Racing Manhattan Page 4

  Leading.

  Me.

  Forward.

  PRIVATE CHARITY CASE

  BY THE TIME I reach the end of my first year of pony-racing, a lot has changed.

  At my new school, there is no Michaela to be my friend and keep me supplied with second-hand cool and glamour. I am a misfit, even in sport. Because I am faster and stronger than boys of my age, they think I am weird, half-boy and half-girl. I have a nickname, ‘the Freak’. I am ‘Freaky Barton’.

  Michaela, on the other hand, is happy at her private school, Northfield Lodge. The two or three years when we were the Bartons, winning at the local gymkhanas, seem a long time ago. Something is different between us.

  Nothing alters more than her attitude to riding. At the very moment when I am becoming more interested in racing, she heads in the other direction. For her, ponies are for grooming and fussing over, for looking pretty and neat when we are out riding.

  I want to go fast and to win, and, now that I am winning, she finds that completely ridiculous.

  ‘It is kind of weird how much coming first matters to you,’ she says in the strange, sing-song voice she seems to have picked up from her school. ‘I mean, there’s a whole world out there which has nothing to do with horses. Maybe you should try it some time.’

  For the briefest moment, I am about to try to explain to her how I feel, but it passes. No point. Waste of breath.

  We are drifting apart, my best friend and me. Pony-racing has toughened me up. I was never good at chat about parties or boys or celebrities, but there was a time when I used to try and tag along. Now I don’t bother. For Michaela, those things seem to matter more than ever. Almost every day, she tries to talk to me about something I don’t care about before giving up in despair. I have zero conversational skills, she says.

  Maybe it’s true. Two years ago, we talked all the time – Uncle Bill called us ‘the wall of sound’. Now we sometimes struggle to find anything we have in common.

  The days I spend racing with Uncle Bill make things worse. Michaela never mentions them, even when I have – particularly when I have – won, but I sense that it annoys her that I am doing something successful with her father in a world she doesn’t understand.

  In fact, my life at Coddington Hall is different all round. The more I talk and think about riding, the more I irritate my aunt. She jokes to her friends, ‘Jay might as well be a horse,’ and laughs in a slightly embarrassed way.

  These days Uncle Bill spends more time in his office. Sometimes he seems almost out of place when he is with Aunt Elaine and Michaela. If he is feeling brave, he might joke about how he’s not posh enough for them, with a little secret wink in my direction. He only truly relaxes when we are off racing, and that worries me too. It is as if we are becoming two families.

  I don’t fit in at school, and now I don’t really fit in at home either.

  It is early summer and Uncle and I have had a good week. Two race meetings, three winners.

  That weekend, two girls from Michaela’s school come to stay – Emma (tall with dark hair which she swishes around as if she’s in a shampoo commercial) and Flossie (loud voice, large, likes to think of herself as something of a character).

  I have learned over the past year that they are a school gang. They have their own private jokes, bits of stupid-sounding slang from ‘the Lodge’ which I don’t understand. They chatter away together like three happy songbirds. Beside them, I feel like a scruffy little sparrow.

  I try to join in, but I get a full range of unfriendly looks – the ‘who-are-you-again?’ look, the ‘and-what-do-you-know-about-this?’ look, the ‘are-you-still here?’ look.

  I can handle that. The weekends when the ‘gang’ are staying, I go about my business, spending more time on my own. There’s always something I can do in the stables.

  That Saturday, after breakfast, I’m in the stable yard, saddling up Dusty for our morning ride, but there’s no sign of Michaela, Emma or Flossie. When I go into the house, I find them watching TV.

  ‘I’m going riding. Anyone coming?’

  No answer. All eyes on the screen.

  ‘Er, hello. Anyone?’

  At this point, Michaela stretches. Without looking at me, she says, ‘Could you tack up Marius for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, and Lucky as well while you’re at it. Em’s riding Dusty, by the way.’

  ‘Michaela, what is this?’

  ‘Cheers, Jay.’

  I stand there for a moment while the three of them gaze at the screen. I’m aware that I seem to be trembling. Flossie clears her throat and murmurs to Michaela, ‘Don’t look now, Mick, but she’s still here.’ The other one, Emma, gives a little laugh.

  Michaela glances at me. ‘We’ll be out when this is over. Oh, and make sure you remember to put a drop-noseband on Marius.’

  I leave, but I don’t go to the stables. I go to my room, then down the back stairs to find out whether the gang are more talkative now than when I was there.

  They are.

  ‘It’s embarrassing,’ Michaela is saying. ‘She behaves as if she’s one of the family when she’s so not.’

  ‘Isn’t she your cousin?’ The question is murmured. I think it’s from Emma.

  ‘Cousins don’t count as family.’ Michaela gives a little laugh. ‘She doesn’t anyway. She’s basically a stable girl. She’s here to look after the ponies.’

  ‘So why does she stay in the house and eat with the family?’ asks Flossie.

  ‘We used to go to school together. There was this big tragedy. Her father had walked out. Then her mum – my dad’s sister – died of cancer and she had to stay with us.’ Michaela drops her voice. ‘My dad has always wanted me to treat her like one of us – like a friend. He didn’t want me to grow up to be a snobby bitch, basically.’

  ‘That’s going well,’ Flossie mutters, and they all giggle.

  ‘No, seriously.’ Michaela drops her voice, but I can still hear every word. ‘She and her mum used to live in this block of flats where the stairs smelled of like, you know, toilets. And her mother was always in trouble. I feel sorry for Jay and all that, but the fact is she’s really lucky to be here. She’s like our private charity case.’

  ‘Aaaah,’ coos Emma. ‘That is so nice of you guys.’

  ‘Yeah, and my stepmother says it’s important we don’t make her feel like a servant,’ says Michaela. ‘Although she is, totally. She goes to these gypsy races and makes loads of money for my dad.’

  There is a roaring in my ears. Red fire. I back away towards a side door leading to the stables. I’ve heard enough.

  Ride.

  That’s the answer to those moments when life becomes too much. I can’t use my anger now but there is always that.

  Ride.

  In the wind, the air, looking ahead, a pony beneath you. It simplifies things. It clears away the rubbish. It reminds you of what matters.

  Ride, ride, ride.

  I walk quickly to the stables and make my way to Dusty’s stable. Whatever the weather, he will come out of his box, looking about him, ready for the excitements of the day.

  ‘Others coming, are they?’

  Unusually, Ted appears as I’m putting on Dusty’s bridle. The sun is behind him as he stands at the door, a shadowy figure with bow legs, like a comedy cowboy.

  I glance towards him, too angry to speak.

  ‘Are you all right, jockey? You look a little flushed.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.’ I tighten the girth roughly, and Dusty grunts.

  ‘Easy, girl. Don’t take it out on the pony.’

  I nod, muttering ‘Sorry’ to both Ted and to Dusty.

  I walk Dusty to the door.

  ‘I’ll be back later, Ted,’ I manage to say.

  ‘Go easy then.’

  It is his favourite phrase. He uses it with humans and, more often, with the ponies. He gives me a leg-up.

  ‘Easy, girl. Go easy.’

  We
trot briskly through the woods, through a gate and into a sunlit field beyond. There’s a slight rise in the ground. I click my teeth and Dusty breaks into a canter, then a gallop. As the wind hits my face, I open my mouth and scream, letting it all out. There’s a jump in the fence at the end of the field – an oxer made out of dead elm trunks. Dusty soars over it.

  After a while we are no longer on Uncle Bill’s land. Feeling calmer now, I cross a field where the hay has been cut, until we reach a small country road. I think about my life. School, Freaky Barton, Uncle Bill, Aunt Elaine, Michaela and her private charity case. I can see clearly now.

  The further we go, the more Dusty is enjoying our ride. Whoa, a bridge – that’s interesting! Crossing a river now – scary at first, but that’s cool too! Hey, look at all these cars and lorries! Watch out, a pheasant’s getting up in front of us! Where are we going to next?

  Come on, Dusty. Let’s forget about them all.

  Ride.

  Ride.

  Ride.

  TIME TO GO

  IT IS NOT running away. It is running to. As soon as the idea is in my mind during the long ride on Dusty, there is no escaping it. I begin to work on my plan.

  Over the past few months I have been saving the money that Uncle Bill has given me for riding in races – £10, sometimes £20, if I have ridden a winner. I have £230 in a purse in my drawer, enough to get me away.

  By the time summer is over, I will be sixteen. The moment has come for me to start a new life where I am not in the way, a nuisance, a freak, a bad influence, where I can be myself, where there are other people with the same dreams and hopes as me.

  I am going to the home of racing.

  It is still dark the next morning when my mobile phone vibrates softly beneath my pillow. I get up silently, get dressed. One more time, I check my rucksack. Spare clothes. Money. A diary with telephone numbers in the back. My battered copy of Great Ladies: The Wonder Fillies of History.

  Make the bed, slip the mobile phone into my pocket. Out to the stables to say goodbye to Dusty.

  I’m going, boy, but I’ll never forget you.

  Dusty looks at me, surprised to have woken up to find a human with her arms around his neck, her face pressed against him.

  You taught me. When things are going wrong, you have a choice. You can keep going and hope things will work out. Or you can jump.

  The pony gives a long, patient sigh. This is not what he wants in the early hours of the morning.

  From now on, I’ll remember the Dusty way of doing things. Ears pricked, head high, eyes on the way ahead.

  I hold him close and, at that moment, I hear a sound outside. I stay still for one minute, two.

  Bye, Dusty.

  Silently, I let myself out of the stable. The door to the tack room is open.

  I sense that I am being watched. Ted has come to work early. I raise a finger to my lips, then walk softly out of the stable yard and down the drive.

  Thanks, Ted.

  It is light by the time I reach the bus stop in the local village. A young couple on their way to work glance at me without any particular curiosity.

  It is on time. We travel from village to village until we reach the town. I walk to the station. It is already full of people going to work, too absorbed in their own private worlds to pay any attention to me.

  I buy a ticket, get on the train, open my copy of Great Ladies. I keep my head down as the train pulls out of the station and gathers speed, taking me away from the past. With every mile, I feel as if a weight is being lifted off my shoulders.

  I smile. The train hurtles onwards.

  After we have been travelling for an hour, I take out my mobile phone. I tap up Uncle Bill’s number and tap out a text.

  hi uncle bill.

  gone to get a holiday job. be in touch when i’ve sorted things out. plse don’t worry about me. i know how to look out for myself!

  love to michaela & aunt elaine

  jx

  I press ‘send’ and gaze at the screen for a moment before switching off the power. Casually, I walk down the carriage. I open one of the windows between the carriages and, after checking that no one is watching me, I hurl the mobile into space, then walk quickly back to my seat.

  Gazing out at the fields racing by, I think of my mother.

  Do.

  It.

  For.

  Me.

  HEADQUARTERS

  IN MY MIND, I know what Newmarket will be like. It is the place where some of the biggest, most famous trainers have their stables, where thoroughbred racing started and has its home.

  ‘Headquarters’, they call it.

  Every shop will have something to do with racing. I’ve read that there are sixty stables around this town, and over 5000 horses – a horse for every six humans who live here. Cars have to give way to horses on the roads. There will be breeches and riding boots and crash-hats and different types of saddles in the windows. The pubs will be named after the great horses of the past – The Eclipse, The Hyperion, The Crepello. In the mornings, strings of racehorses will walk down the high street on their way to the gallops. There will be jobs in racing advertised on the boards of the local newsagents. I’ll make a note of the trainers who need lads – there must be a need for keen boys and girls who can ride – and find a place in a yard. I’ll soon be on my way.

  But when I arrive in Newmarket late that afternoon, I am in for a shock. It is a town like any other. I wander the streets, expecting to hear chat about horses and racing from the people I pass, but there is nothing. There are more bookmakers’ shops here than in most towns, but no sign of a horse or lads or jockeys.

  I’m hungry now, and tired. I go into a cafe with steamed-up windows and buy a hamburger. As I sit at one of the tables, I notice a man and a girl sitting nearby. They are wearing dark blue breeches and riding boots.

  The girl glances in my direction, and I smile. She looks away and says something to the man. They laugh.

  Nothing to lose. I ask them if they work in racing.

  The man, thin and ferrety-looking with cropped hair, stares at me for a moment, then nods. ‘Jimmy Stafford’s yard.’

  Stafford is one of the biggest trainers in Newmarket. ‘Clever Jonah,’ I say, mentioning one of his stable’s best-known horses.

  The girl raises her eyebrows. ‘You follow racing?’

  I nod. ‘Actually, I’m looking for a job as a lad.’

  Now they both smile. ‘Is it that time of the year already?’ Ferretface laughs.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Summer holidays,’ says the girl. ‘We get no end of kids rocking up here, looking for a holiday job or a bit of weekend work.’

  ‘Yeah, the big adventure of the horses.’ There is a sneer in Ferretface’s voice.

  ‘I just want to get into racing.’

  ‘Good luck,’ says the man.

  I tuck into my hamburger, aware that they’re both watching me.

  ‘Are you running away from home?’ the girl asks suddenly.

  ‘No,’ I say rather too quickly. ‘My parents are picking me up later. I wanted to do this by myself.’ The lie hangs in the air for a few moments.

  ‘Get them to ring round,’ the man says eventually. ‘Someone will probably need a kid to do some mucking out over the summer.’

  He stands up and the girl drains her tea. ‘Racing’s not as glamorous as you think, love,’ she says to me, a little more friendly now. ‘I’d go home and wait until you’re a bit older.’

  And they’re gone, before I can even ask if Mr Stafford is looking for lads.

  I leave the café and walk up the high street. A big clock tower tells me that it is almost six o’clock – too late to look for a job today. I reach for the purse in my back pocket. The train ticket and the hamburger have left me with just over £183. It is enough to keep me going for a few days in Newmarket, but not if I have to pay for a bed.

  A sign pointing to Newmarket Heath gives me an idea. I
start walking. On my way out of town, I pass closed iron gates with a sign in gold lettering, which reads ‘Elvedon Stud and Stables’. Beyond the gates are neat hedges and lawn, and a drive leading to a big house and stables.

  I walk on, past the gallops. There is a small wood at the top of a hill with enough cover to hide me from the world outside. It is early evening but I have been up since dawn and I feel tired to the marrow of my bones. I make a little den in a clearing in the undergrowth, put on a second jersey and make myself as comfortable as I can.

  It is a clear, warm night and, as the sun goes down, I can see the gallops of Newmarket Heath sloping down towards the lights of the town. Cock pheasants are calling in the wood, giving it one last shout before they go to sleep. In the distance, I hear a fox barking.

  ‘Racing’s not as glamorous as you think.’ The words of the girl in the café this afternoon come back to me.

  Perhaps she is right. Maybe I am just another silly runaway in love with a crazy teenage fantasy. I had expected Newmarket to feel like home. It would be a place where anyone who loves racing would belong.

  Instead, there are neat lawns, trimmed hedges, iron gates closed to the world.

  One hundred and eighty-three pounds. I can survive here for a week, ten days at most. I think of Coddington Hall. The panic about my disappearance will have calmed by now.

  I’m almost a grown-up. It is the summer holidays. Will Uncle Bill get in touch with the police? Only if he is truly desperate. The past two years of illegal pony-racing and bunking off school would be bound to come out.

  Over the summer, memories of me will fade. Michaela will have her new friends. Aunt Elaine will no longer have to worry about what I am doing to the family reputation. Uncle Bill will go back to his deals. Life without me will be simpler for all of them.

  ‘I can’t go back.’ Sitting, my arms wrapped around my knees, I say the words out loud. An owl, in a nearly tree, hoots his reply.