Night Storm the Flat-Racer, page 1
Night Storm the Flat-Racer
Hazel M Peel
Contents
Hazel M Peel and the Leysham Stud Series
1. The First String
2. Leysham Stud
3. Trials
4. Dido
5. The Two Thousand Guineas
6. Night Encounter
7. The Colt
8. Working Hard
9. The St Leger
10. Autumn
Some words explained
Also by Hazel M Peel
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
Jane Badger Books
FOR
JOSEPHINE AND GORDON SAUNDERS
These steeds are sprung from no common race,
Their vigour seems to annihilate space,
What hast thou brought me here to see?
Ashtaroth, ADAM LINDSAY GORDON
Hazel M Peel and the Leysham Stud Series
Hazel M Peel (1930–2013) was born in Stratford in London, but the family moved to Leicester when World War II broke out. Hazel’s family were not well off, and she did errands to be able to afford the occasional riding lesson, cycling five miles to get to the riding stables she described as “grotty”. She left school at fourteen, and started work at the age of fifteen in a livery stables near Grimsby. The stables were an inspiration, but her digs were anything but. Food was still rationed, and Hazel didn’t get much of what there was. She said, “I was driven to trying to eat the horses’ food. Ever been that hungry when growing and doing hard physical labour? I vowed I would never be hungry again when adult and no one, NO ONE would ever shove me around. They haven’t either.”
Hazel kept moving round different stables to learn, working with hunters, point-to-pointers and show jumpers, all of which provided plenty of material for her Leysham Stud series. Its heroes, Ann and Jim Henderson, decide to start a stud dedicated to breeding what we would now call sport horses. This they do with a remarkable success that would be the envy of any stud operating now: everything they touch seems to turn to gold, whatever discipline they try. They have the secret of producing incredibly successful polo ponies, trotters, racehorses, show jumpers, and eventers.
The stories were written to educate as well as inform, and so they give us a good idea of the horse and sporting world of the 1960s. Smoking was commonplace, and widely advertised in print, radio and television. Flat races then were started at a tape, in the same way National Hunt racing is now. The classics mentioned (the Two Thousand Guineas, the Derby and the St Leger) were run on Wednesdays: all are now run on Saturdays. Gay Bachelor was a perfectly acceptable name for a racehorse.
Judo, which both Ann and Jim practise, has a different grading system now to the one that is talked about in the book.
Whatever the differences, the books reflect Hazel’s determination, and her desire to get the best out of any horse she came across.
Night Storm the Flat-Racer comes before Dido and Rogue, whose equine heroes are mentioned in this story. Dido and Rogue is also published by Jane Badger Books. The full series is:
* * *
Pilot the Hunter
Pilot the Chaser
Easter the Show Jumper
Night Storm the Flat Racer
Dido and Rogue
Darius the Three Day Eventer
Untamed
1
The First String
THE BLACK COLT halted, switched his tail, and reared. With forelegs waving, he teetered on his hocks, thudded down on to the short grass, and bucked.
The stable-lad swayed in the saddle. His small hands lost contact with the colt’s mouth, his shoes slipped out of the stirrup-irons, and his trousers flapped as he leaned forward and grabbed the black mane for balance.
The colt bucked again, muscles tense under his skin, nerves quivering, tail flailing. Four black feet ripped the grass in jagged divots; four black legs with white socks stamped in fury. Flattening his ears, the colt lifted his head and for two seconds stood still. The white blaze on his head shone out, a furrow of brilliance against the gleaming black hairs; the intelligent eyes rolled in anger at the discipline of bit and rein; the silky hairs of the black tail fluttered in the breeze like a flag.
The colt grabbed the bit to fight again, but the stable-lad had taken advantage of the lull. His feet were firmly home in the stirrups; his knees gripped the saddle-flaps; and his fingers and wrists transmitted orders along the reins.
Arching his neck at the poll, the black colt walked forward. His stride was arrogant, his body full of pride, his senses alert for the slightest inattention from the lad. For a second the small ears came forward and the horse’s head lost its fierce, almost savage look. Flaring his large nostrils, he ground on the bit, white flecks of foam flying backward over the lad’s trousers.
The eight racehorses moved forward together in an uneven line towards the tape to practise racing starts. The trainer nodded to his headman, and the tapes rose.
This was too much for the black colt. The cold nip in the air, the nervous tension flowing from the lad on his back, and the close proximity of seven other fit and excitable thoroughbreds together made an explosive situation.
The final spark to detonate the equestrian bomb was applied when the lad touched the colt’s flank roughly with his right shoe. The heel nudge was electric—the bomb exploded.
Night Storm, the fiery black colt from the Leysham Stud, reared high, clawing for the early-morning sky. He stretched upright like some giant ballet dancer, then launched himself up and out in a fly-jump. He crashed back down to earth, bucking hard, muscles, nerves, and tendons united in the effort to remove the lad from his back.
The boy fought to retain his seat, but the colt’s actions were too quick. Flinging out his right arm, the boy let go, sailed through the air, then crumpled heavily and rolled on the grass in a breathless heap.
Free at last, the black colt thrust down with his hocks and bolted. The empty stirrup-irons clanged at his flanks; his flowing gallop was punctuated with sideways kicks of delight.
Henry Matthew, trainer and former flat-race jockey, sat on his well-trained hack eyeing the crestfallen lad for possible injury. His small jockey’s body was only just starting to run to fat, but his face was lean and free of wrinkles. He wore thick trousers and jacket against the morning cold, his hands protected by string gloves and his slightly balding head covered with a brown peaked cap. It was his face and eyes that held people: brown, stern eyes which rarely smiled, and a red, severe face with thin, tight lips and pinched nostrils. He looked down in annoyance at the lad as he scrambled to his feet, then turned and looked at the dancing thoroughbreds which constituted his first string. Always excitable, they were even more upset now after the black colt’s display of fight. The trainer swung round in the saddle, raised an inquiring eyebrow at the girl by his side, and said:
“Would you like to catch him, Mrs Henderson?”
Ann Henderson’s face was red with excitement. She had become cold sitting on her horse and longed for some activity. Her thick, fawn jodhpurs, brown jacket, and boots had not been sufficient to keep her warm, and she was shivering. Her blue eyes sparkled at the trainer’s question, and when she nodded a fair curl bobbed from under her riding-cap. She was a tall girl, long-legged, with a good figure, and an open, honest face. At times her blue eyes could stare with distracting coldness, but now, at the prospect of fast riding, they shone warmly.
She released the reins of Pilot, her piebald gelding and Grand National winner, and they galloped after the colt. The great piebald’s eyes flattened as his iron legs hammered the grass. His massive shoulders slid like well-oiled pistons as the famous horse released his body into the superb gallop which had won him the crown of steeplechasing.
Ann’s fair hair whipped round her cap as she stood in the stirrups, weight out of the saddle, her body swaying in time to the horse’s gait. Her sensitive fingers gripped the red nylon reins, the dull gold of her wedding-ring gleaming in the sun’s first rays.
The air was still frosty, and tears came into her eyes as she breathed quickly and, leaning forward, spoke to the horse. One ear twitched in acknowledgment, and the gelding accelerated even faster. Looking down Ann could see the grass only as a blur, as the horse’s legs thrashed the turf in a low rumble. Ann’s lean, fit body crouched lower to minimize wind resistance, until girl and horse were fused into one incredible running machine.
The two-mile stretch of turf ended, and, sitting back in the saddle, Ann felt on the reins, touched the horse with her calves, and the piebald obediently decreased his speed. Ann halted her horse and looked over at Night Storm.
She swung out of the saddle, looped Pilot’s reins over a bush, and walked towards the colt. The black colt raised his head higher and snorted dubiously, the white blaze brilliant, the eyes bold and wary. The small, delicate ears flickered uncertainly, the nostrils flared, then he caught the girl’s scent. The ears pointed forward in interest, the head lowered, and he nickered.
Ann stood still and spoke to the animal while she slowly removed some lumps of sugar from her coat pocket.
The colt eyed the girl for another few seconds, then made up his mind. The sugar lump was too tempting, and he stepped forward. Apart from the bribe, he also felt the strong pull of affinity which existed between himself and the girl—the gift that some fortunate people have, and which horses recognize instantly.
Night Storm stepped up to Ann, gently removed the lump of sugar, and rubbed his head agai
Night Storm followed. During his three years of life he had known nothing but firm kindness from the girl and her husband. Their scents were associated with food and warm stables, with petting and understanding. The Hendersons’ patient, unhurried handling had meant that a proud animal had been broken and backed without loss of spirit.
The strict training and discipline of the flat-race trainer’s yard were not connected with the Hendersons. The black colt, potential flat-race horse and proud fighter, placidly waited while Ann swung herself back into the saddle. Then he trotted smoothly alongside the piebald gelding.
The trainer narrowed his eyes as the girl and the two horses approached, and he examined the colt from poll to tail for any injury. When satisfied about this he turned his attention to Ann. He appreciated her upright carriage, her gentle hands, the tilt of her head, and the obvious communion between herself and her horse. She did more than ride a horse; in some strange way she seemed to fuse with him. Now, if only some of his stable-lads rode like that!
“Did you have any trouble?” he asked Ann, as she swung out of the saddle and stood holding the two sets of reins.
Ann shook her head. “He was very good—trotted along beside Pilot nice and quietly.”
Henry Matthew grunted to himself. He looked down at the nervous Jimmy Green, standing miserably to one side. He could see the boy’s fright, and he had sense enough to realize that his shy, nervous temperament was highly unsuited for such a strong, pugnacious animal as the black colt.
The trainer looked around at the other lads who were walking their horses up and down, awaiting his orders. His quick mind made a rapid inventory of each boy’s capabilities. Martin Young was small, but he had a steady temperament, and at twenty-two years had had considerable experience of riding thoroughbred horses. His hands were poor, though, and lacked sympathy with an animal’s soft mouth.
Sandy Williams at twenty did not have quite so much riding experience but he did have a firm seat and natural hands. Yet the trainer was not too happy with his easy-going, spontaneous nature and he failed to see how this boy would handle Night Storm. In a crisis he envisaged the black colt doing just what he liked while Sandy Williams sat back and enjoyed the fight just for the hell of it.
The trainer’s eye rested thoughtfully on Harry Saunders. At twenty-two he was probably the most experienced rider among them, having had a number of successful wins in public. But Henry Matthew frowned as he stared at the lad. He was a good rider, with plenty of dash and courage, but he was unpopular with his colleagues. His nature was cold, at times even spiteful, and the trainer knew that sudden temper on a wild colt could be disastrous.
He hesitated again, selecting, debating, weighing up the pros and cons. Among these lads there had to be one who was capable of riding the black colt at regular exercise, and perhaps of partnering him in actual races as well.
The trainer bent down, beckoned to his headman, and spoke in a low tone. His sentences were short, blunt, and to the point. His manner of speech and tone of voice hid an inferiority complex acquired as a young lad, although few people understood this. He had the reputation of being outspoken to the point of rudeness, and had never been popular either with his fellow-jockeys or with the public. But his skill as a jockey, his flair for riding a close finish, had enabled him to make a lot of money and to pick and choose those stables, out of many hundreds, who wished to avail themselves of his services. But he was a lonely, friendless man. Too many people were afraid of his acid tongue, too few took the trouble to look beneath the brittle mask of his face. Yet even with his harsh reputation, stable-lads and apprentices clamoured for jobs under his supervision: his world-wide fame in flat-racing, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the thoroughbred racehorse, made him an ideal teacher.
The headman, John Holden, nodded at the instructions. He was another short, stocky man who at fifty-five was getting distinctly fat. Popular with the stable-lads, he acted as a buffer between them and the trainer, though at times he too was a stem disciplinarian. A first-class, loyal, and valuable assistant to the trainer, with vast stable knowledge and understanding of horses, he neither liked nor disliked Henry Matthew, but rubbed along with him in a casual way which suited both of them.
John Holden turned and called sharply to Harry Saunders while the trainer backed his horse a few paces and listened to his lieutenant issuing the orders. Jimmy Green changed on to Harry Saunders’s horse, while the older, more experienced boy vaulted on to Night Storm’s back.
“Right! Try ‘em again under the tapes!”
The black colt prepared to fight. His fiery temper rose as he felt the weight on his back and the legs clamped against his ribs. Harry Saunders sat still, a hand resting on the black neck, his cold eyes gauging the colt’s mood by the direction of the black ears.
The eight thoroughbreds moved forward in a line to practise jumping out from under the tapes in a racing start. Ann swung back into Pilot’s saddle and edged him nearer to the trainer. She shot a glance at the man’s stern face, then sat silent and watchful. She was eager to learn about a side of riding with which she was unfamiliar, but she was also conscious that few trainers tolerated spectators at their dawn exercises, and she had no wish to be sent away. Henry Matthew nodded to John Holden. The tapes rose, and eight highly excited horses poured forward, cantering strongly, fighting for their heads, keen to gallop and race. The trainer again gave one of his non-committal grunts and was suddenly aware of the girl at his side on the big piebald horse. A twinkle came into his eyes, the stern expression relaxed, and a smile appeared. There was something so winning about this girl. Perhaps it came from the keenness which she showed in getting up so early on a cold morning, it might be her genuine enthusiasm for riding a horse, it could even be her frank, bold, and honest nature which appealed to him, but the trainer knew he liked her company. The colt Night Storm did belong to her and her husband, and the girl was so in tune with horses, so obviously interested, that he unbent further. Backing his hack, he started talking to her.
“You see, Mrs Henderson, it’s very important that the young racehorse is never allowed to shy away from the tapes when he first sees them. Once he gets that idea into his head, he becomes a menace. That’s why I never hurry this part of their training, but walk them around in stages, making the circle smaller, fussing over them. You can do a lot with a nervous, well-bred horse by a kind word and a slap on the neck. Once a racehorse starts turning aside from the tapes at practice, then he’ll do it at a race meeting, and get left behind.”
“I wonder why it is that horses nearly always shy to the left and rarely to the right?” Ann asked thoughtfully, as she looked at the trainer.
Henry Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “Probably for the same reason that more people in the world are right- than left-handed.”
“Night Storm hasn’t tried to run out from the tapes. If anything, he’s tried to anticipate them,” said Ann, as she watched the colt.
“That’s true! That colt of yours is all horse; in fact, he’s quite a handful. I’m going to increase his work. There’s almost enough power and strength there to make three horses. He’s a good doer too, never leaves any food. Big horse, big eater, big-hearted, and, I’m afraid, with a big temper as well. He’ll have to have the right jockey in his races.”
The trainer’s brown eyes roamed the horses constantly as he talked. They were eyes which missed no movement of horse or rider; eyes which glittered when lighting on any carelessness in riding.
“I think there is great potential in that colt of yours. He’s strong, he’s a fighter, and from his work here he should do the mile and a half in a good time. Sprinting is not for him. He must try for the longer races, and, with all that temper and fight, the tougher they are—the better!”
