me!’
‘Relax.’
‘Untie me, you bastard!’
He walked across to her and made to untie her wrist. Then he kissed her instead. ‘Don’t go away.’
He could still hear her muffled shouts as he walked down the corridor to call the lift.
He met up with Mike Ruddy at the Pillars of Hercules on Greek Street in Soho. It was a smoky joint padded out with tired professionals and creative types. Ruddy said he’d rented a tiny office around the corner and was in the process of equipping it. So far he had a telephone, a desk with no chair and a paintbrush. Duncan suspected he was living there.
When Duncan arrived at the pub, Ruddy was already three quarters of the way down a mug of bitter. At the table with him but drinking white wine was Aaron Palmer, the senior jockey who’d also thrown in his lot with Ruddy. Ruddy crowed at Duncan’s arrival and scuttled off to get him a glass of wine and another beer for himself. The two jockeys nodded at each other.
‘He managed to talk you into it too?’ Duncan said, glancing round. All jockeys had a habit of checking out the faces seated about them in a bar. Just in case they might say something that could be misconstrued – or correctly construed – as inside information.
‘Ah, fuck it,’ said Palmer.
Palmer was thirty-eight. He was already cruising to retirement. With most jump jockeys retiring around the age of thirty-five, he maybe had a couple more seasons left. Unlike flat jockeys, who were more likely to ride until they were fifty, jump jockeys started to feel the pain of hitting the ground at thirty miles per hour on a regular basis. About one in every ten rides you ended up with your face in the wet grass, hugging your ribs. You could see that Palmer had lost his appetite for mud pie. In the Weighing Room some of the jockeys called him the Monk, not just because he had a severe haircut like a tonsure, but also because he was a loner with an intense stare.
Duncan wondered if sticking at a job for long enough changed your face. He’d seen fishmongers who looked at you like a haddock on a marble slab. Palmer had a ridiculously long, thin horse-face, which made you wonder if he’d started out like that. He also had a habit of chewing on nothing at all. He had everything but the bridle and the blaze.
‘So how did he talk you round?’ Palmer wanted to know.
‘I’m still not sure. Plus I didn’t already have an agent.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Lad with your talents.’
‘I can’t bite my tongue.’
‘Then get a tongue-tie.’
‘Ha.’
‘I rode a couple of times for your dad, you know.’
‘I know.’
Palmer glanced right and left. Then he slowly leaned across the table and spoke very quietly. ‘I don’t know what went down that time. But I know what I know and Charlie was always a straight shooter.’
‘It’s good to hear you say that. Not everyone thinks so.’
‘I know what I know. And so do others.’
Ruddy came back with the round of drinks. Wine for Duncan. ‘You’ve no idea what a relief it is,’ he said, ‘to drink as much beer as you like. What are you two talking about?’
Palmer looked at him with glittering eyes. ‘Up Your Bum to win the three thirty at Buggertown. Cheers.’
Yes, one or two big-time trainers hadn’t liked it when Charlie had begun to do well. Not least because Charlie wasn’t one to mince words. That was where Duncan had got it from. Charlie served it straight up. If he thought someone was a liar or a cheat, he told them. He said: I don’t care if the mare is in foal or the stallion breaks its neck, a liar is a liar and a cheat is a cheat. He’d taught Duncan to speak straight, too.
But what he’d failed to teach Duncan was that you couldn’t do that in horse racing any more than you could do it at the town hall hustings. Eventually the liars and the cheats and the knaves would move against you.
While Duncan was at Penderton, Charlie was having his best year. But maybe he was doing too well. He
‘Relax.’
‘Untie me, you bastard!’
He walked across to her and made to untie her wrist. Then he kissed her instead. ‘Don’t go away.’
He could still hear her muffled shouts as he walked down the corridor to call the lift.
He met up with Mike Ruddy at the Pillars of Hercules on Greek Street in Soho. It was a smoky joint padded out with tired professionals and creative types. Ruddy said he’d rented a tiny office around the corner and was in the process of equipping it. So far he had a telephone, a desk with no chair and a paintbrush. Duncan suspected he was living there.
When Duncan arrived at the pub, Ruddy was already three quarters of the way down a mug of bitter. At the table with him but drinking white wine was Aaron Palmer, the senior jockey who’d also thrown in his lot with Ruddy. Ruddy crowed at Duncan’s arrival and scuttled off to get him a glass of wine and another beer for himself. The two jockeys nodded at each other.
‘He managed to talk you into it too?’ Duncan said, glancing round. All jockeys had a habit of checking out the faces seated about them in a bar. Just in case they might say something that could be misconstrued – or correctly construed – as inside information.
‘Ah, fuck it,’ said Palmer.
Palmer was thirty-eight. He was already cruising to retirement. With most jump jockeys retiring around the age of thirty-five, he maybe had a couple more seasons left. Unlike flat jockeys, who were more likely to ride until they were fifty, jump jockeys started to feel the pain of hitting the ground at thirty miles per hour on a regular basis. About one in every ten rides you ended up with your face in the wet grass, hugging your ribs. You could see that Palmer had lost his appetite for mud pie. In the Weighing Room some of the jockeys called him the Monk, not just because he had a severe haircut like a tonsure, but also because he was a loner with an intense stare.
Duncan wondered if sticking at a job for long enough changed your face. He’d seen fishmongers who looked at you like a haddock on a marble slab. Palmer had a ridiculously long, thin horse-face, which made you wonder if he’d started out like that. He also had a habit of chewing on nothing at all. He had everything but the bridle and the blaze.
‘So how did he talk you round?’ Palmer wanted to know.
‘I’m still not sure. Plus I didn’t already have an agent.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Lad with your talents.’
‘I can’t bite my tongue.’
‘Then get a tongue-tie.’
‘Ha.’
‘I rode a couple of times for your dad, you know.’
‘I know.’
Palmer glanced right and left. Then he slowly leaned across the table and spoke very quietly. ‘I don’t know what went down that time. But I know what I know and Charlie was always a straight shooter.’
‘It’s good to hear you say that. Not everyone thinks so.’
‘I know what I know. And so do others.’
Ruddy came back with the round of drinks. Wine for Duncan. ‘You’ve no idea what a relief it is,’ he said, ‘to drink as much beer as you like. What are you two talking about?’
Palmer looked at him with glittering eyes. ‘Up Your Bum to win the three thirty at Buggertown. Cheers.’
Yes, one or two big-time trainers hadn’t liked it when Charlie had begun to do well. Not least because Charlie wasn’t one to mince words. That was where Duncan had got it from. Charlie served it straight up. If he thought someone was a liar or a cheat, he told them. He said: I don’t care if the mare is in foal or the stallion breaks its neck, a liar is a liar and a cheat is a cheat. He’d taught Duncan to speak straight, too.
But what he’d failed to teach Duncan was that you couldn’t do that in horse racing any more than you could do it at the town hall hustings. Eventually the liars and the cheats and the knaves would move against you.
While Duncan was at Penderton, Charlie was having his best year. But maybe he was doing too well. He
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