round and round as the water thrown over to cool him down dried in the hot September sun.
All day Furious had sensed that Tommy and Rafiq were unhappy. That was why he hadn’t bitten anything except Rafiq’s boots and had carried Rafiq, such a sensitive rider, so willingly. He nudged Tommy and placed his shoulder against hers as they circled.
It had been a tough race but he’d enjoyed it. He loved the cheers just for him and the ecstatic patting from Rafiq and later Tommy, as she’d run towards him, tears in her eyes, and tugged his ears. But now he sensed her sadness and wanted her to take him back to his box and bask in reflected glory. He wanted to have something to eat rather than biting anyone, so he laid his head on Tommy’s shoulder, breathing into her ear.
‘We now offer you Furious, a beautiful six-year-old chestnut gelding who won at Worcester as a five-year-old and won very convincingly this afternoon.’
The bidding started at 3,000 guineas and quickly went up to 3,750 then 4,000 guineas.
The horse had won magnificently, but all eyes were also on the stocky little stable lass. White as a sheet, she had forgotten to brush her hair, her full round breasts were rising and falling beneath the beige T-shirt, plump thighs filling the charcoal-grey jeans, sturdy ankles above trainers, eyes cast down like King Cophetua’s beggarmaid. A tear trickled like a diamond from her lashes, an indicator of the flood to come. The crowd was drawn to her as much as to the powerful, ungovernable horse, momentarily docile beside her as, bottom lip trembling, he tried to nudge her into cheerfulness.
The bidding was creeping up: 7,750 guineas, 8,000.
‘Oh, please let him go to someone who loves and understands him,’ prayed Tommy.
Rafiq leant against a tree, puffing frantically on a roll-up. He could see that a well-known trainer, a woman with a tough face, her hair tied back in a red scarf, was bidding against an owner whose trainer hadn’t arrived, caught up in the inevitable traffic. The auctioneer pointed his clipboard at a man with a thin ferret’s face. Imagining the sadistic pleasure Harvey-Holden would have knocking Furious into shape, Rafiq clenched his fists. Isa Lovell was also bidding. Big bidders usually kept out of the way, in case people got fired up into thinking a horse was worth more. In fact the auctioneer was the only person who knew all the people bidding, looking out for a nod of the head or a raised finger.
The woman in the red scarf was off again. She’s so tough, thought Tommy in anguish.
‘I’ll buy that stable lass,’ said a wag, ‘she knows how to make a horse look right.’
As the bidding stuck at 12,000 guineas, a telephone bidder slid in at 12,500. Everyone glanced round for mobiles.
‘Look how sweet he is,’ said a beautiful girl, as Furious laid his head on Tommy’s shoulder again.
‘I’d buy him for you, darling,’ said her boyfriend, ‘but I don’t think I’d get him in the Aston.’
Harvey-Holden had bid 13,000, the telephone bidder 13,500, 14,000, 14,500 right up to 20,000 – very high for a selling race.
The whole crowd could smell the despair of the sweet-faced stable lass. If the horse were vicious, it might be worth employing her as well to calm him down. There was a long pause.
Harvey-Holden shook his head. Furious was too much of a risk.
‘Twenty thousand guineas I’m bid. For the second time of asking. Going, going, gone.’ The auctioneer brought down his hammer.
Tommy clung to Furious, looking round defensively, fearfully, as if she would leap on his back and make a run for it. Then, shoulders heaving, she buried her face in Furious’s glossy neck.
‘Twenty thousand guineas,’ repeated the auctioneer. ‘Bought in.’
The heaving stopped. Clinging to Furious to hold herself up, looking round incredulously, Tommy noticed Marius chucking away his cigarette.
The bell for the next race was telling the jockeys to mount.
Hugging and kissing Furious, wiping her eyes and nose with his mane, Tommy led him back to his box. She was just rubbing him down when a voice said, ‘I thought we’d give him another chance, rather an expensive one, admittedly. That’s ten thousand pounds of the bid to pay back to the racecourse.’
As Marius entered the box, Furious flattened his ears and took a bite out of his sleeve.
‘Ungrateful sod,’ said Marius.
‘We’re not,’ said Tommy in a choked voice. ‘Oh Marius, thank you. I know he’ll reward you,’ and she flung her