Showjumpers (10 page)

As Conrad came into the final treble at the end of the course, he looked untouchable. But then the unthinkable happened. His horse dropped his front legs just a little and the sound of poles rocking in the sockets was followed by the crash of rails falling. The jump was down! Conrad Miller had four faults. With just one rider from each house to come, both teams now sat on sixteen faults each.

By the time Georgie entered the ring the Badminton House girls were going wild, waving flags and calling out her name, shouting advice. But as she entered the arena Georgie completely blocked them out. It was as if the whole world fell away and all that remained was the showjumping course in front of her.

The only thing on her mind was a clear round – and the last words Tara had said: “No time to play it safe. I want you to go as fast as you can. Now get in there and finish it!”

Georgie came through the flags with Belle in full stride and they barrelled at the first fence. The mare leapt like a gazelle and Georgie was already looking to the next fence in mid-air.

It was a text-book round and by the time Belle and Georgie were halfway around the course they were totally in the zone and working so perfectly as a team, it was like poetry. There was only one hairy moment when Georgie cut the corner into the oxer and took it far too tightly. She had to rely entirely on Belle’s natural athleticism and luckily the mare somehow gathered herself up in a very short stride and made a fantastic jump. With disaster averted they headed for home, taking the upright rails and facing down for the treble. Over fence one, hup, then two, then, hup-hup two big strides and over fence three – they were clear and galloping through the flags. Their time, a stunning one minute forty-two!

But it wasn’t over yet. The last rider was still to come. If James Kirkwood could go clear and beat Georgie’s time, then it would be the end of the tournament for Badminton House.

There was a silence from the sidelines as James rode into the arena. You could almost hear the crowd holding their breath with every fence that James took. For once, the cheeky lopsided grin was nowhere to be seen and he wore a grim mask of concentration as he took the first two fences, then the third and the fourth. He was still clear and his dark brown gelding was going at breakneck speed.

In the same corner where Georgie had cut it too fine, James came in towards the oxer on a tight angle and at the last minute you could see him panic and try to check his stride. Beneath him, his horse grunted with the effort as he took off far too close to clear the rail. And in a clattering of wood and metal falling to the ground it was done. The jump was down! Burghley were defeated and Badminton House were through to the next round!

T
he guard at the entrance gates shone his torch on the old Chevrolet as it pulled up. He peered in and smiled at the man behind the wheel. “G’morning, Kenny,” he said. “You can go right on through.”

“Thanks, Earl,” Kenny gave the guard a wave as he rolled on through the gates towards the ivy-covered limestone buildings up ahead. In the passenger seat beside him, Georgie peered out into the darkness. She could make out the shadowy shapes of horses and hear the clean chime of their metal shoes against the concrete surface of the stable block, and the sound of men’s voices carrying in the cold early morning air.

This was Keeneland Park Race Course. “One of the most famous tracks in the whole of bluegrass county,” Kenny told Georgie as he drove on. “Secretariat was ridden at Keeneland,” he added, looking at Georgie as if this should mean something. Then he sighed when he saw her blank expression.

“You telling me you ain’t heard of Secretariat?” asked Kenny in amazement.

Georgie shook her head.

“What about Citation?” Kenny offered. “He won the triple crown. You musta heard of Citation? Or how about Seattle Slew?”

Georgie shook her head again. “I’m not much into racing Kenny; sorry.”

But even as she said this, she knew that it wasn’t entirely true. Sure, she didn’t know the names of all the famous racehorses of Lexington, but she could still appreciate the beauty of a horse in full gallop, bearing down on the finish line, trying his heart out while his jockey dressed in coloured silks urged him on.

There were no coloured silks this morning at Keeneland. The jockeys wore old jerseys and sweatshirts with their boots and breeches. They sat on their horses, telling jokes and smoking cigarettes as they waited for their turn on the track.

Leaning against the railings were the trainers. They wore heavy coats and had binoculars hanging around their necks and stopwatches clasped in their hands. As the jockeys walked their horses around in the morning mist, the trainers called out instructions to them.

“Breeze him over eight furlongs,” Georgie heard a man in a grey overcoat instructing his jockey as he wrestled with a big chestnut wearing blinkers and a hood. “We’ll see how he feels after that.”

Beside the railings, another jockey sat on a streamlined dark bay, also wearing blinkers and a hood. He looked over at Kenny and Georgie and gave them a wave, then rode over to join them.

“Hey, Georgie!” It was Riley.

“Are you all set to ride?” he asked her.

“Umm, I thought maybe I could just watch today,” Georgie said. “Maybe I can ride next time?”

Now that she was at the racetrack surrounded by real jockeys and trainers she felt self-consciously out of her depth.

Riley shook his head. “No way,” he said firmly. “Come on, follow me.”

At the stables a solidly built man wearing a brown wool jersey and baggy corduroy breeches came over towards them leading a pretty young chestnut filly. The man looked so much like Kenny, Georgie guessed straight away that this must be Riley’s father.

“John Conway.” The man reached out and grasped Georgie’s hand and smiled. “You must be Georgie. Riley told me you were coming. I’ve got Clarise here ready for you.”

Georgie looked at the chestnut filly. She was so finely built she didn’t look like a horse so much as a gazelle, all bone and sinew, with the delicate, wide-eyed face of a woodland faun.

“Clarise is up for a race in a few weeks’ time,” Riley’s dad told Georgie. “You can breeze her over eight furlongs and then give her a cool-down, OK?”

“Dad,” Riley laughed, “you’re gonna have to hire a translator. Georgie’s never ridden trackwork before.”

“Oh,” John Conway’s face broke into a broad grin. “Sorry about that. When I say I want you to breeze her, I mean take her at a gallop, but hold her back at about half speed.” He pointed over to the racetrack. “You see those posts at the side of the track? Each one marks a furlong. A furlong is about an eighth of a mile – so eight furlongs is a whole mile – that’ll take you right the way round the track. Trot Clarise to the first marker then let her gallop, just breeze her like I said, and then bring her back to a trot and cool her off.”

He legged her up and Georgie took the reins and tucked her feet into the stirrups of the racing saddle. It felt so weird having her knees scrunched high above the horse’s withers!

“You’ll get used to it,” Riley said as he walked alongside her on the dark bay, whose name turned out to be Lafayette. They rode past maple trees with their leaves aflame, and by the time Georgie reached the track she’d begun to adjust to her new position.

“Stick to the rail,” Riley advised. “I’ll ride outside you on Lafayette. Look out for other jockeys – just go wide if you want to overtake anyone.”

Georgie gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t think I’m ready to do any overtaking!”

It felt strange doing a rising trot sitting so high up, and Georgie actually found it easier when she asked Clarise to move up into a gallop. Even though Clarise was light-framed, her gallop was powerful and strong and she pulled Georgie forward as she snatched at the reins. Georgie found herself really having to hold on to keep the filly at half-speed as instructed.

On the outside of her, Riley was staying close and she could see he was holding Lafayette back too. He gave her a nod and a grin to let her know she was doing OK.

As they came past the stands she could hear the steady cadence of the filly’s hoofbeats echoing through the empty grandstand, and she wondered what it would be like to be here when the stands were full and there were other horses racing against you. Right now, with just Riley beside her, it still felt amazing. She could hear Clarise’s hooves pounding a four-beat against the soft loam of the track, could feel the filly’s muscles moving beneath her in beautiful symmetry as they galloped on. Ahead of her, there were enough grandstand lights on to illuminate the track through the darkness of the early morning. She did as Riley said and kept the mare hugging the white rail, keeping her at half-speed.

Even at a slow gallop, Georgie could feel the pent-up power in the mare. She could sense the speed that Clarise was capable of. As the furlong posts whizzed past, Georgie felt the mare leaning on the reins, wanting to be let go.

“Steady there, Clarise,” she murmured as she kept a firm grip on the leggy chestnut. They had come all the way around the track and so at the eighth furlong marker, Georgie did what John Conway had told her to do, pulling the Thoroughbred back to a trot once more. Clarise objected, bearing down on the bit and trying to pull the reins slack, but Georgie was firm with her and eventually she came back down to a trot. Riley was alongside her all the way.

“You handled her just fine,” he said approvingly. “Well done.”

Georgie was flushed pink and she had a huge grin on her face. “That was much more fun than I expected!” “I told you so,” Riley said. He looked over at his father, who stood waiting for them beside the railing. “Dad! I think Georgie should be the one to take Tally out today.”

John Conway frowned. “Talisman’s got a race tomorrow at Churchill Downs, Riley – this is his last training session.”

“I know,” Riley said. He gave Georgie a grin. “Georgie’s a Blainford girl. She can handle it.”

John Conway considered it for a moment. “OK,” he said. “Talisman is your ride. If you want to put Georgie up on him instead then that’s your call.”

“Come on,” Riley said to Georgie. “This should be fun.”

Georgie wasn’t so sure that this was her idea of fun at all. As John Conway legged her up on to the back of the enormous seventeen-hand black colt she could see the whites of Talisman’s eyes. He already had a gleam of sweat on his sleek black coat. This was the horse she had seen Riley riding the day that they met. He was highly strung, in peak racing condition, and as hot as a rocket.

“This is his final workout before the stakes race,” John Conway told her, “I want you to take him out on the track and blow him out.”

“Blowing him out means taking him as fast as he can go,” Riley explained as he led Georgie back towards the track. “We’re talking race speed, Georgie. No matter what happens, don’t hold him back. Push him up into a hard-out gallop right at the start and then when you reach the sixth furlong post, ask him for a little bit more, OK?”

“Uhhh,” Georgie was nervous. “What if I mess up?”

“You won’t,” Riley said. “No trotting at the start either – let Tally loose straight into a gallop, then push him at the sixth furlong and hang on.”

As Talisman skipped and danced out on to the track, Georgie could feel her heart hammering in her chest like crazy. She took a deep breath and tried to stop her hands from shaking, wiping her palms so she could take a better grip on the reins. At that moment she wanted to turn Talisman around and take him back to Riley and tell him that she couldn’t do this. It was too scary being on a real-live racehorse that was about to hit top speed. But the other jockeys and their trainers were milling about, watching her, waiting for her to take the big, black horse out on to the track. Somehow she knew that there was no backing out of this. Like Riley had said, she was a Blainford girl, after all.

After warming Talisman up with a couple of little trots back and forth, Georgie turned the big black horse to face the first furlong post. She looked over to the railing where Riley was standing with his dad and waited until he gave her the nod.

“Come on, Tally,” Georgie said, bracing herself in her stirrups. “Let’s see what you can do.”

As Talisman broke from a standstill into a gallop Georgie was ready for him. She felt the black colt surge forward beneath her and instead of holding him back, she swallowed her fear and let go.

She was off and racing! Talisman’s hooves were pounding out their frantic rhythm beneath her on the soft sandy soil, getting faster and faster with every stride. Every fibre of Georgie’s being was telling her to slow down. This horse was too fast! If she fell off at this speed it would be disastrous. As they reached the second furlong post she wanted more than anything to pull back on the reins. But she resisted the urge and kept calm, staying with the movement of the black horse beneath her.

They were hard against the rail as they came into the turn at the fourth furlong, Talisman was galloping flat-out, when Georgie saw a grey colt running on the track ahead of them. They were gaining on the other horse fast and in just a few strides they would be alongside it!

Remembering what Riley had told her, Georgie pulled Talisman wide away from the rails. The big black horse’s stride never faltered as they swept around, drawing up alongside the grey Thoroughbred.

The jockey on the grey horse seemed surprised to see Talisman pull up alongside him. They were neck and neck, and having the grey horse to race against seemed to ignite something in Talisman. He stepped his strides up and lengthened out so that in just three lengths they were edging ahead of the grey and against the rails once more.

Georgie stayed with her horse, rocking low over his withers. Her eyes were streaming tears from the wind in her face and her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly breathe, but she hung on as they bore down on the sixth furlong marker.

As soon as she was alongside the marker, Georgie did exactly as Riley had told her. She loosened the reins off and pressed her hands against the colt’s black neck, then she tapped him with her heels, calling his name, asking for even more speed. Talisman responded brilliantly, and the ground was swallowed up by the horse’s massive strides. Georgie’s vision turned blurry and blood was pounding in her ears. She’d never been this fast on a horse before in her life, but instead of feeling scared, she felt free. As they thundered down the home straight, Georgie leaned down low over the horse’s neck and yelled words of encouragement, urging him on. Her voice was lost on the wind, but Talisman gave a final surge, his strides stretching out to the very limits as they hit the eighth furlong.

John Conway watched the big black horse pass the final marker and at the precise moment he saw the colt’s nose cross the line he flicked down the button on his stopwatch. He looked at the time and shook his head in amazement. Riley’s little friend had just ridden Talisman over eight furlongs in one minute thirty-four. It was the fastest time the black colt had ever recorded at Keeneland. It might even be fast enough to win the meet at Churchill Downs! The girl trotted Talisman back again to greet him with a wide smile on her pretty face.

“That was so cool!” Georgie beamed. “I loved it. Thank you for letting me ride him.”

“Any time,” John Conway said. He cast another surreptitious glance at his stopwatch, just to make sure he’d clocked that time right.

“Any time at all.”

That morning at the Keeneland Park track was one of the best of Georgie’s life. After she’d finished riding Talisman, she watched as Riley breezed another two young horses – the grey and the bay that she’d seen in the boxes at Clemency Farm on her first visit. Then she’d joined him and the other jockeys in a big, bustling kitchen beside the stables for breakfast.

Georgie had piled her plate high with bacon, maple syrup and waffles, and tucked in happily. As she ate, she noticed that many of the hardened track riders around her weren’t even touching the huge buffet table groaning with food, making do with black coffee and nothing else.

“They’re on diets,” Riley explained in a whisper. “They need to stay thin enough to make racing weight.”

While Georgie worked her way through two helpings of the waffles, she listened to the jockeys telling tall tales around the table, trying to outdo each other with epic accounts of great races won or lost.

Even though most of them were much older, Riley seemed to fit right in. He joined in the talk, whilst being respectful of the senior jockeys.

“Hey, Riley,” one of the others at the table called over, “Ain’t you gonna introduce us to your girlfriend?”

Riley’s smile suddenly disappeared. “She’s not my girlfriend. Georgie’s just doing a bit of trackwork for me.”