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Making Allowances
Chapter 16 Part 2
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“I wouldn’t build your hopes up,” I warned her. I was relieved to learn that Mark had also tried to discourage her from any fanciful notion that he might win on his first outing over this distance in this type of company. I was also relieved to hear that he’d decided to have a few bob elsewhere, and had gone for Waxworks, at 9 to 2 second favourite, behind Scheduled Stop, who had hardened at 11 to 4.
Jumping off, I could see that Little Matter had taken a strong hold, and was tracking Scheduled Stop, just in the large group, which included Loch Naver Lad, about six lengths behind the two front runners, Poor Yorick, a renowned front runner, and the rank outsider, Always Andy. All the field was jumping well for the first mile, but, at the second ditch, Poor Yorick pecked on landing and lost a lot of ground. Basically, this threw the race wide open.
Past the stands with a circuit to go, the group was fairly well bunched together; Lad was travelling easily, about eighth of the thirteen runners, Scheduled Stop was more prominent now, grinding Always Andy down with every stride. Waxworks knocked it up a gear to take over the lead, Little Matter came off the bridle to cruise into contention. I looked for Flynn to make a move on Lad, but it was clear that Lad was not enjoying the going, and was floundering for a turn of foot.
But Lad was not the only one having problems, the heavy going was only beginning to play its part. At the next ditch, Always Andy, tiring rapidly, crashed through the top of the birch, drawing anxious gasps from the crowd as he threw his pilot clear before crashing in a heap. There was nowhere for Little Matter to go, tripped by the flailing legs of the stricken outsider, Little Matter was brought down. A great groan came from his frustrated followers in the stands; pink confetti of ticket stubs erupted in the damp air.
Waxworks was now leading, but Scheduled Stop was showing his class, jumping like a stag and showing no signs of weakening. There was a gap of about three lengths from this pair to a group of four, including a young handicapper called Caius Ligarius, an inconsistent Irish raider called Huppity, and two old stagers, My Guide and Loch Naver Lad.
Dad looked at me, a little surprised.
“He’s still hanging in there,” he declared with an air of optimism. “If he keeps jumping…who knows.”
As the field reached the cross fence, the race took its most dramatic turn. Scheduled Stop slithered on the wet landing and deposited the helpless Ryan Kellett dangerously close to the nearside rails, but thankfully unscathed. This left Waxworks clear, but as I watched Waxworks make the turn for home, I became aware of a murmuring crescendo which was now growing into a healthy roar.
He had company. It was Huppity. Looking further back I watched Lad as he wearily negotiated the last ditch, third from home, and was overtaken by another straggler, he had run his race and it was with some relief that I watched him canter away from the penultimate fence to be pulled up.
Meanwhile, at the last, the battle was drawn, Huppity jumped up alongside Waxworks and they landed together. The two jockeys set to work, driving their mounts home. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of another set of hooves. I looked up from my binoculars in disbelief, to see Caius Ligarius coming with a wet sail. He breezed past the battling pair to great screams from the crowd, and surged away to thunder past the line, the victor by two lengths. A photograph would be needed to separate the next two. It had been a great finish.
“B*****s!” growled Mark as he threw his torn ticket into the air, “where the bloody hell did he come from?”
Dad just laughed, “that’s racing, mate.” He smiled.
“Fair do’s”, said Mark, “great race, I had my money’s worth.”
I turned apologetically to Clare “sorry you didn’t get yours”, I murmured, “I did try to warn you.”
“Oh I don’t mind,” she smiled kindly, “I should have known. Dad did say he didn’t think he’d get the trip. And Mark, for that matter.”
I looked back up the run in. Only three more horses made it home. In addition to Lad, two more had decided to call it a day in the home straight. One of them was Tail Gunner, who had finished third in the Grand National, and the old man of the field, My Guide. “Oh I think he would have got the trip,” I replied, “I just think the ground did for him.”
I was hoping that Declan Flynn might be able to substantiate my claims when we met outside the unsaddling enclosure.
“He was very tired,” Flynn sighed, “Nothing left in the tank. Shame really, he jumped everything beautifully. Very honest. Lovely old fella.”
We drove back home, and I had a chance to watch a video of the race three or four times whilst Ellie got herself ready to go out. Then, at nine o’clock, we hooked up again with Mum, Dad, Tim, and Jenny for a meal at a local restaurant.
So far, I had not had much in the way of support for my view that Lad would get a longer distance. But, as I got a round of drinks, I was making light conversation with a couple of the locals who had been asking me about the day’s racing. These were straight talking guys, who spoke their minds, and would not follow you blindly.
“Not good enough today,” said one of them.
“No,” I agreed, “but did you get the winner?”
“No I bloody didn’t!” he lamented, with a chuckle.
“Well, there you are,” I said.
“Lose much?” asked another.
“No, I had a little wager, but it was a good field, and I knew the old boy would have his work cut out to be in the shake up.”
“I thought he jumped as well as any of them,” said Big Pat.
“Yeah, I thought so too.” I agreed.
“Ground was very heavy,” said Pat, “and he’s not a spring chicken any more, but I thought he gave you a decent run. Hadn’t seen him do three miles before though,” he mused. “What was the thinking behind that?”
I had not disclosed this to anyone, not even Dennis, so why I revealed it to Big Pat, I still do not know for certain.
“Thought I’d realise an old dream, see I’m probably gonna run him in the National come April.”
Pat rolled his eyes and drew in a sharp, audible breath.
“Would he get four and a bit up that run-in, d’you think? You don’t want to be killin’ the old chap off.”
I’ll know more after Christmas,” I said, with conviction. “I’m going to run him in the New Year Chase at Cheltenham, see what he’s like over four miles.”
Dad came back to the bar to give me a hand with the drinks. Pat was quick to follow up with Dad, “Says he ‘s going to run him in the National!” smiled Pat.
“I think he’s turning into Elizabeth Taylor” replied Dad, which made the whole group laugh loudly, myself included.
When we sat down, Dad returned to the subject.
“Are you serious about the Grand National?”
“Deadly serious,” I replied. “It’s the only chance we’ve got now of any of our dreams coming true, and it’s the best chance we’ll ever get.”
Dad looked uneasy. “He’s really only a two miler, two and a half at best.”
“I know.”
“Do you think he’d get the trip?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Look,” said Dad firmly, “don’t get carried away by all this. You’ve got a lovely little horse, you’ve had a win, run him in a big race, let’s try to keep our feet on the ground. You don’t want to kill him.”
“That never stopped you,” I retorted. Dad looked away, in an expression of mild hurt.
I quickly offered an alternative comment.
“I think he’d do a job.” I insisted.
“Why?”
“Well, he jumps beautifully, I don’t know if he could race over four and a quarter miles, but what I do know is, he won’t fall. It depends on what sort of race it turns out to be. I’m just thinking, if it becomes a bit of a ‘war of attrition’, then I’d rather be on him than anything else. I think he’d stay the trip. I’m not saying he’d win it, necessarily, but you never know. He might jump his way into a winning position. It’s not such a lottery now, not such a forbidding prospect as it used to be, I don’t think.
The fences are safer now, it’s become more of a handicap chase; a genuine jumper might enjoy it, might even win it. One thing I know is, he wouldn’t be a disgrace”
Dad shrugged, “Well, he might, I suppose. I wouldn’t disagree.”
The subject changed and we spoke more generally about the race that day, and agreed that, despite coming home empty handed, Lad had given a very good account of himself over a new, longer distance, in ground he clearly didn’t like.
“It’s not all bad news anyway,” announced Dad as we finished our coffees, producing a document from his jacket pocket. My heart immediately sank, as I recognised the wording and typescript. Moments later, he confirmed my fears.
“Came through today,” he smiled proudly, waving the paper.
“My jockey’s licence.”
I looked at Mum, and couldn’t understand why she, of all people, should be putting on such a pleased look. I looked at Tim, who just looked down at the table. I looked at Jenny, who furtively shook her head, more to advise me not to say anything than make a public display of her displeasure.
I looked back at Dad, still smiling, waiting for some congratulatory remark.
“Here we go again,” I thought to myself.
“Why,” I snarled as Ellie drove home, “does Mum follow him so blindly?”
Ellie tried to remain calm, “ Look, we’ve been through this dozens of times before.”
“I know, and it still doesn’t make any sense. I thought having this horse would help to bring him away from all this.”
“Hang on,” Ellie interjected. “Don’t pretend that you took this horse for that reason, the truth is, you wanted to own a racehorse. You. Not your Dad. You.”
“But why can’t he leave it alone. He’s seen the difference between the horses he rides and the very best in the business. Yet he’s still prepared to risk it all on a two bit nag who might bury him. And anyway, I thought he was past all that now”
“Look,” insisted Ellie, “he never really fell out of love with it, it was all a big defence mechanism. Your Mum knew it, I’m surprised you didn’t. The difference is your Mum knows that, when everything else is gone, she and him will still be left. What sort of a life are they going to have together in their old age if he just ends up resenting her for not letting him do the things he wants to do?”
“Bloody hell,” I exclaimed, “what happened to equality for women?”
“Your Mum’s not interested in all that,” Ellie replied, “I’d find it hard to accept but your Mum’s a different generation. All she wants is for those around her to be happy. If this is what makes your Dad happy, then your Mum accepts it. She loves him. They’ve been together the best part of forty years now, that’s how it works for them.”
I shook my head in silence.
“Just let it go” Ellie urged.
“OK, OK” I conceded. “Just don’t come crying to me when he has another spill.”
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