Derry exclaimed suddenly, ‘What the devil...’
‘Tiddely Pom,’ I said fearfully. Not now. Not at the very post. I should have foreseen... should have stationed someone down there... But it was so public. So many people walked down there to watch the start. Anyone who tried to harm a horse there would have a hundred witnesses.
‘There’s someone hanging on to his reins. No, he’s been pulled off. Great God...’ Derry started laughing incredulously. ‘I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.’
‘What’s happening?’ I said urgently. All I could see was a row of peacefully lining up horses, which miraculously included Tiddely Pom, and some sort of commotion going on in the crowd on the far side of the rails.
‘It’s Madge... Madge Roncey. It must be. No one else looks like that... She’s rolling about on the grass with a fat little man... struggling. She pulled him away from Tiddely Pom... Arms and legs are flying all over the place...’ He stopped, laughing too much. ‘The boys are with her... they’re all piling on to the poor little man in a sort of rugger scrum...’
‘It’s a pound to a penny the poor little man is Charlie Boston,’ I said grimly. ‘And if it’s Madge and not the Blaze who’s saved the day, we’ll never hear the end of it from Victor Roncey.’
‘Damn Victor Roncey,’ Derry said. ‘They’re off.’
The line of horses bounded forward, heading for the first jump. Seventeen runners, three and a half miles, and a gold trophy and a fat cheque to the winner.
One of them crumpled up over the first. Not Tiddely Pom, whose scarlet and white chevrons bobbed in a bunch at the rear. Not Zig Zag, already positioned in the fourth place, from where he usually won. Not Egocentric, leading the field up past the stands to give the Huntersons their moment of glory. Not Rockville, with Dermot Finnegan fighting for his career in a battle not to let the horse run away with him.
They jumped the water jump in front of the stands. A gasp from the crowd as one of them splashed his hind legs right into it. The jockey in orange and green was dislodged and rolled.
‘That horse always makes a balls of the water,’ Derry said dispassionately. ‘They should keep it for hurdles.’ No tremor of excitement in his voice or hands. It had cost him nothing to get Tiddely Pom on to the track. It had cost me too much.
They swept round the top bend and started out round the circuit. Twice round the course to go. I watched Tiddely Pom all the way, expecting him to fall, expecting him to drop out at the back and be pulled up, expecting him to be too weak from colic to finish the trip.
They came round the bottom bend and up over the three fences in the straight towards the stands. Egocentric was still in front. Zig Zag still fourth. Dermot Finnegan had Rockville in decent control somewhere in the middle, and Tiddely Pom was still there and not quite last.
Over the water. Zig Zag stumbled, recovered, raced on. Not fourth any more, though. Sixth or seventh. Tiddely Pom scampered over it with none of the grace of Egocentric but twice the speed. Moved up two places.
Out they went again into the country. Derry remarked calmly, ‘Tiddely Pom has dropped his bit.’
‘Damn,’ I said. The jockey was working with his arms, urging the horse on. Hopeless. And half the race still to run.
I shut my eyes. Felt the fatigue and illness come swamping back. Wanted to lie down somewhere soft and sleep for a week and escape from all the problems and torments and disillusionments of weary life. A week alone, to heal in. A week to give a chance for some energy for living to come creeping back. I needed a week at least. If I were lucky, I’d have a day.
‘There’s a faller at that fence.’ The race commentator’s amplified voice jerked my eyes open. ‘A faller among the leaders. I think it was Egocentric... yes, Egocentric is down...’
Poor Huntersons. Poor Harry, poor Sarah.
Gail.
I didn’t want to think about her. Couldn’t bear to, and couldn’t help it.
‘He’s still going,’ Derry said. ‘Tiddely Pom.’
The red and white chevrons were too far away to be clear. ‘He’s made up a bit,’ Derry said. ‘He’s taken a hold again.’
They jumped the last fence on the far side and began the sweeping bend round into the straight, very strung out now, with great gaps between little bunches. One or two staggered fifty yards in the rear. There was a roar from the crowd and the commentator’s voice rose above it... ‘And here is Zig Zag coming to the front... opening up a commanding lead...’
‘Zig Zag’s slipped them,’ Derry said calmly. ‘Caught all the others napping.’
‘Tiddely Pom...?’ I asked.
‘He’s well back. Still plodding on, though. Most we could expect.’
Zig Zag jumped the first fence in the straight five seconds clear of the rest of the field.
‘Nothing will catch him,’ Derry said. I forgave him the satisfaction in his voice. He had tipped Zig Zag in his column. It was nice to be right. ‘Tiddely Pom’s in the second bunch. Can you see him? Even if he hasn’t won, he’s not disgraced.’
Zig Zag jumped the second last fence well ahead, chased after an interval by four horses more or less abreast. After these came Tiddely Pom, and behind him the other half dozen still standing. If we had to settle for that, at least the ante-post punters had had some sort of run for their money.
It was a clear twenty yards from the last fence that Zig Zag was meeting it wrong. The jockey hesitated fatally between pushing him on to lengthen his stride and take off sooner or shortening the reins to get him to put in an extra one before he jumped. In the end he did neither. Simply left it to the horse to sort himself out. Some horses like to do that. Some horses like to be told what to do. Zig Zag went into the fence like a rudderless ship, took off too late and too close, hit the fence hard with his forelegs, slewed round in mid air, crashed down in a tangle of hooves, and treated his rider to a well deserved thump on the turf.
‘Stupid bastard,’ Derry said, infuriatedly lowering his glasses. ‘An apprentice could have done better.’
I was watching Tiddely Pom. The four horses ahead of him jumped the last fence. One of them swerved to avoid Zig Zag and his supine jockey and bumped heavily into the horse next to him. Both of them were thoroughly unbalanced and the jockey of one fell off. When Tiddely Pom came away from the fence to tackle the straight he was lying third.
The crowd roared. ‘He’s got a chance,’ Derry yelled. ‘Even now.’
He couldn’t quicken. The low lolloping stride went on at the same steady pace and all the jockey’s urging was having no constructive effect. But one of the two in front of him was tiring and rolling about under pressure. Tiddely Pom crept up on him yard by yard but the winning post was coming nearer and there was still one more in front...
I looked at the leader, taking him in for the first time. A jockey in pink and white stripes, riding like a demon on a streak of brown, straining, hard-trained muscle. Dermot Finnegan on Rockville, with all his future in his hands.
While I watched he swept conclusively past the post, and even from the stands one could see that Irish grin bursting out like the sun.
Three lengths behind, Tiddely Pom’s racing heart defeated the colic and put him second. A genuine horse, I thought thankfully. Worth all the trouble. Or at least, worth some of it.
‘All we need now,’ said Derry, ‘is an objection.’
He wrapped the strap round his race glasses, put them in their case, and hurriedly made for the stairs. I followed him more slowly down and edged gingerly through the crowd milling round the unsaddling enclosure until I reached the clump of other press men waiting to pick up something to print. There was a cheer as Rockville was led through into the winner’s place. Another cheer for Tiddely Pom. I didn’t join in. Had nothing to contribute but a dead feeling of anti-climax.