In the parade ring Moira Longerman twittered with happy nerves, her button nose showing kittenishly just above a fluffy upstanding sable collar. Below the collar she snuggled into a coat to match, and on the blonde curls floated a fluffy sable hat. Her middle-aged blue eyes brimmed with excitement, and in the straightforward gaiety of her manner one could see why it was that so many thousands of people spent their hobby money on owning racehorses. Not just for the gambling, nor the display: more likely for the kick from extra adrenalin, and the feeling of being involved. She knew well enough that the fun could turn to disappointment, to tears. The lurking valleys made the mountaintops more precious.
‘Doesn’t Tapestry look marvellous?’ she said, her small gloved hands fluttering in the horse’s direction as he plodded round the ring under the gaze of the ten-deep banks of intent spectators.
‘Great,’ I said truthfully.
Binny scowled at the cold sunny sky. He had produced the horse with a gloss seldom achieved by his other runners: impeccably plaited mane and tail, oiled hooves, a new rug, gleamingly polished leather tack, and an intricate geometric pattern brushed into the well-groomed hairs of the hindquarters. Binny was busy telling the world that if his horse failed it would not be from lack of preparation. Binny was going to use me for evermore as his reason for not having won the Gold Cup.
I can’t say that it disturbed me very much. Like Moira Longerman, I was feeling the throat-catching once-in-a-lifetime thrill of a profound experience waiting just ahead. Disaster might follow, but whatever happened I would have had my ride in the Gold Cup.
There were eight runners, including Tapestry. We mounted, walked out on to the course, paraded in front of the packed and noisy stands, cantered down to the start. I could feel myself trembling, and knew it was stupid. Only a cool head could produce a worthy result. Tell that to the adrenal glands.
I could pretend, anyway. Stifle the butterfly nerves and act as if races of this calibre came my way six times a season. None of the other seven riders looked anxious or strung up, yet I guessed that some of them must be. Even for the top pros, this was an occasion. I reckoned that their placid expressions were nearly as phoney as mine, and felt better.
We advanced to the tapes in a bouncing line, restraining the eager heads on short reins, and keeping the weight still back in the saddle. Then the starter pressed his lever and let the tapes fly up, and Tapestry took a great bite of air and practically yanked my arms out of their sockets.
Most three and a quarter mile ’chases started moderately, speeded up a mile from home, and maybe finished in a decelerating procession. The Gold Cup field that day set off as if to cover the whole distance in record Derby time, and Moira Longerman told me later that Binny used words she’d never heard before when I failed to keep Tapestry close in touch.
By the time we’d swept over the first two fences, by the stands, I was last by a good six lengths, a gap not much in itself but still an I-told-you-so sort of distance so early in the proceedings. I couldn’t in fact make up my mind. Should I go faster? Stick closer to the tails in front? Tapestry had set off at a greater speed already than when he’d won with me at Newbury. If I let him zip along with the others he could be exhausted and tailed off at half way. If I held him up, we might at least finish the race.
Over the third fence and over the water I saw the gap lengthening and still dithered about tactics. I hadn’t expected the others to go off so fast. I didn’t know if they hoped to maintain that speed throughout, or whether they would slow and come back to me later. I couldn’t decide which was more likely.
But what would Binny say if I guessed wrong and was last the whole way? What wouldn’t he say?
What was I doing in this race, out of my class?
Making an utter fool of myself.
Oh God, I thought, why did I try it?
Accountants are held to be cautious by nature but at that point I threw caution to the winds. Almost anything would be better than starting last and staying last. Prudence would get me nowhere. I gave Tapestry a kick which he didn’t expect and he shot forward like an arrow.
‘Steady,’ I gasped. ‘Steady, dammit.’
Shorten the gap, I thought, but not too fast. Spurt too fast and I’d use the reserves we’d need for the last stretch uphill. If we ever got there. If I didn’t fall off. If I didn’t let Tapestry meet a fence wrong, or run out, or refuse to jump at all.
Only a mile done, and I’d lived a couple of lifetimes.
I was still last by the end of the first circuit, but no longer a disgrace. Once more round... and maybe we’d pass one or two before we’d done. I began at that point to enjoy myself, a background feeling mostly smothered by anxious concentration, but there all the same, and I knew from other days that it would be the enjoyment I remembered most afterwards, not the doubts.
Over the water-jump, still last, the others all in a group just ahead. Open ditch next; Tapestry met it just right and we pegged back a length in mid-air. Landed nose to tail with the horse in front. Stayed there to the next fence, and again won ground in flight, setting off that time beside the next horse, not behind.
Great. I was no longer last. Just joint last. Whatever I might fear about Tapestry staying to the end, he was surging over the jumps meanwhile with zest and courage.
It was at the next fence, on the far side of the course, that the race came apart. The favourite fell, and the second favourite tripped over him. Tapestry swerved violently as he landed among the rolling bodies and crashed into the horse alongside. The rider of that horse fell off.
It happened so fast. One second, an orderly Gold Cup. Next second, a shambles. Three down, the high hopes of owners, trainers, lads and punters blown to the wind. Tapestry forged his way out like a bull, but when we tackled the hill ahead, we again lay last.
Never try to accelerate uphill, they say, because the horses you pass will pass you again on the way down. Save your strength, don’t waste it. I saved Tapestry’s strength in last place up the hill and it seemed to me that at the crest the others suddenly swooped away from me, piling on every ounce of everything they had, shooting off while I was still freewheeling.
Come on, I thought urgently, come on, it’s now or never. Now, or absolutely never. Get on, Tapestry. Get going. I went down the hill faster than I’d ever ridden in my life.
A fence half-way down. A fractional change of stride. A leap to shame the chamoix.
Another jockey lay on the ground there, curled in a ball to avoid being kicked. Hard luck... Too bad...
Three horses in front. Two fences to go. I realised abruptly that the three horses in front were all there were. Not far in front, either. My God, I thought, almost laughing, just supposing I can pass one, I’ll finish third. Third in the Gold Cup. A dream to last till death.
I urged Tapestry ever faster, and amazingly, he responded. This was the horse whose finishing speed was doubtful, who had to be nursed. This horse, thundering along like a sprinter.
Round the bend... only one fence to go... I was approaching it faster than the others... took off alongside the third horse, landed in front... with only the last taxing uphill stretch to the post. I’m third, I thought exultantly. I’m bloody third.
Some horses find the Cheltenham finish a painful struggle. Some wander sideways from tiredness, swish their tails and falter when in front, slow to leaden all-spent pace that barely takes them to the post.
Nothing like that happened to Tapestry, but it did to both of the horses in front. One of them wavered up the straight at a widening angle. The other seemed to be stopping second by second. To my own and everyone else’s disbelief, Tapestry scorched past both of them at a flat gallop and won the Gold Cup.