Silks

CHAPTER 9

Sadly, I didn’t spend the evening with Eleanor, nor the night.

In fact, I spent very little time with her at all. Her bleep went off as we were still on the balcony and she rushed off to find a quiet spot to make a call, returning only briefly to tell me that she had to go back to Lambourn. There was an emergency at the hospital, something about a prize stallion and a twisted gut.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ I shouted after her rather forlornly as she rushed away.

‘Hope so,’ she called back. ‘Call me on the mobile in the morning.’

Suddenly she was gone. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt. Was I really ready after seven and a half years? Don’t rush things, I told myself.

I spent much of the rest of the afternoon drifting between the box upstairs and the parade ring. I had intended to use the time to familiarize myself with the surroundings, the sounds and the smells of the Festival in mental preparation for the race the following day. Instead, I spent most of the time thinking about Eleanor, and about Angela. They were quite different but in many ways they were the same. Eleanor was blonde with blue eyes whereas Angela had been dark with brown, but they both had a similar sense of humour, and a love for life and fun.

‘Which one do you fancy?’

I looked at the man standing next to me who had spoken. I didn’t know him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.

‘Which one do you fancy?’ he said again, nodding at the horses. We were leaning up against the rail of the parade ring where the horses for the next race were walking round and round.

‘Oh,’ I said in sudden understanding. ‘Sorry, I don’t even know what’s running.’

He lost interest in me instantly, and went on studying the horseflesh on parade in front of him prior, no doubt, to making an investment with the bookies.

I went back upstairs to the box, telling myself to snap out of this daydreaming and pay attention to the racing.

‘How’s he doing?’ Francesca Dacey whispered in my ear as she stood behind me to watch the race on the balcony.

‘Fed up,’ I said, turning slightly. ‘But otherwise OK.’

‘Say hi to him for me if you get the chance,’ she whispered again before moving away to her left and talking to another of the guests.

The World Hurdle, the big race of the day, was a three-mile hurdle race for horses with stamina for the long distance, especially the uphill finish in the March mud. And stamina they had. Four horses crossed the last obstacle in line abreast and each was driven hard for the line, the crowd cheering them on with fervour, the result to be determined only by the race judge and his photographs.

There was a buzz in the crowd after the horses swept past the winning post, such had been the exhilarating effect of the closest of finishes; the adrenalin still rushed round our veins, our breathing was still just a tad faster than normal. Such moments were what brought the crowds back time and again to Cheltenham. The best horses, ridden by the best jockeys, stretching to reach the line first. Winning was everything.

‘First, number seven,’ said the announcer to a huge cheer from some and a groan of misery from others. Reno Clemens on horse number seven stood bolt upright in his stirrups and punched the air, saluting the crowd, who roared back their appreciation. How I longed for it to be me doing just that the following afternoon.

Most of the guests rushed off to watch the winner come back to the unsaddling enclosure, where he would receive a fresh wave of cheering and applause. I, however, decided to stay put. I had done my share of aimlessly wandering the racecourse wishing that Eleanor had been with me to share it.

The lunch table had been pushed up against one wall and was now heaving under large trays of sandwiches and cakes ready for tea. I looked longingly at a cream-filled chocolate éclair and opted instead for the smallest cucumber sandwich I could find.

‘I hear you are a lawyer,’ said a female voice on my right.

I turned to find Deborah Radcliffe standing next to me. Why did I think she didn’t like lawyers? Maybe it was the way she looked down her nose at me. Lots of people didn’t like lawyers, that is until they got themselves into trouble. Then their lawyer became their best friend, maybe their only friend.

‘That’s right,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I’m a barrister.’

‘Do you wear a wig?’ she asked.

‘Only in court,’ I said. ‘Lots of my work is not done in courts. I represent people at professional disciplinary hearings and the like.’

‘Oh,’ she said, as if bored. ‘And do you represent jockeys at enquiries?’

‘I have done,’ I said. ‘But not very often.’

She seemed to lose interest completely.

‘How is Peninsula?’ I asked her.

‘Fine, as far as I know,’ she said. ‘He’s now at Rushmore Stud in Ireland. In his first season.’

Retired at age three to spend the rest of his life treated like royalty, passing his days eating, sleeping and covering mares. Horse paradise.

‘But he wasn’t born himself at Rushmore?’ I said.

‘Oh no,’ she replied. ‘We bred him at home.’

‘Where’s home?’ I asked her.

‘Near Uffington,’ she said. ‘In south Oxfordshire.’

‘Where the White Horse is,’ I said. The Uffington White Horse was a highly stylized Bronze Age horse figure carved into the chalk of the Downs a few miles north of Lambourn.

‘Exactly,’ she replied, suddenly showing more interest in me. ‘I can almost see White Horse Hill from my kitchen window.’

‘I’ve never actually seen the horse,’ I said. ‘Except in photos.’

‘It’s not that easy to see unless you get up in the air,’ she said. ‘We are forever getting tourists who ask us where it is. They seem disappointed when you show them the hill. The horse is almost on the top of it and you can’t even see it properly if you walk up to it. Goodness knows how they made it in the first place.’

‘Perhaps it was the fact that they couldn’t see it properly that made it such a weird-looking horse,’ I said.

‘Good point,’ she said.

‘Do you remember Millie Barlow being there when Peninsula was born?’ I asked.

‘Who?’ she said.

‘Millie Barlow,’ I repeated. ‘She was the vet who was present.’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We have foals being born all the time. We have a sort of maternity hospital for horses. They come to us to deliver, especially if they are to then be covered by a local stallion.’

‘But I would have thought you would remember Peninsula,’ I said.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘We didn’t know at the time that he would turn out so good. He had good breeding but it was not exceptional. We were just lucky.’

It made sense. After all, the world knows that William Shakespeare died on 23 April 1616, but it is not known for sure exactly where and on which day he was born, although it is often assumed, for neatness, to be the same day of the year as his death. All that is actually recorded is that he was baptized on 26 April 1564.

‘Why do you ask about this vet?’ Deborah asked me.

‘It’s just that she killed herself last June and I wondered if you remembered her at Peninsula’s birth,’ I said.

‘Not that vet who killed herself during the party?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘I remember her doing that, of course,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know it was the same vet who had been there to foal Peninsula.’

‘So you didn’t see a photo of her with Peninsula after the birth?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘Why? Should I have done?’

‘It seems to have gone missing,’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ she said, losing interest again. ‘I can’t help you.’

A large group of the other guests suddenly returned to the box for their tea and I decided to go back outside onto the balcony rather than be continuously beguiled by the chocolate cream éclairs.

I woke early the following morning with butterflies rather than éclairs hovering in my stomach. I was used to that feeling. It happened almost every time I had a ride in a race but this time it was something special. The Foxhunter Chase at Cheltenham is known as the amateur riders’ Gold Cup. It is run over the same course and distance as its big brother, although, while the Gold Cup had the highest prize money at the Festival, the Foxhunter Chase had the lowest. But it wasn’t the prize money that mattered. For me as a jockey, winning the Foxhunters would be like winning the Gold Cup, the Grand National and the Derby all rolled into one.

I spent some of the morning on the phone, chasing some information for the Mitchell case that we had requested several weeks before. As a matter of course we had received copies of Scot Barlow’s bank statements with the rest of the prosecution disclosure, but I had also asked for those of his sister, Millie. The bank had kicked up a bit of a fuss about confidentiality and I had needed to go back to court and argue in front of a judge as to why they were needed.

It had now been two weeks since the hearing. I had referred to our Defence Case Statement in so far as we believed that Mitchell had been framed and that therefore, in our opinion, some unknown third party had been involved in the crime. Thus Barlow’s bank statements had been needed to determine if any unusual or relevant transactions had occurred between him and an unknown third party. I further pointed out that Millie Barlow, sister of the victim and lover of the accused, had, according to her friends, seemed quite well off prior to her suicide the previous June. More well off than might have been expected from her salary alone. I had argued that she might have been receiving an allowance from her brother, a successful sportsman who, at the time, had been earning near the top of his profession. Millie Barlow’s bank statements were needed therefore to cross reference with his, so as to be able to eliminate transactions on his statements made by him to her during her lifetime.

I was not altogether sure if the judge had believed me, or even if he had understood my argument, but he could see no reason why the bank statements of a suicide, whether or not she was the sister of a murder victim, should still have been covered by the bank’s confidentiality policy, and he made an order for the bank to produce them. He clearly rated suicides lower than criminals.

However, the bank was being very slow in complying with the order. Arthur had finally found me a telephone number that didn’t connect to an overseas call centre, so I rang Bruce Lygon and asked him to telephone the bank and tell them that, unless the statements were on my desk by Monday morning, we would have no option but to go back to the judge and argue that the bank was in contempt. I also told Bruce to ensure that he dropped into his conversation that the punishment for criminal contempt of court was a two-year term of imprisonment and/or an unlimited fine.

Bruce called me back within five minutes. He was laughing. He had clearly laid on thick the bit about a prison sentence and the bank’s commercial director had promised him absolutely that the statements would be couriered to our chambers this very day. I congratulated him.

Next I called Eleanor.

‘Hello,’ she said, sounding sleepy.

‘Late night?’ I asked.

‘More like early morning,’ she said. ‘I was in theatre until nearly four.’

My heart sank. I had so hoped she would be there to see me ride.

‘Are you coming today?’ I asked without any real hope.

‘Probably not,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, but I’m still technically on call if there’s another emergency. I must get some sleep sometime.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose so.’

‘I’ll try and be there if I can,’ she said. ‘What time is the race?’

‘Four,’ I said.

‘If I don’t make it, I’ll make sure I watch it on the telly,’ she said. ‘Call me after. OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘OK.’

‘From the winner’s circle,’ she said.

‘I hope so,’ I replied with more of a smile in my voice.

‘I must dash,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, but the line was already dead.

I surprised myself by the degree of my disappointment. Angela had always hated watching me ride. She used to say that she couldn’t eat beforehand and that her stomach was twisted into knots by the fear that I would be injured. I had almost stopped riding altogether towards the end of her life as I could see how much she hated it. After she died I had slowly returned to the saddle, using early mornings on Paul Newington’s gallops as a sort of therapy for the agony and the loneliness. It had been a natural progression to return to riding in races as well.

Now I wished so much that Eleanor would be there this afternoon. But perhaps she would hate it too, and maybe, I thought with hope, for the same reason.

I arrived at the racecourse early to miss the traffic. I had stayed the night in a small hotel on Cleeve Hill overlooking the track. It was where I should have been a year ago and the couple who owned and ran the place had been very happy to have pocketed my non-refundable 100 per cent deposit and then re-let the room when I couldn’t make it. To their credit, they had eagerly accepted my booking for this year, perhaps in the hope of again making a sizable profit. There was not a hotel room within fifty miles of Cheltenham that wasn’t filled and pre-purchased at least twelve months in advance for these four days.

I parked my rented car in the jockeys’ car park, made my way into the racecourse enclosures, through to the weighing room and then on into the inner sanctum, the jockeys’ changing room. I slung my bag of kit on a peg and walked out onto the weighing-room terrace, feeling completely at home amongst the crowd of trainers, journalists and other jockeys. This was where I loved to be, not in some musty courtroom where the pace of the action was so slow as to be painful.

A racing correspondent from one of the national dailies came up to me.

‘Hi, Perry,’ he said. ‘How’s that client of yours?’

‘Which client?’ I asked. ‘And the name’s Geoffrey.’

He laughed. I knew that he knew my real name as well as I did.

‘OK, Geoffrey,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘How’s your client, Steve Mitchell?’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘As far as I’m aware. But you probably know better than me.’

‘Is he guilty?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on a case that’s still before the courts,’ I said. ‘I would be in contempt.’

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘But, off the record?’

‘Wait for the trial,’ I said. ‘Then the jury will decide.’

‘Won’t take ’em long if what I hear is true?’ he said with a laugh.

‘And what have you heard?’ I asked him.

‘That Mitchell stuck him one because Barlow accused him of killing his sister.’

‘And who exactly told you that?’ I asked him.

‘That’s the word in the press room,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s saying it.’

‘And is that what you think?’ I asked him.

‘Yeah,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Suppose so.’

We stood together in awkward silence for a moment before he turned away with a slight wave of a hand and went off in search of someone else.

I stood and drank in the atmosphere. Even the weather was joining in the enthusiasm. The sun peeped out from behind a fluffy white cumulus cloud to warm the hearts and souls of seventy thousand racegoers. This was Cheltenham on Gold Cup day and there was nothing quite like it.

‘Hi, Geoff.’ It was Nick Osbourne, with a smile.

‘Hello, Nick.’ We shook hands warmly. The truce from the previous day was still holding. ‘Any runners today?’ I knew he didn’t have one in the Gold Cup or the Foxhunters but, apart from those races, I had no idea what was running.

‘One in the novice hurdle,’ he said. ‘Not much chance really.’

‘Good luck anyway,’ I said.

‘Good luck to you too,’ he replied. ‘On Sandeman.’

‘Thanks.’

We stood in easy companionship for a while discussing our chances and, as always on this day, coming back to who we thought would win the big one.

By the time of the first race at two o’clock my guts were twisted tighter than those of Eleanor’s equine patient, and the nerves were beginning to get to me. I sat on the bench around the changing room and made myself calm down. Ieven managed to force down a cheese and pickle sandwich and a cup of tea that had thoughtfully been provided for the jockeys in the weighing room.

I was not alone in feeling nervous. Even for the top professionals, chances on good horses at Cheltenham were few and far between. For the jockeys of the three or four top-rated horses in the Gold Cup this was a day that could define their careers. Gold Cup winners, both horses and jockeys, were remembered and revered.

I spent much of the afternoon sitting in the changing room alone with my thoughts, mentally running the race over and over in my head, deciding where I wanted to be and when, whether to be on the inside to take the shortest route or to run further wide and give myself more room. Sandeman was fit and so was I. There would be no repeat of Sandown the previous November when it had been my fault we hadn’t won. On this day the horse and jockey would both have the stamina to come up the Cheltenham hill after three and a quarter miles.

I stood on the scales in my riding clothes holding my saddle, together with the felt pad that goes under it, the number cloth and the weightcloth, a devious contraption that sits beneath the saddle with lead sheets in pockets to add weight. The digital read-out settled on twelve stone, the required mark, and the clerk of the scales ticked me off on his list. As a rule jockeys don’t like carrying extra lead as it sits as dead weight on the horse’s back, but I was secretly quite pleased that I had eight pounds of it in my weightcloth, especially as I was using a heavier saddle than many of the other amateurs waiting for their turn on the scales. All that running and skiing had done the trick and I was lighter than I had been for quite a while. I was now well under eleven stone in my birthday suit, so carrying twelve was easy.

I had never really had much trouble doing the weight on Sandeman as he had always been fairly highly rated and, even in handicaps, he had always been near to top weight. Some jockeys, however, had an ongoing struggle every day to keep their weight down, a problem that to me seemed to be getting worse as the average size of the population grew while the racing weights stayed the same.

You could always tell when someone was in trouble doing the weight. There were little games they would play with the clerk of the scales, who was probably wise to every one. They would leave their cap on their helmet and place it on the table. The rule stated that the cap should be weighed even if the helmet wasn’t. Others would weigh-out using paper-thin boots, known by jockeys as cheating boots, which they would then change for their regular riding boots when safely back in the changing room. It had also been known for jockeys to weigh-out with a much lighter saddle than they actually intended using, or indeed, if things were desperate, with no saddle at all. Overweight was frowned upon by the stewards, and by owners and trainers alike, and could make the difference between keeping or losing the ride on that horse in the future.

Having successfully cleared the scales, I handed my saddle and the rest of the tack to Paul Newington, who was standing by waiting to receive it.

‘See you in the parade ring,’ he said, and turned on his heel.

I could tell that he was nervous as well and I watched his back as he hurried away to get Sandeman ready in the saddling boxes.

I went into the changing room to get a jacket to put over my silks and then back out onto the weighing-room terrace to watch the Gold Cup on the big screen set up near the paddock. The favourite won easily with Reno Clemens in the saddle. They had jumped clear of the chasing pack over the last two fences in the straight and stormed up the hill to win by eight lengths. They received a hero’s welcome from the huge crowd. But Steve Mitchell in his prison cell wouldn’t like it, I thought. He should have been riding that winner. He had ridden the horse all the way through its career only to miss out on its crowning glory.

With the Gold Cup over, now it was my turn. The Foxhunter Chase was less than half an hour away and the butterflies in my stomach had turned into full size eagles. I went back into the changing room and made all my last-minute adjustments once again, making sure I was wearing my back protector and that it was correctly fitted, checking that my silks were on properly with rubber bands around the wrists to stop the wind rushing up the sleeves, tying and retying the cords on my cap to get them right, to ensure it didn’t fly off my helmet during the race.

I went once again to the loo and nervously paced around. It was like waiting outside the exam room before my law finals at university, or being in a dentist’s waiting room before an extraction.

Finally, the call was made for the jockeys to go out to the parade ring. As always, I felt the burst of adrenalin course through my body but, this time, I wasn’t so sure I was enjoying it. The expectation was too great. Riding last year’s winner and this year’s favourite, as well as carrying so many punters’ hopes, was taking much of the fun out of it.

Paul and Laura stood on the grass in the paddock and both seemed to hop from foot to foot with nervousness.

‘Good luck,’ said Laura breathlessly, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let’s just enjoy it. Eh?’ They both looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Win or lose, it’s been a great day out.’

I smiled at them. They didn’t smile back. Oh no, I thought, they’ve had a big bet on us to win. I could read it in their faces. Oh, woe is me. Just another load of pressure I could have done without.

Paul gave me a leg-up onto Sandeman’s back and he slapped a hand on his neck. ‘Go get ’em, cowboy,’ he said nervously in a mock American accent, looking up at me.

‘Do my best, pardner,’ I said back to him in the same manner.

We circled around the ring a couple of times as the horses sorted themselves out and then we were led out towards the course by two huntsmen in scarlet jackets.

Sandeman beneath me was eager to get going and he didn’t like being crammed in on all sides by the massive crowd five deep against the horse-walk rail.

‘Good luck, Geoffrey,’ called a voice to my left.

I looked down from my vantage point atop a seventeen-hand horse and there was Eleanor, waving madly. She had made it after all. How wonderful.

‘Thanks,’ I shouted at her inadequately above the bustle of the crowd.

I turned to take one last look at her before Sandeman and I went out onto the course. She was smiling broadly, still waving, but something else caught my eye. Standing just behind her and a little to her right was someone else I recognized.

It was Julian Trent, and he was smiling at me too.

Oh shit. I tried to stop and turn round, to go back and warn her, but the stable lad just thought that Sandeman was playing up a little so he took a tighter hold of the reins and pulled us forward.

I turned right round in the saddle and tried to shout to Eleanor but she didn’t hear me. What should I do? I wanted to jump off, to run back, to protect her. But Sandeman and I were now out of the horse walk and on the course, walking up in front of the expectant crowd. Surely, I told myself, Eleanor would be safe amongst all those people. Perhaps Trent had not seen the exchange between us and he would think of her as just another eager spectator.

The horses were to be led up in front of the grandstand and then we would turn and canter back past the horse walk and on to the start of the race at the far end of the finishing straight.

So distracted was I that I almost fell off when the stable lad turned Sandeman and let him go with a reminding slap on his rump. Instinct made me gather the reins tight in my hands and set off in a gentle canter to the start while I searched the thousands of faces in the crowd, desperate for a glimpse of Eleanor, or of Trent, but unable to spot either.

I felt sick.

All my pre-race planning of where I wanted to be at the start went out the window as my mind was elsewhere. When the tapes flew up Sandeman was caught flat-footed owing to my negligence and I instantly gave the rest of the field ten lengths’ start. I could imagine Paul swearing on the trainers’ stand and wishing that he had convinced me to let last year’s jockey ride again. And he wouldn’t be the only one, I thought. This was a televised race and I had been napping at the start. In any other circumstances it would have been unforgivable, but somehow I didn’t care. I was more concerned about Eleanor’s safety.

Sandeman set off in pursuit of the others and made a magnificent leap at the first with me hardly participating at all. Come on, I said to myself, Eleanor will be fine, concentrate on the matter in hand.

I eased Sandeman back from his headlong gallop to a steadier pace. There was plenty of time to get back to the pack. This was a three-and-a-quarter-mile chase with twenty-two jumps, twice round the Cheltenham course. I settled him down and we steadily closed the gap until, although still last, there was no air between us and the rest. Fortunately the first circuit was not being run too fast as everyone realized there was a long way to go in fairly heavy ground.

At the top of the hill for the first time, I pulled Sandeman slightly wider and we overtook eight other horses easily in the run down to the point where we had started. As we began the second circuit we were in the middle of the pack, lying about tenth, but with those ahead tightly bunched.

By the time we reached the water jump half-way down the back straight the race was really on in earnest. Sandeman flattened his back and sailed over the water like a hurdler. We passed three horses in mid-air and landed running fast. But two other horses had got away at the front of the pack and a three-length gap had opened up behind them.

I kicked Sandeman hard in the ribs.

‘Come on boy,’ I shouted in his ear. ‘Now is the time.’

It was as if he changed gear. We were eating up the ground and two great leaps at the open ditches found us lying third, turning sharp left and starting down the hill for the last time.

I was exhilarated. I wasn’t tired and Sandeman didn’t feel a bit tired beneath me. I looked ahead. The two horses in front seemed also to be going well and they were about four lengths away, running side by side.

I gave Sandeman a little bit of a breather for a few paces, sitting easily on his back rather than pushing hard at his neck. There were two fences down the hill and I took a measured look at the first one. I adjusted Sandeman’s stride and asked him for a big leap. He responded immediately and flew through the top of the fence, gaining half the distance on his rivals ahead. So full of energy had he been that for the first time I thought I might win.

I now kicked him and asked for his final effort. Sandeman had always been a horse with great stamina but without an amazing sprint finish. We needed to be ahead at the last with the momentum to carry us up the hill to the finish in front.

‘Come on boy,’ I shouted again in his ear. ‘Now, now, now.’

Both the horses in front wavered slightly as they approached the fence and I knew, Isuddenly knew, thatwe were going to win.

I gave a slight pull on the reins, setting Sandeman right for another great leap. I was watching the ground, looking at our take-off point, and only peripherally did I see one of the horses ahead hit the top of the fence hard. I pulled Sandeman slightly wider, but it was the wrong way. The horse in front overbalanced badly on landing, rolled sharply to its right and onto the ground, straight into our path. Sandeman and I were in mid-air before I realized that we had nowhere to land. My horse did his best to avoid the carnage but without any real hope of success.

Sandeman tripped over the bulk of prostrate horseflesh in front of him and somersaulted through the air. My last memory of the day was of the green grass rushing up to meet me, just before the blackness came.