Stonepicker lost his balance as he hit the ground and crumpled up in front of us, leaving Cartwheel with nowhere to put his feet as he landed. If I now pulled one way and he decided to go the other I would bring him down for certain. I decided to leave him alone and just sit tight as he dodged instinctively to the right. For a split second I thought we had got away with it. Instead I shot up his neck as his back legs became entangled with those of Stonepicker, who lay kicking wildly on the ground. By some miracle we stayed up but were brought almost to a standstill. From going well and not trying in second place we were now desperate to win but out at the back with the no-hopers.
Within seconds the water jump was upon us and we only just managed to reach the other side. The sight of Brennan's motionless backside, ten lengths ahead, said it all. By the time we reached the next, the third open ditch, we were on an even keel and once we were over I had time to take a breather at last, look up and assess the situation. We were a good fifteen lengths adrift of Melodrama, who had now pulled herself into the lead. She was followed by a couple of others I didn't recognise; then, travelling easiest of all, was Pride of Limerick.
There was less than a mile and a half to go, and although it wasn't impossible to win from where we were, it was frankly unlikely. At least we had the conditions on our side. The rain, which had started falling on the first day of the festival, two days earlier, had come just in time and the deep mud underfoot put a premium on stamina. Cartwheel was an out and out stayer and could be relied upon to do his best in the last half mile of the race. But were we now too far behind to make use of it? Clearly there was no time for caution and I kicked Cartwheel into the next fence and steered him towards the inside.
We flew the next three fences before reaching the top of the hill, and began racing left handed towards the long downhill run. He was in top gear how and eating up the ground. Gradually we were beginning to make an impression, and the lead had been cut to about eight lengths as we raced towards the third last. There was no doubt by now which of us was more tired. My legs felt like jelly and my lungs were burning. I desperately wanted Cartwheel to put in a short stride at the next, so that he would take more time to recover and I would be able to snatch a lungful of air. But he had other plans. We stood off the fence a whole stride too soon and landed just as far over the other side, with Cartwheel's neck stretched out, heading for home. His only concern was winning.
I was now so exhausted that I was little more than a passenger. It was Cartwheel, not me, who forced us between the running rail and another tiring horse in his effort to reach the front and as he galloped up relentlessly towards the second last, every muscle in my body was straining at the effort. I just wished to God that I could summon up the assistance he deserved. He jumped the last two fences with ridiculous ease and then began the long gallop up the famous Cheltenham hill.
Ahead of us and locked together were Melodrama on the standside and on the inside, being driven along, Pride of Limerick. With fifty yards to go we passed Melodrama, who was rolling in the mud and going nowhere, and drew alongside Pride of Limerick. Brennan was arched over the chestnut with his whip in his left hand, striking him repeatedly. Responding to his jockey's exertions, Pride of Limerick fought like a terrier to match strides with us. As the two horses joined battle I could feel Cartwheel edging towards the chestnut as the strength in his legs began to give out. I couldn't bear losing now. With one last desperate effort Cartwheel forced his head in front as we passed the line.
The judge would have to call for a photograph but I knew we had done it.
The stewards had other ideas. We had pulled up and I was accepting the congratulations of my fellow jockeys when the announcement of an enquiry came over the tannoy. I looked quizzically over at the rider of Melodrama to see if he had any idea what it was about; he merely shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry. That was easier said than done. It would be ironic if, having decided to be honest, I should now lose the race in the stewards' room. Ralph Elgar came running out to me as the lad led us towards the winners' enclosure and I could tell from the worried look on his face that he was none too happy.
'Do you think you'll keep it?' he asked anxiously, his voice still hoarse from shouting Cartwheel home.
I felt angry at his lack of confidence. 'What do you mean? I've done nothing wrong.'
He shook his head ominously. 'I hope you're right. It certainly didn't look too good from where I was watching. Brennan definitely had to stop riding, you know.'
My heart sank. Cartwheel had beaten Pride of Limerick on merit but it was beginning to look like the loser's jockey may have outwitted me. The outcome would hinge upon the head on film and the mood of the stewards.
We reached the winners' enclosure to a tumultuous reception – at least the other half of the Cheltenham crowd appeared to have backed us – and as I dismounted I turned to Cartwheel's owner and apologised.
'I'll have none of that,' replied Angus Knight, beaming with pride and apparently unflustered by the unfolding drama. 'He ran a great race and you gave him a great ride. Now go and make sure you do as well in front of the stewards.'
I patted Cartwheel on the neck and pulled the
saddle off before turning and walking across the grass towards the weighing room. Trainers, jockeys and racing journalists shouted congratulations as I passed. I only hoped that they were merited. Just before I reached the steps one of the stipendiary stewards stopped me and told me to come to the stewards' room as soon as I'd weighed in.
I was terrified. Twenty minutes before, I'd been set on losing the race and now here I was praying that it would not be taken away from me. I had no doubt that Brennan would lie through his teeth if he thought it would give him half a chance of winning the Gold Cup and, to be honest, I was certain I would do the same in his position. The Irishman was already waiting outside the stewards' room when I arrived, his riding silks splattered with mud and his cheeks still flushed from his exertions. He sneered at me malevolently and through the gap in his front teeth hissed the magic words, 'Nothing personal'.
As soon as the stewards had finished watching the re-run of the race, we were summoned into their presence. The three of them were seated behind a beautiful antique beechwood table, whose four legs were carved like the hind legs of a rearing horse. In the middle sat, Brigadier-General Allsopp and on his right, much to my despair, Sir Arthur Drewe. He was a great friend of my father-in-law – I think they were at school together – and had gone out of his way to be rude to me ever since I had turned professional. What's more, I'd already stood before him on a
couple of occasions, and both times I'd lost. He was in his late fifties, with grey hair and a moustache, and his face bore testimony to many years of exposure to the good life, and in particular to vintage port. Unfortunately he had once ridden the winner of a point-to-point, which in his mind had made him an authority on everything connected with racing. The fact was that he could have passed on his entire knowledge in under a minute and replayed it on his video, too. I did not recognise the third member of the triumvirate, who was considerably younger and gave me what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. The stipendiary steward, who was standing beside the table, was the first to speak:
'This is Pryde, the rider of Cartwheel, and this is Brennan, the rider of Pride of Limerick.' He then formally introduced the stewards to us. I could tell immediately from the acid expression on Drewe's bucolic face that the best I could hope for was a majority decision.
The Brigadier-General, as chief steward, began by asking each of us to give an account of what happened on the run-in. I went first, but was shaking so much that the words came out hesitantly and without conviction. Brennan, by contrast, had attended more enquiries than he had confessionals, and gave a virtuoso performance of a jockey wronged. He claimed that Cartwheel had crossed him on the run-in to such an extent that he had had to check and stop using his whip.
'I can honestly say, sir,' he concluded, 'that without that interference I would certainly have won.'
We then watched a re-run of the race on the video, both side and head on, and when that was over we were asked if we had anything further to say. Fortunately the head-on film had shown that Cartwheel was not the only culprit and I decided that I couldn't let Brennan's comments go unchallenged. Nothing personal, of course.
'Only this, sir. You'll see that although we did come together it wasn't all my fellow's fault. They were both very tired animals and…'
'And because of your failure to steer a straight line, Brennan was unable to use his whip.' Sir Arthur's interjection was as savage as it was demoralising. I so much wanted to answer back, but decided to keep my mouth shut. My only hope was that his fellow stewards disliked him as much as I did, and had taken a different view of the film.
