Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker Read Free Book Online

Dusty way of doing things. Ears pricked, head high, eyes on the way ahead.
    I hold him close and, at that moment, I hear a sound outside. I stay still for one minute, two.
    Bye, Dusty.
    Silently, I let myself out of the stable. The door to the tack room is open.
    I sense that I am being watched. Ted has come to work early. I raise a finger to my lips, then walk softly out of the stable yard and down the drive.
    Thanks, Ted.
    It is light by the time I reach the bus stop in the local village. A young couple on their way to work glance at me without any particular curiosity.
    It is on time. We travel from village to village until we reach the town. I walk to the station. It is already full of people going to work, too absorbed in their own private worlds to pay any attention to me.
    I buy a ticket, get on the train, open my copy of
Great Ladies
. I keep my head down as the train pulls out of the station and gathers speed, taking me away from the past. With every mile, I feel as if a weight is being lifted off my shoulders.
    I smile. The train hurtles onwards.
    After we have been travelling for an hour, I take out my mobile phone. I tap up Uncle Bill’s number and tap out a text.
    hi uncle bill.
    gone to get a holiday job. be in touch when i’ve sorted things out. plse don’t worry about me. i know how to look out for myself!
    love to michaela & aunt elaine
    jx
    I press ‘send’ and gaze at the screen for a moment before switching off the power. Casually, I walk down the carriage. I open one of the windows between the carriages and, after checking that no one is watching me, I hurl the mobile into space, then walk quickly back to my seat.
    Gazing out at the fields racing by, I think of my mother.
    Do.
    It.
    For.
    Me.

H EADQUARTERS
    IN MY MIND , I know what Newmarket will be like. It is the place where some of the biggest, most famous trainers have their stables, where thoroughbred racing started and has its home.
    â€˜Headquarters’, they call it.
    Every shop will have something to do with racing. I’ve read that there are sixty stables around this town, and over 5000 horses – a horse for every six humans who live here. Cars have to give way to horses on the roads. There will be breeches and riding boots and crash-hats and different types of saddles in the windows. The pubs will be named after the great horses of the past – The Eclipse, The Hyperion, The Crepello. In the mornings, strings of racehorses will walk down the high street on their way to the gallops. There will be jobs in racing advertised on the boards of the local newsagents. I’ll make a note of the trainers who need lads – there must be a need for keen boys and girls who can ride – and find a place in a yard. I’ll soon be on my way.
    But when I arrive in Newmarket late that afternoon, I am in for a shock. It is a town like any other. I wander the streets, expecting to hear chat about horses and racing from the people I pass, but there is nothing. There are more bookmakers’ shops here than in most towns, but no sign of a horse or lads or jockeys.
    I’m hungry now, and tired. I go into a cafe with steamed-up windows and buy a hamburger. As I sit at one of the tables, I notice a man and a girl sitting nearby. They are wearing dark blue breeches and riding boots.
    The girl glances in my direction, and I smile. She looks away and says something to the man. They laugh.
    Nothing to lose. I ask them if they work in racing.
    The man, thin and ferrety-looking with cropped hair, stares at me for a moment, then nods. ‘Jimmy Stafford’s yard.’
    Stafford is one of the biggest trainers in Newmarket. ‘Clever Jonah,’ I say, mentioning one of his stable’s best-known horses.
    The girl raises her eyebrows. ‘You follow racing?’
    I nod. ‘Actually, I’m looking for a job as a lad.’
    Now they both smile. ‘Is it that time of the year already?’ Ferretface