Free Blind Beauty by K M Peyton Page A

smells of manure.”
    â€œStrange. Leave her be,” said Mrs Alston.
    â€œShe’s a clever girl.”
    â€œI know that.”
    And Mrs Alston laughed.

T he walking and trotting days were now changing into canter and work. Peter would start racing his horses at the end of October and they needed to be fit and strong. They had to be tried out on the gallops to test their stamina and speed.
    Peter said, “Is Tessa ready to ride real work?”
    â€œOh, she’ll come to no harm on that bus Buffoon,” they all said. “Humour the girl.”
    Tessa was used to cantering Buffoon. It felt like being on a garden swing, backwards and forwards, flump, flump, the long red ears wagging at the end of the long scruffy neck. However many oats disappeared into his belly, Buffoon was always gaunt, his hip-bones sticking out like an advertisement for a horse charity. Tessa called him her beauty. They all laughed. Greevy was incredulous that Peter kept such a nag in his stables. Tessa could not rebut his criticism, as it was the same she heard every day – only kindlier and jokier – in her own yard. But nothing budged her devotion. Only with Greevy, it hurt. Maurice owned the Raleigh stable star, the horse called Crowsnest. It was black as a winter night and as strikingly handsome as Buffoon was ugly. He was a horse everyone turned to admire. Even Tessa could not help catching her breath when he came towards them up the gallops, the silk-smooth coat rippling over shoulders that worked like pistons, raking out over the autumn turf. The racing press hyped him and earmarked him for the Champion Hurdle, the great race in March at the Cheltenham Festival. This is the meeting when the best meet the best, after the winter’s jousting.
    Greevy was confident.
    â€œYou wait. He’s a winner. Dad’s going to make a pile.”
    The first prize was in six figures.
    â€œYou’ll be there one day, Buffoon,” Tessa said to the horse as she groomed him. “You’ll beat that Crowsnest, I know you will.”
    Not in the Champion Hurdle, perhaps – Tessa thought big: more like the Gold Cup or the Grand National.
    There was no one to listen to her rubbish, only the amiable horse who flicked a long ear back at her. Tessa knew he trusted her now. She trusted him too. She always talked to him, although she still said little outside his box.
    When Peter said she could ride him in his first real gallop, she was not afraid.
    â€œOf course not,” she said scornfully, when he suggested she might prefer Wisbey or Gilly to take him.
    â€œYou’ve got to roust him up – I want to see what he can do. He can go with God Almighty and Gossamer, the three of you, and I want you to try and stay with them. He won’t, of course, but do your best.”
    â€œGod, he’s slow,” Wisbey grumbled. “He’ll only just have started when we’ve finished.”
    It was a wet, mizzling day, not cold. They rode out in a line, hunched into anoraks. Peter had gone ahead in his Land Rover to the top of the gallops. He had taken care to time it so that there were no Raleigh horses about. One did not want the serious tests to be remarked by rival stables. Tessa tried to keep Buffoon alongside God Almighty, where Wisbey sat with his smug, superior expression, secure in his faith that he rode the best. God Almighty had won some good races, and was expected to win more. He was the only half-decent horse in the stables.
    â€œI’ll see you right,” he said to Tessa. “Just track me. Don’t be afraid.”
    He was trying to be encouraging.
    Tessa thought patronizing.
    She did not reply. Her face was set and determined as she pulled up at the bottom of the gallop. They lined up together under Sarah’s fierce eye, the three of them, with Gilly on Gossamer.
    â€œYou go like it’s a race, Tessa – go for it. See what the old boy can do. When I drop my