Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (12 page)

Now she was smiling, creasing the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.

`You were one of the best young riders I'd ever seen. I was pleased when you came to work with me.'

`You never said so.'

`Why should I? You were meant to learn. And you have.'

Jamie glowed with pleasure. The boost to his morale was timely. The race ahead was going to be a challenge.

Toby had not wanted to run Beaufort Bonanza so soon but the owners, so Malcolm said, were insistent. Like any other employee of Beaufort Holidays, Adolf had to earn his keep. And flying the company flag was more important than honing his skills in private.

Às far as Barney Beaufort's concerned,' Malcolm told them, `he just wants an entry on the card. Then he can take a box at the meeting and swank to his corporate guests.'

So here they were at Haydock Park with Jamie preparing to step back into the racing arena on a temperamental novice. All the indications were that 74

the ground wouldn't suit Adolf. The going had deteriorated in the steady downpour, making a notoriously sticky track even more testing. Jamie had secretly hoped that the meeting might be abandoned but no such luck. The going was officially described as heavy. Quite what Adolf would make of it he had no idea.

There was only one factor in their favour: the race was a bumper - a National Hunt contest run on the Flat. Neither horse nor jockey would have their newfound jumping skills put to the test. That was something.

A group of intrepid race goers were squelching across the grass towards them, Malcolm at their head. Jamie recognised Barney Beaufort and the woman who'd accompanied him to Ridgemoor before Christmas to inspect the horse. Adolf's connections had arrived.

Barney greeted Ros with the words, Ì'm a bit disappointed your boss hasn't turned up.'

Jamie was amused to note a flicker of irritation cross her face. She counted nobody, not even Toby, as her `boss'. She recovered quickly.

Ùnfortunately he had a longstanding commitment to be at Southwell,' she said with a smile. `He's most upset not to be here, I can assure you.' `Well, I don't suppose he can be in two places at once,' said Beaufort grudgingly.

By now Adolf was making his way round the ring led by Trish, a Ridgemoor stable girl. Some of the Beaufort team greeted his arrival with a boozy cheer which earned glances of disapproval from more experienced groups of owners. As Adolf approached, pulling hard, Jamie saw, the Beaufort people surged forward and the horse reared away skittishly.

`Can I stroke him?' shouted one of the women. `He looks right nervous,'

said a man.

`May we have some room, please?' Ros's voice cut through the clamour.

She quickly legged Jamie into the saddle. `Get him out on the course quickly,' she muttered. Àway from this lot.'

But Barney wanted to play out his two pen-worth for the watching throng.

He had hold of Adolf's bridle and boomed, `Now listen here, everyone.

Red Rum had his last race on this course and I'm a proud man today to send out Beaufort Bonanza for his first.' He looked up at Jamie. `Good luck, young fellow, the weight of history is upon your shoulders.'

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He must have a screw loose, thought Jamie as he guided Adolf out of the ring.

As had been predicted by all apart from the enthusiastic Beaufort party, Adolf did not relish his first taste of competition. He stepped gingerly down to the start of the two-mile race, not enjoying the boggy turf. His race was the last on the card and the course had been pretty well churned up.

He mucked Jamie around at the start, bumping into the runners on either side and then, when the tape went up, he shot off down the course like a scalded cat.

`Calm down, you silly sod,' Jamie shouted uselessly, tugging as hard as he could on the reins to try and get some purchase on the horse's mouth. But Adolf's head was in the air, his jaw and neck locked solid, and there was no restraining the powerful beast. Even if there'd been a brick wall in front of him Adolf would have tried to charge through it.

They were way out ahead of the field, maybe some six lengths clear though Jamie couldn't risk looking back. The thought flashed through his head that this was the position he'd dreamed of being in the race - if only this were the last furlong and not the first.

Soon the heavy ground took its toll, the gluey surface draining the energy from Adolf. He began to struggle and, by the time they had completed the first mile, the other runners had overtaken them. Now they laboured in the rear, losing touch with every stride.

Jamie hunted over to the outside in search of better ground but that made little difference. He urged Adolf on with hands and knees, and then with kicks to the ribs and a crack on the shoulders from the whip. He might as well not have bothered. The horse was unhappy with the whole experience and had no intention of competing. After a mile and a half, with the rest of the field a distant vision ahead, Jamie pulled him up and then set off on the long hack for home, wondering what on earth to say to Barney Beaufort.

Forget about Red Rum, the weight of history had done for the pair of them.

In the Beaufort Holidays camp, dismay was mixed with hilarity. When things go so disastrously wrong, what else can you do but smile? `Never 76

mind, Barney,' said the branch manager from Clitheroe. `We all had a cracking day out.'

But Barney did mind, Malcolm could tell, as reproachful eyes were turned in his direction. He did his best to stick up for the horse, reaching into the well-used bag of racing phrases to explain the poor performance. But once he'd repeated that the ground was unsuitable, that the race had come too early for him and that the experience was part of a valuable learning curve, what else was there to say?

Barney nodded sagely. `We live to fight another day,' he announced, neatly topping Malcolm's list of cliches.

Àt least the horse has come back in one piece, Mr. B,' said Beverley, tucking her arm companionably through Barney's and turning to whisper some words into his ear which even the alert Malcolm could not catch.

The mournful expression on the businessman's face softened and he patted her hand. `Time for one more drink, everybody,' he announced, ànd we'll hope for better luck next time.'

`Look at it this way, Barney,' cried Roland. `He'll be a better price next time out.'

Malcolm wished he'd thought of that one. There was no denying the optimism of some punters.

He turned down a final drink. Time to beat a hasty retreat. After all, he'd done his duty. Beverley caught up with him as he made his way to the ground floor of the stand.

`Changed your mind, have you?' he said as her fingers sought his. `We can still make a night of it.'

Ì wish,' she said, tugging him to one side of the departing throng. Ì just slipped out for a moment to say goodbye.'

`Really?' Her arm had now crept beneath his coat to circle his waist and her face turned up to his, just inches away. `Goodbye then,' he said and bent to kiss her. She darted her tongue into his mouth and pressed the length of her body into his.

It was a pretty stupid thing for the pair of them to do, to snog like teenagers in full view of the departing racegoers. Anyone could have seen them - even Barney. Malcolm was sure he could hear the travel agent's voice booming out not far away.

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She broke away first, her face flushed. Ì've got to get back.' `Dump Barney, for God's sake. Tell him you're sick or something.' Ì can't,' she said simply and walked off back the way she had come. Malcolm watched her go, the well-cut suit emphasising the swing of her trim hips. He wasn't a man given to jealousy but the thought of her turning him down for the evening in preference to some florid, fifty-ish travel agent gave rise to a variety of emotions he didn't care to identify.

By the time he had reached his car he knew what was needed to assuage the feelings roused in him by Beverley's inflammatory antics. She was not the only woman at his disposal. He reached for his mobile phone.

Pippa caught the racing results on the radio as she waded through some admin in the office. Her secretary had left at Christmas and things were already getting into a mess. At the moment, however, she wasn't sure that she wanted to replace her. Losing Arabella Childs' horses in November, followed shortly afterwards by the predictable defection of Lonsdale Heights, had hit her in the pocket. To be honest, the business could do with some new clients.

Shed had no runners that afternoon, which made the news of two successes for Toby at Southwell all the more galling. And a phone call from Jamie telling her of his horse's poor showing set the seal on her gloom. Things weren't going right at present.

She bundled the unanswered correspondence - bills, for the most part -

back into her in-tray and locked up the office. As she crossed the yard to the empty house, weary and fed up, she decided she really must do something soon about the yard. So far all her grand talk about revamping her training methods had come to nothing. Jamie had promised to help her out but he'd been so wrapped up in retraining as a jump jockey that he'd not been much help. And his promise to call in an expert had amounted to a big fat zero.

Disgruntled, she stamped into the kitchen. She supposed she ought to get some supper sorted out. Before long her husband and brother would turn up and expect to be fed. How come neither of them ever pulled on an apron and turned out a hot meal at the end of the day?

To be fair, on working days she just defrosted meals from the deep freeze.

Jamie was pretty good at spaghetti suppers while Malcolm insisted on 78

doing the weekend grocery run. And, most of the time, she enjoyed putting the food on the table, regularly turning down their offers of help.

But tonight she would really welcome a hand. Someone to pour her a drink and tell her to put her feet up while they made some magic with the pots and pans. However, it looked like she was out of luck.

She was pulling frozen pizzas out of their packaging when the phone rang.

`Hello, darling.' Malcolm's voice was warm and sympathetic. `How do you fancy a glamorous night out?'

She didn't, as it happened, but she loved being asked. And by the time they had finished talking her blues had vanished. On instructions, she ran herself a bath and prepared for a long soak. The prospect of an early night with her husband was all she needed to revive her spirits. In her opinion, the best place to eat pizza was in bed.

Jamie wondered where Malcolm had got to after the race as he was half expecting the offer of a lift home. On the other hand, he was quite happy to return in the horse box with Ros and Trish. Ros turned on the radio and tuned it to some orchestral music.

`Do you mind?' she asked. Ìt helps me concentrate.'

`You're the driver,' said Trish but she rolled her eyes at Jamie. He could tell she'd rather have Radio One.

Ìt's nice,' he said. You hypocrite, he thought, who are you trying to impress?

`So what was it like?' Ros asked him.

He knew what she meant. He'd been worried about his return to the weighing room and how he'd get on when he was back in the old routine.

Of course, the personnel were different now he was riding at a National Hunt meeting. He knew a few of the jump lads from the old days but most of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He'd been feeling apprehensive, as they would all know his recent history.

In the event, the warmth of his welcome had proved his fears groundless -

even if his new companions had enjoyed a bit of fun at his expense.

`Got to give you credit for trying your hand at some proper racing,' said Tom Dougan, a red-headed rider from Limerick.

Ìt's a different game to the Flat, son,' said his pal, Josh Keane. Ì'd get myself some brown britches, if I were you.'

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But they'd all wished him luck and he'd laughed at their jibes, even when they made jokes about prison and his car crash.

`Just one thing, Jamie,' Tom called out, `never offer me a lift home.' On reflection, that part of the afternoon had gone well. He'd missed the camaraderie of the weighing room.

Ìt was OK,' he said in response to Ros's question. `Different, but OK.' His knees gave way as he unbuckled his belt and he sat down abruptly on the changing-room bench. The hour in the sauna had left him weak as a kitten, but he d had to shift a couple of pounds in a hurry to make the weight for his afternoon races. Mind you, it wasn't just the steaming but the boozing and the girls. Especially that last one, that Vanessa. She certainly knew how to drain a man dry.

He grinned to himself. Champagne and shagging were not recommended for the morning of a big race. The Colonel would tear him off a strip if he ever found out. But how would he? Little Miss Golden Thighs wasn't going to tell him. She was too keen to get a second helping.

'See you in the parade ring, lover she’d said as he d finally dismissed her from his hotel bed.

`Make it the winners' enclosure,' he d replied.

Anyway, even if the Colonel did find out, what could he do? The old man appreciated a pretty girl himself, he knew that for a fact. And the way Jamie was riding he reckoned there d be no cause for complaint.

He stood up to kick off his trousers and felt his legs wobble again. He braced himself against the wall.

All right, Jamie?’ called his valet from across the room.

`No problem, Pat.’ He put as much energy into his voice as he could muster. Old Pat had seen it all and didn't miss much. 'Got your money on my Diadem runner?'

Haven't had a bet in twenty years.'

`Do yourself a favour. Mine can't be beat.'

The boast earned a barrage of comment from the riders changing around him - none of whom appeared to agree.

Then Jamie had a bright idea, one he couldn't resist. He stepped up onto the bench, leaving his trousers on the floor, and thrust his backside towards his audience.

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'Get a load of my arse, lads. You lot are going to be looking at it all afternoon.'

A pair of socks and a chorus of jeers flew in his direction. A senior jockey in the opposite corner turned away, unamused. Well, sod him, thought Jamie. He's only pissed off because he knows it's true.