I thought about the Midwinter. Much depended on how it developed, but basically I intended to start on the rails, sit tight in about fourth place all the way round, and sprint the last three furlongs. There was a new Irish mare, Emerald, who had come over with a terrific reputation and might take a lot of beating, especially as her jockey was a wily character, very clever at riding near the front and slipping the field by a hard-to-peg-back ten lengths round the last bend. If Emerald led into the last bend, I decided, Template would have to be close to her by then, not still waiting in fourth place. Fast though he was, it would be senseless to leave him too much to do up the straight.
It is not customary for jockeys to stay in the changing-room while a race is on, and I saw the valets looking surprised that I had not gone out to watch it. I stood up, picked up the under-jersey and Lord Tirrold’s colours and went to change into them in the washroom. Let the valets think what they like, I thought. I wanted to change out of sight, partly because I had to do it more slowly than usual but mostly so that they shouldn’t see the bandages. I pulled down the sleeves of the finely-knitted green and black jersey until they hid those on my wrists.
The first race was over and the jockeys were beginning to stream into the changing-room when I went back to my peg. I finished changing into breeches, nylons and boots and took my saddle and weight cloth along to the trial scales for Mike to adjust the amount of lead needed to bring me to twelve stone.
‘You’ve got gloves on,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes,’ I said mildly, ‘it’s a cold day. I’d better have some silk ones for riding in, though.’
‘O.K.’ he said. He produced from a hamper a bundle of whitish gloves and pulled out a pair for me.
I went along to the main scales to weigh out, and gave my saddle to Sid, who was standing there waiting for it.
He said, ‘The governor says I’m to saddle Template in the stable, and bring him straight down into the parade ring when it’s time, and not go into the saddling boxes at all.’
‘Good,’ I said emphatically.
‘We’ve had two private dicks and a bloody great dog patrolling the yard all night,’ he went on. ‘And another dick came with us in the horse-box, and he’s sitting in Template’s box at this very minute. You never saw such a circus.’
‘How’s the horse?’ I asked, smiling. Evidently James was splendidly keeping his word that Template would not be doped.
‘He’ll eat ’em,’ Sid said simply. ‘The Irish won’t know what hit them. All the lads have got their wages on him. Yeah, I know they’ve been a bit fed up that you were going to ride him, but I saw you turn that Turniptop inside out on Thursday and I told ’em they’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, sincerely enough: but it was just one more ounce on a load of responsibility.
The time dragged. My shoulders ached. To take my mind off that I spent some time imagining the expression on Kemp-Lore’s face when he saw my name up in the number frame. He would think at first it was a mistake. He would wait for it to be changed. And at any moment now, I thought maliciously, he will begin to realise that I am indeed here.
The second race was run with me still sitting in the changing-room, the object of now frankly curious looks from the valets. I took the brown gloves off and put on the greyish white ones. They had originally been really white, but nothing could entirely wash out a season’s accumulated stains of mud and leather. I flexed my fingers. Most of the swelling had gone, and they seemed to be getting fairly strong again in spite of the cracked and tender skin.
Back came the other jockeys again, talking, laughing, swearing, dealing out friendly and not so friendly abuse, yelling to the valets, dumping down their kit — the ordinary, comradely, noisy changing-room mixture — and I felt apart from it, as if I were living in a different dimension. Another slow quarter of an hour crawled by. Then an official put his head in and shouted, ‘Jockeys out, hurry up there, please.’
I stood up, put on the anorak, fastened my helmet, picked up my whip, and followed the general drift to the door. The feeling of unreality persisted.
Down in the paddock where in June the chiffons and ribbons fluttered in the heat stood cold little bunches of owners and trainers, most of them muffled to the eyes against the wind. It seared through the bare branches of the trees beside the parade ring, leaving a uniformity of pinched faces among the people lining the rails. The bright winter sunshine gave an illusion of warmth which blue noses and runny eyes belied. But the anorak, as I had been pleased to discover, was windproof.
Lord Tirrold wore on his fine-boned face the same look of excited anticipation that I could still see on James’s. They are both so sure, I thought uneasily, that Template will win. Their very confidence weakened mine.
‘Well, Rob,’ said Lord Tirrold, shaking me too firmly by the hand, ‘This is it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed, ‘This is it.’
‘What do you think of Emerald?’ he asked.
We watched her shamble round the parade ring with the sloppy walk and the low-carried head that so often denotes a champion.
‘They say she’s another Kerstin,’ said James, referring to the best steeplechasing mare of the century.
‘It’s too soon to say that,’ said Lord Tirrold: and I wondered if the same thought sprang into his mind as into mine, that after the Midwinter, it might not be too soon, after all. But he added as if to bury the possibility, ‘Template will beat her.’
‘I think so,’ James agreed.
I swallowed. They were too sure. If he won, they would expect it. If he lost, they would blame me; and probably with good cause.
Template himself stalked round the parade ring in his navy-blue rug, playing up each time as he came face on to the wind, trying to turn round so that it blew on his quarters, with his lad hanging on to his leading-rein like a small child on a large kite.
A bell rang, indicating it was time for the jockeys to mount. James beckoned to the boy, who brought Template across to us and took off his rug.
‘Everything all right?’ James asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
Template’s eyes were liquid clear, his ears were pricked, his muscles quivering to be off: the picture of a taut, tuned racing-machine eager to get on with the job he was born for. He was not a kind horse: there was no sweetness in his make-up and he inspired admiration rather than affection: but I liked him for his fire and his aggressiveness and his unswerving will to win.
‘You’ve admired him long enough, Rob,’ said James teasingly. ‘Get up on him.’
I took off the anorak and dropped it on the rug. James gave me a leg up into the saddle and I gathered the reins and put my feet into the irons.
What he read in my face I don’t know, but he said suddenly, anxiously, ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ I smiled down at him, reassuring myself as much as him.
Lord Tirrold said, ‘Good luck,’ as if he didn’t think I needed it, and I touched my cap to him and turned Template away to take his place in the parade down the course.
There was a television camera on a tower not far down the course from the starting gate, and I found the thought of Kemp-Lore raging at the sight of me on his monitor set a most effective antidote to the freezing wind. We circled round for five minutes, eleven of us, while the assistant starter tightened girths and complained that anyone would think we were in perishing Siberia.