CHAPTER FOUR #3
‘Madam Betsy will be walking the dogs just now but she will be in soon. I am to keep an ear out for your Hal until she gets back. Don’t worry, we have it all covered.
’ Maggie was reassuring and full of sincere kindness.
Sage warmly thanked her again and hurried out to the yard, anxious not to keep her grandfather waiting, praying he had given her an easy ride for first lot.
She was relieved to find the lads still milling about in the tack room.
She looked up at the list on the wall to see which horse she was riding and found that it was an older horse, a seven-year-old called Strawberry Fields.
She found she could breathe more easily now; she had not been put up on a wild two-year-old, at least. Not yet.
A short man wearing jeans and a shirt and tie under a Dennis Seymour Racing coat approached her; she recognized him and tried to remember his name but embarrassingly, could not.
‘Morning, Sage. I’m Peter Lauder. You may not remember me – I am Mr Seymour’s assistant.’
‘Peter!’ she said with relief. ‘Yes, I remember you. You’ve been here a while now, haven’t you?’
‘Almost five years, yes. The boss hasn’t managed to get rid of me yet!
’ He studied her face closely. ‘You’re up on Strawberry first – he’s a great big horse, very kind.
We use him as our lead horse mostly, he’ll look after you.
Mr Seymour says you haven’t ridden for a while and that we’re to ease you back into racing life gently.
Enjoy Strawberry – I think your filly for second lot is a bit more exciting.
I suppose, coming from your grandfather, that’s as gentle as can be expected! ’
Peter passed Sage her tack; a bridle, neck strap, towel, exercise rug, numnah and a light racing saddle and girth. Sage found that her teeth were chattering. Oh God, would she manage the filly?
‘If you need a hand tacking up, just ask one of the lads. Good luck!’ Seeing her face had lost its colour, he gave her a reassuring smile as he hurried out into the yard, looking at a list that he had pulled from his pocket.
There were now seventy horses in training at North Place. Sage had no idea where her horse’s stable was so she approached a ferret-faced little man of about forty-five who was carrying tack into a nearby stable.
‘Excuse me, do you know where Strawberry Fields’s stable is?’
‘Yep,’ the man said shortly, looking at her with small, angry eyes.
‘Could you possibly tell me where to go?’ Sage asked politely, feeling rather exasperated. She was trying not to flap, but her nerves were rising.
‘If I come with you to show you where the sodding stable is, then I’ll be late getting this poxy horse ready and I won’t be shown no favour by the boss, because I’m not related to ’im.’ He began to put on his horse’s bridle, a sour look on his lined face.
‘Right,’ Sage replied weakly, feeling it was a bit early for this. She tried another lad, a pretty blonde girl who looked about seventeen and who, like Sage, was also weighed down with tack.
‘Morning … do you by any chance know where Strawberry’s stable is?’
‘Yes, he’s in the same block as mine – I’ll show you. Lucky you, he’s gorgeous. Really kind.’ The girl smiled at her and carried on walking. What about the filly though? Sage fretted.
They walked under an arch and into a second stable block made of red brick.
Although more utilitarian than the main yard – which was ancient and beautiful with ten huge loose boxes – this one, a square of thirty stables, was smart and functional.
The girl pointed at a bay horse with a white star, who was looking over his door inquisitively.
‘That’s Strawbs. Box twelve.’
Sage noticed that next to each stable was a label stating the horse’s owner, sire, dam and age. This is new, she thought, and extremely helpful. She turned to thank the girl but she had already gone. Realizing that she, too, needed to get a move on, she quickly opened the stable door.
The big gelding was calm and relaxed, and stood quietly as Sage tacked him up; she was relieved to have remembered the order in which to put on the various pieces of equipment.
Then, after picking out his feet and brushing the shavings from his tail, she led him into the yard.
There was no time to be anxious, she was legged up immediately and before she knew it, they were following the other ridden horses out to the indoor arena, in a snake, one behind the other.
Her grandfather stood in the middle, wearing red corduroy trousers, a shirt and tie, his ancient tweed coat and a flat cap; he was holding a pair of binoculars in one hand and puffing away on his pipe with the other, seemingly oblivious to the chill of the morning.
He nodded at Sage approvingly, continuing to watch his horses circle around him.
There were about twenty in this string, all wearing orange-red-and-black striped woollen rugs to keep them warm.
The corner of each rug was embroidered with DRJS, Dennis’s initials, in dark blue.
‘Have a trot,’ Dennis barked at the lad leading the ride, and everyone picked up their reins slightly.
The horses were on their toes this frosty morning; a few half-heartedly jinked sideways, keeping their riders’ concentration as they waited to see if their mounts were going to fully explode, but none did.
‘Dillon, take your lot up Warren Hill. Chris, take yours around Side Hill. Amy, you can go up Warren Hill too, I’m coming in the car to watch.
’ Dennis called out instructions to the leaders of each group who were to peel off and work their horses in different areas around Newmarket, then motioned to his granddaughter.
‘Sage, go with Amy and stick right behind her – on her heels, please.’ He strode off in the direction of the house, all the while talking to Peter, who nodded and wrote things down while hurrying to keep up with the older man’s long, purposeful stride.
Sage remembered Amy. She was an older member of the team who had been at North Place for a long time; a graceful rider as well as being naturally kind and reserved, and Sage knew she would help her.
She was also a good listener and rarely volunteered any personal information of her own.
She had race-ridden with Sage’s mother, many years back, and the two women had been friends in the weighing room.
Sage caught her eye and smiled; Amy was lighting a cigarette as they had left the arena and Dennis was now out of sight.
Led by Dillon, they and the seven horses in front of them snaked their way along the pavement leading down towards the Heath.
Amy had taken both hands off the reins and was steering her lively chestnut three-year-old with her knees, totally relaxed and unconcerned as the filly humped her back and playfully raked her head from side to side.
She stayed entirely focused on getting her lighter to work on the blustery January morning; eventually the cigarette began to smoke, and breathing in a huge lungful of tar and nicotine, she picked up her reins again and grinned at Sage.
‘Sorry, love – I can talk now. You’re back!
How are you? Where’ve you been again? The Bahamas or somewhere, wasn’t it?
’ Amy was stick-thin, with a pretty face that had been etched with lines over the years; she had lived a hard life and was as tough as any of the men who worked in the yard, and more capable than most.
‘Panama – but yes, I am back. Back for good, thank goodness.’ Sage did not want to expand on her answer and comforted herself that Amy would probably neither pry nor ask any further questions and they rode along in a companionable silence.
She was thankful that Strawberry knew his job and that he did not jump about like many of the flighty young thoroughbreds around him.
Instead, he walked out with long, smooth, confident steps and pricked ears, exuding an infectious aura of optimism that Sage felt settling around her like an invisible cloak.
Now that her nerves had abated, it felt good to be back on a horse.
When another string in red exercise sheets trotted past them, causing Amy’s horse and the one behind Sage to throw themselves about in excitement, Sage felt profound gratitude towards him as Strawberry maintained his own steady pace; he almost seemed to roll his eyes in exaggerated disappointment at their exuberance.
Dear Strawberry, she thought. This is how to do it – no fuss.
She patted the big horse’s gleaming brown neck in thanks.
The two strings bound for Warren Hill made it safely to Sir Mark’s yard on the corner of the Heath, which had alarmingly been dubbed ‘neck-strap corner’ as it was where horses tended to be overcome with enthusiasm.
When the anticipation of crossing the road to gallop up the hill proved too much for them, they normally threw themselves about with uncontrolled high spirits, the riders having to hold onto their neck straps like a lifeline, anchoring themselves deep in the saddle in order to avoid being thrown off.
Sage waited quietly behind Amy, whose filly was starting to fidget, impatiently walking backwards and sideways as she was not allowed to continue onto the polytrack gallop before the first lot of horses had made it to the top.
Sage watched, one hand on her neck strap and her reins bridged – just in case Strawberry gave in to the primal urge to prematurely hurl himself forward in pursuit of his friends – as Dillon and the first group streamed up the hill, one following the other almost nose to tail.
She pulled up her stirrup leathers, shortening them to a galloping length.
She could see her grandfather perched on his shooting stick on the grass halfway up the slope, watching through his binoculars.
Peter was standing beside him, a mirror image.
Amy moved her hands forward fractionally, and her filly leapt into the air with excitement.