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  In Humber’s case it was the boy who held the horse’s head who was nervous. Frightened, I thought, was hardly too strong a word for it. He kept giving wary, startled-animal glances at Humber, and stayed out of his sight on the far side of the horse as much as possible. He was a thin, ragged-looking boy of about sixteen, and not far, I judged, from being mentally deficient.

  The travelling head lad, middle-aged, with a big nose and an unfriendly air, unhurriedly adjusted the saddle and nodded to the lad to lead the horse off into the parade ring. Humber followed. He walked with a slight limp, more or less disguised by the use of the walking stick, and he proceeded in a straight line like a tank, expecting everyone else to get out of his way.

  I transferred myself to the parade ring rails in his wake and watched him give instructions to his jockey, an allowance-claimer who regarded his mount with justified disillusion. It was the head travelling lad, not Humber, who gave the jockey a leg up, and who picked up and carried off with him the horse’s rug. Round at the lads’ stand I carefully stood directly in front of the head travelling lad and in the lull before the race started I turned sideways and tried to borrow some money from the lad standing next to me, whom I didn’t know. Not unexpectedly, but to my relief, the lad refused indignantly and more than loudly enough for Humber’s head lad to hear. I hunched my shoulders and resisted the temptation to look round and see if the message had reached its destination.

  Humber’s horse ran out of energy in the straight and finished second to last. No one was surprised.

  After that I stationed myself outside the stable gate to wait for Superman’s lad, but he didn’t come out for another half an hour, until after the fifth race. I fell into step beside him as if by accident, saying ‘Rather you than me, chum, with one like that to look after.’ He asked me who I worked for; I said Inskip, and he loosened up and agreed that a cup of char and a wad would go down a treat, after all that caper.

  ‘Is he always that het up after a race?’ I said, half-way through the cheese sandwiches.

  ‘No. Usually, he’s dog-tired. There’s been all hell breaking loose this time, I can tell you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, first they came and took some tests on all the runners before the race. Now I ask you, why before? It’s not the thing, is it? Not before. You ever had one done before?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then, see, old Super, he was putting up the same sort of job he always does, looking as if he is going to come on into a place at least and then packing it in going to the last. Stupid basket. No guts, I reckon. They had his heart tested, but it ticks O.K. So it’s no guts, sure enough. Anyway, then at the last he suddenly kicks up his heels and bolts off as if the devil was after him. I don’t suppose you saw him? He’s a nervy customer always, really, but he was climbing the wall when we finally caught him. The old man was dead worried. Well, the horse looked as though he had been got at, and he wanted to stick his oar in first and get a dope test done so that the Stewards shouldn’t accuse him of using a booster and take away his ruddy licence. They had a couple of vets fussing over him taking things to be analysed… dead funny it was, because old Super was trying to pitch them over the stable walls… and in the end they gave him a jab of something to quieten him down. But how we’re going to get him home I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you looked after him long?’ I asked sympathetically.

  ‘Since the beginning of the season. About four months, I suppose. He’s a jumpy customer, as I said, but before this I had just about got him to like me. Gawd, I hope he calms down proper before the jabs wear off, I do straight.’

  ‘Who had him before you?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Last year he was in a little stable in Devon with a private trainer called Beaney, I think. Yes, Beaney, that’s where he started, but he didn’t do any good there.’

  ‘I expect they made him nervous there, breaking him in,’ I said.

  ‘No, now that’s a funny thing, I said that to one of Beaney’s lads when we were down in Devon for one of the August meetings, and he said I must be talking about the wrong horse because Superman was a placid old thing and no trouble. He said if Superman was nervous it must have been on account of something that had happened during the summer after he left their place and before he came to us.’

  ‘Where did he go for the summer?’ I asked, picking up the cup of orange-coloured tea.

  ‘Search me. The old man bought him at Ascot sales, I think, for a cheap horse. I should think he will shuffle him off again after this if he can get more than knacker’s price for him. Poor old Super. Silly nit.’ The lad stared gloomily into his tea.

  ‘You don’t think he went off his rocker today because he was doped then?’

  ‘I think he just went bonkers,’ he said. ‘Stark, staring, raving bonkers. I mean, no one had a chance to dope him, except me and the old man and Chalky, and I didn’t, and the old man didn’t, because he’s not that sort, and you wouldn’t think Chalky would either, he’s so darn proud being promoted head travelling lad only last month…’

  We finished our tea and went round to watch the sixth race still talking about Superman, but his lad knew nothing else which was of help to me.

  After the race I walked the half mile into the centre of Stafford, and from a telephone box sent two identical telegrams to October, one to London and one to Slaw, as I did not know where he was. They read, ‘Request urgent information re Superman, specifically where did he go from Beaney, permit holder, Devon, last May approximately. Answer care Post Restante, Newcastle-on-Tyne.’

  I spent the evening, incredibly distant from the gaiety of the day before, watching a dreary musical in a three-quarters empty cinema, and slept that night in a dingy bed-and-breakfast hotel where they looked me up and down and asked for their money in advance. I paid, wondering if I would ever get used to being treated like dirt. I felt a fresh shock every time. I supposed I had been too accustomed to the respect I was offered in Australia even to notice it, far less appreciate it. I would appreciate some of it now, I ruefully thought, following the landlady into an unwelcoming little room and listening to her suspicious lecture on no cooking, no hot water after eleven, and no girls.

  The following afternoon I conspicuously mooched around in front of Humber’s head travelling lad with a hang-dog and worried expression, and after the races went back by bus and train to Newcastle for the night. In the morning I collected the motor-cycle, fitted with the new silencer and other parts, and called at the post office to see if there was a reply from October.

  The clerk handed me a letter. Inside, without salutation or signature, there was a single sheet of typescript, which read; ‘Superman was born and bred in Ireland. Changed hands twice before reaching John Beaney in Devon. He was then sold by Beaney to H. Humber, Esq. of Posset. Co. Durham, on May 3rd. Humber sent him to Ascot Sales in July, where he was bought by his present trainer for two hundred and sixty guineas.

  ‘Investigations re Superman at Stafford yesterday are all so far uninformative; dope analyses have still to be completed but there is little hope they will show anything. The veterinary surgeon at the course was as convinced as you apparently were that this is another “joker”, and made a thorough examination of the horse’s skin. There were no visible punctures except the ones he made himself giving the horse sedation.

  ‘Superman was apparently in a normal condition before the race. His jockey reports all normal until the last fence, when the horse seemed to suffer a sort of convulsion, and ejected him from the saddle.

  ‘Further enquiries re Rudyard revealed he was bought four winters ago by P. J. Adams of Telbridge, Northumberland, and sold again within a short time at Ascot. Transistor was bought by Adams at Doncaster three years ago, sold Newmarket Dispersal Sales three months later.

  ‘Enquiries re thirty consecutive five pound notes reveal they were issued by Barclays Bank, Birmingham New Street branch, to a man called Lewis Greenfield, who corresponds
exactly to your description of the man who approached you in Slaw. Proceedings against Greenfield and T. N. Tarleton are in hand, but will be held in abeyance until after your main task is completed.

  ‘Your report on Bimmo Bognor is noted, but as you say, the buying of stable information is not a punishable offence in law. No proceedings are at present contemplated, but warning that a spy system is in operation will be given privately to certain trainers.’

  I tore the page up and scattered it in the litter basket, then went back to the motor-cycle and put it through its paces down the A.1 to Catterick. It handled well, and I enjoyed the speed and found it quite true that it would still do a hundred.

  At Catterick that Saturday Humber’s head travelling lad rose like a trout to the fly.

  Inskip had sent two runners, one of which was looked after by Paddy; and up on the lads’ stand before the second race I saw the sharp little Irishman and Humber’s head lad talking earnestly together. I was afraid that Paddy might relent towards me enough to say something in my favour, but I needn’t have worried. He put my mind at rest himself.

  ‘You’re a bloody young fool,’ he said, looking me over from my unkempt head to my grubby toes. ‘And you’ve only got what you deserve. That man of Humber’s was asking me about you, why you got the kick from Inskip’s, and I told him the real reason, not all that eye-wash about messing about with his nibs’ daughter.’

  ‘What real reason?’ I asked, surprised.

  His mouth twisted in contempt. ‘People talk, you know. You don’t think they keep their traps shut, when there’s a good bit of gossip going round? You don’t think that Grits didn’t tell me how you got drunk at Cheltenham and blew your mouth off about Inskip’s? And what you said at Bristol about being willing to put the finger on a horse’s box in the yard, well, that got round to me too. And thick as thieves with that crook Soupy, you were, as well. And there was that time when we all put our wages on Sparking Plug and he didn’t go a yard… I’d lay any money that was your doing. So I told Humber’s man he would be a fool to take you on. You’re poison, Dan, and I reckon any stable is better off without you, and I told him so.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You can ride,’ said Paddy disgustedly, ‘I’ll say that for you. And it’s an utter bloody waste. You’ll never get a job with a decent stable again, it would be like putting a rotten apple into a box of good ones.’

  ‘Did you say all that to Humber’s man?’

  ‘I told him no decent stable would take you on,’ he nodded. ‘And if you ask me it bloody well serves you right.’ He turned his back on me and walked away.

  I sighed, and told myself I should be pleased that Paddy believed me such a black character.

  Humber’s head travelling lad spoke to me in the paddock between the last two races.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he said, catching my arm. ‘I hear you’re looking for a job.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I might be able to put you in the way of something. Good pay, better than most.’

  ‘Whose stable?’ I asked. ‘And how much?’

  ‘Sixteen quid a week.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I admitted. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where I work. For Mr Humber. Up in Durham.’

  ‘Humber,’ I repeated sourly.

  ‘Well, you want a job, don’t you? Of course if you are so well off you can do without a job, that’s different.’ He sneered at my unprosperous appearance.

  ‘I need a job,’ I muttered.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘He might not have me,’ I said bitterly. ‘Like some others I could mention.’

  ‘He will if I put in a word for you, we’re short of a lad just now. There’s another meeting here next Wednesday. I’ll put in a word for you before that and if it is O.K. you can see Mr Humber on Wednesday and he’ll tell you whether he’ll have you or not.’

  ‘Why not ask him now?’ I said.

  ‘No. You wait till Wednesday.’

  ‘All right,’ I said grudgingly. ‘If I’ve got to.’

  I could almost see him thinking that by Wednesday I would be just that much hungrier, just that much more anxious to take any job that was offered and less likely to be frightened off by rumours of bad conditions.

  I had spent all the bookmaker’s two hundred, as well as half of the money I had earned at Inskip’s, on my Italian jaunt (of which I regretted not one penny), and after paying for the motor-cycle and the succession of dingy lodgings I had almost nothing left of October’s original two hundred. He had not suggested giving me any more for expenses, and I was not going to ask him for any: but I judged that the other half of my Inskip pay could be spent how I liked, and I despatched nearly all of it in the following three days on a motor-cycle trip to Edinburgh, walking round and enjoying the city and thinking myself the oddest tourist in Scotland.

  On Tuesday evening, when Hogmanay was in full swing, I braved the head waiter of L’Aperitif, who to his eternal credit treated to me with beautifully self-controlled politeness, but quite reasonably checked, before he gave me a little table in a corner, that I had enough money to pay the bill. Impervious to scandalized looks from better dressed diners, I slowly ate, with Humber’s establishment in mind, a perfect and enormous dinner of lobster, duck bigarade, lemon soufflé and brie, and drank most of a bottle of Château Leauville Lescases 1948.

  With which extravagant farewell to being my own master I rode down the A.1 to Catterick on New Year’s Day and in good spirits engaged myself to the worst stable in the country.

  Chapter 9

  Rumour had hardly done Hedley Humber justice. The discomfort in which the lads were expected to live was so methodically devised that I had been there only one day before I came to the conclusion that its sole purpose was to discourage anyone from staying too long. I discovered that only the head lad and the head travelling lad, who both lived out in Posset, had worked in the yard for more than three months, and that the average time it took for an ordinary lad to decide that sixteen pounds a week was not enough was eight to ten weeks.

  This meant that none of the stable hands except the two head lads knew what had happened to Superman the previous summer, because none of them had been there at the time. And caution told me that the only reason the two top men stayed was because they knew what was going on, and that if I asked them about Superman I might find myself following smartly in Tommy Stapleton’s footsteps.

  I had heard all about the squalor of the living quarters at some stables, and I was aware also that some lads deserved no better – some I knew of had broken up and burned their chairs rather than go outside and fetch coal, and others had stacked their dirty dishes in the lavatory and pulled the chain to do the washing up. But even granted that Humber only employed the dregs, his arrangements were very nearly inhuman.

  The dormitory was a narrow hayloft over the horses. One could hear every bang of their hooves and the rattle of chains, and through cracks in the plank floor one could see straight down into the boxes. Upwards through the cracks rose a smell of dirty straw and an icy draught. There was no ceiling to the hayloft except the rafters and the tiles of the roof, and no way up into it except a ladder through a hole in the floor. In the one small window a broken pane of glass had been pasted over with brown paper, which shut out the light and let in the cold.

  The seven beds, which were all the hayloft held in the way of furniture, were stark, basic affairs made of a piece of canvas stretched tautly on to a tubular metal frame. On each bed there was supposed to be one pillow and two grey blankets, but I had to struggle to get mine back because they had been appropriated by others as soon as my predecessor left. The pillow had no cover, there were no sheets, and there were no mattresses. Everyone went to bed fully dressed to keep warm, and on my third day there it started snowing.

  The kitchen at the bottom of the ladder, the only other room available to the lads, was nothing more than the last loose box along one side of the yard. So little had been done
to make it habitable as to leave a powerful suggestion that its inmates were to be thought of, and treated, as animals. The bars were still in place over the small window, and there were still bolts on the outside of the split stable door. The floor was still of bare concrete crisscrossed with drainage grooves; one side wall was of rough boards with kick marks still in them and the other three were of bare bricks. The room was chronically cold and damp and dirty; and although it may have been big enough as a home for one horse, it was uncomfortably cramped for seven men.

  The minimal furniture consisted of rough benches around two walls, a wooden table, a badly chipped electric cooker, a shelf for crockery, and an old marble wash stand bearing a metal jug and a metal basin, which was all there was in the way of a bathroom. Other needs were catered for in a wooden hut beside the muck heap.

  The food, prepared by a slatternly woman perpetually in curlers, was not up to the standard of the accommodation.

  Humber, who had engaged me with an indifferent glance and a nod, directed me with equal lack of interest, when I arrived in the yard, to look after four horses, and told me the numbers of their boxes. Neither he nor anyone else told me their names. The head lad, who did one horse himself, appeared to have very little authority, contrary to the practice in most other training stables, and it was Humber himself who gave the orders and who made sure they were carried out.

  He was a tyrant, not so much in the quality of the work he demanded, as in the quantity. There were some thirty horses in the yard. The head lad cared for one horse, and the head travelling lad, who also drove the horse box, did none at all. That left twenty-nine horses for seven lads, who were also expected to keep the gallops in order and do all the cleaning and maintenance work of the whole place. On racing days, when one or two lads were away, those remaining often had six horses to see to. It made my stint at Inskip’s seem like a rest cure.