Night Storm the Flat-Racer, page 6
Bill had known Ann all her life, and was very fond of her, and although he had been suspicious of Jim when he came courting her, a firm friendship had soon been established between the two men. He always attended to the Leysham horses when necessary, and tried to see as much of the Hendersons socially as his time allowed.
Jim and Ann were dressed in their normal working clothes—casual shirts, faded but clean jeans, and polished shoes. Even in this working attire they still appeared smarter than the veterinarian in his tweed suit.
Bill Garner’s suit was hopelessly crumpled, his shirt had two ink-spots on the front, his tie was appallingly crude, and somehow he had even managed to get mud on his shoes, though he had come straight from his home. How on earth does he get himself looking like that, thought Ann in amusement.
“Have you come to see Dido?” she asked. “Pat has put her in the orchard, so it won’t take a second to fetch her.”
“Yes, that’s why I’ve come. Confounded car of mine—how am I going to get back?” the vet complained.
“Take it easy, Bill. I’ll run you back, then call in at the garage. They can collect your vehicle, and I expect they’ll loan you another while it’s being repaired.”
“And how are you, Ann?” asked Bill, characteristically ignoring this offer. “Taken any more falls lately?”
Ann laughed at the blunt question. “No! I’ve changed my brand of glue!”
“That’s my Ann—never lost for words. Ah, so that’s the mare? Hm!”
Tom, who had seen the veterinary surgeon arrive, came into the yard leading a slightly bored Dido. The Hendersons stood aside to watch in deep interest while Jim gave a brief resumé of the mare’s lethargy and lack of condition.
“We used her for riding last summer, but she was hopeless with that lazy nature,” explained Ann. “We had hoped in the future to try and make her for polo, but she’s useless at present.”
Bill Garner walked round the mare, studying her from every angle, feeling the flesh over her ribs, noting the slightly dropped quarters, the general dull attitude of the animal.
“Might be worms, but I think you’d have spotted them before now. Could be—no—too young for that,” he said, talking aloud to himself. “Has she had a foal, Jim?”
Jim shook his head. “She was bought for breeding, but as she’s been barren we decided to use her for riding instead.”
Bill stood at the mare’s head, gently opened her mouth, and grasped her tongue.
“Tom, hold her tongue so she can’t close her jaws!”
Removing his coat and rolling up his sleeve, Bill put his hand into the mare’s mouth and started reaching upward. His face was screwed up with effort and concentration, and as he withdrew his arm he flinched.
“Well, that’s soon solved that,” he said, rubbing a small cut on his palm with some antiseptic salve from his bag.
“Of course!” said Jim, turning to Ann. “Teeth!”
“It’s tooth trouble all right. Take a feel, Jim, but watch your hand.”
Jim gingerly slid his hand into the mare’s mouth and felt her large grinding teeth. Watching him, Ann saw his expression alter.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You feel, Ann, but go carefully. Run your fingers along the edge of the grinding teeth on the left-hand side,” said Jim.
Ann held her breath in concentration as she followed the instructions. Then her eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Why—those teeth are as sharp as razors!” she exclaimed, turning to Bill and looking down at his hand. “No wonder you cut yourself!”
“That’s the trouble, Ann. It’s not surprising the mare is thin and lazy with teeth like those,” said the vet, as he bent down again to his bag.
“But why are they so sharp?”
“I should say it’s because the permanent teeth crowded the mare’s jaw when she lost her milk teeth, and over the months and years the teeth have worn unevenly. It’s always a slow, and often unsuspected, cause of trouble in horses. Every time the mare eats she will be having some pain, and just the same when she has the bit in her mouth. Those teeth are quite out of alignment. I’m going to rasp them straight, then I want you to feed her well. She’ll soon pick up condition, and I think you’ll find you have a different horse. Now, hold her tightly, Tom!”
Bill took a rasp, rather like a carpenter’s, pushed the long piece of metal into the mare’s mouth, then, feeling very carefully with his fingers to obtain the correct alignment, he started rasping each tooth in turn.
Dido rolled her eyes in astonishment, but only fidgeted a little while Ann patted her neck.
“Now, once we get these teeth smooth and even, she should have no trouble in grinding her food. I’ll have a look at her once a month just to make sure everything’s going O.K.”
“Horses don’t get bad teeth very often, do they?” Ann asked.
“Not as a rule. They don’t eat the rubbish we do. Good green grass will never rot teeth. If we cut all the sugar out of our diet the dentists in this country would soon be out of work. There, that should do.”
Withdrawing the rasp—which was flaked with tooth particles—the vet felt the dulled teeth.
“O.K., Tom. Let her go!”
Tom released the mare’s tongue; Dido ground her jaws together experimentally, then opened her mouth and yawned. They all laughed at her.
“If all horses were as good-tempered as that mare my work would be a lot easier,” said Bill as he repacked his bag.
“Mine too,” said Jim with feeling.
“How are the other horses?”
“They’re all fine and well, except that young Rogue,” said Jim.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing except a bad temper!” said Jim.
“Awkwardness or vice?” asked Bill.
Jim hesitated before replying. “I hope it’s awkwardness but I have a dreadful feeling it may be vice.”
Bill Garner grunted. “You want to get rid of him then!”
Ann’s face turned a little white at this, and she looked anxiously at Jim.
“We’d never sell him as he is. We certainly couldn’t give him a good-behaviour warrant, and who wants a horse without that? No, we’ll have to keep him. I’m hoping that when we break him he’ll alter.”
“I doubt it if it really is vice. Vice is born in an animal. Training and education won’t cure it, though they may restrain it. Me, I’d shoot him! One horse with vice can cause too much trouble in a yard.”
“Shoot him!” said Ann in horror.
“Yes, Ann! You can’t be a fool when dealing with horses. They’re big, strong animals. If a horse realized his own strength compared to ours we’d be wearing the bridles. It’s only man’s superior brain and his ability to reason that puts him, with his puny muscles, above other animals.”
“Rogue might alter when he’s gelded,” said Jim hopefully.
Bill shrugged. “He might, and he might not. Quite honestly, I’ve no time for vice in animals. Human life is more important. I’ve seen what can happen to a man when a vicious horse sets out to savage him. It’s not very pretty—and it’s unnecessary.”
“But we can’t have him shot, Jim. He’s the most perfectly made horse we’ve bred. Why, he’s quite beautiful,” protested Ann.
“Handsome is as handsome does!” warned Bill.
Jim set his jaw. A horse with inbred vice. The thought frightened him a little, and he looked at Ann. He could see that she was unhappy at the idea of Rogue’s behaviour, but the thought of shooting the horse was something neither of them liked.
“We’ll give him more time, Bill. He is only a youngster. He’ll be gelded at two years of age, and then we’ll see how he behaves when he’s been broken and schooled.”
Ann knew that Bill was right; animal vice was indeed very dangerous, but the thought of shooting one of their home-bred horses brought the tears into her eyes. It was hard enough seeing the horses go off to the sales, but to have one put down—the thought was appalling! Surely Rogue will alter, she thought, and she was still dwelling upon this subject the next morning as she fed the hens.
* * *
Jim, Tom, and Pat were working in the yard, lifting the sacks of oats into the loft, where they would be of easy access. Jim was up in the loft raising the sacks with the block and tackle, and Pat was standing on the lorry fastening the chain couplings around the neck of each sack as Jim wanted it. Tom stood by the lorry, pausing to light a cigarette, then walked alongside to climb up and help Pat.
It happened in a second, just as Ann was crossing the yard. The sack was half-way up towards the loft when Ann saw the chain slipping from around its neck. Tom was directly underneath.
“Tom, look out! Jump!” shrieked Ann.
Frightened by the tone of her voice, Tom jumped forward instinctively, without pausing to ask why. The heavy sack crashed down, hitting the spot where Tom had been standing. It landed with a dull thud, then burst open, and grains of oats shot in all directions.
Tom turned and paled as he realized his narrow escape from being crushed. Had Ann not shouted the warning the heavy sack would undoubtedly have landed on him, with perhaps fatal results.
Jim came thundering down the loft steps, and Pat stood on the lorry, nearly as shaken as Tom.
“You O.K., Tom?” asked Jim anxiously.
“My, that was close!” said Tom, giving a weak smile as he bent down to pick up his dropped cigarette.
Ann came up to Jim just as he was bending down to examine the chain couplings. After a brief examination he turned to Pat with an angry face.
‘‘You didn’t fasten these couplings right, Pat! Look here, this chain loop was far too wide to hold the sack when I took the weight! What were you thinking about? You’re just not paying attention to your work! Get down off that lorry and come over to the saddle-room!”
Angrily Jim walked away, with Pat following. In the saddle-room Jim shut the door and leaned against it.
“What the blazes has come over you, Pat? You could have killed Tom then, through utter carelessness! You just never bothered to look and see that those couplings were tight enough when I took the strain on the pulley! What’s wrong with you, boy? Your mind hasn’t been on your work ever since you went home!”
Pat stood and wilted under Jim’s stern voice, not daring to meet his eyes.
“Pat, answer me! Is anything wrong? What’s on your mind to make you so continually careless—this isn’t the first time, you know. Your work’s gone completely to pieces in the last few weeks! Are you homesick or something?”
Pat stood mute, and Jim stepped forward from the door. Controlling his anger, and fighting down the shock which he had received, he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Can’t you tell me if there’s anything wrong? Is it that you don’t like it here?” he asked in a quieter voice, trying not to bully the boy.
“I do like it here, Mr Henderson. I’m terribly sorry,” was Pat’s only reply.
“You simply must pay more attention to your work. Don’t let your mind wander, especially when there are other people around. If you’ve any problems, come to me or Mrs Henderson. You’re not lonely, are you? I mean, you’ve made some friends?” asked Jim, trying to give Pat an opening to talk about his girl.
“I’m not lonely, sir. I’m ever so sorry,” whispered the boy, his eyes still downcast.
“What do you think your father would say if he knew what you’d done today?” pursued Jim.
“I don’t know,” replied Pat in a flat, expressionless voice. And Jim distinctly heard him add, in a bitter undertone, “And I don’t care.”
He stared at the sullen face in exasperation. He could not force the boy to talk if he refused to—he knew that, and was annoyed that his attempts had failed so completely.
He was irritated too by Pat’s teenage gracelessness towards his father.
“Very well, then,” he said at last, realizing that it was a waste of time to continue this one-sided conversation. “Tom and I will finish this job. You stay here and give this tack a rub over, and in future just pay attention to what you’re doing.” And he walked out to Tom and Ann.
“Well, what did he say?” asked Ann.
“I can’t get a word out of him. I’m very disappointed in the boy. He showed great promise, but if he’s going to get careless, then he’ll have to go. He must have something on his mind, but when I gave him an opening to talk about a girl he ignored it. From now on, Tom, we must watch him very closely. That could have been a nasty accident. He’s not to ride any of the horses unless escorted, and if he doesn’t improve and stop daydreaming, then he’s finished here. I’m not having anyone getting hurt. We’ll do this job ourselves, Tom.”
Ann was shaken. Frowning, she went back into the house to see to her own work. Really, she thought, we never seem to be free from problems of one kind or another. But I suppose that’s what makes life so interesting! It would be dull if nothing ever happened. But thank heavens I saw that sack move. I could never have faced Miriam if Tom had been hurt.
5
The Two Thousand Guineas
IT WAS surprisingly hot for a spring day. The sky was a delicate pale blue, and only in the extreme west were puffballs of white cloud visible. There had been some gentle rain in March, bringing on the new grass, and the turf of the race-course was flat, firm, and bright green.
Ann stood to one side, trying to avoid the milling people as they surged around laying their bets, talking, and consulting their race-cards.
The Two Thousand Guineas was the next race to be run on the Rowley course at Newmarket, and the stands were packed. This Classic race, held on a Wednesday, was always immensely popular, and the glorious weather had brought even more people out to see the horses.
Ann and Susan stood together. They had both bought themselves new spring suits, and Susan, wearing her highest-heeled shoes, seemed to be nearly as tall as Ann.
Ann tapped her foot impatiently. She always hated this waiting for the start of a race, but there were still another twenty minutes before the horses would go down to the post. Her suit felt uncomfortably new, and after wearing jeans all winter she felt ill at ease in her blue jacket and skirt, nylons, and black shoes. Her white blouse and small, daring hat went perfectly with the suit, but her gloved fingers tapped her black handbag restlessly all the time.
She was impatient for action. Night Storm’s first big test was at hand. Would he behave himself? Did he really have a chance? Could he win?
By now the twelve entrants for the race were being paraded in the paddock, each horse saddled and bridled, with number cloth and weight sheet in place. Thoroughbreds are so beautiful, thought Ann. Sleek, hard, and well muscled, with their intelligent heads and delicate legs, what other type of horse can compare with them?
But Night Storm, what would he do? He was just now being led around the paddock by a stable-lad who kept a firm hold on the reins, and paid great attention to where the black colt placed his feet.
As yet Night Storm was quite calm. He held his head high, ears pricked in deep interest at the crowd, eyes wide open and staring around at everything. His tail he held away from his quarters like a flag. The black skin had been groomed until every hair lay exactly in place. The white socks were dazzling in the sun. Now and again he lowered his head to grind on the snaffle bit, then, lifting it, he tried to bounce forward into a jiggling trot. He was fit, strong, and ready for action.
Jim stood with the trainer in the paddock, eyeing Night Storm, wondering and hoping. Although winning the Two Thousand Guineas would help the colt’s reputation considerably when he became a breeding stallion, to be really famous he must prove himself able to win more than one race—and consistency, as Jim well knew, was not the colt’s strong point.
He turned for a moment now to admire Leviathan. Calm, unruffled, obedient, the horse walked around ahead of Night Storm. No energy was going to be wasted there; that horse would do exactly what he had been trained to do—a perfect running machine without temperament or fight. And there was the brown Gay Batchelor, walking around as calmly as if this were just another exercise.
Jim dabbed at his forehead with his white handkerchief. He felt hot and uncomfortable in his dark suit, and it wasn’t only heat from the sun. He was tense and on edge, and he guessed that Ann would be feeling the same.
Mike and Mr Barton had joined the two girls now. Both men were dressed almost alike in well-cut suits, with field-glasses in their hands and race-cards tucked under their arms.
“Won’t be long now, Sis,” said Mike. He could see how tense she was, and he had sense enough not to tease her. This race was vitally important for their stud. But could such a wild, erratic animal as the black colt be turned into a polished racehorse? Mike did not ride a great deal, but he was no fool where a horse was concerned. He had his doubts about Night Storm, although he never aired them to Ann—he shared them only with his wife.
Susan rested her gloved hand on Ann’s arm and squeezed, showing her understanding. Ann tore her eyes away from the horses and sighed. The colt either could or couldn’t win races. They would soon know now.
Mr Barton scanned the horses more closely with his field-glasses. He could see that Night Storm was beginning to get on his toes and jig around more. The black ears kept going backward, the horse snatched at his bit, the flag of a tail waved from right to left. He’s getting worked up, thought Mr Barton, as he looked at his watch. Another five minutes to go. Will he explode before then?
Sandy Williams walked into the paddock, feeling a little self-conscious in his red-and-black striped cap and shirt. He was well aware that he was the most unknown and unimportant jockey riding in this race. He was aware too that he had a good chance of winning if he could only control the horse. The responsibility was almost overwhelming. Both Leviathan and Gay Batchelor were acute dangers, he knew, but Sandy had confidence in himself and in Night Storm.
