Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker Read Free Book Online Page B

them to pass. Then, packing up my rucksack, I make my way back to the road.
    The sight of horses on the gallops makes me feel stronger. The morning will be a busy time for stables.
    I shall make a note of where the yards are. Then, this afternoon, I shall make my move.
    â€˜Paperwork, love. You need the paperwork.’ A tall man in a cloth cap, his hands sunk deep in his green jacket, looks down at me with a pitying fake smile on his face. We are standing at the gate to a big stable yard. Beyond him, I can see horses looking over the stable doors. I feel like a small smudge of nothingness.
    â€˜I can ride.’ My voice sounds whiney and desperate. ‘I thought that was what mattered.’
    â€˜The reference comes first.’ The man is backing away from me, with an I’m-a-busy-man look on his face. ‘We can’t just take on any passing kid to work here. We’re not a charity, you know.’
    And he is off, leaving me to look foolish and pathetic at the stable-yard gates. I turn to leave.
    I have been brave today, but it has done me no good. Lads have laughed at me. I have been sent from one person to another. The tall man who has just dismissed me was the assistant trainer at one of the bigger yards.
    The story is always the same. They need references from an adult, from my school.
    It is mid-afternoon and I am beginning to lose hope. Wandering down a side street, I see ahead of me a small lad pushing a wheelbarrow full of horse droppings down the street, whistling as he goes. The tune he makes echoes off the walls of the houses above the sound of the traffic.
    It is such a strange and funny sight that, for the first time today, I find I am smiling. Still whistling, the lad turns down an alleyway and I watch him as he goes. At the end of the narrow lane, there is a small door in a high wooden wall. The lad pushes it open with his wheelbarrow and disappears.
    I wait for a moment, then make my decision. Anything is worth a try now. I make my way down the lane and open the gate. It is a stable yard, but less trimmed and tidy than those I have seen today. The lad is nowhere to be seen.
    To the right of the stable yard there is a pathway leading to a big, ramshackle house. It is so covered in ivy that it looks as if it has grown out of the ground.
    Something draws me to the house. I walk around the edge of the yard, then push a small gate, which opens with a creak. I make my way up the path, up the steps of the house between two grey, crumbling pillars. There’s an old sign, with the paint peeling off it. Edgecote House.
    I hesitate, then ring the bell. Beyond the door, I hear a stirring of life, then footsteps approaching.
    â€˜Yes?’
    The woman who opens the door moments later is dark-haired, slight and wearing a black trouser suit. She has more make-up on her face than you would usually see in the countryside. She looks like she is on her way to a very important meeting in a big office.
    â€˜Can I help you?’
    I open my mouth, but suddenly find myself lost for words.
    â€˜What d’you want, girl?’ She has the sort of accent which seems to have been sharpened to a fine point by years of telling people off. ‘Spit it out.’
    â€˜My name is Jay Barton.’ There is something caught in my throat. I sound like a sick frog.
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜I was hoping to talk to the trainer?’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous, girl. What’s this all about?’
    â€˜I want to work in a racing stable.’
    The woman groans. ‘Now there’s a surprise.’
    â€˜I’ve ridden in pony races. I’ve had winners. I’d be a good lad, I just know it.’
    The woman looks more closely at me. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she mutters. ‘Write to the assistant trainer, Mr Bucknall. You’ll find his details online.’
    She is closing the door in my face when, out of nowhere, desperation kicks in. ‘Please!’ My voice is so