Grand National (8 page)

Atherton, as though awakened from sleep, instantly aroused himself. “Yes, surely. When a horse becomes sensitive to signals from one rider, he will not respond equally well for another.”

“That’s just it,” replied Jack. But he noticed that Atherton lapsed back into silence again.

Shortly after lunch, at which Atherton ate only a piece of toast and drank only a glass of milk, he left for the jockeys’ room to change. Jack and Chester sauntered out to the small grandstand. Beside the rail Jack immediately noticed Iris Hunting in deep conversation with a tall, well-dressed man.

“Jack!” He stopped. She never had used his first name before. “Do come here a moment, please,” she said, moving toward him. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” As he turned and reached her side, she whispered, “Colonel Pomeroy, the racing correspondent of the
Times.
He writes under the name of Audax.”

A distinct feeling of pleasure came over him as she took his arm and led him back. Her felt hat on one side of her head was smart, and she wore a new coat that also suited her. Jack tried to make conversation. “Your boy seems to have been doing very well for himself this past month.”

She accepted his congratulations with a slight inclination of her head. “Not too badly, I feel. He’s still as keen as ever. Colonel Pomeroy, this is Mr. Cobb, the American who owns Quicksilver, the horse we were talking about in the third. You’ll like him. He’s a quiet American.”

The tall man in the Guard’s overcoat and the derby held out his hand. “Howjado,” he said. Jack found the extended hand rather limp, but the man was genial. “Likely horse you have there, Mr. Cobb. Saw him run a fine race. Where was it? Bognor, I think, last month.”

Pleased despite himself, Jack smiled and replied, “I owe a great deal to Chester Robinson, and a lot more to Iris Hunting here. She brought the horse round after a bad tendon, and now he seems as good as ever.”

The man nodded with enthusiasm. “She’s unique, isn’t she? If I may say so, you were extremely fortunate to have your horse fall into such good hands.” He turned to Iris. “Is your boy riding this afternoon?”

“Yes, he’s on a horse from Greystone Stables, rather an old mare who has speed but has never lived up to her possibilities.”

“Ah, that must be the horse Tommy Wilson rode in the Irish National last year. Got into a mix-up at the first open ditch. Excuse me.” Colonel Pomeroy turned away to speak to a man with field glasses over one shoulder.

Jack looked at Iris. Her eyebrows were raised, her lips tight. “A mix-up at the first open ditch,” she said ironically. “Brought three horses down with him. Only the mare came out of it. One had to be put down that afternoon, another has never raced again, and a third is just used as a hack now.”

“How terrible!”

She turned sharply on him. “Tony has every right to lead the life he wants. That was your advice, and it’s still good. I must get used to it.”

“Good for you,” said Jack. An admirable woman, and a strong one.

There was no chance for more talk as people kept coming up to them. Cobb noted with pleasure and a tinge of pride that everyone to whom she introduced him gave that tiny flick of recognition as they realized who he was.

They moved nearer to the weighing room, and Atherton, dressed in Jack’s silks with the red sash across his chest, came up briefly. He shook hands and mumbled something to Iris, then turned away as the starter called the riders over the loudspeaker.

“My word, that man looks bad. He must be in pain. Has a bad ulcer. He ought not to be riding today.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Jack, watching Atherton’s stooped figure moving away. “He seemed unusually quiet on the way up.” Ah, the English, he thought, always the stiff upper lip. The man was really ill. He turned to find Chester Robinson, but by this time the horses had appeared and were cantering up and down past the stands. They went to the starting post, and after the usual jockeying the field was off.

Quicksilver was carrying top weight in the three-mile race, and Jack felt the same sense of elation mixed with gripping apprehension that came over him every time he watched him begin a race and approach the first fence. This time the horses were over it all together. Before the fourth fence, however, two were moving out ahead, and one, he observed with delight, was Quicksilver. A head behind and pressing him—it couldn’t be—was Tony Hunting on a small, lithe mare. In a few minutes they came around, Atherton still in the lead, Tony closer every minute.

Jack glanced over at Iris Hunting as the riders tore past the stands, then over the far fences. Her eyes never left the boy, as he went up and over, riding with grace and power, still struggling to gain on the leader. The crowd roared approval as the two entered the stretch. Atherton seemed in command, yet Tony was threatening every minute. They flashed across the finish in that order, the others several lengths behind. Jack, elated, walked over with Iris to lead his horse into the winner’s circle.

A large crowd circled them, commenting on the winner and his possibilities. Atherton dismounted, handed over the reins to the stable lad, and left to change in the jockeys’ room. Jack noticed he was holding his stomach.

There was a ripple of applause as Jack’s name echoed over the loudspeaker. He came toward the ring, leading the horse, and a minute later found Ginger Jones, his stable lad, at his elbow.

“Mr. Cobb, sir.” Ginger was agitated. “You’d best come into the changing room. Mr. Atherton’s that sick. They’ve called a doctor.”

Jack felt sick himself. Atherton should never have been riding. He was a sick man! Why hadn’t Chester noticed his condition? He himself should have stepped in and stopped the horse from running. Cobb remembered how silent and withdrawn Atherton had been all morning. Inside the dressing room a small circle stood about Atherton. His long legs were doubled up, and he was writhing in pain on the floor. A man, quite obviously the doctor, knelt beside him. The physician was injecting something into his arm. Atherton kept moaning, his pain plainly apparent.

The doctor looked up. “Who’s with this gentleman?”

“I am,” said Chester soberly. “We came from Sussex. Can he be moved tonight?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” replied the doctor. “He ought to be in a hospital. I understand he has an ulcer, and he’s probably bleeding. In any event, he’s far from a well man.”

Atherton’s valet, a rather ancient character who always showed up whenever he rode, came into the room. “The track ambulance is here, doctor,” he said in his aged voice.

“Good. I can get him into the Weybridge Hospital, I think. Just let me go to the phone. If this is what I think it is, he’ll be there at least a month.”

Jack looked over at Chester across the dissolving circle, as the valet and two grooms came in with the ambulance stretcher. Neither spoke. Chester’s head shook as he followed the stretcher, his concern plainly visible. This man, thought Jack, had risked his life by riding that day. How had he managed to stay on Quicksilver? He felt responsible. And now what? The Cheltenham Gold Cup loomed up ahead. Who was there to ride him? What would happen to Quicksilver at this crucial moment in the long, arduous journey to the National? First the horse, then the jockey.

At this moment Tony Hunting entered the room, wiping his sweat-stained forehead and standing aside as Atherton was carried out. He looked around the crowd of serious faces before him and came directly up to Jack Cobb.

“Mr. Cobb, that horse rides like a Bentley. I know because I rode him daily for six weeks. If things go badly for Mr. Atherton and you find yourself in need of a jockey, I do wish you’d consider me. I’d give anything to have a go on him at Cheltenham.”

T
HERE WERE FIVE
of them in the Robinsons’ living room, all trying to decide on Quicksilver’s jockey: Chester and Jack; Doctor Sanders, who as stable vet was taking part in the discussion; one of Chester’s secretaries, a pleasant-looking English girl; and the head groom. The argument over who should ride Quicksilver at Cheltenham had become acute. Cobb wore a harried look. The head lad sat twisting his cap in his lap and turning it in his hands. Doctor Sanders seemed anxious that everyone realize how much he knew about horses. His black bag was beside him on the floor; atop it was his cloth hat.

“Suppose I just give him a ring to see whether he’s available,” Chester said.

The group had been conferring for over an hour and were no nearer a decision than they had been when they began. Chester left the room for several minutes and came back shaking his head. “Isn’t free. He’s promised to Sir Douglas McIntosh.”

“Bad luck that.”

“May I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Certainly, Henderson. Speak up.”

“What about that lad, Rex Benway? I know Sanders thinks well of him.”

“You couldn’t do better, Mr. Cobb,” interjected the vet. “’Course, he’s a former stable lad—nothing swell about him—but I’ve found that he invariably comes through in a crisis. Known him now for some time. You might say I started him riding.”

“I know Benway,” said Chester. “Too inexperienced. But there’s always this man Stevenson.”

“Stevenson’s free all right. Indeed yes, let out by Waverly Stable last month. He’s got a rotten bad temper. Can’t count on him.”

“Ah, I didn’t know that,” responded Chester.

The vet appeared to know everyone in racing circles, and he had a reason that ruled out each man who was brought up except for his own protégé. Indeed, they could end up with nobody, Jack feared. All the best jockeys were either attached to various stables or had been booked by trainers. What a shame Atherton couldn’t ride the horse, Jack reflected. They were in a desperate fix, and it was late to be choosey.

At last Cobb made a suggestion. “Well now, what about young Hunting?”

Distaste spread over the vet’s face, and he answered with considerable scorn in his voice. “A boy of twenty-two, twenty-three? Entrust that great horse to a mere boy? Why, it’s unthinkable.”

“He happens to be twenty-six. My son won the most important steeplechase in the United States when he was twenty-two.”

Sanders’ upper lip curled ever so slightly. Plainly he considered a race at the Maryland Hunt Club in somewhat the same category as a race in Madagascar. “No comparison. What’s this boy ever done? I saw him ride in Hampshire last autumn. Didn’t like the way he handled his mount, not at all.”

“How did he finish?” asked Jack quietly.

The vet paused a moment before he spoke, trying to be casual. “Don’t remember. He placed, I believe. I’m not sure. But he wasn’t impressive, not at all.” Doctor Sanders refused to look at Jack. Quite evidently he felt his professional judgment was being challenged. Friction pervaded the room.

Chester in his good-natured way intervened. “Fact is, we haven’t a great deal of choice at this late date. Why not state your reasons for picking young Hunting, Mr. Cobb?”

Jack immediately sat forward in his chair. “I will. First, we haven’t many choices. Second, although Tony Hunting does lack racing experience, he’s a bold rider. Third, Hunting rode Quicksilver every day while he was at their stable. They have a rapport that I feel is important.”

At this point Sanders exploded. “A rapport! What on earth is that? Can he ride?”

Cobb took no notice of the vet, but continued to address himself to Chester. “This afternoon we’ve considered a dozen men, and for one reason or another none seemed suitable. Why not ask Atherton? He’s ridden against young Hunting in a race. Can we talk to him on the phone in that hospital in Weybridge?”

“Yes, I was on to him yesterday.”

Cobb sat back in his chair. “Good enough. Tell you what. I’ll be governed by what he says. Suppose we try him and get his honest opinion.”

Chester rose. “Very well, I’ll call straight away.” He left the room, trailed by his secretary.

The vet leaned over, picked up his cloth hat, which he clapped on his head, took up his black bag, and stood up. His expression plainly said that there was no doing anything with owners, especially American owners. Out loud, however, he remarked, “I really must be off. Due back at surgery in twenty minutes. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Good afternoon to you, Mr. Cobb, and the best of luck. You’ll surely need it if you put up with that young man from Cambridge.” With barely a nod around the room he was gone.

The head lad rose awkwardly, twisting his cap in his fingers and murmuring something about looking in at the stable. Then he, too, vanished.

It’s come down to the end of the road, Jack thought. A tough decision, and all mine.

Violet Robinson entered with a tray set for tea. She hesitated and stood with the tray in her hands in the open doorway. “Why, Mr. Cobb, you’re alone. Where’s everyone gone? I’ve got tea for five.”

Jack had to prod himself into replying. “Chester has gone to telephone Atherton. Miss Crane is with him. The head lad is off to the stable. The vet had to return to see clients. That leaves only me.”

“Never mind,” she said, coming into the room and setting down the tea tray. She pulled out a chair. “Have you picked out a jockey for your horse yet?”

He shook his head gloomily. “No,” he said. “We haven’t.” He rose and took the extended cup. “Seems to come down to what jockey has the least against him. Personally, I rather lean toward Hunting, but the vet says he’s too young.”

“Mr. Cobb, you must be aware that Doctor Sanders is frightfully jealous. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Mrs. Robinson, I believe in the young. Those aren’t just words either. My boy was racing at sixteen. If the young are solid, you can throw responsibility at them and they usually measure up to it. Think of those pilots years ago in the Battle of Britain, for instance.”

“Yes,” she replied crisply. “If it weren’t for those young men, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. I was a tiny girl at the time, but I remember. I also remember when Chester’s father was ill. Chester was quite young then; he couldn’t possibly run the stables. He didn’t have any experience, he didn’t know horses, and so on. We had some unpleasant moments, especially with an overdraft at the bank, and no way of meeting it. But he took over the place, he made mistakes and learned fast, and now we’re solvent.”