I had never really had much trouble doing the weight on Sandeman as he had always been fairly highly rated and, even in handicaps, he had always been near to top weight. Some jockeys, however, had an ongoing struggle every day to keep their weight down, a problem that to me seemed to be getting worse as the average size of the population grew while the racing weights stayed the same.
You could always tell when someone was in trouble doing the weight. There were little games they would play with the clerk of the scales, who was probably wise to every one. They would leave their cap on their helmet and place it on the table. The rule stated that the cap should be weighed even if the helmet wasn’t. Others would weigh-out using paper-thin boots, known by jockeys as cheating boots, which they would then change for their regular riding boots when safely back in the changing room. It had also been known for jockeys to weigh-out with a much lighter saddle than they actually intended using, or indeed, if things were desperate, with no saddle at all. Overweight was frowned upon by the stewards, and by owners and trainers alike, and could make the difference between keeping or losing the ride on that horse in the future.
Having successfully cleared the scales, I handed my saddle and the rest of the tack to Paul Newington, who was standing by waiting to receive it.
‘See you in the parade ring,’ he said, and turned on his heel.
I could tell that he was nervous as well and I watched his back as he hurried away to get Sandeman ready in the saddling boxes.
I went into the changing room to get a jacket to put over my silks and then back out onto the weighing-room terrace to watch the Gold Cup on the big screen set up near the paddock. The favourite won easily with Reno Clemens in the saddle. They had jumped clear of the chasing pack over the last two fences in the straight and stormed up the hill to win by eight lengths. They received a hero’s welcome from the huge crowd. But Steve Mitchell in his prison cell wouldn’t like it, I thought. He should have been riding that winner. He had ridden the horse all the way through its career only to miss out on its crowning glory.
With the Gold Cup over, now it was my turn. The Foxhunter Chase was less than half an hour away and the butterflies in my stomach had turned into full size eagles. I went back into the changing room and made all my last-minute adjustments once again, making sure I was wearing my back protector and that it was correctly fitted, checking that my silks were on properly with rubber bands around the wrists to stop the wind rushing up the sleeves, tying and retying the cords on my cap to get them right, to ensure it didn’t fly off my helmet during the race.
I went once again to the loo and nervously paced around. It was like waiting outside the exam room before my law finals at university, or being in a dentist’s waiting room before an extraction.
Finally, the call was made for the jockeys to go out to the parade ring. As always, I felt the burst of adrenalin course through my body but, this time, I wasn’t so sure I was enjoying it. The expectation was too great. Riding last year’s winner and this year’s favourite, as well as carrying so many punters’ hopes, was taking much of the fun out of it.
Paul and Laura stood on the grass in the paddock and both seemed to hop from foot to foot with nervousness.
‘Good luck,’ said Laura breathlessly, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let’s just enjoy it. Eh?’ They both looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Win or lose, it’s been a great day out.’
I smiled at them. They didn’t smile back. Oh no, I thought, they’ve had a big bet on us to win. I could read it in their faces. Oh, woe is me. Just another load of pressure I could have done without.
Paul gave me a leg-up onto Sandeman’s back and he slapped a hand on his neck. ‘Go get ’em, cowboy,’ he said nervously in a mock American accent, looking up at me.
‘Do my best, pardner,’ I said back to him in the same manner.
We circled around the ring a couple of times as the horses sorted themselves out and then we were led out towards the course by two huntsmen in scarlet jackets.
Sandeman beneath me was eager to get going and he didn’t like being crammed in on all sides by the massive crowd five deep against the horse-walk rail.
‘Good luck, Geoffrey,’ called a voice to my left.
I looked down from my vantage point atop a seventeen-hand horse and there was Eleanor, waving madly. She had made it after all. How wonderful.
‘Thanks,’ I shouted at her inadequately above the bustle of the crowd.
I turned to take one last look at her before Sandeman and I went out onto the course. She was smiling broadly, still waving, but something else caught my eye. Standing just behind her and a little to her right was someone else I recognized.
It was Julian Trent, and he was smiling at me too.
Oh shit. I tried to stop and turn round, to go back and warn her, but the stable lad just thought that Sandeman was playing up a little so he took a tighter hold of the reins and pulled us forward.
I turned right round in the saddle and tried to shout to Eleanor but she didn’t hear me. What should I do? I wanted to jump off, to run back, to protect her. But Sandeman and I were now out of the horse walk and on the course, walking up in front of the expectant crowd. Surely, I told myself, Eleanor would be safe amongst all those people. Perhaps Trent had not seen the exchange between us and he would think of her as just another eager spectator.
The horses were to be led up in front of the grandstand and then we would turn and canter back past the horse walk and on to the start of the race at the far end of the finishing straight.
So distracted was I that I almost fell off when the stable lad turned Sandeman and let him go with a reminding slap on his rump. Instinct made me gather the reins tight in my hands and set off in a gentle canter to the start while I searched the thousands of faces in the crowd, desperate for a glimpse of Eleanor, or of Trent, but unable to spot either.
I felt sick.
All my pre-race planning of where I wanted to be at the start went out the window as my mind was elsewhere. When the tapes flew up Sandeman was caught flat-footed owing to my negligence and I instantly gave the rest of the field ten lengths’ start. I could imagine Paul swearing on the trainers’ stand and wishing that he had convinced me to let last year’s jockey ride again. And he wouldn’t be the only one, I thought. This was a televised race and I had been napping at the start. In any other circumstances it would have been unforgivable, but somehow I didn’t care. I was more concerned about Eleanor’s safety.
Sandeman set off in pursuit of the others and made a magnificent leap at the first with me hardly participating at all. Come on, I said to myself, Eleanor will be fine, concentrate on the matter in hand.
I eased Sandeman back from his headlong gallop to a steadier pace. There was plenty of time to get back to the pack. This was a three-and-a-quarter-mile chase with twenty-two jumps, twice round the Cheltenham course. I settled him down and we steadily closed the gap until, although still last, there was no air between us and the rest. Fortunately the first circuit was not being run too fast as everyone realized there was a long way to go in fairly heavy ground.