Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker Page B

several of the other lads, I find a padded bra. There are jeers and laughter and shouts.
    â€˜Bug in a bra!’
    â€˜Put it on!’
    â€˜You need it, girl!’
    Then the niggle is about Manhattan. In the early days, I find myself getting a bit annoyed when someone uses her nickname ‘Nelly’. Big mistake. From then on, the tune of ‘Nelly the Elephant’ follows me around – hummed, whistled, sung. Some of the lads even take to calling me Nelly too.
    Sometimes, as we ride out, one of the lads tells me a crude joke about women. It is a test that I can’t win. If I laugh, I’m going along with the sexism. If I don’t, I can’t take a joke and I get teased even more.
    So it goes on, day after day. Now and then, I catch Laura’s eye while this stuff is happening. She shows no reaction – not a smile, not a laugh, not a look. It is a useful lesson which over that long summer I begin to learn.
    Don’t let them get under your skin. Refuse to play their game. Ignore.
    Angus has taken to putting me on different horses for first lot. At first, I think it is because I am the youngest person working here and have to fit in with the others, but gradually I realise that I am being given the experience of different rides – the mad, the lazy, the tricky, the scared. It is the Wilkinson yard’s rough and ready version of training.
    On third lot, I am always on Manhattan. It is the best part of the day. She has discovered that she likes being out, stretching her legs, looking about her, feeling the warmth of the sun on her beautiful coat. I keep her at the back of the string where she has her own space. She walks briskly, occasionally shaking her head like a two-year-old.
    My hope, my dream, is that one day Mr Wilkinson will see how she is changing, how her giant stride eats up the ground on the gallops, but it is me he watches. His old turtle eyes look away from Manhattan, as if she reminds him of something bad – failure, perhaps.
    Pete is still her lad. When I ask Deej whether I should ask Angus if I could do Manhattan, he shakes his head.
    â€˜Give up on the mare,’ he says. ‘She’s finished. Look after yourself.’
    Later, it occurs to me that it was a slightly weird thing to say.
    Why should I have to look after myself?
    It is late one morning, one day at the end of August. After third lot, I am checking on Ocean Pacific in the main yard when there is a clattering of hooves on concrete and raised voices from the back yard. I hurry towards the sound, a feeling of dread within me. As I enter the yard, I hear the snorting of a horse, half threatening, half fearful.
    A group of lads are gathered around Manhattan’s stable.
    To my relief, Angus strides past me, an angry look on his face. He reaches the stable before me.
    â€˜Is she playing up again, Pete?’ Angus looks over the stable door.
    â€˜Yeah. She had a go at me. I’m sorting her out for good and all this time.’
    Over Angus’s shoulder, I can see that Pete is standing like an old-fashioned soldier in battle. Only it is not a bayonet in his hands but a pitchfork.
    Manhattan is on the other side of the box. Now and then she swings her hindquarters towards Pete. As he scrambles for safety, there is more laughter from the lads watching.
    â€˜What’s happened?’ I ask Liam.
    â€˜She’s had a go at him,’ he says. ‘Pete’s teaching her a lesson.’
    â€˜She’s just frightened.’ I say the words loudly. ‘Where’s Mr Wilkinson? Bucknall?’
    Liam glances towards the main yard. ‘They’ve all gone to lunch.’
    Manhattan has turned to face Pete. The whites of her eyes flash in the gloom. I can see – anyone could see – that she’s terrified.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ I ask the question loudly to the whole group. ‘I rode her this morning. She was fine.’
    â€˜Leave it, Bug,’ Liam