Felix Francis - Triple Crown

When its exercise was finished, each horse was handed over to Maria who would first give it a wash to remove the sweat from its coat, and then, as her hot-walker job title suggested, she would walk the hot horse round and round the shedrow until it had cooled, giving it a drink of water every lap or two.

There was another exercise rider also working that day for Raworth and, between him and Victor, they rode all the horses scheduled for track exercise in about two and a half hours.

All except Fire Point.

He was a special case and his Derby-winning race jockey, Jerry Fernando, had made the journey up from Baltimore especially to ride him after the other horses had finished. All the Raworth stable staff, including me, stood and watched as the star of the barn was led out to the track by Keith.

We were rightly proud to have a Triple Crown contender in our midst.

I, however, couldn’t help wondering if he’d been given a dishonest helping hand to become so.

Not that the daily grind of a groom was over just because the horses had finished their exercise. There were still stalls to be cleaned, bedding to be laid, coats to be brushed, standing-bandages to be replaced, water to be fetched and carried, plus countless other things that needed to be done for the horses before it was time for any rest.

And then there was the visit from one of the track veterinary surgeons to collect blood and give injections.

I held Paddleboat’s head as five different needles were stuck into him. First, about 20ml of blood was drawn from the jugular vein in his neck. Next, a quick-acting sedative went into the same vein to keep the horse calm so that the hyaluronic acid could be injected directly into his hock joints. Finally, an intramuscular shot of Adequan went into his bottom.

‘What’s the blood for?’ I asked.

‘Regular weekly testing,’ he said. ‘We do a quick cell count at our lab here at the track. High white would indicate an infection, while low red is a sign of anaemia.’

I wanted to ask if he also did a test for EVA antibodies but decided against it.

Blood was taken from all the horses in the barn, and most had medications of some sort thrust into them one way or another. Two were running that afternoon and, as was usual, they would both receive their 500mg dose of Lasix four hours before race time.

Next a delivery truck arrived, piled high with bales of straw, all of which needed to be transferred by hand from the vehicle to the bedding store, which was inconveniently situated right on top of the office, in the space below the roof rafters.

And all the moving had to be done by the grooms, while the truck driver stood around watching.

I was sent up to the store, climbing the wooden ladder that was attached to the wall. I then had to bend down to grab each bale in turn after it had been carried from the truck and lifted up towards me by the others. I stacked it in place before repeating the process. Over and over, it seemed to be never-ending.

I had always tried to maintain a pretty good standard of fitness, ever since my days at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, but by the time the last of the straw had been raised my muscles were seriously complaining, especially in my back. I obviously wasn’t quite as fit as I’d thought.

I was looking forward to a soothing lie-down on my bunk when Charlie Hern put paid to that idea.

‘Paddy,’ he shouted into the barn. ‘Here. Now.’

‘Coming, sir,’ I shouted back, running round the shedrow to the office.

‘Good,’ Charlie said, seeing me. ‘Rafael claims he’s sick with flu, so you will look after Anchorage Bay today. Stall Eighteen. He runs in race four. Have him at the receiving barn on time and over at the paddock ready for saddling by two o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

Flu, indeed.

I’ll murder that bloody Rafael.

Anchorage Bay ran second in race four, pushing the winner all the way to the line but failing to get up by a neck.

I was just glad he’d made it to the starting gate on time, and that I hadn’t somehow messed up.

George Raworth seemed to be fairly pleased with the outcome.

‘I reckon he’ll win next time out,’ I heard him tell the owner after the race. I was holding the horse’s head as he was unsaddled on the track in front of the grandstand. ‘And he wasn’t claimed so we still have him.’

The owner smiled wanly at his trainer but he was enviously eyeing those having their photographs taken in the winner’s circle. He had wanted to win this time.

‘Well done, Paddy,’ George said to me. ‘He looked nice.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, although the horse’s smart appearance had mostly been down to Maria.

She had come to my rescue again, showing me where the racing bridles were kept, how to prepare the horse to look his best, and when and where I had to take him. In fact, she had stayed by my side all afternoon, walking Anchorage Bay with me through the horse tunnel that ran from the barn area under the main-entrance roadway to the paddock. She also helped take him back to Raworth’s barn afterwards.

Even though there was no touching of hands, or lips, it was clear to both Maria and me that some sexual chemistry did exist between us. We laughed and joked as we washed Anchorage Bay, and she sprayed me playfully with the hose.

Don’t get involved — I kept telling myself. It was far too dangerous.

‘Stop it,’ I said seriously, cutting short her antics. ‘Let’s get the horse back in his stall.’

By which point it was four o’clock and time for evening stables.

I finally finished work at six having been on the go continuously for over thirteen hours. I was exhausted.

‘Do we get double-rate for overtime?’ I asked Charlie Hern as I collected the feed for my horses.

He laughed. ‘Be thankful you have a job in the first place.’

I took that to mean that no, we didn’t.

‘We’re classified as agricultural workers,’ said one of the other grooms who had overheard the exchange. ‘Overtime doesn’t apply until you’ve done more than sixty hours in a single week, and then they don’t count meal breaks or time spent waiting over at the track.’

The European Union Working Time Directive clearly didn’t apply here.

I acquired a new-found sense of admiration for the humble stable lad.

‘They all travelled to Louisville separately,’ Tony said when I called him after supper. ‘Two flew in from California, but on different days and from different cities, while the third, Liberty Song, arrived by horse trailer from Keeneland racetrack in Lexington.’

So they hadn’t become infected with EVA on the journey.

‘When did they arrive?’ I asked.

‘The two from California came the previous week, one from LA on Thursday and the other from San Francisco on Friday. The one from Lexington also arrived Friday, eight days before the Derby.’

‘So they had to have been infected while at Churchill Downs,’ I said. ‘It would be too much of a coincidence if all three had been infected elsewhere, especially as there have been no other cases.’

‘There has now,’ Tony said. ‘Another horse at Churchill fell sick today. They’re doing tests to confirm it is EVA, although it has all the signs.’

It was Thursday. Five days since the others had first shown signs of illness.

‘It must be due to secondary infection from one of the original three.’

‘Most likely,’ Tony said. ‘The new horse that’s fallen sick had been in the next-door stall to Liberty Song up until last Saturday.’

‘Was that in the Stakes Barn?’ I asked.

‘No. Liberty Song was in his trainer’s own barn. One of the two from California was in the Stakes Barn but the other was in a separate barn right at the far end of the site that, ironically, the trainer had rented specifically to prevent his horse catching anything from others in the Stakes Barn.’