Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,65
like to win.’
‘He’s still staring,’ Danielle said. ‘If looks could kill, you’d be in your grave.’
The princess decided on a frontal approach, and as if spotting Maynard for the first time raised both gloved hands in greeting and said ‘Ah, Mr Allardeck, such a splendid day, isn’t it?’ walking three or four paces towards him to make talking easier.
He removed his hat and bowed to her, and said rather hoarsely for him that yes, it was. The princess said how nice it was to see the sun again after so much cloudy weather, and Maynard agreed. It was cold, of course, the princess said, but one had to expect it at this time of the year. Yes, Maynard said.
The princess glanced across to us all and said to Maynard, ‘I do enjoy Sandown, don’t you? And my horses all seem to jump well here, always, which is most pleasing.’
This on-the-face-of-it innocent remark produced in Maynard an intenser than ever stare in my direction – a look of black and dangerous poison.
‘Why,’ Litsi said in my ear, puzzled, ‘did that make him so angry?’
‘I can’t tell you here,’ I said.
‘Later, then.’
‘Perhaps.’
The signal was given for jockeys to mount, and with a sweet smile the princess wished Maynard good fortune for the afternoon and came to say, before I went off to where Abseil waited, ‘Come back safely.’
‘Yes, Princess,’ I said.
Her eyes flicked momentarily in the direction of Danielle, and I suddenly understood her inner thought: come back safe because your young woman will be lost for ever if you don’t.
‘Do your best,’ the princess said quietly, as if negating her first instruction, and I nodded and cantered Abseil to the start thinking that certainly I could ride round conscious chiefly of safety, and certainly to some extent I’d been doing it all week, but if I intended to do it for ever I might as well retire at once. Caution and winning were incompatible. A too-careful jockey would lose his reputation, his owners, his career … and in my case anyway, his self-respect. The stark choice between Danielle and my job, unresolved all night, had sat on my shoulder already that afternoon through two undemanding hurdle races, and I had, in fact, been acutely aware of her being there on the stands in a way I hadn’t been when I hadn’t known of her turmoil of fears.
Abseil, a grey eight-year-old steeplechaser, was a fluid, agile jumper with reasonable speed and questionable stamina. Together we’d won a few races, but had more often finished second, third or fourth, because he could produce no acceleration in a crisis. His one advantage was his boldness over fences: if I restrained him in that, we could trail in last.
Sandown racecourse, right-handed, undulating, with seven fences close together down the far side, was a track where good jumpers could excel. I particularly liked riding there, and it was a good place for Abseil, except that the uphill finish could find him out. To win there, he had to be flying in the lead coming round the last long bend, and jump the last three fences at his fastest speed. Then, if he faded on the hill, one might just hang on in front as far as the post.
Abseil himself was unmistakably keen to race, sending me signals of vigour and impatience. ‘Jumping out of his skin,’ Wykeham had said; and this one would be wound up tight because he wouldn’t be running at the Cheltenham Festival as he wasn’t quite in the top class.
The start of two mile, five furlong ‘chases was midway down the far side, with one’s back to the water jump. There were eight runners that day, a pleasant sized field, and Abseil was second favourite. We set off in a bunch at no great pace, because no one wanted to make the running, and I had no trouble at all being careful over the first three fences, also round the long bottom bend, over the three fences which would be the last three next time round, and uphill past the stands.
It was when we turned right-handed at the top of the hill to go out on the second circuit that the decision was immediately there, staring me in the face. To go at racing pace over the next fence with its downhill landing, graveyard of many a hope, or to check, rein back, jump it carefully, lose maybe four lengths …
Abseil wanted to go. I kicked him. We flew the fence, passing