I been good to you?'

‘Of course. But … I think I've done enough.'

‘No.' He snaps the word angrily. ‘You haven't. Not nearly enough. In fact, we've only just started, girl.'

‘I feel like a traitor.'

There is a long silence during which the only sound is that of Uncle Bill breathing heavily.

‘I was looking at Dusty today,' he says eventually.

‘Dusty? What's he got do with this?'

‘Expensive business, keeping ponies. Bit of a luxury, really. If you don't help me, I'll be forced to make some savings. The other horses have gone but Dusty's too old to sell. At least for riding.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Yeah.' Uncle Bill sounds almost sorrowful. ‘Still, I can still get a few bob for him. There are cattle trucks that go to southern Europe. Horses and pones being exported for meat.'

‘No.'

‘To be honest, it's not a great end for a sixteen-year-old pony – crammed into a truck with no water or food for a few days, then killed for meat.'