throughout the winter. He could tell that the horse had grown much stronger during the off-season and had been backing it through his punters since early February, when the horse had begun to work well at home. Tom calculated that he would win the best part of ?100,000 if Tuneful did the business, but then two days before the race, Ron declared that the horse wouldn't run because he didn't think that it was fit enough. They had had a stand-up row in the middle of the yard and Tom had taken the liberty of telephoning the horse's owner and offering to refund his entry fee and all of his travelling costs if the horse didn't win. That had been enough to persuade the owner and the horse had duly taken his chance and won in a photo-finish from another Newmarket- trained horse.
Tom didn't wait to be given the sack. He handed his notice in and with his winnings moved to Wantage and set up as a trainer on his own. He knew that he couldn't afford to buy the type of horses needed to compete successfully on the flat, and for that reason had concentrated on the National Hunt game. He'd begun with twelve horses, owned mostly by his original band of punters, but now trained over seventy horses owned by some of the most respected people in the country.
Tom stood for everything Edward most resented, although perversely, it was Edward who had been one of the first to recognise his ability. And at a time when he had been flush with money, he had been one of the initial owners to send Tom a horse. The horse had been a novice hurdler called Without Prejudice and had won his first three races by a distance. It looked as though he might one day be good enough to run in the Champion Hurdle, and Edward was offered a lot of money for him, but after much debating Tom had persuaded Edward to keep the horse. It was sod's law that on his very next run the horse had broken down and Edward had, of course, blamed Tom. Poor Tom. He had understandably felt guilty about what had happened and had waived six months' unpaid training fees, but Edward had still remained convinced that somehow he'd been cheated. Thereafter, he'd devoted himself to bad-mouthing Tom around the racecourse, happily to no avail, and Tom had continued to give me rides.
'Hey, what's this?' Tom had noticed the marks on my neck. 'I read about the cut to your lip, but how did this happen?' He eyed me suspiciously as if he already knew the answer.
'It's nothing. A silly accident last night when I was frying some chips,' I lied clumsily.
'Frying chips? Who are you kidding? I know you don't have a weight problem and that rosy complexion hasn't come from eating greasy food. You never eat chips and you know it.'
'They were for Edward.'
'What? Do you mean that he didn't even have the decency to take you out to dinner to celebrate? Typical. Or perhaps he had nothing to celebrate. I saw him in the Mandarin bar immediately after your victory and he didn't look best pleased. Sick more like. That husband of yours couldn't back the winner of a walk-over and there's a rumour going round that he really is in bother this time. That kind of talk doesn't do you much good either.'
'What do you mean?'
'Gambling debts breed crooked jockeys.'
I looked at him and wondered whether he knew more than he was letting on. I decided to change the subject. 'Where are these horses I'm meant to be schooling?' I turned to walk towards the boxes and as I did so Tom grabbed hold of my arm.
'Hey, Victoria, not so fast.' He pointed again at my neck. 'He did that, didn't he? Don't answer then. And all this stuff in the papers about a disgruntled punter attacking you. That was him as well, wasn't it? I'm beginning to think this has gone on long enough. If I get my hands on that bastard I'm…'
The tears began to well up in my eyes.
'Please, Tom, don't. I can't stand any more trouble at the moment. If anyone is going to have the pleasure of killing Edward, I want it to be me.'
I turned round to see Tom's head lad, Jamie Brown, standing there with a riding helmet in his hand. I had no idea how long he had been listening and frankly, in my present mood, I really didn't care.
After an hour's schooling, I was desperate for something to eat and readily accepted Tom's invitation to breakfast. He'd had a couple of steady girlfriends but had so far managed to escape marriage, largely due to a middle-aged Scots dragon called Mrs Drummond. It was rumoured that she terrified everybody in the yard, including even the head lad, and she had certainly succeeded in driving away a number of girls who fancied turning Tom's stables into a love nest. Because I was married, and happily so far as she was concerned, Mrs Drummond always gave me a warm welcome. That my grandmother also came from Inverness was an additional factor in my favour.
We sat down to an enormous helping of bacon and eggs and Tom tried hard to make me laugh by reading out loud from the morning's edition of the
'What a dreadful pun!' said Tom. 'I can't believe they actually pay someone to write this rubbish.'
'It's probably one of James Thackeray's. He loves that kind of thing.'
Tom chuckled. 'That clown! The only literary thing about him is his surname. Listen to this piece of purple prose:
'Yet again the Blue Riband of racing produced a sensational climax to the festival meeting. Under an inspired, if not always elegant, ride from dashing professional Victoria Pryde, Cartwheel put his nose in front on the line to rob Irish hotpot, Pride of Limerick, of victory. But the drama didn't end there. No sooner were they past the post and disappointed Irish punters heading for the bar, than a stewards' inquiry was announced. Thousands of anxious racegoers held their breath and their betting slips for what seemed an eternity as the stewards, led by Brigadier- General Allsopp, decided whether Pryde should keep the race and earn herself a place in the history books as the first woman to ride the winner of the Gold Cup. Irish maestro Eamon Brennan, rider of Pride of Limerick, was confident that the placings would be reversed, claiming that Victoria's inability to keep a straight line had cost his mount the Cup. The stewards thought otherwise, and all those who snapped up the generous 5-1 on offer on Cartwheel were soon celebrating their good judgment. Unfortunately for Victoria, her joy was short-lived. Returning to change after being interviewed on television, she was struck to the ground by an unidentified man and, as a result, left the course nursing a cut lip. The police are investigating the assault, which they believe to have been committed by a disgruntled punter.'
'Disgruntled punter!' Tom put the paper down and snorted. 'On that basis, there must be at least two million suspects. I'm surprised to see that Cartwheel started as long as 5-1.'
'I suppose it must have been because of all that money on Pride of Limerick. You know how the Irish pile in when their blood's up.'
Tom nodded. 'I suppose so, but even then you don't tend to find the bookies being that much more generous about the opposition. Sometimes I think we're in the wrong business. Let's see what the betting report says.' He turned to one of the inside pages of the paper, which always carried a short summary of the betting on every race. 'Here, look at this. 'One of the features of yesterday's race was the generous odds laid on Cartwheel. One rails bookmaker is rumoured to have laid the horse to lose over a quarter of a million pounds.' There's one person, then, who doesn't have you as his pin-up.'
I smiled nervously and wondered whether there could be any connection between that unnamed bookmaker, my less than happy husband and the previous night's phone call. It was a subject that for the moment I wanted to put out of my mind.
I had been booked to ride a novice chaser for Ralph Elgar that afternoon at Lingfield and with the heavy overnight rain there was a chance he had decided not to risk him. I asked Tom if I could give Ralph a ring and find out what was going on.
He waved me to the phone: 'It's all yours. Tell him you've decided to spend the day with a real trainer.'
Ralph answered almost before the tone had rung out. 'Victoria?' he boomed. 'Thank God! Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. Your husband claimed to have no idea where you were and gave me an earful for waking him up so early.'
'I'm sorry. I'm down at Tom Radcliffe's, doing a bit of schooling.'
'It's Edward you should be schooling, in some manners.'
