Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker

Classics winner. Even at that age, she was fast and strong and could gallop other horses into the ground. But when she first appeared on the racecourse, she sweated up in the paddock, reared up on the way to the start, and raced with her ears flat back. She finished ten lengths behind the rest of the field, tailed off. She ran three times as a two-year-old, each time worse than the last.
    There was a rumour that something was wrong with her. She has a strange way of walking and trotting, even now. Her front legs swing outwards – ‘plaiting’, it’s called. Whatever the problem, whether it was in her body or her head, the result was the same. She was a big, expensive flop.
    Manhattan. It’s a great name, but I’m going to call you ‘Hat’.
    I have finished. Her coat gleams. I want to put oil on her hooves but she lifts her feet nervously as soon as I go near them, and I’m not in the mood to insist. I put on her rug. She takes a carrot from me, and I tug at her light grey velvet ears. I stand back to look at her.
    Better, Hat?
    What Pete said was right. Her career is over. She is now five, quite old for a flat-racer. Most owners would quietly sell her off to go hurdling or to race in Hong Kong or somewhere, maybe breed from her. But the Saudis are great believers in bloodlines. No bad blood, or dodgy genes, should be passed down to future generations of thoroughbreds.
    Manhattan has had her chance. It is just a matter of time before she is taken away to be destroyed.
    I won’t let it happen, Manhattan. We’ll be in this together.
    Later that morning, we join the six other horses in the yard for third lot. Laura’s there, and Deej, Tommy, Amit, Liam and one of the younger lads, Fergus.
    They glance at me, surprised, as I enter.
    â€˜Giving us another show today, are you, Bug?’ Tommy calls out.
    â€˜Nah, I think I’ll take it a bit easier,’ I say.
    â€˜She’s almost as tough as you, Laura,’ says Amit.
    Laura smiles at him, but avoids looking at me. ‘Don’t mess with the girls,’ she says.
    The guv’nor walks in, hands in pockets, and stands in the centre of the ride, watching us.
    â€˜All right, Jay?’ he calls out.
    â€˜Yes, sir. Fine.’
    â€˜Angus spoke to me. Said business with Norewest not your fault. Horse spooked by something. Got a bit of a saddle sore. Noticed last night.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Glad you’re back. In one piece.’
    When the string files out of the yard into the sunlight, I pull Manhattan aside and let the others pass so that she can take her normal place at the back.
    Today I find that I no longer have to coax and kick her along to make her walk out. I talk to her as we go. She relaxes, looking about her and taking an interest in what is going on.
    There is a surprise on the gallops. The trainer is standing by the rails about halfway up the all-weather track.
    â€˜We’re doing a half-speed,’ Deej calls back. ‘Keep twenty lengths between you. Bring Manhattan up last. If she won’t start, we’ll meet you back here.’
    We circle at the start of the track. One after the other, the horses set off. Ahead of me, Liam looks over his shoulder.
    â€˜She won’t go, Bug. Last time she dug her toes in.’
    Four horses left, three. I feel Manhattan tense beneath me. I lay a hand on her shoulder. I trace the heart.
    Liam calls back, ‘See you back here, Bug.’
    All right, girl. Our first canter. Let’s make this good.
    I lead her towards the track. Her ears flick back uncertainly.
    Forget the memories, Hat. This is different.
    She is walking stiff-legged now. Liam is ten lengths ahead of us. I gather up my reins and, for a moment, Manhattan stops in her tracks.
    Come on, girl. For me.
    I click my teeth, as I used to with Dusty. The ears go forward. With an unladylike grunt, Manhattan sets off.
    Her head is low and she takes a strong hold of the