Taking the Fall (25 page)

‘Bravo!’ shouted Lorna. ‘Well done you!’

But Duncan didn’t think it was well done. Neither did he think it was brave, if that was what was meant by
bravo
. As sporting activity went, he didn’t think there was much bravery in it compared to leaping fences at forty miles an hour amongst a galloping herd of horses. It felt cheap.

‘What’s the matter?’ Lorna said.

‘Let’s sit down a minute. Here, under this tree. Put the guns down. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

They sat under the tree. ‘What is it?’ Lorna said, looking pale.

‘All of this. It isn’t me. I’ve been faking it, Lorna.’

‘What do you mean, faking it?’

‘It just isn’t me. Stalking the woods in a cloth cap and green wellingtons. Wearing a tuxedo at new year’s parties where people don’t like each other. Getting pissed and snorting cocaine. None of it is me. I can’t keep pretending. I do it to be close to you. But the fact is, if you and I are going to be together – I mean, if we’re going to be something like serious – I can’t keep faking like this. I’m a jockey. All I want to do is ride horses. I want to become Champion Jockey and I’ve no interest in this lifestyle. It would just get in the way. It’s nothing to do with riding – not for me it isn’t, anyway. If you want to be with me, you have to know that.’

‘Duncan, why do you think it is that I am drawn to you? It’s because you are so different to my father. I don’t think he loves me and the truth is I don’t think I love him. I feel like all these years I’ve just been an inconvenience to him and he has used his money to buy me off whenever I have made demands. I’ve had lots of goodies but no good love.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that, Lorna. I can give you good love but not many goodies. Maybe when a few more successes come my way—’

Lorna put a finger to his lips to shut him up. ‘What if I said I could help you become Champion Jockey? Not this year, maybe not next, but in the future?’

‘What? I’d say let’s get rid of these guns and go back up to the house to your bedroom.’

‘Right. Come here.’

‘Ow!’

‘What is it?’

‘Bruised ribs,’ he said, laughing. ‘Go easy on a man, will you?’

Cheltenham was all anyone could talk about. The training was all done, the form was in and there was little more to be added in practical terms. Except for the endless talk about this one’s chances and the other’s prospects. At Petie’s yard they took the horses over the gallops, but steadily, dreading the idea of any of the yard bruising a hoof or picking up a small or silly injury. The stable runners had been finalised. Duncan and Kerry each had two rides on day one, Champion Hurdle Day. On Champion Chase Day, Duncan was booked for three rides and Kerry two. On Gold Cup Day, the last day, they had one ride apiece. None of Petie’s jockeys were riding in the Gold Cup itself. ‘Next year,’ he said, waving away all questions. ‘That’ll be ours next year.’

This left both Duncan and Kerry hungry to get their names in more races. Petie just wasn’t the man to stick a horse in a race for the hell of it. He regarded running a horse out of its class as no experience at all, and unlike some of the main movers and shakers in the business, his stable was too small to have a stake in every race going.

Duncan was still hoping for an offer from Cadogan, but it was looking less likely. Kerry too was fishing around. Mike Ruddy said he was ‘working on it’, but it was a tall order. Duncan wasn’t above pressing Lorna to ask for him. Her answer was a shrug. ‘Osborne hates your guts,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s not your biggest fan either.’

No
, Duncan thought,
but George Pleasance thinks the sun shines out of my leathery jockey arse right now.

The big surprise was that Roisin was going to have two rides on Champion Chase Day. One of these races was for women jockeys only. The other was open to both sexes. There was a feeling that women-only races were just a novelty, and that female jockeys had been struggling to prove that they could compete at the top level.

‘I dunno,’ Kerry said. ‘It can cut up rough amongst the men. What if she gets hurt?’

‘On a better horse I’d back her against you any day,’ Duncan said.

‘What does that prove? And didn’t she fall off the weighing machine?’

Roisin, who had to listen to this, said, ‘You dog, Kerry! You know damned well we made up that story so that we could pull in Duncan on the day. The stewards won’t agree a last-minute switch for nothing.’

‘So it wasn’t true?’

‘Where did I put that whip, you wee shite!’

Then he got a rub. Cadogan asked him to ride in the first race on day one of the Festival. The Tipping Point had little chance and would be well served to end up in the first four. Cadogan had gone through Mike Ruddy.

‘Take it,’ Mike had shouted down the phone, not knowing that Duncan had every intention of taking it.

‘What about Petie? He’s put his foot down.’

‘You leave Petie to me. I’m your agent. You pay me so that everyone can think I’m a shit and you’re the nice guy. So you just be nice to Petie while he and I have a talk.’

‘He’s no pushover.’

‘Look, Duncan. You made a deal with him. Free to ride, free to choose. That was the agreement and he’s not changing it now. Besides, with the form you’ve been in, he’s not going to want to lose you next season. Don’t you worry about it. He’ll shout at me and I’ll shout at him and then we’ll all do things my way. Your way. You know what I mean.’

Duncan put down the phone. He didn’t like setting other people to fight his battles. Then again, as he thought about, it did have its uses.

At least with The Tipping Point no one was likely to ask him not to try.

18

‘I
heard them talking,’ Lorna said. It was a few days before Cheltenham. ‘It was one of those discussions that sounded like it wanted to be an argument. But George Pleasance always gets his way. They were talking about one of Daddy’s horses called Rah-ho-tep.’

They were at Cadogan’s place. Duncan had taken every opportunity to be up there with Lorna lately, and that afternoon – apart from the staff and groundsmen – they had the whole place to themselves. Before he’d gone into the house, Duncan had parked his old Capri and gone to have a look at the great hangar of cars. By now he knew how to access the garage from the main house. It seemed but a short while since he’d first walked into that garage, cursing Cadogan and picking out the Lamborghini for the day, never guessing that he might fall for Lorna.

As he went in, the sensor flickered on a row of lights one after the other to reveal once again Cadogan’s enormous collection of silent motors. He looked over the cars for a moment before he left them to their silence and their dust.

He spent the afternoon with Lorna, most of the time naked and having sex on the giant leather sofas. It was Lorna who had prevailed on Cadogan to give Duncan at least one ride at Cheltenham. She was expecting her father back in the evening, so Duncan sent her upstairs to get showered and changed, telling her to come back wearing something that wouldn’t make Duncan want to change his mind.

He gave her a couple of minutes, then followed her upstairs to make sure she had actually got into the shower. Then he crept back down to Cadogan’s lounge. He already had the number from the Rolodex Lorna had used to place a bet, and he picked up the onyx-handled receiver and dialled the number.

He remembered exactly the words Lorna had used, and when he got an answer he said, ‘Hello, I’d like to place a bet on the Duke Cadogan account, please.’

‘Certainly. Can I have the race venue, time and name of runner, please.’

‘Cheltenham, last day, four forty-five.’

‘And the runner?’

‘Rah-ho-tep, to win.’

‘And the stake, sir?’

Duncan named a figure and the line went quiet. Then the voice said, ‘I’ll just have to verify the number you are calling from, sir. Is it all right if I phone you back immediately?’

Duncan agreed and put down the phone. He wondered how Lorna was doing with her shower upstairs. He strained his ears for the sound of running water. He needed to stay by the phone. He couldn’t afford to have any of Cadogan’s staff answering.

After a moment the phone rang and Duncan whisked the receiver off its cradle immediately.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said a new voice. ‘I’m just going to confirm the bet you are making with us. Rah-ho-tep, to win at Cheltenham, four forty-five, last race of the final day.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Duncan.

The new voice repeated the figure.

‘Correct,’ said Duncan.

‘Can you give me the gateway code, sir?’

‘That’s Red Rum.’

‘Thank you. It’s such a large bet, I’m just going to have to get approval upstairs. Can you hold on?’

‘Yes.’

Duncan hung on to the phone, straining his ears once more to make sure Lorna hadn’t finished in the shower. The voice at the other end of the line took an age to return. He thought he was going to have to hang up. He heard someone coming.

It was one of the maids. She bustled into the room, and then seeing him she backed out smartly. She couldn’t possibly know who he was speaking to.

At last the voice returned. ‘Thank you, sir. Because of the extremely large character of the bet, I have to ask for a second gateway code. I hope you don’t mind the security.’

Duncan froze. He didn’t know another gateway code. The only other word he knew was the one he’d used at the Ritz. He took a deep breath and said, ‘Oscar.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Thank you, sir, and I’m sorry for the extra security. Your bet is live.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you, sir. Have a good evening.’

Duncan replaced the receiver. He sat back and waited. After a few moments Lorna came bounding down the stairs, showered and perfumed.

‘Did I hear the telephone go?’ she asked.

‘Don’t think so. Or maybe one of the staff took it.’

They heard the sound of a car drawing up outside.

‘Just in time. Here’s your dad.’

19

D
ownpour. For the three days before the Festival the heavens had opened and saturated the course. The waterlogging was so heavy that there was speculation about the Festival being postponed. But then the sun came out and the puddles disappeared and the superb ground staff started working miracles on the track.

The great thing about an event like Cheltenham was that everyone was there. It was like a gathering of the clans, but with stables instead of clansmen. The owners and trainers were like the chieftains, with their courts and their attendants; and the jockeys were the champions or gladiators sporting the colours of the court. Of course there were those you might not want to see as well as those who gladdened your heart. But everyone was there.

Sandy Sanderson happened to be one of the first jockeys Duncan spotted. He wore the same bitter half-smile as usual, treating everyone around with casual disdain. He’d been Champion Jockey an incredible nine years running, but this year his crown was under threat. He was still out there in front, and the matter wouldn’t be settled until after Cheltenham, and probably still in his favour. But there were a lot of people in the game who had enjoyed seeing the crown wobble.

On the other hand, there were many people not connected with the inner circles of racing who seemed to love him. The punters. The media. Somehow this man was still as popular as ever with the general public.

Duncan got to catch up with the gang from Penderton, and many other friends from across the years. Of course some new acquaintances were there too, including Aaron Palmer. Mike Ruddy, suited and booted, was keen to exhibit his own little court. Things seemed to be going well for Ruddy in his new incarnation as agent, because he arrived in a neat Alfa Romeo with two glamorous ‘personal assistants’, tanned, leggy girls whose job seemed to be nothing more than following Ruddy around holding clipboards and rolled umbrellas.

‘Are we paying you too much?’ Duncan said.

Ruddy took him aside. ‘Sshh. Car, girls and clipboards all hired by the day. I’ll have ten new clients by the end of the Festival. Any more trouble with Petie?’

‘None. What did you say to him?’

‘He saw reason. Here, that daughter of his is a bit of all right, isn’t she?’

Clever man, thought Duncan. He’d spotted that Roisin was and always would be a bridge to the old man.

Duncan was riding the first, third and fifth races on the opening day. The first race was in Osborne’s colours on The Tipping Point. He would have preferred to open in Petie’s silks, but that wasn’t to be. As it was, Kerry would be opening for the Quinn stables in the second race on Brighton Taxi, the very first horse Duncan had ever ridden for Petie.

Duncan went into the paddock. Osborne was his usual cheery self. He bared his ginger-spotted teeth like an old nag.

‘It’s a great day for the races!’ Duncan said brightly, deliberately trying to get up Osborne’s nose.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ growled Osborne. ‘One race and you’re done. You’re out of my hair.’

‘Which hair would that be? No one’s had a look under that sweaty old fedora for six years.’

Osborne had had enough. He walked away. ‘Get this idiot legged up,’ he said over his shoulder to one of the stable lads.

Duncan could exchange banter all day with someone like Osborne, and without ever looking ruffled. But there was someone in the paddock he didn’t want to bandy words with. Someone who in the scowling game could make Osborne look like a rank amateur. He could still almost make Duncan’s knees tremble.

‘That’s one thing as I never thought I’d see. Charlie’s lad in Osborne’s silks and on the back o’ Cadogan’s ’oss.’

It was Tommy, from the Penderton stable, still head lad.

‘Good to see you, Tommy!’ Duncan tried.

‘Good to see you,’ Tommy mimicked, withering. He stood and stared and shook his bony old close-cropped head.