good for him! I'd like to break his neck. I'd sooner pull out of races than put that cocky sod up again.'
'Still, you won't have to, will you? I know that Matt Garside is almost fully fit, and the grapevine says you've engaged Liam Jenkins for the Fontwell meeting.'
'That's as maybe.' Kath's eyes flashed. 'But Dragon Slayer should have won the National. It's all that fucking hard work wasted that breaks my heart. And letting the horse down. He was up for it, Drew. You know it. The whole bloody racing world knew it. And Somerset fucking blew it.'
Drew, not wanting to be sucked into the long-running argument, merely nodded. He peeled himself from the red-hot wall and walked across the yard. Dragon Slayer, his nearly-black head poking inquisitively over the door of his box, rolled his eyes in anticipation. 'Spoiled brat.' Drew stroked his bony nose, admiring the race-winning physique. 'I fed all my titbits to Solomon before I left.'
'He's looking for carrots.' Kath had joined him. 'And he's not having any until tea-time.' Her eyes were soft, as she fondled the horse. She produced a packet of Polos from her pocket, smiling as Dragon Slayer snuffled and crunched. 'It's not fair on him, poor baby. He loves the sport. He'd done so well at Cheltenham – and don't,' the eyes flashed again, 'tell me that there's always next year. It's a bloody lifetime away!'
'I know how you feel. I'd really like to have a shot at it myself next year, but nothing I've got in the yard at the moment will be up to scratch, that's for sure. I've got some good jumpers and a couple of out-and-out stayers – but not the magical combination of the two like this boy.' He cast covetous eyes over Dragon Slayer's seventeen hands of pure power and sighed. 'If you do hear of anyone, I'd be really grateful if you'd let me know. Failing that, I'll just have to hope some gambling-mad lottery winner decides to push their latest acquisition my way, and it turns out to be a cross between Red Rum and Arkle.'
Kath laughed. 'Dream on! No one gets those sort of horses in the real world! And – if you did – I trust you wouldn't leave it to the mercies of Somerset.'
'Charlie's a great horseman,' Drew protested. 'The best. Look, I know you're disappointed, but it was an accident. Accidents happen.'
'Yes, of course they do. Except that wasn't an accident. That was sheer bloody incompetence – and I'll prove it.' She stood with her hands on her hips and jutted her chin forward. 'Tell you what, I'll throw down a challenge now. I'll try and find an owner for you and next year we'll go for it. Aintree. The Grand National. Dragon Slayer and Matt Garside against whatever nag you can train-on and bloody Charlie Somerset. Call it your swan-song if you like. Your last tilt at the windmill before you join the prissy-flat Newmarket brigade. I'll beat you bloody hollow, Fitzgerald. A grand on it?'
Drew winced. Maddy would probably kill him. He shook Kath's thin, calloused hand. 'Okay. You're on.'
Walking back along the dusty curve of Milton St John's main road, Drew inhaled the silence. Sunday morning was still Sunday morning here. Maureen's Munchy Bar was closed. Bronwyn Pugh hadn't bowed to the gods of capitalism and gone in for a seven-day opening of the Village Stores yet; the Cat and Fiddle still only opened for the pre-Sunday-lunch drinkers then shut its doors for the post-Sunday-lunch snoozers; cars were washed and lawns mowed.
A string of glossy thoroughbreds clip-clopped their way along the street, hindquarters swaying, heads up, knowing they were gorgeous, like contestants in a beauty pageant. John Hastings' last lot coming back from their Sunday-morning work-out on the gallops, Drew knew, recognising the individual horses even without the distinctive monogrammed rugs. The stable lads in the saddle grinned at him and touched their crash hats. He acknowledged them with a smile.
John Hastings was one of Milton St John's premier flat trainers. His yard would be one of
'Still, you won't have to, will you? I know that Matt Garside is almost fully fit, and the grapevine says you've engaged Liam Jenkins for the Fontwell meeting.'
'That's as maybe.' Kath's eyes flashed. 'But Dragon Slayer should have won the National. It's all that fucking hard work wasted that breaks my heart. And letting the horse down. He was up for it, Drew. You know it. The whole bloody racing world knew it. And Somerset fucking blew it.'
Drew, not wanting to be sucked into the long-running argument, merely nodded. He peeled himself from the red-hot wall and walked across the yard. Dragon Slayer, his nearly-black head poking inquisitively over the door of his box, rolled his eyes in anticipation. 'Spoiled brat.' Drew stroked his bony nose, admiring the race-winning physique. 'I fed all my titbits to Solomon before I left.'
'He's looking for carrots.' Kath had joined him. 'And he's not having any until tea-time.' Her eyes were soft, as she fondled the horse. She produced a packet of Polos from her pocket, smiling as Dragon Slayer snuffled and crunched. 'It's not fair on him, poor baby. He loves the sport. He'd done so well at Cheltenham – and don't,' the eyes flashed again, 'tell me that there's always next year. It's a bloody lifetime away!'
'I know how you feel. I'd really like to have a shot at it myself next year, but nothing I've got in the yard at the moment will be up to scratch, that's for sure. I've got some good jumpers and a couple of out-and-out stayers – but not the magical combination of the two like this boy.' He cast covetous eyes over Dragon Slayer's seventeen hands of pure power and sighed. 'If you do hear of anyone, I'd be really grateful if you'd let me know. Failing that, I'll just have to hope some gambling-mad lottery winner decides to push their latest acquisition my way, and it turns out to be a cross between Red Rum and Arkle.'
Kath laughed. 'Dream on! No one gets those sort of horses in the real world! And – if you did – I trust you wouldn't leave it to the mercies of Somerset.'
'Charlie's a great horseman,' Drew protested. 'The best. Look, I know you're disappointed, but it was an accident. Accidents happen.'
'Yes, of course they do. Except that wasn't an accident. That was sheer bloody incompetence – and I'll prove it.' She stood with her hands on her hips and jutted her chin forward. 'Tell you what, I'll throw down a challenge now. I'll try and find an owner for you and next year we'll go for it. Aintree. The Grand National. Dragon Slayer and Matt Garside against whatever nag you can train-on and bloody Charlie Somerset. Call it your swan-song if you like. Your last tilt at the windmill before you join the prissy-flat Newmarket brigade. I'll beat you bloody hollow, Fitzgerald. A grand on it?'
Drew winced. Maddy would probably kill him. He shook Kath's thin, calloused hand. 'Okay. You're on.'
Walking back along the dusty curve of Milton St John's main road, Drew inhaled the silence. Sunday morning was still Sunday morning here. Maureen's Munchy Bar was closed. Bronwyn Pugh hadn't bowed to the gods of capitalism and gone in for a seven-day opening of the Village Stores yet; the Cat and Fiddle still only opened for the pre-Sunday-lunch drinkers then shut its doors for the post-Sunday-lunch snoozers; cars were washed and lawns mowed.
A string of glossy thoroughbreds clip-clopped their way along the street, hindquarters swaying, heads up, knowing they were gorgeous, like contestants in a beauty pageant. John Hastings' last lot coming back from their Sunday-morning work-out on the gallops, Drew knew, recognising the individual horses even without the distinctive monogrammed rugs. The stable lads in the saddle grinned at him and touched their crash hats. He acknowledged them with a smile.
John Hastings was one of Milton St John's premier flat trainers. His yard would be one of
Similar Books
