Mid-morning on Boxing Day, the Aspen Valley lorry splashed through the slushy puddles through Kempton Park’s gates. Kate and four other staff jumped down from the warmth of the cab to unload their horses. It was a thrilling sight to behold. First, Ta’ Qali and Dexter, the yard’s two prize hurdlers, tramped down the ramp in their red rugs and bandages, set for battle in the Christmas Hurdle. They were followed by the up and coming Shenandoah, entered in the Kauto Star Novices’ Chase, then a couple of useful handicappers who would feature in supporting races. Last to exit the lorry were d’Artagnan and The Whistler to contest the King George.
D’Artagnan was on his toes, nostrils popping at the London track’s unfamiliar smells.
Frankie led the way to their boxes. She was only meant to be looking after Ta’ Qali, of whom she also owned a share, and Billy, recovered from his broken wrist, was tending The Whistler. But because she knew her horses better than anyone else, she fussed around them both.
‘Make sure you oil his hooves again,’ she ordered Billy. ‘But only do it at the last minute, otherwise he’ll get bits of sawdust stuck to them in the stall. And be sure to allow plenty of time to stencil his rump. He gets antsy about it. Have you remembered his ear plugs?’
‘Give it a break, Frankie, will you?’ said Billy. ‘Just pay attention to Ta’ Qali and leave us alone.’
Frankie looked offended. ‘I was just trying to help, Billy. The King George runners have to parade in front of the stands and the place is going to be packed. He needs his ear plugs.’
‘I know,’ snapped Billy, in a rare show of impatience. ‘And at this rate I’m going to be the one wearing them if you don’t quit it!’
Kate kept her nerves to herself. She slipped into d’Artagnan’s box and placed a hand on the grey’s neck. Her fingers trembled.
‘It’s just the cold,’ she murmured to d’Artagnan as she shook the tremor out. ‘I’m not that nervous. I know you can do the job, eh, fella? You just run like you did at Wetherby that time, just slip in somewhere midfield. Let the others do all the hard work up front. You and Ben just find some cover and wait until two out before making your move, okay?’
D’Artagnan had his head over the door, watching the activity outside, but his cocked ear told Kate he was listening to her.
‘You show what you’re made of and we’ll be well on our way to Cheltenham, you hear?’
*
The Christmas Hurdle was one of the most anticipated races of the season so far and Kate would have liked to take ten minutes to find a spot to watch it from. But the King George was immediately after it, so she and Billy had to make do with listening to the commentary echoing from the grandstands.
‘Are you Team Ta’ Qali or Team Dexter?’ Kate asked as they stood outside their stalls to catch the call.
Billy shrugged. ‘Dexter, I guess. He’s the reigning champ and he won it last year.’
‘Yeah, but Ta’ Qali beat him in Ireland.’
‘By a nose.’
Kate grinned. ‘Sounds like they’re about to jump off.’
The whole yard seemed to hold its breath for the next four minutes. The racecourse might only be a few hundred yards away, but the echo of the commentator’s cry and the roar of the crowds made it feel miles away.
‘Coming to the last!’ Nick Stone’s call drifted over to them. ‘It’s Ta’ Qali by a head! Dexter’s battling back!’
Kate and Billy clung to each other, in their mind’s eye picturing the two Aspen Valley horses tackling the final flight.
‘Ta’ Qali makes a mistake! Dexter’s going on! It’s Dexter all the way! Ta’ Qali’s coming back for more, but he can’t bridge the gap. Dexter’s going to win it! Dexter lands his third consecutive Christmas Hurdle! It’s a length back to Ta’ Qali and Mountain Dew runs on for third...’
Kate exhaled. Billy pumped a fist in triumph.
‘Wait for the rematch at Cheltenham,’ Kate said. ‘Ta’ Qali will get his own back then.’
Billy grinned and strutted back to The Whistler’s door. ‘No chance. Dexter’s unbeaten at Cheltenham. It’s his lucky stomping ground.’
Kate’s gaze rested on d’Artagnan looking out over his door. Would Cheltenham prove lucky for him? ‘We’ll see.’
*
Kate hadn’t reckoned on what she would say to Ben once he was astride d’Artagnan. Her mind had been too full of the race ahead, but here he was, looking very sober in his two-tone blue silks and wearing the white cap that signified he was the second string of the two Borden horses.
‘Hi,’ she managed to eek out. She’d spotted Nicholas and his parents standing in the centre of the parade ring, but he’d either not seen her or felt it was inappropriate to wave because he was yet to acknowledge her.
‘Hi,’ replied Ben. His goggles hid his eyes and his mouth barely lifted. It was difficult to tell whether he was suffering from race nerves or Kate nerves. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas. Did you have a good day?’
‘Not bad,’ Ben said with a shrug. ‘You?’
‘Not bad.’
They were starting to sound like each other’s echoes.
She turned her attention back to d’Artagnan. The grey was taking the preliminaries well and when she slipped his rug off his loins, she was pleased to see he wasn’t sweating.
The third of eight runners, Kate led d’Artagnan out of the paddock and down the chute onto the track for the parade. D’Artagnan snatched at his reins and jogged sideways. Ben whistled to him. Kate glanced up at Kempton’s yawning grandstand, black with people standing shoulder to padded shoulder in their thick coats and scarves.
‘Hey, Kate?’
Kate’s heart leapt at the gruff mention of her name. ‘Yes?’
‘What did Jeff Bridges say when he met the three musketeers?’
Oh, he was just going to tell her a joke. ‘I don’t know.’
‘All for Tron and Tron for all.’
Kate suffered a serious sense of humour failure.
D’Artagnan broke into a crab canter when he felt the lush carpet of turf beneath his toes, and Kate had to use her whole weight to keep him in line. Canyon Echo, the Betfair Chase winner, was set free by his handler in front.
‘Okay, let us go,’ said Ben.
Kate didn’t want to. Letting go meant there was nothing more she could do. Reluctantly, she relaxed her grip. D’Artagnan fretted further.
‘Kate,’ Ben said, his voice sterner, yet somehow more gentle. ‘Time to let go. It’ll be okay.’
She looked up, saw the sympathetic turn of his mouth, and took a deep breath. She patted d’Artagnan on his neck and stepped away.
‘Good luck.’
*
Kate and Billy bagged a vantage spot in the chute where they had a clear view of the winning post and the panoramic screen. Kate wound her lead rope around her knuckles as they waited for the horses to assemble at the start. Her heart quickened when she spotted the starter climbing his rostrum. The grandstand hummed in anticipation.
The starter’s flag fell, unleashing a wave of sound from behind her and the eight runners plunged forward. D’Artagnan’s conspicuous grey head poked into the lead. Kate twisted on her heels and gritted her teeth.
‘Steady up, Ben,’ she muttered. ‘Take him back.’
Her words were lost in the roar of the crowd. D’Artagnan led the way to the first of the eighteen fences and stood off the wall of birch for a stag-like leap. The rest of the field followed in his wake, with The Whistler sharing stalking duties with Finsbury Square. Kate tugged on the white rail, willing Ben to take a pull. But d’Artagnan strode further clear and by the first open ditch, had increased his lead to five lengths. Ears pricked and the bit firmly between his teeth, the grey skirted the far turn unchallenged by his rivals.
Kate groaned. ‘Come on, fella. What are you doing? Take it easy,’ she said.
With her heart leaping into her throat, she watched the big screen as the field tackled the four fences in the back stretch. With d’Artagnan setting such brisk fractions, The Whistler was jumping well. Canyon Echo galloped off the pace, with only the old veteran chaser, Zodiac, behind him.
The horses swung right into the homestretch for the first of their two circuits. D’Artagnan got in close to the next fence, brushing through the birch, but lost little momentum. Kate wondered how much longer they would last going at such a frenetic pace.
The ground shuddered beneath her feet as the horses neared her vantage point. The crowd cheered them on. She willed d’Artagnan to settle so that Ben could take him back in the field. He needed a chance to refill his lungs before the real battle began. She watched closely as the grey galloped past. He didn’t appear to be pulling anymore. In fact – Kate’s mouth fell open – Ben was pushing him on.
‘Ben, what are you doing?’ she yelled. She bumped shoulders with Billy as she jumped up and down in frustration. ‘What is he doing? They’re going to be dead on their feet at this rate!’
Billy’s eyes didn’t leave his runner. ‘I don’t know, but The Whistler’s still going strong. Aspen Valley’s still in with a chance.’
Finsbury Square closed the gap on the lead to two lengths and The Whistler stuck close by in third, travelling rhythmically beneath Rhys Bradford. ‘I don’t care about Aspen Valley!’ she cried. ‘I care about d’Artagnan. What is Ben playing at?’
Billy ignored her, sucking in his breath as The Whistler thumped the next fence. Kate was at a loss. By the close-up on the screen, she saw, without doubt, Ben kneading his hands alongside d’Artagnan’s neck. The grey extended himself willingly. He thundered down on the open ditch which he’d spring-heeled on their first lap, but his energy reserves were diminishing and he had to reach for it. The untidy jump brought Finsbury Square alongside him and Kate grimaced. She could see her Cheltenham Gold Cup dreams swirling down the plughole.
Over the next four fences, d’Artagnan slipped back in the field. Ben bumped low in his saddle, urging his mount on, asking the impossible. Finsbury Square, with The Whistler in close attendance took up the lead. Canyon Echo strode past d’Artagnan like he’d just joined the race.
Turning for home, the horses were met by a cacophony of noise from the crowd. Rhys pressed the button on The Whistler and the wiry bay drew up alongside Finsbury Square. Two out and he was in the clear with Canyon Echo and Zodiac the only ones making up late ground. Trailing in sixth, d’Artagnan made a clean, but weary, jump. The track was a-tremble with thundering hooves and stamping feet as Canyon Echo ate into The Whistler’s advantage. The Whistler cleared the last jump, receiving a celebratory roar from his fans, and plugged on up the run-in. Canyon Echo and Zodiac collided in midair in their pursuit. Both faltered on landing; Zodiac’s jockey was jolted out of his saddle, putting him out the race. Canyon Echo’s impetus was sucked from him, allowing The Whistler to canter over the line for a comfortable victory.
Billy warrior-yelled and leapt into the air. He pulled Kate into a rough embrace, his cheery gasps hot on her ear. Kate half-heartedly returned his hug. Over his shoulder, she watched the remainder of the field finish the race. Canyon Echo bagged runner-up, followed by a loose Zodiac, Moroccan Velvet, Finsbury Square, Pharoah’s Gold and the only reason d’Artagnan didn’t finish last was because Lombardo was pulled up before the finish.
*
Kate was fuming as she met Ben coming into the chute. D’Artagnan was awash with sweat, his body stained steel grey. The blood vessels on his neck bulged like wriggly worms beneath his skin. He was blowing hard, poppy-red nostrils distended, his eyes bright with adrenalin. Ben was equally out of breath. He let the reins go slack and relaxed in his saddle as Kate took control of his horse.
‘What was that all about?’ she demanded.
Ben pulled his goggles down around his neck, leaving angry etchings on his cheeks. He wiped an arm across his nose, leaving more mud on his face than had been there before. He looked too exhausted to rise to Kate’s challenge.
‘Just following orders,’ he replied.
‘What? Whose orders?’
Ben didn’t answer immediately. He reached down to smooth d’Artagnan’s mane back onto the right side and shook his head. ‘The owners’.’
Kate stared at him, trying to decide if she’d heard him correctly. The jubilant crowd was making it difficult. ‘But I don’t understand,’ she stammered. ‘Why would anyone give you those orders? His race at Wetherby showed us he was better held up. Why would you make the running with him?’
They drew to a halt in the unsaddling enclosure and Ben kicked out his stirrups. He looked down at her, his expression dispassionate. ‘That’s something you should discuss with the racing manager.’ He dismounted and steadied himself against his horse as he tweaked his bad shoulder then unhitched d’Artagnan’s girth.
Kate didn’t have the chance to reply. She unbuckled d’Artagnan’s breastplate so that Ben could take his saddle and go weigh in. D’Artagnan dunked his nose into the water bucket she held out for him, blowing bubbles as he continued to puff.
At the other side of the paddock, The Whistler was being led around, his silken winner’s rug sticking to his steaming body. Around him, the Bordens were enveloped by a shower of backslaps, handshakes, and hugs. Their laughter hung shrill in the damp air.
Kate waited for Nicholas to turn their way, to pay some sort of credit to his other horse, but to no avail. She was left with his tweed-jacketed back to her. D’Artagnan withdrew his head from the bucket and slopped a mouthful of water over her arms. The chill on her skin only intensified the cold she already felt inside.
‘Come on, fella. Let’s get you home.’