‘What did he say?’ I asked, fascinated.
‘Nothing,’ said James. ‘I apologised for bumping into him, but he didn’t answer. Just for a second he looked absolutely furious. Then he smiled again, and...’ James’s eyes glinted, ‘... he said how much he admired me for giving poor Finn this one last chance.’
‘Dear of him,’ I murmured.
‘I told him it wasn’t exactly your last chance. I said you would be riding Template on Saturday as well. He just said ‘Oh really?’ and wished me luck and walked away.’
‘So the sugar was crunched up and swept out with the dirty straw,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
‘Nothing to analyse. No evidence.’ A nuisance.
‘If I hadn’t stepped on it, Maurice could have picked it up and offered it to Turniptop again. I hadn’t taken any sugar with me... I hadn’t any lumps to substitute... I didn’t believe I would need them.’
He hadn’t intended to bother, I knew. But he had bothered. I would never stop feeling grateful.
We drank our whisky. James said suddenly, ‘Why? I don’t understand why he should have gone to such lengths to discredit you. What has he got against you?’
‘I am a jockey, and he is not,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s all.’ I told about my visit to Claudius Mellit and the answers he had given me. I said, ‘It’s no coincidence that you and most other trainers have had trouble finding and keeping a jockey. You’ve all been swayed by Kemp-Lore, either by him directly, or through those two shadows of his, Ballerton and Corin Kellar, who soak up his poison like sponges and drip it out into every receptive ear. They’ve said it all to you. You repeated it to me yourself, not so long ago. Peter Cloony is always late, Tick-Tock doesn’t try, Danny Higgs bets too heavily, Grant sold information, Finn has lost his nerve...’
He stared at me, appalled. I said, ‘You believed it all, James, didn’t you? Even you? And so did everyone else. Why shouldn’t they, with so much evident foundation for the rumours? It doesn’t take much for an owner or a trainer to lose confidence in a jockey. The thought has only to be insinuated, however fleetingly, that a jockey is habitually late, or dishonest, or afraid, and very soon, very soon indeed, he is on his way out... Art. Art killed himself because Corin sacked him. Grant had a mental breakdown. Peter Cloony is so broke his wife was starving herself in a freezing cold house. Tick-Tock makes jokes like Pagliacci...’
‘And you?’ asked James.
‘I? Well... I haven’t exactly enjoyed the last three weeks.’
‘No,’ he said, as if thinking about it from my point of view for the first time. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’
‘It’s been so calculated, this destruction of jockeys,’ I said. ‘Every week in ‘Turf Talk’, looking back on it, there has been some damaging reference to one jockey or another. When he had me on the programme he introduced me as an unsuccessful rider, and he meant me to stay that way. Do you remember that ghastly bit of film he showed of me? You’d never have taken me on if you’d seen that before I’d ridden for you, would you?’
He shook his head, very troubled.
I went on, ‘On every possible occasion — when Template won the King ’Chase for instance — he has reminded everyone watching on television that I am only substituting for Pip, and that I’ll be out on my ear as soon as that broken leg is strong again. Fair enough, it’s Pip’s job and he should have it back, but that patronising note in Kemp-Lore’s voice was calculated to make everyone take it for granted that my brief spell in the limelight was thoroughly undeserved. I dare say it was, too. But I think a lot of your owners would have been readier to trust your judgment in engaging me, and less quick to chuck me overboard at the first sign of trouble, if it hadn’t been for the continual deflating pin-pricks Kemp-Lore has dealt out all round. And last Friday...’ I tried, not too successfully, to keep my voice evenly conversational. ‘Last Friday he led Corin and that handicapper on until they said straight out that I was finished. Were you watching?’
James nodded, and poured us another drink.
‘It’s a matter for the National Hunt Committee,’ he said firmly.
‘No,’ I said. ‘His father is a member of it.’
James gasped sharply. ‘I had forgotten...’
I said, ‘The whole Committee’s a stronghold of pro-Kemp-Lore feeling. They’re all sold on Maurice. Most of them wear the same old school tie,’ I grinned. James wore it too. ‘I would be very glad if you would say nothing to any of them, just yet. They would take even more convincing than you did, and there aren’t any facts that Kemp-Lore couldn’t explain away. But I’m digging.’ I drank. ‘The day will come.’
‘You sound unexpectedly cheerful,’ he said.
‘O God, James.’ I stood up abruptly. ‘I wanted to kill myself last week. I’m glad I didn’t. It makes me cheerful.’
He looked so startled that I relaxed and laughed, and put down my glass. ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘but you must understand I don’t think the National Hunt Committee meets the case at the moment. Too gentlemanly. I favour something more in the biter-bit line for dear Maurice.’
But I had as yet no useful plan, and dear Maurice still had his teeth; and they were sharp.
Eleven
Although neither Tick-Tock nor I had any rides the next day I pinched the car from him to go to the meeting at Ascot, and walked round the course to get the feel of the turf. There was a bitterly cold north-east wind blowing across the heath and the ground was hard with a touch of frost in the more exposed patches. It had been a surprisingly mild winter so far, but the high clear sky spoke ominously of ice to come. One more day, that was all I asked; only one more day. But prodding the earth on the landing side of the water jump with my heel I felt it jar instead of give.
I finished the circuit, planning the race in my mind as I went. If the ground remained firm it would be a fast run affair, but that suited Template well, especially with top weight to carry. Lugging packets of lead around in the mud was not what his lean streamlined frame was best fitted for.
Outside the weighing-room Peter Cloony stopped me. His face was white and thin and mournful, and lines were developing on his forehead.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ he said, almost belligerently. He seemed prepared to argue about it.
‘All right. One day. No hurry,’ I said mildly.
‘You shouldn’t have gone behind my back and given my wife that money and the food. I wanted to send it back at once but she won’t let me. We don’t need charity. I don’t approve of it.’
‘You’re a fool, Peter,’ I said. ‘Your wife was right to accept what I gave her, and I’d have thought her a stubborn ass if she hadn’t. And you’d better get used to the idea: a box of groceries will be delivered to your house every week until you’re earning a decent screw again.’
‘No,’ he almost shouted, ‘I won’t have it.’
‘I don’t see why your wife and baby should suffer because of your misplaced pride,’ I said. ‘But if it will ease your conscience, I’ll tell you why I’m doing it. You’ll never get much work as long as you go around with that hang-dog expression. Looking weak and miserable isn’t going to persuade anybody to employ you. You need to cheer up, get fit again, and prove you’re worth having. Well — all I’m doing is removing one of your worries so that you can think a bit more about racing and a bit less about your cold house and empty larder. So now you can get on with it... it’s all up to you. And don’t ever even risk being late.’