Grand National (10 page)

“Not exactly, no indeed,” said Jack, somewhat out of breath.

“Look, I always told you he was a National horse, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did. Congratulate your boy for me. He was smashing. Tremendous when he hit that fence and came through.”

“Can’t get a good connection. Wish you were on hand here to lead him in.”

“I wish so, too,” Jack replied. He suddenly had a strange desire to sit down.

J
ACK, AFTER A
sleepless night, reached Aintree and walked out on the course. He was at the third fence, the first open ditch, not easy to get over. It was a barrier of thick spruce and brambles, impenetrable, through which no horse could bull his way. Jack was not an especially small man, yet this fence towered above him as he stood beside the ditch. He shook his head and stepped into the jockeys’ room. It was still two hours before the men were called, but everyone was present, a milling throng.

Later that afternoon as Jack passed the official at the door and went inside again, he felt immediately the electricity among the riders. It was natural. Jockeys were sitting around in all stages of dress and undress, some of them nervously smoking, some lighting cigarettes and extinguishing them. Who will get back unscratched? That insignificant little chap may be all right, while the big fellow over there returns in an ambulance. On the National, all bets are small, because luck and chance play such an enormous part in victory or defeat.

For just a few seconds the lights from the high windows were blinding. Gradually Cobb was able to take in the scene. Some of the jockeys were sitting on benches, hands upon their knees, some were quietly talking or passing back and forth to the toilet, but nobody was laughing or joking. Presently Jack made Tony out, sitting quietly in one corner. An amateur among the pros, he must feel completely alone.

Perhaps a friendly face would do him good, and indeed he greeted Jack with evident pleasure. How had he slept?

“Dreadfully. Wretched night,” he replied.

Jack, who hadn’t slept much himself, turning and tossing until the English dawn broke, well understood how he felt. “Cheer up. Once you get going you’ll feel great.”

“Perhaps. I certainly don’t now.”

Then suddenly the boy rose and, shoving Jack somewhat rudely out of the way, made for the toilets. He was gone for a long while, but when he returned seemed more himself.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Cobb. It must have been something I ate last night.”

The explanation was a brave attempt at a joke, and Jack’s heart went out to him. He knew just how the boy felt and tried his best to encourage him.

“Buck up, lad. We’ve got a good, sound horse. Nobody knows it better than you do. Remember, you might easily have won at Cheltenham but for that mistake at the fifth. You very nearly caught the leader going up the hill to the finish. The odds are coming down now. But Chester has told you all this. If you stay out of that scramble at the start, you’ll come through. We only need a break to make a run for it.”

Tony’s light eyes rested on Cobb skeptically. “Very nice of you to say so, Mr. Cobb. I want to win, not do well. Of course, I’ll do my very best. Count on that. I certainly wouldn’t swap my horse for any mount in the race.”

His frame was slender like his mother’s. He did not have an aggressive air, and he seemed quite incapable of competing in the rough race. But although he appeared too frail to overcome the buffeting of the track, Jack was confident.

“I’m positive you’ll finish, Tony. I’m sure you will. Just remember not to make your bid too soon. You have a horse with strength and stamina. Let somebody else force the running. Here’s Chester. He’ll tell you the same thing. Well, I’ll leave you two alone, and I just wish you all the luck in the world, son.”

He took Tony’s outstretched hand. It was icy, but the grip was firm and determined. Jack knew enough about racing to realize that running on an empty stomach could be helpful.

“Thanks lots, Mr. Cobb. Believe me, your confidence helps me. And thanks for giving me this chance.”

Cobb left the trainer alone with the boy and turned to go. Waiting just outside the weighing room was Iris Hunting. She was the mother now.

“I knew you’d be in the jockeys’ room. How is he?” she asked.

“Naturally he’s edgy,” he said, deciding not to mention the throwing up.

“He has every right to be so,” said Iris.

Jack had not seen a Grand National at Aintree for several years, and he was amazed to observe how the place had run down. Iris and Jack wandered through acres of large and cheerless dining rooms, gloomy and desolate in their faded wallpaper. They inched along miles of corridors in the rear of the stands, all faded, old-fashioned, and completely out of date. But there wasn’t a single seat in the County Stands of the Members Enclosure from which the view of the whole course wasn’t perfect.

The grandstand stretched for half a mile along the side of the track, some of it covered with a glass roof. The day was perfect, a sunny April day, but had it been pouring rain, that glass would have been most appreciated. Behind the stands were the quarters for the jockeys, all in brick, and the stables. In the rear also were the ring for saddling, the rooms for the clerk of the course, the referee, and the other officials.

“Come on,” said Iris. “Let’s go and see the horses saddled.”

The crowd was now large on the concrete before the stands, which sloped gradually upward. The call “Jockeys out,” sounded, and the forty riders appeared, each one with a saddle in his arms. The trainers then took the saddles to the saddle box and saddled the horses. When the horses were ready and facing inwards, the trainers led them out in single file in the racecourse order. Chester came up to Jack and handed him the reins. Jack refused to take them.

Jack and Iris moved quickly out of the parade ring to catch a glimpse of Quicksilver as he went behind the number board on his way to the course.

Iris turned to Jack. “Tony passed right by and never once noticed me,” she said.

“That’s concentration for you. See here, we’ve got seats in a box in the Members Enclosure. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes, thanks.”

In single file the horses now paraded before the stands, as Iris and he worked through the throng in the underground passage that led to the front.

As they came out, the announcer was saying, “And Number 18, a seven-year-old gelding, owned by Mr. Jack Cobb, of the U.S.A.” There was applause from the crowd.

“Why are they clapping?” asked Jack.

“Because they want you to win. Everyone knows what a bad break you had losing your jockey just before the race. Then they know, too, that the horse once belonged to your boy. Hear that….”

The clapping lasted for several minutes. Iris kept looking for Tony as the riders came onto the course. The horses were all mixed up, and the starter needed some time to get them separated and lined up.

Iris had the glasses up. “There he is. I see him now.”

“Yes,” Jack answered. “I see him too. He’s in the second row.” Sure enough, there was Tony in his red sash, sitting quietly on Quicksilver in the spring sunshine. The referee called back an unruly horse into line, and without warning the rope dropped.

It was a quarter of a mile to the fence, and all they could distinguish were the backs of the jockeys and the rumps of the horses. Everyone was over the first, and then the second, but at the third a horse tipped the fence, bringing down another, and still a third horse failed to get out of the way. They fell together on the far side of the open ditch.

“Jack!” exclaimed Iris, seizing his hand. The feel and touch of her clasp lifted him, though it was cold as stone.

When Jack Cobb first met Iris Hunting, he had thought she was bossy and not very well mannered. Little by little, however, he realized there was more to her than appeared on the surface, and he changed in his attitude. She had established herself in a tough profession by sheer competence. Her boy was riding in the National, even though she herself dreaded the ordeal. All sorts of people, from dukes and lords on down, turned to her with horses in trouble.

Now he wondered whether he was possibly falling in love with Iris Hunting. He only knew that when she reached for his hand that day the whole world changed.

W
HILE HE STOOD
there, holding on to her hand for dear life, little flickers of doubt passed through Jack’s head. No use talking. Tony looked good on the horse, but how would he stand up when confronted by those enormous fences? How would he respond to this test, the toughest and most difficult that any horseman must endure. Choosing Tony was not, indeed, the easiest thing in the world, with the vet bitterly opposed, the head groom lukewarm, and even Chester neutral. But Tony had a quiet strength that was convincing. He had character, like his mother.

These thoughts flooded through him as he stood there, his arm hooked into Iris’s. They watched Quicksilver take fence after fence, measuring the jumps just right. He was landing impeccably. Immediately he was down he began to prepare for the next, and he was foot perfect, never a false move or a wrong one. Jack decided that he had made the correct choice of jockey after all.

Now the horse was going for Bechers. Up and over. Then the Canal, where the course turned to the left. Next Valentines, then back toward the stands and the mighty Chair Fence, the biggest of them all. The spectacular Water Jump, in front of the stands, followed. Jack could tell Quicksilver was enjoying himself by the way his ears were pricked as he went on to take fence after fence in perfect form.

The B.B.C. had divided the course into quarters, and a different commentator was announcing each section. In the lead was Ballyhackle, followed closely by a French horse, and with them Sunloch, a horse trained in Ireland. They were now at the far side of the course. As they swept over the fence, Jack raised his glasses to follow them.

And at that precise moment the B.B.C. shifted from one commentator to another. The new man picked up the horses immediately. “Ballyhackle is down… Russian Girl up… and over… and lands on Lutter… now Quicksilver is down…. You’ll recall he’s the American horse who did so well at Cheltenham a fortnight ago. And now the field is off for the next fence… with Covert Coat leading by a couple of heads, Spanish Dancer second, and Sunloch third….”

Jack felt Iris’s fingers tighten on his arm as a collective sigh went through the crowd. The audible gasp told who was the popular favorite. The spectators wanted Quicksilver to win.

Black despair took possession of Jack. He went over all the efforts of the last six months: everything Chester had worked for, everything Iris had done, Tony’s great ride at Cheltenham. All gone, gone as if they never had happened.

Suddenly he heard Iris shouting, “He’s still in there! He’s still in there! He’s still in the race.”

Sure enough. They were nearing the stretch before the stands, and there was Tony, cool and imperturbable as ever, running just behind the leaders. By the time they reached the turn in the course to the left, his red sash could be made out plainly. There he was ready to make trouble for anyone. In the excitement of the race, the B.B.C. announcer had made an error and mistaken Quicksilver for another horse.

The jumping of several fences is not too difficult for a horse. But the jumping of thirty fences in rapid succession at full speed, fourteen of them with wide ditches or brooks on one side, is a severe test. Those who had gone around the course once knew they must attempt to do so again, and with a tired animal. Now the challenge was at hand.

Tony began the second round well back, but he was in a good position to strike. The horse was tiring as were the others, for the pace told on them all. Covert Coat was still in the lead, stubbornly followed by Spanish Dancer and Sunloch, neck and neck. It was anyone’s race.

Iris was saying something. Jack hardly heard her.

“Best way to stay out of trouble is to be ahead of it.” True, but easier said than done. He jammed his hat on his head, trying vainly to conceal from Iris how he felt. Damn it all, if Tony can keep this up, he’ll be in the running. Sure to. Why, he’s jumping like a bloody kangaroo. Keep a tight rein on him, lad. That’s the thing. I believe he’s got all the heart in the world, the boy has. He isn’t his mother’s son for nothing. The mere thought gave Jack confidence.

So far, Jack reflected, Tony was doing as well as Stan. Better, because Stan never had tried fences like these. The boy’s sense of pace and his understanding of horseflesh were good.

He was at the sixth, the seventh now. Come up, my lovely, and get ready for Valentines. He only balanced him just in time, thank God. A terrific jump, and he’s over. Did that well, damn well, he did. He felt the pressure of Iris’s hand and squeezed hers back. Now for the Water Jump, one of the worst of its kind in England. He’s over, by God he is, and clear of the water too. Jack could have sworn he saw air as the horse leaped that fence.

Two to go, and only a couple of rivals ahead. He’ll surely place now. Can’t miss. Hello, someone is coming up on the outside. Irish Mail?

“That’s Irish Mail, isn’t it?” he asked Iris tentatively.

“Yes. A good horse. Won the Irish Grand National last year,” she answered.

They were together, coming to the last fence of all. Both over, neck and neck. They were gaining on the leaders, overhauling them rapidly. There goes Spanish Dancer, falling back slightly… and now Sunloch… they’re almost level with the leader, Covert Coat, 440 yards to the finish. The stands are wild now. They want to see Quicksilver finish in the money. Tony is the coolest man on the course; as usual, he’s finishing strongly. But can he win? Will he hold off the others?

At this point Quicksilver showed the stuff and the stamina that was in him. He simply went into high gear, and Tony kept the pressure on the reins fair but steady. Once his head was in front, no question about the winner, and he raced home with a couple of lengths to spare.

Iris did a most un-British thing. She threw her arms around Jack and kissed him. “Oh, Jack, I’m so happy for you….”