and far between. The only runners he had that week were a couple at Worcester on the Thursday and by happy coincidence one of them was Fainthearted, the horse I had pulled on Edward's orders on that very first occasion all those months ago. I could not waste this opportunity to redeem myself and to justify Ralph's continued support and I therefore decided to defer my sleuthing until after the day's racing was over.
It was the first sunny day of Spring and as Ralph and I drove to the course together we discussed the riding instructions for both the races in which he had runners. Ralph was his usual chatty self, doing his best to keep my mind off the whole business. It was clear that he was very keen on Fainthearted's chances in the first and he reiterated that I was to hold him up for a late run and if possible only hit the front just before the winning post. As an ex flat horse, Fainthearted had the intelligence to pull up as soon as he was ahead and from a jockey's point of view there was nothing more sickening than hitting the front too soon, apparently full of running, and then finding yourself coming to a standstill as if the race was over. This time Ralph wanted no mistakes and, unusually for him, he kept on repeating how he wanted the horse ridden. I just sat back and listened. Judging from his uneasy manner and disregard for the other traffic on the road I was pretty sure that he was going for a major touch and with Fainthearted carrying only ten stone four on his back there was every reason for feeling confident.
Having narrowly missed at least two collisions I was very glad when we arrived unscathed at the course. As we walked into the members' enclosure I noticed several people point at me and then turn away as we drew closer. Even the man on the gate appeared surprised to see me, as if I should be wearing widow's weeds and not racing silks. I hated being the object of such attention and for once was relieved to be the only woman jockey riding that day. As soon as Ralph had gone off to check that the horses had arrived safely at the racecourse's stables, I hurried over to enjoy the solitude of the lady jockeys' changing room. Not for us the luxury of having a valet to help us dress like our male counterparts. With the race only twenty-five minutes away, I started to undress and put on the brown and pink colours of Fainthearted's owner, glancing in the mirror to check that I was presentable. I was surprised at how suddenly I seemed to have aged. My skin had lost its glow; my eyes looked dull and soulless and I thought I could see the first grey hairs in my blonde, bobbed hair. Sighing, I picked up the saddle and went over to the weighing room to weigh out. Ralph's travelling head lad was waiting to take it from me.
'This is an absolute certainty,' he said as I handed it over. He then looked me straight in the eye: 'Try not to make a cock up at the last hurdle this time.' He didn't give me time to answer, just turned and went off to the saddling boxes. As I stood there wondering whether he knew what had happened last time, a couple of jockeys came up and said how sorry they were about what had happened to Edward.
'I know we take the piss out of you quite a lot, but seriously, if there's anything you want, just give us a shout.'
It's amazing how just a few words can lift you and I felt much better.
I returned to the changing room to collect the rest of my gear and stood for a few minutes, lost in thought, looking out onto the River Severn. I could see two crews of young oarsmen straining away in enthusiastic rivalry and at that moment I envied them the pleasure of true amateurism. A tap on the door from one of the racecourse officials brought me sharply back to reality. It meant I had four minutes to get ready. I tied on my cap, pulled my goggles over it and picked up my gloves and whip. Then, taking a couple of deep breaths, I wished myself luck and skipped down the wooden steps and on towards the weighing room. This was it and I had never felt so nervous.
As I walked along, several punters sidled up to me and asked if I thought we would win. I just smiled, said nothing and muttered to myself that we better had. I joined up with the other jockeys, gaily joking amongst themselves, and finally entered the paddock where I could see Fainthearted being led around by the lad. The good weather meant that none of the horses were wearing sheets or rugs and Fainthearted's neck was already gleaming with sweat. I pulled my half-fingered gloves on in readiness for a battle with a pair of slippery reins, knowing that if I lost it he would run away with me to the start and almost certainly cart me during the race itself.
The paddock was packed with excited and ever hopeful owners and trainers, some of whom were more on their toes than their animals were. The Topley Hurdle had attracted the maximum field of twenty-eight runners although I reckoned there were only four in with a real chance. One of those was to be ridden by Eamon Brennan and I made a mental note to stay well clear of him during the race. I soon spotted Ralph in the corner, chatting with the owners, and walked over. I had barely time to reach them and say hello before the bell rang for the jockeys to get mounted.
'I don't need to tell you how to ride him,' said Ralph. He could say that again! 'Just remember to take him down to the start last and be certain you've got him well and truly settled before you put him into the race.' I nodded and turned to make my way through the throng to where Fainthearted was pulling his lad round in a very small circle.
'And make sure you win!' Ralph called after me, with a distinct edge to his voice. I was beginning to wonder just how much he was having on this time.
The lad was sweating even more than the horse and was evidently relieved to see me arrive.
'I've never known him as strong as this,' he remarked as Ralph's travelling head lad checked the girths and helped me into the saddle. 'I bet you can't hold him today,' he added cheekily. I ignored the jibe and told him to take a right-hand turn to ensure we were the last to go through the iron gate which led out of the paddock and therefore the last to go down. The plan worked a treat and by the time we were out on the course and had turned right to parade in front of the stands, the early runners were already galloping down past us to the start. Fainthearted was dripping with sweat from head to tail and tried to take off after them. The lad just managed to turn him in a circle on the lead rein and then send him off in the right direction. I barely let him out of a trot as we made our way alongside the white iron railings and waited until the horse in front of me was far enough ahead before turning back down the course. With so much at stake I couldn't allow him to waste all his energy at this stage by chasing another runner. Again, the tactic worked and we reached the start without incident. While I was having the girths checked I called out to the starter, himself a former jockey, and explained why I would be lining up at the rear of the field and told him that he wasn't to bother if I was some way behind. He looked at the sweat on Fainthearted and smiled sympathetically.
'Okay, but don't be too far back or I'll end up with a rollicking from the stewards.'
In a couple of minutes he was on his rostrum and telling us to line up. I let everybody else position themselves in front of me and as the starter pulled the lever to release the tape, I turned Fainthearted's head to one side to prevent him sprinting off too quickly. There were a couple of front runners and with such a large field we went at a furious gallop.
I settled Fainthearted towards the rear as we jumped the first two flights before passing in front of the stands and round the long left-hand bend into the back straight. Even though he wasn't running away with me, he still wasn't properly settled and he only really relaxed once we had passed the racecourse stables half way down the far side. Three or four of the runners were already beginning to feel the strain of the fast gallop and were dropping back. By the time we had jumped the last on the far side, we were within striking distance of the leaders and I hadn't yet had to move a muscle. We were going to win, I could just sense it. There were still six furlongs to go, so I tucked him in on the rails and looked up at the field ahead to see who was travelling easiest, as that was the one I would track. Five lengths in front of me I spotted my man. Ben Stevenson was sitting motionless on Dock Brief, waiting for his time to pounce on the leader, and no doubt already counting his percentage of the prize money. As the runners made their way round the bend and into the straight the pace began to quicken and I went to move Fainthearted out from behind a tired horse to go with them. As I did so, Eamon Brennan suddenly appeared from nowhere on my outside, travelling equally well, but instead of going on he took a pull on the reins and proceeded to box me in. The Irishman appeared totally unconcerned about winning the race and as tired horses kept losing ground and taking me backwards with them he just slowed his horse down on my outside. From sitting pretty and planning when to make my move, I was penned in helplessly with the leaders going further away. I'd had enough.
'Let me out, you bastard!' I shouted over at him but he took no notice. Instead he ostentatiously waved his stick backwards and forwards as if trying to keep up, but I could see that his reins were held tight. I had plenty of horse under me but nowhere to go. Fainthearted simply wasn't big enough to barge his way out and I now had to sit and suffer until we straightened up for home and a gap finally appeared. Eventually it did and by then it was me and not the horse who was sweating. I was convinced it was too late. Fainthearted might have a blistering turn of pace but not even he could make up that much ground.
With only half a mile left, he flew the first two hurdles in the straight and he was going so fast that the horses
