Blind Beauty (12 page)

“I
s it true, that you attacked your father with a steak and kidney pudding and he had to go to hospital for burns? That's what everyone is saying.”

Tessa didn't want to talk about it, even to Tom Bryant.

“He's not my father,” she said.

“I'd love to have seen it,” Tom said. “You've made yourself the most popular person in racing. You could get a job with Raleigh any day.”

“I don't want a job with Raleigh.”

It was hard to get much out of Tessa suddenly. She had lapsed into her silent ways. Maurice had ordered her out of his house, and she had gone back to Sparrows Wyck, for there was no other place she knew. Sarah had taken her into her caravan, and that was where she lived, until she was “sorted out”. The social services people were on the trail, Myra was hysterical with fear she was going to get taken away.

Tessa kept thinking it might have been Buffoon. She could not get it out of her head: the way the light went out of the horse's eyes. She felt the light had gone out of her own, with these things that were happening to her. Tom saying… about Buffoon's sight. She asked him again about it, but he said, “Oh, forget it, my imagination.” She watched Buffoon all the time, for signs, but only saw his clumsiness. Was his clumsiness inherent, or a sign of bad sight? She could not speak of it.

And the social services people…

Sarah said, “They'll take you away from here over my dead body.”

Sarah's toughness extended to protect Tessa. Nobody said anything, but Tessa was not so preoccupied that she did not sense the closing of ranks around her, to save her from punishment. Maurice was saying she should be put away… “Put her down,” said Tom Bryant. “That would suit him nicely.” And they all laughed.

The Battleaxe came to Sarah's caravan to continue the lessons. Sarah sat in the bedroom end, smoking and reading the
Racing Post
. The Battleaxe didn't seem to mind. She said Tessa was to sit for her GCSEs in the summer, and she expected her to do well.

“You've a very good brain.”

“I'm going to be a jockey.”

“I should think you need a lot of brain to be a good jockey.”

“Not exams though.”

“Exams are always very good to have, whatever. Jockey or not.”

Tessa liked the Battleaxe. The Battleaxe never lectured her, just accepted – even the attack on Maurice. She said Mrs Alston had laughed when she heard, then remembered that she was a magistrate. They both thought a steak and kidney pudding was preferable to a knife.

When she had gone Sarah would emerge to make a cup of tea. She drank a lot of tea. Jimmy used to come in and they would sit drinking cups of tea and rolling cigarettes and talking, and Tessa would sit curled up in the corner, listening, watching, not saying anything. She preferred this way of living, but was terrified it was going to be stopped by Maurice's conniving with the authorities.

“Why should they change anything?” Sarah asked. “We're all happy now, even Maurice, getting you out of his hair.”

“He hates me. He wants to put me away. He can too – till I'm eighteen.”

“Rubbish! Not if you behave yourself. Anyway, it's sixteen, surely? And that won't be long.”

“Eighteen.”

“Oh well. Keep your head down till then. Keep out of his way,” Jimmy said.

Sarah said, “We all know Peter's long-term plan is to run Buffoon in the Grand National. Mr Cressington's potty for it – before he dies, he says. But that's also Raleigh's plan for that horse Maurice paid a fortune for, San Lucar. You might be on a collision course there, should it all pan out.”

“That's looking miles ahead,” Jimmy said. “Anything could happen before then.”

“Yes, we all know that. But the plans are laid.”

“Who will Tom ride?” Tessa murmured.

“Interesting point. He's talking about leaving Raleigh, going freelance.”

“If Buffoon carries on the way he's going, Tom will choose him,” Sarah said.

Tessa knew that plans in racing nearly always went awry, but the possibility outlined by Sarah made her blood race. To beat Maurice in the Grand National! That would be the biggest prize of all. Even if they didn't win (that was an impossible dream) – but just to beat San Lucar, to
show
Maurice. Dreams indeed!

Jimmy and Sarah were already talking about something else, showing how remote the chances were of the outlined meeting taking place. Tessa half-listened, hugging her arms round her knees, the ideas jostling in her head… what might or might not happen. The rain beat on the windows, the cigarette smoke made a thick haze, mingling with the steam from Sarah's washing which hung over the glowing stove. It was a slum but, to Tessa, far more inviting than the hot, plush wastes of Goldlands. What was Myra doing without her? she wondered – the needle-sharp thought that spoiled the fleeting satisfaction. Why didn't her stupid mother get a job in a racing stable and get happy? Maurice hypnotized her, Tessa thought. She was scared of him, scared of running away. Scared because he had convinced her she was stupid. Tessa knew how it felt, being scared.

But, if she hadn't known Sarah before, she now appreciated the strength of Sarah's support, the feeling that she was in good hands. Sarah did not suffer fools gladly, and made no attempt to be popular. But she was a staunch friend, and totally committed to her job, with an instinctive understanding of her horses. She was like Jimmy in that respect.

With her looks and style, she could have done anything. Tall, with long legs, she would look superb on a horse if she didn't cramp herself into racing-length stirrups. She rode with strength and grace. Jimmy said she was wasted out of the dressage ring: any horse would “piaffe” himself silly with Sarah's legs telling him what to do. “Dressage! Much too much like hard work!” Sarah laughed. She was totally committed to racing, the daughter of a rich bloodstock breeder who had – it was said – run away from home at the age of sixteen with one of her father's grooms and been disowned. Gilly said she had had a baby, who would now be about twelve, but could not vouch for it. Gilly said one day Sarah would be legging up a jockey in the paddock and the jockey would look down at her and say “Mummy!” and fall into her arms. This tack-room gossip was intriguing, but Tessa knew it didn't do to believe everything Gilly said. She believed the bit about Sarah running off and being disowned – that was fairly well known – but the baby… ? And who was the groom? Nobody knew, not even Gilly. Sarah, at sixteen, must have been gorgeous, with her mass of chestnut curly hair and her violet-purple eyes, before her features hardened and her skin roughened. Now she was more handsome than beautiful, with an unquestionable authority about her – a good person to have on your side, Tessa thought. She wasn't going to ask her about the groom, not ever – it would be too dangerous. She loved Sarah. If she had been a boy she would have been in love with her. Sometimes she thought Jimmy loved Sarah, but with Jimmy it was hard to tell, he never revealed anything about himself. They were well matched in that respect. When they were together, talking, in the caravan, they never made Tessa feel unwelcome. She did not feel an intruder.

But Jimmy said, “If you're going to stay, we'll have to get you a caravan of your own. Show those council people you've got a home.”

He brought one home the next day, behind the Land Rover, and parked it next to Sarah's. Everyone helped furnish it, and Tessa fetched her precious things from her den in Maurice's Home Farm, including her photo of Shiner, and for the first time in her life felt she belonged somewhere. Her small space was her own, all she needed, secure and private. Even Maurice could not touch her here.

But his long arm reached out, sending down the social services people. They didn't like it, but were overwhelmed by Tessa's support group and the Battleaxe's good report. Sarah stood over them, exuding moral virtue, and there was little they could find to argue with. She was not employed by Peter Fellowes; she did not receive a salary; her mother paid for her keep; she was not in danger of sexual abuse; she was a hard-working pupil… “What better can you ask?” as Sarah bluntly demanded.

When they had gone, Sarah said, “They have your record – violence, that knife, being excluded from all those schools. You mustn't blot your copy-book any more, it all goes down in writing.”

“It was Maurice that sent them.”

“Yes. That man's bad news. Pity he's into horses. That San Lucar is a good one, they say.”

“Yes. Greevy says. And Tom.”

The danger over, horses were the subject. Tessa, liking her new living arrangements, came out of her depression.

Peter confirmed that Buffoon was pencilled in for the Grand National the following year.

“He can run over the National course in November – there's a race then, just one circuit. And if he shows us he's good enough, he can go in for the big one. I think it's optimistic myself, but he's the right type for it. He'll stay four and a half miles, and he can jump. Mr Cressington's not a complete fool.”

“If I were ninety-six, I'd want to get on with it,” Sarah said.

It was the same programme as San Lucar's. San Lucar – or Lukey, as he was known – was the one horse of Maurice's that was proving worth his huge price. Greevy said he was a very kind and genuine horse, and the yard was full of optimism for him. Tessa could pick him out on the gallops, a big bright bay horse exuding power, built on classic chasing lines. Another head-turner, like Crowsnest. (But Crowsnest was resting, with tendon trouble.) These immaculately built and bred horses were the ones that fetched the big money in the sales, their looks and winning relations making them valuable. But they didn't always win.

“You get a freak like Buffoon – he might beat San Lucar. That's racing – we've all seen it.”

Peter was being optimistic, not one of his notable characteristics. He laughed.

“You'll lead him in, Tessa – you'll be the right age by then. Think of it!”

“She'll be on a stretcher in First Aid, passed out,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah, me too,” said Peter.

The gloom cast by God Almighty's death was quite quickly eclipsed by thinking ahead, as always in racing. On with the next… what might happen… it kept the spirits high and the pulses racing. On a bright cold spring morning, high on the downs, facing up to the gallops, it was impossible to feel downhearted. The horses were at the peak of their fitness, the shine over their muscled bodies proclaiming their well-being, along with the bucking and pulling and eagerness to go. In spite of the setback with God Almighty, the stable was winning races with Catbells and a new horse called Gamekeeper, White Smoke and even the Littlun – properly called Cantata – who had won a claimer at Huntingdon. Peter Fellowes' reputation was growing, and Buffoon's appearances always caused comment, because of his ugliness and undoubted character. He walked round the paddock with a benign look in his eye, completely untroubled, showing no excitement at all, lolloping down to the start in his lazy canter, lining up as if called in for a riding-school beginners' class.

“Takes him a couple of miles to get going.” The crowd was beginning to appreciate this, not only his jockey.

When the season finished in May, Buffoon had won four races and been placed in three. He was turned out to rest in the big field that sloped down to the river, with Lucky, two other horses and a herd of cows for company. Tessa spent hours with him in the paddock, lying in the grass with his big grey lips tearing at the grass-roots round her head, talking to him, dreaming of the days ahead. Sarah told her it was dangerous to love a horse too much.

“I know,” Tessa said, and went on loving him.

She took her exams, going into school to sit near Jackie Barstow, and finishing with good passes in everything. The Battleaxe was proud of her.

“You have a very good brain. Don't waste it,” she said, looking round rather doubtfully at the rustic surroundings.

“No.”

Tessa asked Peter if he would apply for a jockey's licence for her. Her sixteenth birthday had arrived: the time was ready. Peter duly got it for her.

“But it doesn't mean,” he said sternly, “that you will get any rides. The owners won't like it. They'll want an experienced jockey. I will try for you though. Perhaps on the Littlun, because you know him so well. I'll tell his owners he loves you and will do as he's told.”

“Win.”

“Yes. And if he wins, it'll make it easier to get you another ride. I'll try and find the right race for you.”

“A load of crocks,” Wisbey said.

“You put it so kindly,” Sarah said.

But Tessa knew all this without having it spelt out. She knew how incredibly difficult it was for a female to make it as a jockey. And to make it good enough to ride Buffoon – her life's ambition – was hardly on the cards at all, not now Buffoon was a winner and the public put their money on him. The public expected him to have a top jockey.