HartsLove (23 page)

‘Dare say.' Grint took the silks and left.

When the saddling bell rang, Skelton tacked the horse up and together he and Daisy walked him to the paddock. They were the last in. Strung up to fever pitch, the quality of the other horses was even more pronounced. They stalked
after their grooms, heads high, knowing their own worth. Daisy's hopes were shaken to their very foundations.

Grint appeared. In the Hartslove colours and with tight-fitting breeches, there was almost nothing of him. He was also carrying a whip. ‘You won't need that,' Daisy said at once.

‘Dare say,' came the inevitable response. He sprang into the saddle. Skelton tightened the girth and over-girth. Daisy put her arms round The One's neck. She did not care who saw her. ‘Do your very best,' she told him. ‘You're The One. So long as you don't forget that, all will be well.' She touched The One's snip. ‘This is only your first race,' she said, ‘so just do your very best. And, Mr Grint?' The jockey looked down. ‘Try to make sure he sees the starter's flag drop, and say go when you want him to go.' Grint touched his cap. Skelton led the horse out before Daisy got a chance to insist on doing that herself.

She struggled to the stand, past the bookmakers, the swindlers and the fortune-tellers. Skelton joined her when he had sent The One on his way. His face was like iron as they climbed to the top of the stand. The One must qualify for the Derby. He must. Daisy was impressed. Skelton really did care. ‘I'm sure he'll run as well as he needs to, Mr Skelton,' she said, noting how tightly the groom's fists were clenched.

‘Damn right he will,' was the response.

The horses milled about at the far end of what was called
the Rowley Mile. The coloured silks glinted and clashed, green against purple, orange against pink. The starter called the horses into a rough line. Daisy could see the red and silver quite clearly. She could also see that The One had his head stuck in the air. He was not looking at the starter. Nor, Daisy could tell, was he listening to Grint. He was staring at something in the middle distance, and occasionally he whinnied, perhaps for her, perhaps not, Daisy could not tell.

The crowd held its breath as the horses inched together. There was a second of complete silence as the starter raised his flag. The moment he dropped it, the horses shot off and the crowd surged.

In seconds, the race took shape: two horses streaked ahead at an unsustainable pace; ten bunched up behind, saving themselves for a final sprint; a few, disconcerted by the pace, already straggled. There was no red and silver arrow amongst any of the groups. The One was still at the starting post, having not yet decided to take part. Daisy went stiff all over. Skelton punched his left fist into his right palm. ‘Now, I tell you, NOW!' he roared.

Skelton's voice could not have carried. Nevertheless, Daisy saw Grint pick up his whip. ‘But I said –' she cried out. Grint cracked the whip across The One's flank. Startled, the horse rocketed forward. Grint whipped him again. One One whirled a full circle. It was at the third whipping that, ears flat back, he finally began to gallop, and only with luck
in the right direction. It was not enough for Skelton. ‘Again!' he bawled, and as if in answer, the whip kept cracking. The One was galloping in earnest now, not racing but fleeing the sting raining down from on high. He was quite unaware of overtaking the back markers. He was quite unaware of overtaking the middle bunch at the half-mile stage. Three furlongs out he overtook the second bunch. Only one front-runner was left, and still Grint was waving the whip. Daisy did not know she was screaming. She did not know that she had her palms flat against her head. All she knew was that wicked whip and The One being punished for galloping as he had never galloped before.

Though the race lasted for under two minutes, to Daisy it was a nightmare without end. As the crowd cheered the winner home, she was stumbling down the stand. As The One thundered past into second place, she was leaning hard on crutches that somebody thrust at her. As the winning jockey punched his fist in the air, she was hobbling back to the paddock. Everywhere, punters held aloft winning betting slips or ground their failures underfoot. But Daisy was intent only on getting to The One. She had no idea how he would greet her. She had no idea what she would tell him. It did not matter that Skelton had hired the jockey. It did not matter that Skelton had issued the riding instructions. Daisy had brought The One here. Daisy had wanted him to win. She had told Grint as much. She was responsible. And she knew something else, something dreadful: The One
could not run in the Derby. He could not, because never, ever again could he be given over to a jockey and be at the mercy of that whip. Better to lose everything than that.

She forced her way through gaggles of trainers, lads and ordinary racegoers. Though many had lost money, they were loudly applauding. ‘Well done to you, girl!' ‘Second in the Two Thousand Guineas, no less!' ‘Good lord, child, what do you give him to eat?' ‘Who'd have thought it!' ‘All set for the Derby now!'

The black horse's lad passed her. His charge had come nowhere. ‘Congratulations! Never thought I'd see the day when an ugly brute like yours would best my beauty.'

Punch-drunk, Daisy could see people trying to jostle The One. The horse himself was in a wild panic and would not allow anybody near. Indeed, Grint had to leap to dismount, neatly flicking the reins over the horse's head. Daisy had not seen Skelton overtake her, but he was at The One's side, already attempting to fling a rug over the horse's back so that nobody should see those whip marks and spoil the moment by complaining. And The One was helping, because it was impossible to see anything when he would not be still even for a second.

At last, Daisy reached him. The horse did not even notice her. She stood a little to one side, tears streaming down her face. She would not speak to Grint, who was busy pulling the saddle off. She dropped her crutches and waited until she could grab The One's reins. ‘He's too
strong for you, missy,' somebody advised. ‘Let the man hold him.'

‘Go away!' cried Daisy. ‘Leave us be.'

Fortunately, the winner of the race appeared and the crowd changed its focus. As soon as there was space, Daisy led The One out on to the open heath.

It was two hours before the horse understood that the whip was not going to fall again; three before he was even vaguely calm. All that time, Daisy walked at his side, never scolding when he buffeted and bruised her, never forcing him to go where he did not want to go. She did not offer an apology. What could she say that was apology enough? She walked to the wilder bit of the heath. Her legs ached with all her exertions. That Skelton would have accepted the applause meant for her and The One meant nothing to her. That he would also have collected the prize money meant even less. Neither applause nor money could make up for what The One had endured.

When The One calmed enough, she undid one of the buckles attaching the reins to the bit and used the rein as a long loose rope. She found a sluggish stream and hoped the horse would drink. The One pawed at the stream. He wanted to drink but was still beset by tremors. Daisy's legs felt so weak now that she had to sit down. She rocked, her arms clasped about herself. She could hear vague noises in the direction of the road. Racing was over. People were going home. ‘The One!' she whispered. ‘The One!' It was all
she could do to say his name. She carried on rocking until the tiny tinkle of the stream gradually soothed and The One bent his head to snatch at bits of grass. Only when Daisy moved her arms did he start in alarm. That he thought she might have a whip almost broke her heart.

The sun was fast losing heat. Though The One had his rug, Daisy became worried that he would catch cold. Underneath the rug, too, his dried sweat must be itchy. What could she do to make him comfortable? Dragging herself to her feet, she overbalanced and sat down on something hard. Her crutches. She scrambled up and whipped round, glaring, suspecting Skelton. There was nobody there.

She picked some tender grass shoots. The One stretched his nose towards her. After a while, he took the strands and chewed, turning the froth round his mouth pale green. When he had crunched out all the sweetness, he spat out the stalks, stretched his nose again and tentatively licked Daisy's palms. He moved closer, needing the salt. With great care, Daisy put her arms round his neck. He allowed her to do this. She began to cry.

In time, she undid the buckle and rolled the rug back. The One's flanks were criss-crossed with a tracery of raised welts, fine as the veins on a leaf, only these were blood red and clashed with the copper of his coat. Daisy tore off her petticoat and dipped it into the stream to make a sponge. Delicately, she wiped the sweat from the welts, trickling
cooling water from cupped hands. The One shuddered. He lowered his head and began to paw the ground again. ‘What is it?' asked Daisy, fearful. He buckled suddenly, first his front end, then his back. Daisy had to jump out of the way. The rug slid off. The horse collapsed entirely, rubbing his neck and one side of his face into the bracken. Finally, he kicked out and rolled clean over. Again and again he rolled, over and over, over and over, luxuriating in the soft prickle of the bracken, which scratched in just the right places. When he had quite finished, he heaved himself up and shook himself violently. Finally, with his mane and tail a woody tangle, he moseyed over to the stream, plunged his nose in and began to drink.

Daisy's heart lightened. The One would not have rolled with Skelton. He certainly would not have rolled with Grint. He might not even have rolled with Garth. Yet he was still happy to expose his soft underbelly and be entirely defenceless with her. She felt a little dizzy. She did not deserve this; she would just accept it as the miracle it was. She waited until he had drunk his fill before picking up the rein. ‘We'll have to go back to the stables,' she said. ‘You need proper food, and I promise, The One, I
absolutely
promise that nobody with a whip is ever going to ride you again.'

‘That's the truth,' came a voice from beside her. In her fright, Daisy lurched, almost falling again. For one extraordinary moment, she thought The One had spoken
but the arms that caught her were human enough. She twisted. ‘Garth?
Garth?
'

Garth steadied her, then let go. ‘Did you think I'd let you do this on your own?'

‘But how . . . where . . .'

‘I travelled on the roofs of the trains,' Garth said proudly.

‘The tunnels!' Daisy could hardly believe her eyes.

‘I wasn't by myself,' Garth said. ‘I think lots of people travel like that, and anyway, I climbed into the horse vans once the train had started. I've kept The One company the whole way.' He went to the horse. His face tightened when he saw the welts. ‘I think he liked me being there.' The One snorted.

‘Oh, Garth! Garth! It was so awful. Did you see?'

‘I was on the top of the stand.'

‘It'll never happen again,' Daisy said at once.

‘No, it won't,' Garth said. ‘His next jockey won't have a whip.'

‘There'll be no next jockey,' Daisy said. ‘It's enough.'

‘Don't be silly, Daisy. You've got this far. You can't give up now.'

‘Don't you see? I have to give up. The One can't go through that again, not even for Hartslove. I can't ride him myself, and who else could I trust?'

Garth gave her a look both terrified and fierce. ‘Me. You could trust me.'

All Daisy's relief at Garth's presence dissolved. She could
not cope with this again. ‘You've tried. You've tried very hard. It didn't work.'

Garth stood his ground. He had felt Grint's whip, felt every sting, every cut, every lash, once for The One, once for Daisy. He must speak quickly. ‘Listen to me, Daisy. Please listen.' He touched The One's shoulder. ‘It's got to be me. I see that now – well, I saw it before, even though I couldn't do it. This time, I swear by the Resting Place, the Dead Girl and the whole of Hartslove, I'll ride The One and I won't chicken out.'

His voice rang with a sincerity that Daisy could not doubt. But sincerity would not sit in the saddle. Sincerity would not rise in the stirrups. Sincerity would not ask The One to gallop. Sincerity would not win the Derby. She let Garth talk on. It was useless trying to stop him. She led The One back across the heath to the stalls. The One seemed more cheerful. Daisy's heart was in her boots.

At Hartslove, spring had taken very firm hold. The tombstones warmed. Sprouting leaves had made the ‘for sale' sign almost invisible. The girls and Mrs Snipper stopped listening out for carriage wheels.

Lily was concerned about Garth. ‘He had no money for a ticket,' she worried. ‘He must have stolen a ride. Can you be transported for that, or even hanged?' She fiddled with her birds until Rose took the cage from her. ‘They get upset if you're upset,' she said, ‘and there's no need. Garth can look after himself.'

She was not as sure as she sounded. She wondered again and again how she could have possibly allowed Daisy to go off without her. Skelton was hardly a fitting companion, and Garth did things his own way, which was not always the right one. ‘I don't even know if she remembered her crutches,' Rose fretted to Mrs Snipper.

Mrs Snipper was unconcerned. ‘Miss Daisy will be
Perfectly All Right,' she said, removing the knife with which Rose was supposed to be peeling potatoes. ‘Where are those twins? They had no breakfast this morning.'

She was right. The twins had had no breakfast. They were in danger of having no lunch either for they were struggling with an enormous package they had had delivered to the stable yard, intending to secrete it in one of the empty stables. The package was a disappointment. They had hoped for something else.

Ten days before Daisy and The One had set off, Clover and Columbine had been sent by Mrs Snipper to the library with a tray of tea for their father. They were happy to go for they needed a fresh supply of newspapers. They argued on the way. Clover thought they should try
The Times
for a change. Columbine thought they should finish all the
Manchester Guardian
s first. They stopped arguing before they opened the door, both hoping to find Charles asleep. He was unlikely to object to them taking newspapers. Nevertheless, if he was awake they would have to ask him, and since Gryffed's death they never spoke to him if they could help it. Luckily, Charles was asleep, and heavily so. Putting down the tray, they quickly skimmed the papers. They were surprised to find that the top copies of
The Times
were not at all recent; the very top one was from the previous decade. Much thumbed, it offered a graphic account of the war in the Crimea together with lists of the dead, for some of whom there were long obituaries written
in heroic prose. Clover and Columbine grinned. Treasure trove. The
Guardian
could wait. Clutching a dozen copies of
The Times
under their arms and stuffing more into skirts already stained with newsprint, they tiptoed out and, once safely in their room, began to sift. Inside the Crimea report they found a pair of reading glasses which they took turns to wear on the end of their noses. Later, tucked into a folded page that recounted the slaughter of the Light Brigade, they found a sealed envelope addressed to their father. For two days they fingered the envelope. On the third day, they opened it, read it and made a decision.