Yes, I Fear he is. I fear he is.

The following is a short-story from my horse racing short story collection 'Going To The Last',  which can be purchased as a paperback or e-book. I doubt if there are many short story collections dedicated to horse racing. If there are, please tell me.
The story is based on several true events and stitched together to form a single event.

YES, I FEAR HE IS. I FEAR HE IS.

​Pat and Paddy ride along the narrow lane which leads to the schooling ground. Pat rides the horse all of Ireland refers to as ‘Himself’. Paddy is aboard steeplechasing’s pretender to the crown of ‘best there has ever been’. It is remarkable on its own for two great horses to appear on the scene at the same time but for them to be stable companions reaches deep into the fantastic realm of fiction.
    Pat is stable jockey, Paddy an ex-jockey of vast experience. Both are invaluable members of the team. Yet both are nervous. Racing’s great attractions are to school together for the first time and both Pat and Paddy think it is chancing fate and speculate on why the boss has allowed himself to be talked into it.
    Neither horse needs to be schooled and ordinarily would not be. But the Dublin press have sweet-talked Tom into staging ‘a show’ for their benefit, citing a need to give the public pictures of the great horses together. Pat and Paddy are far from convinced. The Duchess would certainly not approve and it is no surprise to either of them to hear that Tom has omitted to inform her of the day’s happening.
    “But all we will be doing is popping them over a few fences. It’ll be no different from coming back to the stables up the jumping lane.”
    Pat senses that ‘Himself’ is keen and unusually fractious, as if he knows the younger horse is a threat to his supremacy. The’ pretender’, by nature a more buzzy horse, champs eagerly at the bit, as if he too senses this cannot be an ordinary day. Their riders try to remain calm and chat away about the stable’s runners for the week, assessing their prospects and gnawing over tactics and weaknesses in their opposition. But they cannot entirely forget they are astride two colossi of the sport which is the foundation of their lives.
    The two horses are trotted around in a wide circle while Tom and the journalists up from Dublin exchange opinion on procedure. The photographers are adamant they need the horses to jump as many fences as possible, allowing them the greatest opportunity to capture for posterity spectacular and unique pictures. Tom is equally adamant that the horses will only be schooled once over the row of three fences. The debate continues; the disconnected massed intonations of the press and the lone calm voice of the professional racehorse trainer. All the while the bay and the chestnut jog around in a circle, their excited vitality contained by the soft hands and perfect poise of their skilful riders.
    “I shouldn’t be schooling at all,” Tom tells his behatted adversaries, his eagle-eye focused on his horses. Better armed, though, by welter of numbers the journalists rally their argument, declaring the exercise a waste of everyone’s time if they go home without a satisfactory story and exciting photographs.
    Alarmed by the lengthening of the delay Tom issues an ultimatum. “Once over the schooling fences or not at all.”
    Tom’s place in Irish racing history ensures him respect with even the most diehard journalist and begrudgingly they capitulate and the photographers scuttle away to secure the best vantage points – some favouring the last fence, hoping that by then the two horses will be in full, unrestrainable flight; while the majority choose the first fence. Only one man positions himself close to the second fence.
    Finally Tom signals for the schooling to begin, his affirming nod of the head as
anticipated by the small audience as the rising of the tapes at Aintree, Epsom or Cheltenham.
    “We had best go in upsides,” Pat suggests, gathering up the reins.
    “Ay, and Heaven help us,” Paddy answers as they set themselves for the short run to the first fence. “We’ll need the help of all the saints if one of us gets half-lengthed,” he laughes.
    Unbidden the horses break into a canter, straining to be let loose at the fences. Both men cry “Steady” but their steeds disobey as they are both intent upon gaining the ascendancy. The first fence looms up, small yet ominous, hammered out of its original dimensions by decades of constant use. Inside the wing of the fence both horses rise as one; the rivalry as competitive as any duel up the Cheltenham hill: the ‘pretender’ determined to lead, ‘Himself’ as determined not to be led. It is a battle of equine wills; a dispute of equine pride. For the first time on the great horse Pat feels out of control. Both riders would like to stop and start again; the thrill negated by discord. Tom shouts for them to slow down but his plea goes unheeded, unheard. The photographers hold their breath and snap away, each one congratulating himself on achieving the occasion.
    The two horses lengthen once more and sprint for the second fence. Grasping the air they fly its inconsequential height in high-spirited unison: the ‘pretender’ inch perfect, ‘Himself’, in his exuberance to match the impetuosity of his rival, knuckling over, his nose scraping the earth, spilling Pat over his ears.
    It is the first time the great horse has met the rising ground and for an immediate moment the world is put on pause, as if the Creator must take stock of the situation in order to remedy the calamity. The press, each and every one of them, exclaim profanities which only the confessional can excuse them from. Tom, his face ghost-like, averts his eyes, a prayer for forgiveness engraved at his heart.
    The ‘pretender’ gallops on unnoticed. He leaps the final fence as impeccably as the two before and bowls along into the distance, his stride unchecked, still keen to prove his superiority. Finally Paddy persuades him to a trot and looks left and right, astonished and dismayed to find he is alone. “Merciful Father!” he cries, fearful of what he might see in the distance, his every thought a hope for the avoidance of catastrophe.
    Pat is on his feet, his comments of more importance to the press than his health. The great horse is also on his feet, waiting for Tom to take charge of him.
    The cold chill of alarm subsides and relief counters despondency. The photographers refocus their cameras and return to work, picturing for posterity the aftermath of near tragedy. The journalists, hyped-up by the unique opportunity which has unexpectedly blown their way, pull out pencil and note-books and start to piece together the sequence of events, thinking of subtle ways to apportion blame, recognising that they are witness to something hitherto unseen, something of which the British press will be ignorant of.
    Tom struggles with his conscience. He knows that ultimately he is to blame – the horse and Pat could have been hurt. He tries to remain calm, in charge of proceedings. It was a calamitous misjudgement. But it is done. He cannot undo tangled minutes which have passed his grasp. Yet he cannot help but think about the Duchess. What will she say when she finds out her beloved horse has taken a tumble schooling for the benefit of the newspapers? She has horses trained in England. She could transfer ‘Himself’ to one of her English trainers? If that happens and the reason for it made public his reputation would be as shot as a grouse on one of her highland estates. He must, he decides, have the incident suppressed.
    He suggests to the journalists that the predicament which has befallen him has at its roots their arm-twisting but they are in no mood for compromise; a golden scoop has been gifted them, there is great profit and kudos to be gained from it exploitation. Newsworthy stories are their livelihood and any story involving ‘Himself’ transcends the sports pages.
    “Ah, but you see, Tom, now the majority of us would surely oblige you but it only takes one to break rank and the rest of us poor souls will look right ejits in the eyes of our hard-nosed editors. We also are in a predicament. Hasn’t the pictures man of the Irish Times alone amongst us had a picture of the great horse falling?”
    The man in question, his homburg hat askew above a sheepish look of pride, smiles to his envious, glowering colleagues; the power of the moment belonging solely to him.
    “It would be a source of national shame if the Duchess took ‘Himself’ across the water,” Tom reminds them. “Who would benefit then? The English press, maybe?”
    Reflection and second thought is now the new order. It is an incredulous supposition; a spectre too woeful to be speculated on for long. “Is that likely? After all you have won with him?” a journalist asks, speaking for the whole of Ireland.
    “Why should she not?” Tom answers. “I am responsible for what has happened this morning. I may put the blame on you but she quite rightly will lay the blame at my door.”
    “Not after two Gold Cups, surely?”
    “The Duchess pays the bills,” Tom reminds them, deflecting guilt toward them. “But I am sure they’ll be a compromise, don’t you think, boys?”
*
A third Gold Cup is duly won. April brings sunshine and relaxation and with the height of the season achieved the promise is honoured to host a private celebration for those who witnessed that awful day when history might have been turned on its head.
    The party is alfresco, in the stable yard, with journalists and photographers mingling with stable staff, drinks in hand, the stabled horses, ‘Himself’ and the ‘pretender’ included, taking a keen interest in the invasion. Reminiscences are exchanged, good and bad jokes told, tales of gambles lost and won embellished and distorted by the passing of the ages.
    The editor of the parochial magazine approaches Tom and Pat as they discuss the following day’s work. Without preamble he interrupts their conversation, recollecting a race meeting at Navan before the war, imperiously assuming credit for introducing Tom, then a struggling farmer with only a handful of point-to-pointers to his name, to Edward Rank, a wealthy owner in need of someone to take charge of a rebellious young horse he had acquired. Tom easily remembers the occasion and the horse and instinctively looks across the cobbled yard to the stone stable which all those years ago had housed his first great horse.
    “Unbeatable, nearly, over here, wasn’t he?” the editor recalls. “If it wasn’t for Herr Hitler he would have won more Gold Cups than any horse living. More than one, that’s for sure.” To Pat he adds. “Third in the Grand National after the war. Twelve-seven he carried and not beaten far. What would he have achieved if the English had raced throughout the war as we did? Best horse I ever damn saw and I’m older than the Mountains of Mourne”.       
    Pat nods his head, he too knows of the exploits of Tom’s most revered horse, the horse which won Tom his career, which has lead to Himself. He turns to his employer and friend for him to add his own recollection and is surprised to see tears forming in the old man’s eyes.
    A young, fledgling journalist, an underling at The Field, joins them, a whisky too large for his constitution in his hand. “’Himself’, sir, must now be the best horse you have trained? Or ever likely to, perhaps?”
    To the three men gathered around Tom it seems an innocuous question, with the answer as obvious as the question is unnecessary. But in his mind’s eye Tom can visualise what the others cannot. He can see Prince Regent and knows he can never repay the debt owed to him. Yet the truth cannot be denied. “Yes,” he admits, his heart caught in an act of disloyalty. “Yes, I fear he is. I fear he is.”
*******