‘That kid O’Reilly, he’s a rude little shit,’ Alison said to Sinclair.
‘Fancy him do you?’ mocked her husband. ‘I expect the idea’s too much for him, and he’s running a mile.’
‘Don’t sneer, David. I’d like a modicum of respect from the staff, that’s all. O’Reilly has the manners of a sewer rat. Tell him to get his act together.’
Sinclair knew precisely what this was all about. But it was, after all, her credit card that bought the feed and paid the blacksmith; her finger on the internet banking clicker; her name on the cheques. He’d have to speak to Tipper.
Shelley was all over Tipper whenever he and Sam went to the Partridge. But Tipper showed no interest whatsoever. The whole scenario was winding up Sam and Shelley something rotten. Sam was desperate to have a crack at Shelley himself, but he had no chance while she practically threw herself at Tipper. Shelley too was getting agitated. The Duke had told her to get Tipper into the Covey Club sooner rather than later. He wanted to know why she wasn’t using all of her assets to snare him.
‘He’s not bloody interested,’ she told the Duke.
‘Of course he is, for God’s sake. He’s a jockey. They’ll bloody well ride anything if it stays still for long enough.’
‘His bloody cousin. Christ. I can hardly keep the sod off me,’ Shelley complained. The Duke thought about that.
‘I tell you what. Let’s try this. Put the cousin on a promise. Tell him he can have his way with you if he delivers O’Reilly into the club. And Shelley. Don’t let him have his way till he’s delivered. All right?’
‘Who d’you think I am?’ she protested.
Unless there’d been a hard frost, every trainer wanted to be first out onto the gallops, to get the best ground for their horses. The competition was so fierce that some of them would be on the Heath even before dawn.
Sinclair wasn’t as sharp out as some, but on misty winter mornings Tipper could barely see where he was going. It felt like they were galloping into a cloud. And that suited the trainers. Because getting the freshest ground wasn’t the only reason to be early out. It also avoided prying eyes of the scouts and the touts. In Newmarket, everyone likes to know everyone else’s business. And it’s no good having a good horse if the whole town knows it can go a bit before it sets foot on the racecourse.
Not that Tipper was put off. He loved the spooky atmosphere of the Heath around dawn. And he loved the adrenaline rush of galloping upsides two or three other horses. Most of the work riders would play the game of hiding how well their horses were going. They wouldn’t even be straight with Sinclair, because this kind of knowledge, if they kept it to themselves, was valuable. When the horses ran, it gave the lad an edge. He could use the knowledge to assist his own betting or, for a price, someone else’s.
But they couldn’t hide anything from Tipper. He had all the time he needed to concentrate on his own horse, as well as take a good look at his galloping companions. Not only was he a better judge than the others, he was guileless with Sinclair too.
Sinclair wasn’t a bad judge of horses, either, but he was always some distance from the action. On a couple of occasions he’d heard Tipper’s opinions after working a horse and later, when the horse ran, found the boy had been spot-on. So now, every work morning, he got into the habit of riding back to the yard on his hack upsides Tipper, probing him for his opinions on this horse and that. On one morning, however, early in the new year, it was Tipper that had a question that he wanted answering.
He waited until Sinclair had picked his brains on all of the horses they’d had out that morning. He fidgeted with his reins and his girth-strap, and took a deep breath.
‘Guvnor, do you mind if I ask you something?’
He was looking straight ahead over his horse’s pricked ears.
‘Fire away, if you must,’ Sinclair replied, making no effort to make eye contact. He didn’t particularly like the way Tipper sounded.
‘Well, Guvnor, I’m wondering why it is that I’m good enough to ride all the best horses in their work, but not on the racecourse, like. Why don’t you give me any rides on the all-weather?’
‘I do. I’ve given you quite a few rides, haven’t I?’
‘Just one or two early on, and then since December nothing.’
‘You’ve ridden a few. And I do have to think of the owners, actually. Some of them are difficult, when it comes to younger jockeys.’
Tipper knew it was bullshit. Owners rarely interfered in the choice of a jockey, and they usually rather liked it when a useful claimer was up, because it meant their horse carried a lighter weight.
‘So tell me an owner who’s objected to me,’ Tipper challenged.
‘Err. Well you know, none specifically. But racing is a team game Tipper. You have to fit in with everyone. My wife for example. You haven’t gone out of your way to get on with her, have you? And she talks a lot to the owners. Yes, she has quite a lot of influence with them in a funny way.’
Tipper didn’t know what to say. He’d been totally professional with Sinclair’s wife. And she’d been weird with him. But he couldn’t tell Sinclair that. How the hell could he? No, he would do himself no favours going down that route.
‘I thought I got on fine with your wife, Guvnor,’ Tipper protested.
‘That doesn’t seem to be the way she sees it. Says you’re not very respectful. You know trainers’ wives are very important in this business, Tipper. I can think of countless top jockeys who wouldn’t have made it if they hadn’t looked after business in the yard as well as being able to ride. Take Wally Perks, for instance. He’d never have made it if he hadn’t had the support of Cunningham’s wife. See?’
Tipper couldn’t believe Sinclair was putting up Wally Perks as a role model. Everyone in Newmarket knew he was shagging Slip Cunningham’s wife. Surely Sinclair must know that too.
‘Well I suppose I get on better with horses than humans, Guvnor. Isn’t that what matters?’
‘Well it’s easy for you to say that. How do you think I’d get on if I took that attitude? Wouldn’t have many horses for me to train or you to ride, would I? Grow up Tipper. If you want to get better rides then I suggest that you get along with Mrs Sinclair.’
With that Sinclair gave his hack a kick in the ribs and he trotted off before Tipper could reply.
Tipper wasn’t one to make a big entrance. So he was pleased to see there was only Johnny the Fish, Shelley and Sam in the bar at the Partridge.
‘Okay lads?’ Tipper nodded.
‘Ah, young Tipper,’ Johnny beamed. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to. Drink?’
‘Jesus, Johnny I’d love one, but I’m struggling with my weight.’
‘Have a little scotch. That won’t put any weight on you.’
Tipper thought for a second and blew some air through his teeth.
‘Go on then.’
‘Scotch for our friend Tipper, Shelley.’
Shelley didn’t bother to try and engage Tipper with eye contact. Sam neither. She didn’t much like the way Sam was smiling at her since their little chat. He wasn’t cute.
‘Thanks. Jesus, I feel like I could do with a drink,’ Tipper confessed.
Sam could see that Tipper was looking a bit edgy, so he moved towards the table in the corner under the television and beckoned Tipper towards it.
Apart