Читать книгу Citizen - Charlie Brooks - Страница 19

Tipper’s arrival at Sinclair’s yard had attracted some notice in the racing press. He had also attracted another kind of interest, from an unexpected direction. Early in December, coming back from the gallops, Alison Sinclair rode up beside him.

‘How are you enjoying the Newmarket nightlife, young Tipper?’ she asked breezily.

‘I don’t go out much, Mrs Sinclair,’ Tipper said guardedly. ‘Got to get up so early in the morning, you see.’

‘Surely your girlfriend won’t put up with that.’

‘No problem there, Mrs Sinclair. I haven’t got one.’

‘No girlfriend? I find it hard to believe in such a good-looking boy as yourself. It must be rather a—well, a deprivation.’

Tipper concentrated on his mount, not looking at Alison and just wishing she would go away.

‘I’m all right, really,’ he said. ‘Although I thought I might have ridden a few of the runners recently that Mr Sinclair used other jockeys for.’

‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she told him, in a voice loaded with insinuation. ‘He doesn’t make all of the decisions on the jockey front you know. I’m closely involved in that.’ Then she edged her mount a fraction closer and swung out her knee so that their legs touched.

Tipper was fly enough to see that he had to be careful about Mrs Sinclair. It hadn’t been her words exactly, but her tone of voice and the way she touched his knee as they rode upsides each other. But he’d have to keep her on side.

In the next few weeks Alison Sinclair was in Tipper’s space a fair bit. It made him feel uneasy. She was always asking him about horses, alright. No other stuff. And he always told her everything he could about the horses. But he wasn’t used to the attention. Nobody had really talked to him at Doyle’s.

‘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 from the fire crackling away behind them, all was peaceful in the bar. But it sure as hell wasn’t in Tipper’s head.

‘So what’s on your mind, my man?’ Sam coaxed.

‘Jesus, I’m not sure Sam. I’m just not sure. But I think Sinclair’s wife fancies me.’

Sam burst into laughter.

Tipper took no notice and told about his conversations with Sinclair and Mrs Sinclair coming down off the gallops. A sly lecherous smile crept across Sam’s face as he listened.

‘Now Tipper, are you sure you’ve got this straight. She gave you the come-on, and the husband said go?’

‘I swear, Sam. I just thought Mrs Sinclair was being a bit over-friendly. I’ve never had a bad word out of her over anything else.’

Sam was still chuckling.

‘This is deadly! I’ve seen that woman and I wouldn’t mind a spin on her myself. She’d win a little race somewhere.’

‘She’s not my type,’ whispered Tipper desperately.

‘Maybe not. But what must be done, must be done.’

‘Jesus, Sam, me and her? Are you off your fockin’ head or what?’

‘No. Think about it. All you’ve bloody done for the last few weeks is fockin’ whinge about not getting any rides. Well now we know why, don’t we? You told me before she wore the trousers. So now you’ve got to pull them down, son.’

‘Ah no.’

Sam thought he’d said something very funny. His shoulders were shaking as he took a fresh mouthful of Guinness. Tipper stared forlornly into his scotch.

‘Look I’m not joking,’ Sam went on when he’d swallowed. ‘It’s got to be done. And anyway, you’re not exactly doing a lot of riding elsewhere. Now there’s something else I need you to do for me.’

‘Sure Sam, ask away.’ Tipper was only too happy to change the subject.

‘Well, boy. You know this Covey Club, where the lads get together for a bit of a craic. Well I think you should join it. I know you’ve got your doubts but quite a few of the top work riders are in it. You never know. They could put a good word in with their guvnors; maybe get you a few spare rides.’

Tipper had already given the club some thought. He shook his head.

‘No way, Sam. Don’t you remember what Delaney told us?’

‘Jesus Tipper. These guys are work riders. Not gamblers. It’s fine. Look you need to meet a few more people to get on.’

‘So where do you think the information goes then?’

Sam paused. This wasn’t going to plan. He hadn’t thought that Tipper would be bothered at all. Then he thought of Shelley pulling her T-shirt off and unbuttoning his shirt.

‘Look Tipper,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve fockin well given up a lot for you, I left a good job at home. I’m sitting on some stud farm in Newmarket to help you out. At least I might get to back the odd winner if you just join the Covey Club. All of the top work riders are in it for focks sake. No-one’s giving them any grief.’

Tipper was quite taken aback by the urgency and abruptness of Sam’s annoyance. He’d never seen his cousin so wound up, and he was also stung by Sam’s talk of compromising his life for Tipper. Sam had been there for him when his mother died. Tipper had never forgotten that. And Sam was the only real friend he had in the world. He couldn’t deny his cousin. He didn’t want to upset his mate.

‘Jesus Sam. Consider it done. You’re right,’ Tipper said quickly, embarrassed that he’d caused his cousin so much annoyance. Maybe Sam was right. It was no big deal. And he might make some good contacts.