Blind Beauty (29 page)

 

He was. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Keep it up, Tess! You're going a bomb! Buffoon, you old beggar! Come on, Tess, come on, you old sod!”

Amongst the other lads he bobbed about like a jerking puppet. Some of the others were shouting with him, others were blaspheming, a girl was crying. Several had run out to try and catch their loose horses.

Down on the rails Declan and his friends were shouting hoarsely. Declan was telling everyone within a ten-metre radius that it was his girl, his horse, the horse he had bred out of his old blind mare Shiner, God rest her soul, and his own little girl on top – no, not Shiner – on top of Buffoon that great leggy chestnut that looked like a cross between a giraffe and an elephant… the trouble I had to raise him and the mare wouldn't suckle him… and the wife left me and took my little girl with her and they left me all alone and the horses to raise… “Poor Declan!” his friends declared. “And all me savings is on me little girl, me last hundred pounds, and she's going for Bechers a second time, God bless her… !” He swayed and wept and the crowd told him he was a daft old codger and yelled for Buffoon.

In the stands Mrs Alston said to the Battleaxe, “Is that our Tessa, still there? All those horses look the same to me, but her horse is red, and it looks like a girl, the one at the back… ?”

“Yes, I think so. The big horse and the little jockey. In yellow.”

“It's not a girl's thing! So rough!”

“Yes, but isn't it exciting!” The Battleaxe's nose gleamed red in a weak burst of sunshine. “Such a change from the academic life!”

“Yes, you could say that. Amazing. I find it quite amazing.”

Several rows higher up Myra was sobbing too hard to see anything through her shaking binoculars. Peter was trying to fend her off, keeping his gaze steady on the large TV screen of the front runners. But Tessa wasn't there and he resorted to the binoculars again.

“She's not out of touch,” Jimmy said. “Not with Buffoon. He'll plug on – unless the age tells.”

“There's no knowing.”

He spoke calmly, but he was trembling. He had never thought to have a horse in this race again, ever. And now he had one, against his better instincts, it was going better than he had ever supposed possible. It was terrible what it did to the nerves. Even Jimmy, desperate for a cigarette but unable to roll one, was shivering beside him.

And Maurice, seeing the strength of his horse up in front, running strongly, felt all the old optimism of his early days swelling triumphantly in his breast. This was what it was all about, to have the best, to be on a winner, the credit account about to leap once more into the black, the accolades to fall about his shoulders. People respected winners. His good horses gave him respect, admiration, the access to important people. He paid good money for them. He expected them to return the favour. He breathed heavily, willing his winner on.

His trainer fidgeted uncertainly at his side, full of hope, mixed with dread. Morrison was a terrible man to train for, he had never met the like. But to have a horse like that in his stables – Marimba! It was an opportunity that only came once in a lifetime, not to be turned down by a struggling optimist like himself. Marimba could put him on the map. It was worth putting up with a little unpleasantness at times for that. It was an honour to have to do with a horse like Marimba. And the luck of the gods that Bryant had agreed to stay with him. The little man, full of clashing uncertainties, sighed with joy to see how his horse jumped, so bold and fluent! What a horse! A worthy favourite. If he lasted out he was a sure winner. And with Bryant on top everything was in his favour.

The trainer was white as a sheet, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

 

It was all different now, somehow, on the second circuit. All the no-hopers had gone. Tessa was in with the cream, the horses which won races. Would win this one. Her sense of panic had settled now to grim determination. To make a mistake now would be far more painful than it might have been earlier. It all mattered now, when it had started as a wild and unlikely adventure. To have lasted so far… it wasn't just a fun ride out, how she had pretended. Now she was in with a chance to prove herself and the horse felt great beneath her, as well as he had ever felt, even with those big exhausting jumps behind him. If only she was going to last as long as him! Her muscles were aching already and she was out of breath, not with panic but with the beginnings of exhaustion. All the nights without sleeping were catching up on her. But I
am
strong, she told herself. I will do it. She wanted to do it for Tom.

Marimba was still in front. The front runners had strung out and by the time they came to Bechers again she was definitely catching up. There were only about a dozen horses ahead and of these, two refused and one fell. The nearest refuser turned in Tessa's direction to run across, saw her coming and hesitated in its stride. Tessa had a glimpse of its glazed eye and blood-filled nostril and its jockey's face buried right up in its mane between its ears. Her foot caught the horse's shoulder as she took off, knocking Buffoon slightly off balance, so this time as she flew through the air she had a heart-stopping doubt as to whether she would still be poised over the saddle at the bottom of the long plunge down, or over Buffoon's ears instead. The view down was not comforting either, heads rolling below and the flash of upturned hooves flailing just where they wanted to go. Buffoon gave a convulsive paddle behind and landed a couple of inches clear of the faller. It was touch and go for Tessa, staying aboard, but sheer willpower prevailed. Buffoon staggered up the drop and grunted indignantly as he gathered himself together.

Two Bechers behind her! Tessa felt the excitement knotting in her stomach as two more horses in front ran wide at the Canal turn. This time she was ready for the sharp angle and Buffoon obeyed her strong pressure to go left – or perhaps he remembered it from last time, for they made up two or three lengths on the horses in front. As they headed for Valentines a grey horse came alongside her and its jockey said, “You're going great guns, lady. Keep it up.”

The grey horse refused and its rider flew over Valentines alone. Tessa steered for a gap as the fence was much dishevelled and when she looked up she found that she was on the tail now of the only horses in the race, six of them led by Marimba. Marimba was swinging along, but Tessa remembered that he had top weight, nearly two stone more than Buffoon. It was a good horse that could carry that and find the strength to win if it came to a battle after the last. The excitement of the way things were turning out made Tessa's head reel. Her progress was incredible. She was light-headed and felt like a drunk with her achievement – the Chair and two Bechers behind her, and now only easy jumps ahead and the company of fast-tiring horses. She knew Buffoon's stamina was his forte, not his speed, but the deep going had carved up most of the brave horses while Buffoon was plugging away in his element. He was probably wondering if he could get his tea the next time round.

But he was
old
, they said. He was fourteen. It was impossible for a horse as old as Buffoon to win. It never happened. Nor a girl. No, I'm not going to win, she told herself. Keep calm. Sit still. Conserve your strength.

They were going round the long, long jumpless bend into the straight. Two more jumps and then, after that, the merciless run-in where fortunes often changed, right up to the winning post. She was only some five or so lengths off Marimba, and alongside three others. Their jockeys were looking at her and saying, “God almighty, what are you doing here?”

She grinned. She laughed. She prayed. It wasn't her. It was Buffoon. She only had to sit there. Tom looked round, saw her, and nearly fell off. He looked round a second time to make sure.

“Go on, gel. Make history,” said one of the jockeys.

Now she was legging Buffoon along, working with all the shreds of her remaining strength to hold him together, make him know it mattered. He pulled out some more and went up to Marimba. There were just the two of them now, going to the last jump. I've got to beat him, Tessa thought, beat Tom and beat Maurice.
Beat Maurice!
But Tom's riding could get his horse there, even with his weight. She was just a mess on poor Buffoon, arms and legs pumping to little avail. As if it mattered, when he swung along doing his own thing… he did not seem in any way distressed, his ungainly stride reaching over the soaked turf, his mothy tail floating out behind. He went to reach long for the last jump, thought better of it and put a quick one in, and jumped neatly. Marimba hit it hard and rolled in his stride, losing a couple of lengths. The roar of the crowd was like the sea closing over her.

The commentator's voice was hysterical:

“This is the most amazing race! It's Crisp and Red Rum all over again! The top weight and the outsider! Brave, brave Marimba! And
fourteen-year-old
Buffoon! Unbelievable! And a girl – a
girl
–”

As if the rider were an ostrich, or a monkey. A
girl
!

Tessa felt that she was going down, drowning, as Buffoon plugged on to the post. He was doing it all without her help now for all her bones had turned to jelly. Marimba, one of the bravest, was making a renewed challenge, with a rider who was the best on the field – a rider who had completely forgotten any sympathy for the girl ahead of him. Tom wanted the Grand National as badly as Tessa. Didn't every jockey? At the end it was the only thing, to ride one's heart out for the unforgiving red disc that marked the winning post so far, far away. The horse reeled, the jockey's lungs were bursting, the crowd screamed. Inch by inch Marimba crept back to Buffoon, Tom holding him together, asking him, but never using his whip because he knew the horse was giving his all. The horse was a marvel. The crowd adored his courage.

But Buffoon, the great ugly
old
horse, was more than a marvel – he was a miracle. His ungainly legs, looking twice as long as neat Marimba's, gangled past the elbow-bend of the notorious run-in and his rabbit's ears twitched up to the amazing noise that filled the sky. He ran straight as a die. “Looking for Lucky. Looking for his tea,” Wisbey said afterwards. “What is this?” he was asking Tessa. “What do you want of me? Isn't this enough?” But the girl's will was boring through his fame, asking,
asking
… he was aware of it, the crazy demand that emanated from the rolling body on top: “
Go on! Go on!
” That constant in his life, the flimsy girl, wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything, he knew it. He obliged. He kept on, as asked, and Marimba came to his girth, to his neck… the crowd was in hysterics, shrieking, shrieking, and the two horses went past the post locked together. Save that Buffoon's long ugly nose was in front by a head and everybody knew it.

Tom knew it.

Tessa didn't.

As the horses felt the messages from above fade and dropped into an exhausted canter side by side, Tom put his arm out and hugged Tessa, all but bringing her off.

“You've done it. You won!”

“
You
won!”

“No. It's a photo, but you got it!”

Tessa didn't believe it. But she was past thinking anything, just a blob of exhaustion, trying not to fall off. They pulled up and were almost alone for a few seconds. Tessa looked at Tom and an amazing feeling came over her, not about Buffoon at all, but about Tom. She still didn't recognize it.

“Tom–”

But the people were converging, people as hysterical as herself, thousands of them. First she saw Wisbey, weeping copious tears of joy, then Peter, white as a sheet (her mother had fainted in the stands and Jimmy had nobly stayed to take care of her), the hulk of Mr Raleigh wreathed in smiles, her two schoolteachers waving madly, and thousands of men she had never seen reaching up to touch her, pat Buffoon, congratulate her. Tom kept by her side. He held her hand as the two horses walked back together, and the police horses closed round them both because Tom wouldn't let go. Two winners. But when they got to the winner's enclosure, then Tom let go and pulled Marimba up outside. Tessa stopped too.

But Tom said, “It's yours. Go on.”

And Wisbey led Buffoon in, because Tessa wouldn't go. When she had moved, Tom followed and pulled up in second place.

And when she slid and down and collapsed in Peter's arms, she had a strange vision of faces: besides Peter, and now her swooning mother held up by a grinning Jimmy, she saw her father Declan and her stepfather Maurice, not to mention all the well-known faces of the television people. And there was Buffoon, and – because it was her father who had made him – it was to her father she turned and held out her arms. He lifted her up and kissed her wildly. He smelled of whisky and sweat and manure, just like old times, and he laughed as she always remembered him laughing when she was three years old. Then he dropped her and kissed her mother, and her mother kissed him back and then kissed Peter, to be fair, and Jimmy kissed Tessa. And Tessa turned and buried her face into Buffoon's sweat-slimy neck – it was all too much for her to show the world. The television people couldn't, for once, get anyone's attention at all, until Peter remembered his profession and gave them a mumble.

Beside her in the enclosure Marimba stood head down, flanks heaving, the beaten favourite. Tom had his arm round his neck, grinning, and the little trainer was embracing them both, thrilled out of his wits by the horse's courage. The owner had no place in this picture, as he did not wish to join in the celebration of what he could only regard as defeat. His world had broken apart, after the certainty that he had won. He was finished.

Recognizing drama, part of their job, the television interviewer turned to him, standing beside Marimba, and slyly asked, “How does it feel to be beaten by your stepdaughter?”