CHAPTER FIVE
There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse.
R. S. Surtees, Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour
Clattering back into the yard, Sage leant forward and murmured her thanks into Strawberry’s mane.
She swung her leg behind her and dismounted automatically, then unceremoniously dropped her saddle and rug on the grass next to the wash-down area before standing in line to have Strawberry hosed clean by Peter, steam rising in the chill air. When it came to their turn, he smiled.
‘Your grandfather was impressed. He said you hadn’t ridden for a while?’
‘No, there wasn’t much of an opportunity for riding in Panama.
There were some horses I was able to ride from time to time but when their owner died last year, I stopped …
’ Sage trailed off, unsure how to continue.
Sir Crowley, another ex-pat, had been one of her allies in Islas Del Penta; even though he had been in his dotage, he had always had time for Sage, regularly inviting her to lunch at his palatial mansion and offering her the use of his horses whenever she wanted.
He had been full of merry charm and wisdom, and whenever Sage had had enough of being bullied at Finca Azucar, she would escape to see ‘Uncle Crow’ as he bade her call him.
He had been very upset after seeing the Deverills bullying Sage at a drinks party early on in Sage’s time on Islas Del Penta.
He had offered friendship and a little comfort whenever she wanted it.
He had even lent her a small car when he learnt that the Deverills did not allow Sage the use of theirs, and had let Hal ride his grandchildren’s pony whenever the child had gone up to the yard.
When Uncle Crow had died, Sage had been heartbroken, but because Santiago and Lucilla had not liked the eminent old man on account of his never inviting them into his hallowed social circle, she had been forced to mourn his loss alone.
After that, Panama had further lost any sense of safety for her.
‘You’re on Skylark next, Sage. Just take her out to Fred to gallop. Go out with Dillon’s string. Oh, and sit tight if she dances about – it’s not malicious. She’s in the main yard.’ Thank goodness for Peter – this was the information she had failed to take in earlier.
Sage’s anxiety flared. She led an eager Strawberry back to his box, which had been mucked out and where breakfast was waiting for him in his manger.
He stuffed his nose into the mix before she had even managed to take off his bridle and as she gave him an affectionate shove, he lifted his head and she swiftly pulled it off, taking care not to let the bit hit his teeth.
Wishing she could end the morning after riding this kind boy, she gave the horse a kiss on his neck, threw his rugs back on and thanked him softly before reluctantly charging back to the tack room to get Skylark’s kit.
Skylark’s dam was a mare called Sandpiper whom Sage’s mother, Iris, had ridden in a couple of ladies’ races.
She had been a sharp ride but provided her jockey could stay on her long enough to start the race, she would invariably reward them with a win.
Iris had managed to conquer the tricky filly’s heart and Sandpiper had duly won for her at both Goodwood and Ascot.
Following Iris’s death, the Seymours had kept Sandpiper out of sentimentality and turned her away in a field for years, until Betsy had decided to breed from her using one of Dennis’s precious nominations from Polaris. The result of this match was Skylark.
Sage rushed to tack up, knowing that the other lads would be faster than her, and was in such a hurry that she tripped over her trailing reins as she entered Skylark’s stable.
It was one of the main yard’s loose boxes, which she had always loved best. They were impeccably built and over a hundred years old; the archetypal, classic stables with curved lines, arched panels and ornamental spheres atop the pillars either side of the doors.
As Sage stumbled head first through the door, Skylark – a fiery red chestnut filly with a white star on her forehead and a flaxen mane and tail, who had been watching the door open with huge, suspicious eyes – fled to the back corner of her stable.
She snorted in outrage, flaring her delicate nostrils, and as Sage approached her, she turned her burnished quarters towards her intruder and raised a hind leg threateningly.
That was a good start, Sage thought morosely.
Pulling a packet of Polo mints from her pocket, she crinkled its foil at Skylark to tempt her head round; she was loath to get kicked by those small, newly shod back hooves that she knew from experience could pack a punch.
The filly pricked her ears, slowly turning her pretty head to look at Sage, and as she did so, she moved around so that she was facing the door with her hind end safely against the rear wall again.
Sage held out a mint, softly exhaling to calm her heart rate.
Skylark accepted the offering gracefully, delicately taking it into her mouth with soft lips.
Sage was then able to slide the bridle over her red head and put on the rest of the tack and exercise rug without mishap.
She felt her pulse steady. She loved being back around horses, the smells and familiar sounds were so comforting; she could feel her body gradually easing back from the high degree of grating panic mode it seemed to have been stuck in recently.
Peter came in to put dark blue bandages on the filly’s spindly legs.
‘I can do that, Peter,’ Sage offered, wanting to help.
‘I’m sure you can – but since we had a Group-1 winning colt hurt a leg last year after poorly wrapped bandages by one of the lads, I’m the only one the boss will allow to do them.
He had a badly bowed tendon and broke down, and we are not going to let that happen again.
This way, you won’t get blamed if anything goes wrong – I’ll be in the firing line!
’ Peter was quick and efficient; he had all four legs done in under two minutes and was soon cheerfully off on his way to see to the next horse that would be galloping.
It was still with some trepidation that Sage led Skylark out of her stable and into the courtyard where the other horses were waiting, their lads already mounted. The sour man who had been so short with her earlier came over to help her get on.
‘You’ll want to sit quietly on this bitch. She’s lethal,’ he imparted helpfully, legging her up into the saddle.
She inwardly shrank from his harsh words, panic clutching gently at her heart, but she swallowed it down – she could overcome this kind of fear.
She felt a rising indignation on Skylark’s behalf and, protective already, Sage quickly found her stirrups, bridged her reins and followed Dillon’s string out of the main yard, wanting to get away from the man, nerves almost forgotten.
The filly crabbed sideways all the while in an expressive sort of jog, her red head snaking from side to side.
This is going to be more eventful than the last lot, Sage thought grimly, checking that the strap of her hat was done up and looping a finger around a clump of flaxen yellow mane.
They rattled along the concrete pavements and back along the path they had already taken earlier that morning, but for Sage it was a very different kind of journey.
Gone was the comforting, steady solidness of the chivalrous Strawberry: she now found herself sitting on a mercurial will-o’-the-wisp.
One minute Skylark was shuffling along in a straightforward trajectory, then suddenly she had reared up in front of Sage, her eyes on stalks at imagined dangers hiding in the hedges.
Sage had squealed the first few times the filly had executed these athletic arabesques, but after a while was reassured that Skylark was not in fact terrified in the slightest, but rather playing a game. She was testing her new pilot.
Quickly understanding that if the filly sensed the slightest fear, she would duly up her tricks, Sage hummed ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ to demonstrate how ‘relaxed’ she was.
It seemed to work, for after what felt like the twentieth rendition of the nursery rhyme – the only tune Sage could think of at that moment – Skylark almost appeared to breathe a sigh of relief as her muscles loosened and she relaxed her back, which had been arched like an angry cat.
The adrenaline that had picked up speed again, coursing through Sage’s veins, began to slow to a more manageable rate as they reached the gallop in one piece.
There she saw Dennis with Fred Wentworth, who was leaning nonchalantly against his white BMW as he talked to her grandfather with his hands, disrespectfully in Sage’s opinion, deep in his pockets.
Everything about his demeanour suggested that he thought he was far too important to be work-riding and that he would rather be anywhere but there.
Fred had been a successful jockey for a long time and was now in his late forties.
He was a small, thin man with a lined, hard face.
He had ridden many top horses throughout his illustrious career and had consequently won the majority of the most prestigious prizes in racing.
He was extremely famous, even within the wider public, and was used to getting his own way.
Sage remembered a day at Newbury about eight years ago when he and her grandfather had almost come to blows after he ignored Dennis’s specific instructions on how to ride a particular race.
Fred had been well beaten into third, having got boxed in running midfield despite having been told to go up front.
The two men had since had a turbulent relationship but Betsy liked Fred, who had won several Group 1 races wearing her light pink and blue colours, and the jockey was always her first choice when she had a horse running.