Dick Francis - Straight

On the other hand, I’d ridden races now and then with cracked bones, not just exercise gallops, and I knew one jockey who in the past had broken three bones in his foot and won races with it, sitting with it in an ice bucket in the changing room between times and literally hopping out to the parade ring, supported by friends. The authorities had later brought in strict medical rules to stop that sort of thing as being unfair to the betting public, but one could still get away with it sometimes.

Milo saw me slide out of the vehicle with the helmet on and came over happily and said, “I knew you would.”

“Mm,” I said. “When you give me a leg up, put both hands round my knee and be careful, because if you twist my foot there’ll be no sale.”

“You’re such a wimp,” he said.

Nevertheless he was circumspect and I landed in the saddle with little trouble. I was wearing jeans, and that morning for the first time I’d managed to get a shoe on, or rather one of the wide soft black leather moccasins I used as bedroom slippers. Milo threaded the stirrup over the moccasin with unexpected gentleness and I wondered if he were having last-minute doubts about the wisdom of all this.

One look at the Ostermeyers’ faces dispelled both his doubts and mine. They were beaming at Datepalm already with proprietary pride.

Certainly he looked good. He filled the eye, as they say. A bay with black points, excellent head, short sturdy legs with plenty of bone. The Ostermeyers always preferred handsome animals, perhaps because they were handsome themselves, and Datepalm was well-mannered besides, which made him a peach of a ride.

He and I and two others from the rest of the string set off at a walk toward the far end of the gallop but were presently trotting, which I achieved by standing in the stirrups with all my weight on my right foot while cursing Milo imaginatively for the sensations in my left. Datepalm, who knew how horses should be ridden, which was not lopsided like this, did a good deal of head and tail shaking but otherwise seemed willing to trust me. He and I knew each other well as I’d ridden him in all his races for the past three years. Horses had no direct way of expressing recognition, but occasionally he would turn his head to look at me when he heard my voice, and I also thought he might know me by scent as he would put his muzzle against my neck sometimes and make small whiffling movements of his nostrils. In any case we did have a definite rapport and that morning it stood us in good stead.

At the far end the two lads and I sorted out our three horses ready to set off at a working gallop back toward Milo and the Ostermeyers, a pace fast enough to be interesting but not flat out like racing.

There wasn’t much finesse in riding a gallop to please customers, one simply saw to it that one was on their side of the accompanying horses, to give them a clear view of the merchandise, and that one finished in front to persuade them that that’s what would happen in the future.

Walking him around to get in position, I chatted quietly as I often did to Datepalm, because in common with many racehorses he was always reassured by a calm human voice, sensing from one’s tone that all was well. Maybe horses heard the lower resonances: one never knew.

“Just go up there like a pro,” I told him, “because I don’t want to lose you, you old bugger. I want us to win the National one day, so shine, boy. Dazzle. Do your bloody best.”

I shook up the reins as we got the horses going, and in fact Datepalm put up one of his smoothest performances, staying with his companions for most of the journey, lengthening his stride when I gave him the signal, coming away alone and then sweeping collectedly past the Ostermeyers with fluid power; and if the jockey found it an acutely stabbing discomfort all the way, it was a fair price for the result. Even before I’d pulled up, the Ostermeyers had bought the horse and shaken hands on the deal.

“Subject to a veterinarian’s report, of course,” Harley was saying as I walked Datepalm back to join them. “Otherwise, he’s superb.”

Milo’s smile looked as if it would split his face. He held the reins while Martha excitedly patted the new acquisition, and went on holding them while I took my feet out of the stirrups and lowered myself very carefully to the ground, hopping a couple of steps to where the crutches lay on the grass.

“What did you do to your foot?” Martha asked unworriedly.

“Wrenched it,” I said, slipping the arm cuffs on with relief. “Very boring.”

She smiled, nodded and patted my arm. “Milo said it was nothing much.”

Milo gave me a gruesome look, handed Datepalm back to his lad, Gerry, and helped the Ostermeyers into the big-wheeled vehicle for the drive home. We bumped down the tracks and I took off the helmet and ran my fingers through my hair, reflecting that although I wouldn’t care to ride gallops like that every day of the week, I would do it again for as good an outcome.

We all went into Milo’s house for breakfast, a ritual there as in many other racing stables, and over coffee, toast and scrambled eggs Milo and the Ostermeyers planned Datepalm’s future program, including all the top races with of course another crack at the Gold Cup.

“What about the Grand National?” Martha said, her eyes like stars.

“Well, now, we’ll have to see,” Milo said, but his dreams too were as visible as searchlights. First thing on our return, he’d telephoned to Datepalm’s former owner and got confirmation that she agreed to the sale and was pleased by it, and since then one had almost needed to pull him down from the ceiling with a string, like a helium-filled balloon. My own feelings weren’t actually much lower. Datepalm really was a horse to build dreams on.

After the food and a dozen repetitions of the horse’s virtues Milo told the Ostermeyers about my inheriting Dozen Roses and about the probate saga, which seemed to fascinate them. Martha sat up straighter and exclaimed, “Did you say York?”

Milo nodded.

“Do you mean this Saturday? Why, Harley and I are going to York races on Saturday, aren’t we, Harley?”

Harley agreed that they were. “Our dear friends Lord and Lady Knightwood have asked us to lunch.”

Martha said, “Why don’t we give Derek a ride up there to see his horse run? What do you say, Harley?”

“Be glad to have you along,” Harley said to me genuinely. “Don’t give us no for an answer.”

I looked at their kind, insistent faces and said lamely, “I thought of going by train, if I went at all.”

“No, no,” Martha said. “Come to London by train and we’ll go up together. Do say you will.”

Milo was looking at me anxiously: pleasing the Ostermeyers was still an absolute priority. I said I’d be glad to accept their kindness and Martha, mixing gratification with sudden alarm, said she hoped the inheritance wouldn’t persuade me to stop riding races.

“No,” I said.

“That’s positive enough.” Harley was pleased. “You’re part of the package, fella. You and Datepalm together.”

Brad and I went on to London, and I was very glad to have him drive.

“Office?” he asked, and I said, “Yes,” and we traveled there in silent harmony.

He’d told me the evening before that Greville’s car wasn’t parked anywhere near Greville’s house: or rather he’d handed me back the piece of paper with the car’s number on it and said, “Couldn’t find it.” I thought I’d better get on to the police and other towers-away in Ipswich, and I’d better start learning the company’s finances and Greville’s as well, and I had two-thirds of the vault still to check and I could feel the suction of the quicksand inexorably.