Silks Read Online Free Page B

the back straight for the second and last time. Sandeman was still going well beneath me and I kicked on hard into the first of the seven fences. He positively flew across the birch and gained at least a length on the two still in front.
    ‘Come on, boy,’ I shouted at him.
    The tempo had now really quickened to a full-out gallop and I could hear some of those behind having problems keeping up.
    ‘Pick up your effing feet,’ shouted one jockey at his horse as it dropped its back legs into the water.
    ‘Tell your sodding horse to jump straight,’ shouted another as he was almost put through the wings of the first of the Railway fences.
    We swung into the final long sweeping turn with just fourhaving a realistic chance. I was still on the inside next to the white plastic rail and so the others had to go further to get round me. Kick, push, kick, push, my hands and heels were working overtime as we straightened for the Pond fence. Sande-man was just in front and another great leap from him took the others briefly out of sight behind me.
    ‘Come on, boy,’ I shouted at him again, this time with diminished breath. ‘Come on.’
    We were tiring but so were the others. Three miles in bottomless going is a huge test of stamina. But who would tire the most? Me, I feared. My fatigued legs would no longer provide the necessary kicks to Sandeman’s belly and I could barely summon up the energy to give him a slap of encouragement with my whip.
    We still had our nose just in front as we took off at the second last but Sandeman hit the top of the fence and landed almost stationary on all four feet at once. Bugger. Two other horses came past us as if we were going backwards and I thought all was lost. But Sandeman had other ideas and set off in pursuit. By the last fence we were back alongside the others and the three of us jumped it line abreast.
    Even though the three horses landed over the last together, both the others made it to the winning post ahead of us, their jockeys riding determined finishes while I was so tired that hanging on was about as much as I could do. We finished third, which was more to do with my lack of stamina rather than Sandeman’s. I had clearly been spending too much of my time sitting on my backside in courtrooms and it showed. Three miles through the undulating Sandown mud had been just a bit too far. My pre-race apprehension hadn’t turned to joy, more to exhaustion.
    I slithered off Sandeman’s back in the unsaddling enclosure and nearly sat down on the grass, so jelly-like were my legs.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Paul, the trainer, asked concerned.
    ‘Fine,’ I said, trying to undo the girths. ‘Just a little out of puff.’
    ‘I need to get you up on the gallops too,’ he said. ‘No good having a fit horse if the damn jockey sits there like a sack of potatoes.’ It was a harsh assessment but probably fair. Paul had invested heavily on Sandeman to win in more ways than one. He gently brushed me aside, undid the buckle with ease and passed me the saddle.
    ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. It was a good job I was paying the training fees.
    Somehow I made it to the scales to be weighed in, and then back into the jockeys’ changing room, where I sat down heavily on the bench and wondered if it was time to call it a day. Time to give up this race-riding malarkey before I did myself a proper injury. To date I had been very lucky, with only a few bumps and bruises plus one broken collarbone in fourteen years of racing. But, I thought, if I were to continue for another year I would have to become fitter than this or I might come to some serious harm. I leaned back wearily against the cream-painted wall and closed my eyes.
    Only when the valets began to pack up the equipment into their large wicker baskets did I realize that the last race had already been run and I was almost alone in the changing room, and still I was not changed.
    I stood up slowly and peeled off my lightweight riding strip, picked up my