Free Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker

at 8.45. Later in the morning, there is third lot – the two-year-olds who are still too weak to be galloping, and horses that are recovering from injury.
    I look out for the big grey, Manhattan, but the only time I see her is being led by Pete to the walker, a circular moving floor that exercises horses for forty-five minutes without their having to be ridden.
    It is after two days as the ignored dogsbody of the Wilkinson yard that I get the chance to show anyone that I can ride.
    I am on the stack in the hay barn when Mrs Wilkinson appears. As usual, she doesn’t exactly fit the image of a trainer’s wife. In tight designer jeans, a well-ironed white shirt and shiny boots, she looks more like a busy city type on a weekend break in the country.
    â€˜I think it’s time to find out if you’re any good, Miss Barton,’ she booms. ‘Tack up Athlone Boy, Mr Bucknall’s hunter. Use his hunting saddle. I’ll see you at the covered ride in fifteen minutes prompt.’
    She walks briskly out of the yard.
    I’m already halfway down the ladder.
    Athlone Boy is a heavy, sleepy cob with a slightly bored look about him. When going out to the gallops with the string, he and Bucknall, with their two big bottoms and a slow waddling stride, look strange and out of place. It is as if a couple of hippopotamuses have wandered into a ballet class. Right now he is none too thrilled at being asked to work for the second time in the day.
    â€˜Wake him up, Jay!’ Mrs Wilkinson watches me, arms crossed, as I take Athlone Boy round the outside of the big barn where the string gathers every morning before going on the heath. ‘You’re like a sack of potatoes.’
    I give the old horse a kick in the ribs.
    Come on, boy. Stop taking the mick.
    With an impatient grunt, Athlone Boy trots on. I give him another harder kick, clicking my teeth, and he breaks into a canter, grunting with every stride. It is good to be back in the saddle.
    You can tell that he is used to being ridden badly. At first, he is unresponsive and determined to go at his own pace, but I squeeze him up to the bridle, slap him on the shoulder with the end of the reins. He needs to know who’s boss. Soon I have him going easily.
    That’s it. This is how it goes with me. It’s more fun, isn’t it?
    After circling and doing some figures of eight, I even pop him over a low triple bar that is in the centre of the ride.
    Out of the covered school, Mrs Wilkinson walks in silence beside me. Now and then she glances in my direction. As we enter the back yard, Angus appears.
    â€˜The girl’s not bad.’ Mrs Wilkinson nods in my direction. ‘Strong legs, good hands, got the old boy going nicely. I think she should ride out tomorrow. Put her on something quiet.’
    â€˜Already, Mrs Wilkinson? She’s just a wee slip of—’
    â€˜Good to see what she’s made of.’
    The head lad looks away sharply in irritation, then says quietly, ‘I’d probably best wait for Mr Wilkinson’s instructions on that, ma’am.’
    â€˜No need.’ A quick cold smile flashes across Mrs Wilkinson’s face. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’
    She walks off, her boots echoing on the concrete.
    I arrive at the yard early on my fourth day of work, and go straight to the tack room to look at the List. Those are our orders for the day, put up last thing at night.
    The List has all the names of the horses in the yard, and beside each of them the lads who will be riding them that day first, second and third lot. If there are special instructions about blinkers or if a horse should wear a certain bridle or martingale, that will be on the List too.
    My name is nowhere to be seen. I have no choice but to stay in the tack room until Angus tells me what to do.
    When he arrives, later than usual, he behaves as if I am invisible. He collects his saddle and bridle. As he is about to leave, he mutters,