The Silver Falcon (40 page)

‘They're off!' There was a massive gasp of excitement and then silence again, with nothing but the loudspeaker commentary echoing out.

Down below in Tattersalls' stand, Andrew Graham stood on tiptoe, listening and watching the blur of colour moving in a mass round the back straight, led by the grey horse.

Carlton had decided not to hold the Falcon back; he had jumped out of the stalls, fighting every yard of the way to get in front, followed very closely by Jakestown, with Mynah Bird and Snow Prince pressing close behind him. Fitter's Mate began to move up on the outside; he was a strong front runner with no stamina; his bolt would be shot by the time they ran down the hill before they got to Tattenham Corner. His jockey had been given 2000 pounds to do a job and he was coming out to do it. So too was Mynah Bird. Both jockeys applied their whips; Charley Barley had got away from the stalls so badly that he was the back marker of the field. The pattern was changing as they ran up the hill. The commentator told the silent crowd, his own voice quickening with excitement, ‘Running up on the hill now, Silver Falcon just in front, with Fitter's Mate coming up fast on the outside followed by Snow Prince and Mexican Star making good progress, running on now to the top of the hill, it's Fitter's Mate pressing Silver Falcon, and they're closely bunched now, with Rocket Man well placed in fifth and Prince of Padua on the inside going up to join the leaders, running on down the hill now, all very close together still, Mexican Star dropping back now, and Rocket Man going very well just in behind Snow Prince.'

Roy Farrant, race-glasses clamped to his eyes, let out a muffled exclamation, as he saw the challenge of Mexican Star disappear, and the bright chestnut head drop further and further back from the leaders. His money had been well spent. In that direction. Now everything depended upon the others. And the only horse in touch with the Silver Falcon was the outsider Fitter's Mate.

The jockey riding Fitter's Mate had judged it perfectly; he knew that in another twenty yards his horse would start to drop out. Carlton had made it difficult by running ahead instead of laying in behind where he could have been the target for the fixed horses.

Fitter's Mate had to take his ground now and get him off balance or the chance would be lost.

And Carlton saw him coming, with the instinct that senses more than mere pursuit. He turned his head a fraction and saw the big bay horse racing upsides, bearing left to throw the Falcon off balance. He shouted a furious obscenity and kicked on, but Fitter's Mate, tiring even more suddenly than his jockey anticipated, hung inwards and the Falcon's stride was checked. Isabel saw it happen, so did Richard and she heard Nigel Foster groan out loud. The commentary rose in pitch as the horses rounded the steep angle of Tattenham Corner, a turn acute enough to unbalance all but the best horses after that gruelling up-hill down-hill run.

‘Silver Falcon losing ground now, being pressed by Rocket Man who's taken up the running, with Snow Prince coming right up now to join him.…'

‘He's lost,' Isabel whispered it. ‘He's dropping back.…'

Roy Farrant was leaning over the edge of the box, his race-glasses dangling, shouting to his horse, Patsy shrilling with excitement at his elbow. ‘Come on – come on, boy – you've got it, you've got it!' He could see the bay horse in the lead, his yellow and white colours standing out; he began pounding the edge of the box with his fists, not able to get out coherent words as he saw his life's ambition within reach.

‘Inside the two-furlong marker now and it's Rocket Man, with Snow Prince under pressure, and Silver Falcon coming back! Silver Falcon fighting to get on terms again.…' There was a great roar from the huge crowd, as the grey colt began eating the ground with every stride. ‘Silver Falcon pressing Rocket Man now, with Snow Prince dropping back, and Prince of Padua making a run, a furlong left now, and it's Silver Falcon from Rocket Man, coming on up the straight and it's Silver Falcon and Rocket Man fighting it out and Prince of Padua making very good progress, Silver Falcon well in the lead now in the final hundred and twenty yards it's Silver Falcon.…'

The crowd was roaring, screaming with excitement, Isabel could hear herself crying out, with Richard shouting beside her as the grey stormed towards the winning post.

‘It's Silver Falcon.… Silver Falcon leading, being challenged now by Prince of Padua, less than fifty yards to go it's Lester Piggott on Prince of Padua coming up, Silver Falcon, Prince of Padua, neck and neck, twenty-five yards to go –'

There was a wild tumult of cheering and shouting as the two horses swept up to the winning post.

‘It's Prince of Padua, just heading him, Prince of Padua and Lester Piggott, Silver Falcon second, Rocket Man third.'

And the voice of Peter O'Sullevan from millions of television screens all over the country.

‘Prince of Padua wins the Derby, with Silver Falcon the favourite beaten by half a length, and Rocket Man some six lengths away third and Snow Prince in fourth place. One of the greatest contests ever seen at Epsom.'

Isabel stood frozen, tears came into her eyes. She saw Nigel leave the box, followed by Sally, to go and meet the Falcon. She felt Richard take her arm.

‘Never mind, darling, never mind. It was lousy luck. Come on down now. Nigel's bringing him in.'

The winner's enclosure was small, flower-banked, overlooked by steps where spectators crowded, with the stands and the Royal Box above.

Steam was rising from the horses in clouds; the winner was given an ovation as he walked in off the course, with the Falcon following.

Photographers converged on the black colt, Lester Piggott jumped off and removed the saddle, people all around were clapping. The delighted owner and his attractive wife were swallowed up by reporters.

Isabel, with Richard beside her, waited for the Falcon. His neck and flanks were black with sweat, his ribs heaved from the enormous heart-bursting effort of that final run. For the first time, the proud head was lowered as if he knew of his defeat. She felt a surge of pity for him, and of pride in the lion-like courage that had brought him storming back to fight for supremacy to the last. Isabel patted the sweat-soaked neck; his saddle was off and the jockey stood holding it, talking to Nigel and to her. Tim, white-faced and silent, stood a little apart. Isabel suddenly remembered what this defeat meant to him.

‘He was hampered coming up the hill,' Jimmy Carlton said. ‘He lost his stride round the corner; that's what beat us. If he hadn't been interfered with by that little sod, we'd have won by three lengths.…He's a great horse, Madam.' He was facing Isabel, his face puckered with disappointment. ‘Don't let anyone say anything else. He shouldn't have got beat.' A sweat rug was thrown over the Falcon; he stood quietly, devoid of spirit, nostrils flaring, blowing hard. The racing press were coming over to them, Nigel and Tim stood beside her. Nigel shook his head.

‘It's the rottenest luck I've ever seen on a racecourse. He was bloody magnificent.' He pressed her shoulder and turned aside for a second.

She caught Tim by the arm. ‘Oh, Tim – I'm so sorry.'

He managed to smile. ‘Never mind; I'm just as disappointed for you. It was bloody bad luck, that's all.'

‘Come on,' Richard said quietly. ‘Beaten by half a length – he put up a performance that will make racing history. Here come the press. Chin up, my darling – they love a good loser.'

Roy Farrant was standing by Rocket Man in third place. Dick Shipley was with him, and they were talking to the jockey. He too cradled the saddle as he paused, anxious to be gone and weigh in.

He was sour with disappointment and he didn't try to be tactful. He spoke directly to Roy Farrant. ‘He had every chance,' he said bluntly. ‘No excuses for him – he just didn't have the speed.' Then he turned and hurried away. Patsy watched her husband. His face had sagged; if it was possible to age in the two minutes while the race was run, then he had done so. He didn't touch the horse.

‘Never mind,' Dick Shipley said crisply. He hadn't expected to win; those few moments when the Falcon fell behind and Rocket Man went in front had come as a complete surprise to him. He knew a bad loser and he was anxious to withdraw Farrant from the public eye. ‘Never mind, he did his best. Come and I'll buy you a drink.'

Roy looked at him. ‘He's a duck-hearted bastard,' he said thickly. ‘He hit the front and he gave up. Don't try and kid me.' He turned and walked away. Patsy gave Shipley an apologetic smile.

‘Don't take any notice,' she murmured. ‘He's just upset. He was sure he was going to win. We'll just have to try again next year.' She slipped away to try to find her husband.

Andrew Graham had hurried into a bar. There were very few people inside and he ordered himself a second whisky. The Falcon had lost. He sipped the drink slowly. Charles Schriber had lost. He had seen Isabel for a brief moment, standing beside the Falcon. There was no triumph for her after all, no presentation, no cheers. The Schriber luck was out. He shifted the race-glasses against his shoulder. He hadn't opened the case once. He had an alarming thought; perhaps Tim Ryan wouldn't remember or even bother to keep to their arrangement. He had just lost a quarter of a million dollars under the terms of Charles's will.

Anxiety made him shake. He finished his drink and hurried out; people were flooding in again. The race following the Derby was an inevitable anti-climax. He could hear the comments, the praise for Lester Piggott, and the laments of punters whom Silver Falcon had disappointed. He pushed his way against them and reached the open air. The rails separated him from the Members' Enclosure, guarded by officials scrutinizing badges. Isabel and Richard would be in one of the bars, consoling themselves … but not Tim. Tim would have gone with Nigel Foster to see to the Falcon. Andrew almost ran to the exit; he had wasted time having that drink, Tim could have gone into the stables and returned to the Members'.… He rushed across the road, hooted at furiously by a driver who had to brake to miss him. The big green gates of the stable yard were guarded by two security men. He hesitated. Then he went up to one of them. ‘Pardon me,' his Southern accent was disarming. ‘Do you know if a Mr Ryan is inside? Mrs Schriber's racing manager – Silver Falcon?'

The man shook his head. ‘Couldn't tell you, sir.' His look was discouraging. His companion was more forthcoming.

‘I've just passed the horse's trainer in,' he said. ‘He had a gentleman with him; he signed the book. Might have been the one you mentioned, sir. I'd wait outside for a bit; they shouldn't be too long. They're dope testing inside at the moment.'

‘Thank you,' Andrew said. ‘That's mighty kind of you.' He saw Nigel Foster before he or Tim saw him; both men were walking side by side, their heads slightly down. He half turned away, not wanting Nigel to see him, and then decided that it didn't matter. Nothing was more important than contacting Ryan. He came up to Tim, who stopped and looked startled. ‘I'm so sorry about what happened,' Andrew said. ‘He should have won.' Nigel hardly looked at him; he walked on, leaving Tim behind him. He had seen so many people that day, and heard the same thing said over and over again in the stable yard and the Members' Enclosure. He should have won. He put up a magnificent fight. Damned bad luck, if he hadn't got hampered coming into Tattenham Corner. It was all true and said with generosity, but nothing relieved the sick pangs of disappointment. He should have won, but he hadn't.

And coming second is never the same, however you could claim to have been cheated. He didn't take any notice of Andrew Graham or give him a thought. He crossed the road and disappeared back into the Members' to join up with Sally. He would really have liked to get away from Isabel and Richard for a half an hour, and just stay with his wife.

Tim looked at Andrew. The older man's expression was sympathetic.

‘I'm really sorry,' he said again. ‘What a blow for you, too.'

‘Can't be helped,' Tim said. He put his hand on Andrew's shoulder. ‘Come and have a drink,' he said. Andrew accepted.

‘You'll have to come slumming with me,' he said. ‘I'm in Tattersalls.'

Tim said nothing, reminded that it was Isabel's hostility which denied him a Members' badge. He felt suddenly shamed at the thought of Charles's oldest friend standing the other side of the rail to watch the Falcon run. Shamed and angry. It was so unlike her to be mean spirited; it could only be Richard's influence. He talked to Andrew about the Falcon as they stood together in one corner of a large bar under the Stand.

‘I've never seen him like it,' he said. ‘Normally you can't get near him, but he just stood there while they did the dope test, with his head down. He broke his heart trying to win today. Nigel hasn't said anything but I know what he thinks. He's afraid he'll never be the same again.'

‘And how is Isabel taking it?'

‘Very well,' Tim said. ‘Richard couldn't care bloody less. Full of good cheer, and think how marvellous it is to be second.…' He glared at Andrew, and most of his resentment was the ruin of all his hopes. There was no money to restore the house in Kildare, his father would die in the modest little cottage and he, Tim Ryan, would go on working for other rich men for the rest of his life. ‘He's a mean bastard,' he said savagely. ‘He never wanted that horse to run and I believe he's rotten enough to be glad it lost today –'

‘And she doesn't see any of it,' Andrew said quietly. ‘She takes everything at face value.' He shook his head. ‘I've got to see her today. You're sure you can do it?'

‘I'll make bloody certain,' Tim said. ‘I'll get her there. Don't you worry. After the last race.'

‘Yes,' Andrew said. ‘It seems crazy to have to do it this way but it's our only hope.'