Fringe was younger, whippier and less predictable than Drifter: rock music in place of classical. I gathered the reins and lengthened the stirrup leathers a couple of holes while Fringe made prancing movements, getting used to his new and heavier rider.
‘Take him down below the three flights of hurdles,’ Tremayne said, ‘then bring him up over them at a useful pace. You’re not actually racing. Just a good half-speed gallop. Bob Watson will be with you for company. Fringe jumps well enough but he likes guidance. He’ll waver if you don’t tell him when to take off. Don’t forget, it’s you that’s schooling the horse, not the other way round. All ready?’
I nodded.
‘Off you go, then.’
He seemed unconcerned at letting me loose on his half-share investment and I tried telling myself that ahead lay merely a quick pop over three undemanding obstacles, not the first searching test of my chances of racing. I’d ridden over many jumps before, but never on a racehorse, never fast, never caring so much about the outcome. Almost without being aware of it I’d progressed from the hesitancy of my first few days there to a strong positive desire to go down to the starting gate: any starting gate, anywhere. I had to admit that I envied Sam and Nolan.
Bob was circling on his own horse, waiting for me. Both his horse and Fringe, aware they would be jumping, were stimulated and keen.
‘Guv’nor says you’re to set off on the side nearest him,’ Bob said briefly. ‘He wants to see what you’re doing.’
I nodded, slightly dry-mouthed. Bob expertly trotted his mount into position, gave me a raised-eye query about readiness and kicked forward into an accelerating gallop. Fringe took up his position alongside with familiarity and eagerness, an athlete doing what he’d been bred for, and enjoyed.
First hurdle ahead. Judge the distance... give Fringe the message to shorten his stride... I gave it to him too successfully, he put in a quick one, got too near the hurdle, hopped over it nearly at a standstill, lost lengths on Bob.
Damn, I thought.
Second hurdle, managed it a bit better, gave him the signal three strides from the jump, felt him lift off at the right time, felt his assurance flow back and his faith in me revive, even if provisionally.
Third hurdle, I left him too much to his own devices as the distance was awkward. I couldn’t make up my own mind whether to get him to lengthen or shorten and in consequence I didn’t make his mind up to do either and we floundered over it untidily, his hooves rapping the wooden frames, my weight too far forward... a mess.
We pulled up at the end of the schooling stretch and trotted back to where Tremayne stood with his binoculars. I didn’t look at Bob; didn’t want to see his disapproval, all too wretchedly aware that I hadn’t done very well.
Tremayne with pursed lips offered no direct opinion.
Instead he said, ‘Second pop, Bob. Off you go,’ and I gathered we were to go back to the beginning and start again.
I seemed to have more time to get things together the second time and Fringe stayed beside Bob fairly smoothly to the end. I felt exalted and released and newly alive in myself, but also I’d watched Sam Yaeger in a schooling session one morning and knew the difference.
Tremayne said nothing until we were driving back to the stable and then all he did was ask me if I were happy with what I’d done. Happy beyond expression in one way, I thought, but not in another. I knew for certain I wanted to race. Knew I had elementary skill.
‘I’ll learn,’ I said grimly, and he didn’t answer.
When we reached the house, however, he rummaged about in the office for a while complaining that he could never find anything on Dee-Dee’s days off and eventually brought a paper into the dining-room, plonked it on the table and instructed me to sign.
It was, I saw, an application for a permit to race as an amateur jockey. I signed it without speaking, incredibly delighted, grinning like a maniac.
Tremayne grunted and bore the document away, coming back presently to say I should stop working and go with him to Newbury races, if I didn’t mind. Also Mackie would be coming with us and we’d be picking up Fiona.
‘And frankly,’ he said, coming to the essence of the matter, ‘those two don’t want to go without you, and Harry wants you to be there and... well... so do I.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘Good.’
He departed again and, after a moment’s thought, I went into the office to put through a call to Doone’s police station. He was off duty, I was told. I could leave my name and a message.
I left my name.
‘Ask him,’ I said, ‘why the floorboards in the boat-house didn’t float.’
‘Er... would you repeat that, sir?’
I repeated it and got it read back with scepticism.
‘That’s right,’ I confirmed, amused. ‘Don’t forget it.’
We went to the races and watched Nolan ride Fiona’s horse Groundsel and get beaten by a length into second place, and we watched Sam ride two of Tremayne’s runners unprofitably and then win for another trainer.
