For Kicks - Страница 29

On Friday morning a hired box took the stable runner to Haydock races, and Jud and Humber's own box remained in the yard until lunch time.

This was a definite departure from normal; and I took the opportunity of noting the mileage on the speedometer.

Jud drove the box out of the yard while we were still eating the midday sludge, and we didn't see him come back as we were all out on the gallop farthest away from the stables sticking back into place the divots kicked out of the soft earth that week by the various training activities; but when we returned for evening stables at four, Mickey was back in his own quarters.

I climbed up into the cab of the horse box and looked at the mileage indicator. Jud had driven exactly sixteen and a half miles. He had not, in fact, been as far as the coast. I thought some very bitter thoughts.

When I had finished doing my two racehorses I carried the brushes and pitchforks along to see to Adams' black hunter, and found Jerry leaning against the wall outside Mickey's next door box with tears running down his cheeks.

"What's the matter?" I said, putting down my stuff.

"Mickey… bit me," he said. He was shaking with pain and fright.

"Let's see."

I helped him slide his left arm out of his jersey, and took a look at the damage. There was a fierce red and purple circular weal on the fleshy part of his upper arm near the shoulder. It had been a hard, savage bite.

Cass came over.

"What's going on here?"

But he saw Jerry's arm, and didn't need to be told. He looked over the bottom half of the door into Mickey's box, then turned to Jerry and said, "His legs were too far gone for the sea water to cure them. The vet said he would have to put on a blister, and he did it this afternoon when Mickey got back. That's what's the matter with him. Feels a bit off colour, he does, and so would you if someone slapped a flaming plaster on your legs. Now you just stop this stupid blubbing and get right back in there and see to him. And you, Clan, get on with that hunter and mind your own bloody business." He went off along the row.

"I can't," whispered Jerry, more to himself than to me.

"You'll manage it," I said cheerfully.

He turned to me a stricken face.

"He'll bite me again."

"I'm sure he won't."

"He tried lots of times. And he's kicking out something terrible. I daren't go into his box…" He stood stiffly, shivering with fright, and I realized that it really was beyond him to go back.

"All right," I said, "I'll do Mickey and you do my hunter. Only do him well. Jerry, very well. Mr. Adams is coming to ride him again tomorrow and I don't want to spend another Saturday on my knees."

He looked dazed.

"Ain't no one done nothing like that for me before."

"It's a swop," I said brusquely.

"You mess up my hunter and I'll bite you worse than Mickey did."

He stopped shivering and began to grin, which I had intended, and slipping his arm painfully back inside his jersey he picked up my brushes and opened the hunter's door.

"You won't tell Cass?" he asked anxiously.

"No," I reassured him; and unbolted Mickey's box door.

The horse was tied up safely enough, and wore on his neck a long wooden-barred collar, called a cradle, which prevented his bending his head down to bite the bandages off his fore legs. Under the bandages, according to Cass, Mickey's legs were plastered with 'blister', a sort of caustic paste used to contract and strengthen the tendons.

Blistering was a normal treatment for dicky tendons. The only trouble was that Mickey's legs had not needed treatment. They had been, to my eyes, as sound as rocks. But now, however, they were definitely paining him; at least as much as with a blister, and possibly more.

As Jerry had indicated, Mickey was distinctly upset. He could not be soothed by hand or voice, but lashed forwards with his hind feet whenever he thought I was in range, and made equal use of his teeth. I was careful not to walk behind him, though he did his best to turn his quarters in my direction while I was banking up his straw bed round the back of the box. I fetched him hay and water, but he was not interested, and changed his rug, as the one he wore was soaked with sweat and would give him a chill during the night. Changing his rug was a bit of an obstacle race, but by warding off his attacks with the pitchfork I got it done unscathed.

I took Jerry with me to the feed bins where Cass was doling out the right food for each horse, and when we got back to the boxes we solemnly exchanged bowls.

Jerry grinned happily. It was infectious. I grinned back.

Mickey didn't want food either, not, that is, except lumps of me. He didn't get any. I left him tied up for the night and took myself and Jerry's sack of brushes to safety on the far side of the door. Mickey would, I hoped, have calmed down considerably by the morning.

Jerry was grooming the black hunter practically hair by hair, humming tonelessly under his breath.

"Are you done?" I said.

"Is he all right?" he asked anxiously.

I went in to have a look.

"Perfect," I said truthfully. Jerry was better at strapping a horse than at most things; and the next day, to my considerable relief, Adams passed both hunters without remark and spoke hardly a word to me. He was in a hurry to be off to a distant meet, but all the same it seemed I had succeeded in appearing too spineless to be worth tormenting.

Mickey was a good deal worse, that morning. When Adams had gone I stood with Jerry looking over the half-door of Mickey's box. The poor animal had managed to rip one of the bandages off in spite of the cradle, and we could see a big raw area over his tendon.

Mickey looked round at us with baleful eyes and flat ears, his neck stretched forward aggressively. Muscles quivered violently in his shoulders and hind quarters. I

had never seen a horse behave like that except when fighting; and he was, I thought, dangerous.

"He's off his head," whispered Jerry, awe struck.

"Poor thing."

"You ain't going in?" he said.

"He looks like he'd kill you."

"Go and get Cass," I said.

"No, I'm not going in, not without Cass knowing how things are, and Humber too. You go and tell Cass that Mickey's gone mad. That ought to fetch him to have a look."

Jerry trotted off and returned with Cass, who seemed to be alternating between anxiety and scorn as he came within earshot. At the sight of Mickey anxiety abruptly took over, and he went to fetch Humber, telling Jerry on no account to open Mickey's door.

Humber came hurriedly across the yard leaning on his stick, with Cass, who was a short man, trotting along at his side. Humber looked at Mickey for a good long time. Then he shifted his gaze to Jerry, who was standing there shaking again at the thought of having to deal with a horse in such a state, and then further along to me, where I stood at the door of the next box.

"That's Mr. Adams' hunter's box," he said to me.

"Yes, sir, he went with Mr. Adams just now, sir."

He looked me up and down, and then Jerry the same, and finally said to Cass, "Roke and Webber had better change horses. I know they haven't an ounce of guts between them, but Roke is much bigger, stronger, and older." And also, I thought with a flash of insight. Jerry has a father and mother to make a fuss if he gets hurt, whereas against Roke in the next-of-kin line was the single word 'none'.

, "I'm not going in there alone, sir," I said.

"Cass will have to hold him off with a pitchfork while I muck him out." And even then, I thought, we'd both be lucky to get out without being kicked.

Cass, to my amusement, hurriedly started telling Humber that if I was too scared to do it on my own he would get one of the other lads to help me. Humber however took no notice of either of us, but went back to staring sombrely at Mickey.

Finally, he turned to me and said, "Fetch a bucket and come over to the office."

"An empty bucket, sir?"

"Yes," he said impatiently, 'an empty bucket. " He turned and gently limped over to the long brick hut. I took the bucket out of the hunter's box, followed him, and waited by the door.

He came out with a small labelled glass-stoppered chemist's jar in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. The jar was three-quarters full of white powder. He gestured to me to hold out the bucket, then he put half a teaspoon of the powder into it.

"Fill the bucket only a third full of water," he said.

"And put it in Mickey's manger, so that he can't kick it over. It will quieten him down, once he drinks it."

He took the jar and spoon back inside the office, and I picked a good pinch of the white powder out of the bottom of the bucket and dropped it down inside the list of Humber's horses in my money belt. I licked my fingers and thumb afterwards; the particles of powder clinging there had a faintly bitter taste. The jar, which I had seen in the cupboard in the washroom, was labelled "Soluble phenobarbitone', and the only surprising factor was the amount of it that Humber kept available.

I ran water into the bucket, stirred it with my hand, and went back to Mickey's box. Cass had vanished. Jerry was across the yard seeing to his third horse. I looked round for someone to ask for help, but everyone was carefully keeping out of sight. I cursed. I was not going into Mickey alone: it was just plain stupid to try it.

Humber came back across the yard.

"Get on in," he said.

"I'd spill the water dodging him, sir."

"Huh."

Mickey's hoofs thudded viciously against the wall.

"You mean you haven't got the guts."