HartsLove (25 page)

He got up and walked about again. They had eighteen days until the Derby. Much could be done with brandy in eighteen days, and on the day of the race itself, a jockey filled with brandy would do many things a sober jockey would never consider. Skelton made a quick decision. He would
go back to Daisy and apologise. He would say that he had been precipitate. He would say that despite his reservations, she was in charge of the horse. He would not be friendly to Garth. That would be too obvious. He would, though, through the silent offering of the bottle, become as crucial to the boy as he was to his father. It was not an ideal plan but it could work, and the more Skelton thought about it, the more he liked it. ‘You're a genius,' he told himself as he walked back to The One's stall, ‘and one day the whole world will know it.' When he apologised to Daisy, he felt he almost meant it.

They arrived at Epsom fifteen days before the Derby. The One's welts were healing though they were not forgotten: Grint had known just how to strike for maximum hurt and minimum lasting physical injury. Skelton found good stables in the town and decent rooms for Garth and Daisy. ‘If Master Garth can get himself into the saddle, he'll need to keep his strength up.' He did not stint on the malice: he felt barbed comments would lower Garth's suspicions.

Despite Skelton's apology and help, Daisy could not like him any better, and to avoid him she took the horse on to the downs very early and waited for Garth to find her. She was dreading it, but he was less white than she expected. She did not look at him again. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her voice low and even. She had no idea what to say so she spoke about the weather and the state of the ground, all the while hoping that The One did not look too powerful and eager beside her.

Garth, for his part, noticed how thin Daisy had got and how her face was stamped with worry.
She's only twelve
, he thought.
It's not fair
. He was very aware of the effort Daisy had to make to keep her voice so easy. He tried not to keep looking at the empty saddle or to acknowledge the fear in his mouth or to think of The One's long, strong neck soon to be stretched out in front of him. He tried and, for the first time in his life, he succeeded, because today he had a weapon he was not going to share with Daisy. At the bottom of his stomach a warmth was beginning to spread. Soon it would surge through his veins, rush up his spine and into the back of his head. Garth did not just hope the rush would come; he knew it would come because before he had set out across the downs, he had drunk a third of a bottle of brandy.

It was not the first drink Garth had had since the Two Thousand Guineas. He had found the bottle in the pocket of his coat after Skelton had apologised to Daisy. It was clearly some kind of peace offering and, as such, Garth had been inclined to smash it in Skelton's face. Instead, though he knew he should not, Garth had taken one sip, then another. It tasted better than he remembered. He had corked the bottle and enjoyed the small fiery buzz. Skelton probably thought he would drink the lot and disgrace himself. Well, he would show him. He was not like his father. He could take the stuff or leave it. He had taken only a few more sips, just enough to make him feel like the boy who flipped
on the ruins, the boy who rode the Cannibal, the boy who could shoot a pistol at his own head. Just enough to make him feel like the boy who could ride a Derby winner.

Skelton had grinned when he saw the seal broken. Moneyless Garth could not purchase the drink himself. He would rely on Skelton for the next bottle, and the next one after that. All Skelton had to do was keep him topped up. This morning, Garth had a bottle safely tucked into his coat. The thought made him warm inside.

When she could not justify walking any further, Daisy made The One halt. ‘All right, Garth?' she said matter-of-factly. ‘I think this is a good place.'

Garth threw off his coat and hesitated only momentarily. The rush came just in time. He vaulted on, fumbling his feet into the stirrups and gathering up the reins. He would pretend he was a centaur: that The One was part of himself as he seemed to be part of Daisy. The horse moved. Garth grabbed a piece of mane. ‘Woah, woah,' shushed Daisy. The horse did not want to woah. He began to walk. Daisy waited for the inevitable – for Garth to jump off. Garth did not. He sat a little straighter. The One walked a little faster. Garth grabbed more mane. The horse was huge. His strides were huge. The downs were huge. There would be no stopping him if he set off. Daisy glanced up. Garth's face was set. ‘He wants to trot,' Daisy said. ‘I can't keep up if he trots.'

Garth swallowed. Deep in his bowels, the brandy
swirled. Garth concentrated on the swirl. ‘Let go, then,' he said. ‘Let go now.'

Daisy let go. The One trotted smartly away. Garth swayed and lurched. The grass was miles below. The One's neck was miles long. The reins were just ribbons against the horse's strength. He closed his eyes. No – that was bad. He opened them. The One was slowing, returning to Daisy. He halted. Daisy could hardly believe it. A smile flickered across her face. Garth beamed down. Suddenly, she was beaming back.

‘I've done it!' Garth said.

Daisy's hands were trembling. ‘You've done it!' she echoed. ‘You've really done it!'

‘I can do it again.' It was half an hour before Garth vaulted off and handed the horse to Daisy. He returned to his coat, took a surreptitious swig, then got on again. This time, he cantered. Skelton watched for a few moments more. When he heard Garth laugh, he linked his thumbs behind his braces and swaggered back to the yard.

Over the following week, Daisy could not hide her astonishment. This was Garth as she dreamed he would be. For three consecutive mornings he trotted away, and though he did not exactly push forward into canter, when The One did canter, Garth crouched lightly in the saddle, no longer grabbing at either the reins or the mane. On the fourth day, finding his jockey agreeable and the turf springy, The One stretched out a little, and when a rabbit
started from a hawthorn bush, he shied. Daisy gasped. Garth was unmoved. Not so The One, who launched off at full tilt. Daisy thought she might cry when she saw Garth rising in his stirrups like a professional and The One's ears prick, his stride strong and relaxed. Both horse and rider were enjoying themselves. Everything was possible again.

After the gallop, Garth tumbled off, flushed and unusually garrulous, laughing and dancing about. Daisy laughed too, putting this miracle down to the heady mix of determination and adrenalin. They walked back to the stables, The One snorting and prancing like a true racehorse. ‘You make the perfect team, just perfect,' Daisy said, addressing both Garth and The One. She loved Garth's theatrical bow.

Seven days before the race, the real truth hit Daisy like a hammer blow. She was standing on a small hump of stones, where, conveniently, she had found her crutches, and she was holding a cloth in the air for the second time. They had been trying to regularise The One's starting technique by making him automatically launch forward after the count of three. This morning, they had had three successful and two unsuccessful attempts. It was after the fourth success that Daisy realised she was looking at something horribly familiar, namely that the smile plastered all over Garth's face was not actually Garth's smile at all: it was their father's brandy-smile. At first she thought she must be mistaken.
Garth would not be such a fool. But deep in her heart she knew there was no mistake. She was stunned, then furious with herself at her blindness. She could see it all now. Of course Garth could never have managed to ride The One on his own. She could not believe she had ever believed it. Feeling like a sneak, she riffled through Garth's belongings when he was washing under the pump. He had not hidden the bottle – it was his third – very well. When he returned, he paled. ‘What are you doing, going through my things?'

‘Who gave this to you?' Daisy held the bottle up.

‘None of your business,' Garth said, snatching it back.

‘Oh, Garth,' said Daisy, all the joy of the past days seeping out through her toes.

Garth was unrepentant. ‘Look, it's not as if I need it. It just makes me ride better. Don't you see that?'

‘But –'

‘But nothing.'

‘You'll end up like Pa!' Daisy said flatly.

Garth's face darkened. ‘Rubbish. I know what I'm doing.'

‘Pa thinks he does too.'

‘Well, he's wrong and I'm right.' Garth scowled as though she was his enemy. ‘I'm riding well. Isn't that what you wanted?'

‘Not like this.'

‘You mean you'd prefer Grint to ride The One?'

‘Of course not! Don't twist things. I wanted to take The One home.'

‘And lose Hartslove?' There was silence. Garth softened. ‘Look. Think of it this way. I'm using the brandy like medicine, and as soon as the race is over, I'll give it up.'

Garth was so logical, so plausible. Daisy also knew he was quite wrong, because now that he no longer bothered to disguise it, she could see nothing but their father's look in her brother's eye and hear their father's bravado in his voice. He even smelled like Charles, and just like Charles would have an answer for everything. She asked only one question. ‘Where did you get it?'

‘I don't know,' Garth lied. ‘It's like your crutches. It just appears.' He was pleased with this.

‘It's not like my crutches. I need my crutches because there's something wrong with me.' She kicked some straw, then burst out, ‘Garth! You're not a coward. You could ride without the brandy. I think you'd even ride better.'

Her voice smote him. But she was not right. He knew that, even if she did not.

The following morning, Daisy left Garth to brush the horse and walked down the main street of the town, tormented by a dilemma. Should she leave Garth to drink until after the Derby or should she do something to stop him? The first option was the easier, although it felt to Daisy like the coward's way out. Moreover, if Garth, drunk, won the Derby, drink would always be the friend he would
turn to when faced with a challenge. And soon he would not even need a challenge. After all, their father, who must have started to drink for some reason Daisy did not know, now needed a drink just to face the day. She pictured Garth a desiccated wreck standing by a library fireplace. She pictured him sitting in a pictureless dining room, his children tiptoeing past with pitying glances. She pictured him lying face down on his bed, a daughter pulling off his boots. She could not be even the tiniest bit responsible for that. She came to an apothecary's shop, went in, and after some discussion with the proprietor, emerged with a bottle of her own. She returned at once to the stables and, when Garth was fetching water, found his bottle, tipped out a good quantity of brandy and replaced it with the mixture she had been given. ‘I just can't bear it,' she told The One. ‘Everything's jinxed. Except you, of course.' He sniffed her hands and wrinkled his lip.

The next day, Garth was a little quieter but still climbed easily on to The One. He was surprised that Daisy let him: surprised and grateful. As they walked to the downs, Daisy engaged him in detailed conversations about how the Derby might go. ‘Some say that you should take The One slowly at first and pick up speed in the last quarter-mile. The course is much hillier than it looks, so you've got to keep enough in reserve to put on an extra uphill spurt. He'll have different shoes on – did you know that? Racing plates instead of these heavy ones. Those will help.' The more Garth had to
remember, the less he would notice the diminishing rush of the diluted brandy.

Every day for the next five days, Daisy tampered with Garth's bottle, sometimes nervous that she had gone too far. However, Garth's old terrors did not seem to return. She supposed, rightly, that this was partly because he no longer expected them. She did not try to analyse any more. It was enough that Garth was riding almost sober, and that when the race was over and he learned that he had ridden without drink, he would know that he was not a coward; that he was, indeed, as brave – braver – than she was. ‘Just two more days,' she whispered to The One. ‘Just two.'

Sitting on a chair in his hostel room, Skelton was holding a whip. There was a problem – a big problem. Though he had now supplied at least five bottles of brandy, it was clear that for some reason he could not fathom Garth was no longer drunk, and if Garth was not drunk, he would not be fuddled enough to take the whip, and if he did not take the whip, he would not beat the horse, and if he did not beat the horse, the horse was very likely to go his own sweet way, and horses that went their own sweet way did not win the Derby.

Skelton got out the piece of paper on which Charles's promise was written and laid it on the rickety table. Occasionally, he rose and cracked the whip hard across it. The table rocked. In the end, he folded the paper and put it back in his inside pocket. He would not be thwarted. He
would not. He pulled on his coat and made his way to the racetrack. Five or six jockeys were hanging about, gossiping about their Derby prospects. They called Skelton over. He was going to refuse until they waved a bottle of whisky. It winked at him, and after a moment's reflection, he stuck the whip into his boot and walked across to join them.

On the morning of the Derby, Daisy was up before dawn. Not that there was anything to do apart from keep The One calm, and getting up early was unlikely to help with that. To soothe her own nerves, she walked into the waking town. In ones and twos, the carriages were arriving and small clumps of people were trickling out of the railway station. In an hour, the carriages would be arriving in tens, twenties and finally in their hundreds until it was impossible to cross the street, and the small clumps of railway travellers would balloon into vast crowds, pouring on to the downs, chattering, quarrelling, pontificating and predicting as they jostled to get a good spot from which to view one of the greatest races on earth.