A Horse Called El Dorado (9 page)

Well, to cut a long story short, I did pass the exams, one of only fifteen in the class to get through. The
Chairperson
of the Licensing Committee made a long speech at our graduation ceremony and presented us with
certificates
. I went up with Liam Deveraux, Susan Holmes and Johnny Walsh. It was a proud moment for all of us.

Paddy Deveraux shook my hand when the ceremony was over, and punched me softly on the shoulder. ‘Pepe, I knew you’d make it. Lad, you’re in for an exciting career,’ he said brightly. ‘He’s come a long way,’ he added, turning to my grandparents.

He was right too. I
had
come a long way – from my life in the commune in the Colombian jungle to graduating as an apprentice jockey here in Ireland.

It was strange going back to the farm in Fordstown, because this time I knew that I would be going away
further
from Grandma and Grandad – fifty miles away, to
Killantubber
. There was an e-mail waiting for me from my papa. He congratulated me on getting through the year at CHASE. Since he had earned some good money recently around Saskatoon, he was coming home for a visit, and he wondered when would be a good time. I replied:

Grandad went back over it and fixed the spelling, in case Grandma would see it and worry about my progress in English, which was still awful as you can see.

I wrote to Mama also, telling her about my graduation. Then it was time for bed. I had to make my own way to Mrs Harris’s stud in Killantubber early the next morning on the country buses. I knew I was lucky to have got a place with Mrs Harris, who had produced quite a few winners from her stables. Divorced from her English
husband
, she had proved herself the better business operator and was proud of her independence. She seemed very stern, but I had seen her once break into a smile full of warmth. I would have to work hard to prove myself.

The moment I arrived in Killantubber I was put to work. Mrs Harris had bought a horse sired by an Irish stallion – that means its father was Irish. The horse had a Spanish bloodline. When I saw the horse, Golden Boy, I could hardly believe my eyes – it was a beautiful golden colt, just like my old friend El Dorado. It was my job to get her ready for a race, the Apprentice Jockey’s Maiden at the Curragh racecourse, in two weeks’ time.

I got a bit, reins and a saddle, and took him steadily out of the tackle room, leading with the halter. He had been newly shod and proudly picked his steps with a rhythmic clacking across the cobbled yard. Nothing was hurried; not a spark struck between cobble and horseshoes, as might happen if a horse was rushing or being rushed. Golden Boy, or El Dorado as I would secretly call him, was a beauty. He didn’t make shy when I got up on him, and we soon got to know each other as well as El Dorado and I had in Colombia.

I had to keep my mind on the race. I was being thrown in at the deep end, but Mrs Harris, after watching us out practising, entrusted me to give Golden Boy a run.

The two weeks passed quickly. I kept to light meals, watching every little thing I ate, since the last thing I wanted was to be ruled out for being overweight. I had to go for a fitting for my ‘colours’ – the jockey’s racing outfit, including regulation shirt, white trousers and the vital body protector, a padded top with a zip. There was a cravat and a pin for my shirt. I was given Mrs Harris’s
colours
of yellow stars on a green background.

Then, two days before the race, I got a text message from Grandad to say my papa was in Fordstown. I couldn’t believe it, but it was true. Mrs Harris said that I could go and visit them, but I decided not to go. Instead I phoned my papa and we talked for an hour. He sounded so positive and said that he couldn’t wait to see me after the race. He had written a song for me. There was going
to be a party in the pub at Fordstown on race night whether I came first or last.

‘I’ll sing for you on Saturday, Pepe,’ Papa said over the phone.

‘Just like when I was small,’ I said.

‘Do you still remember?’ He asked.

‘I have never forgotten. How could I? You are my papa and I love you.’

‘Oh Pepe, you deserve a better father than me. I’ve let you down. I haven’t been around too much for you,
following
my dreams instead of making you the centre of my universe.’

‘Stop, Papa. You will make me cry,’ I said.

The next morning, like every morning, I was up long before six: bathroom, clothes on, kettle on for a cup of tea for the other lads, then along to the tackroom to get the waterproofs from my locker, and pick up the
waterproof
sheet for Golden Boy. The morning was still and beautiful, the ground coated in a crisp, sugary frost. Cobwebs hung in the air; the horses breathed white smoke, like dragons in the mist. Behind the trees the orange sun began its slow rise over the eastern horizon.

It was another long day of training and learning. I
suddenly
became nervous as they loaded Golden Boy into his horsebox in the afternoon for the race the next day. When Dinny Mulligan drove off with him and another colt in the double-horse trailer, I felt the nerves of my stomach creak. Mrs Harris asked me into the dining room for cocoa and oatcakes, but to be honest I could hardly swallow. My throat was dry.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she said confidently. ‘Did you talk to your daddy?’

‘Yes, Mrs Harris. He is coming to the race tomorrow along with Grandma and Grandad.’

‘Of course they are! Okay, Pepe, listen to me. Just take
Golden Boy around any way you like. We don’t know much about him yet and I’m not expecting a big finish. Just get him around at his own pace. Give him an outing. That will satisfy me. He’s a bit of a gamble but he comes from a good line, and I have a special feeling about him.

‘Getting a horse balanced means keeping your balance – every stride and every second has to suit his rhythm. A jockey has got to make a horse want to run for him. You’ll keep your eye on things, any little problems? Only you can tell us. I have confidence in you, Pepe. You’re well up to it.’

‘I will give it my all,’ I said, remembering a phrase of Paddy Deveraux’ from the school.

I could not sleep that night. I got in and out of bed, checking my kit so many times that the activity ruined my chances of deep sleep. I got an early call to have a quick gallop on whatever was available before breakfast. I had my gallop and then climbed into Mrs Harris’s four-wheel drive with the other jockey, Kieran Fahy, and two other lads from the yard. Already people were moving bumper-to-bumper towards the racecourse as we drove through Kilcullen. I felt quite tired. On the drive I kept out of the conversation and managed to doze off, and the sleep really set me up for the day ahead.

It was a pretty good day on the weather front. There were light showers of rain that then eased off, leaving a damp atmosphere about the racecourse. I watched a few races, but could hardly concentrate on them. As the race before mine was announced I went to the changing
rooms. Liam Deveraux was there, in a joking mood, as was Susan Holmes, but I had terrible pre-race nerves. Of course, I tried to hide them.

‘You look like a ghost.’ Paddy Deveraux tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Pepe, this is nothing you haven’t done before.’

‘I know,’ I shrugged, leaning down over my boots and giving them a final rub of a cloth. ‘It is the roaring of the crowd that I am worried about.’

‘You’ll grow to love it,’ said Paddy, going over to Liam.

Soon it was my turn to weigh in. This takes place in a special room supervised by the Clerk of the Scales. There is a large, red scales with a huge, clock-like face on it. I sat down on the chair to be weighed, with my saddle in my lap. My weight was five pounds under, so I was given a bigger saddle to bring me up to the average for the race.

My nerves grew worse and worse until I walked out towards the paddock, and suddenly it was as if I had been doing this all my life. Golden Boy, number fifteen – the same as my age – was being walked around inside the railing. I caught a glimpse of Mrs Harris talking to a few other owners and trainers.

There was a big crowd for our event. They were
looking
at the jockeys as well as the horses, since we were newcomers. Golden Boy looked calm and raring to go, and didn’t seem bothered by the crowd. I got up on him outside the paddock and settled in, turning a few circles
before we moved down towards the starting line. We had done this drill many times.

We lined up in front of the tape. I tightened on the reins, aware of the other runners and riders on either side of me. A few of the jockeys looked nervous, their mounts pawing at the ground, but I began to feel more sure of myself, keeping Golden Boy steady in case he might break the line. I wasn’t concerned about the crowd all of a sudden. I had a job to do for Mrs Harris. Everything I had learned at CHASE was coming back to me.

Then a booming voice came over the PA system: ‘They are under starting orders for the Apprentice Jockeys’ Maiden Race.’ I felt awful again, nervous and weak. In a moment I began to sweat and my body was enflamed in heat.

This was it. And I was going to lose it all. I had to calm myself, knowing that Golden Boy would detect my nerves. His ears were up and I had to hold him as he sensed that the other horses were tensing for ‘the off’. I said to myself, ‘Pepe, forget the Curragh. This is the bank of the Río Putumayo and your old friend El Dorado. Ride as you always have, naturally and with ease. Ride for Mrs Harris, and for Papa, for Grandad and Grandma. Ride for the great Muiscan warrior Pepe Carroll.’ As I calmed myself and the horse, the tape suddenly shot up. The race had begun.

We all jolted forward together as I heard the
commentary
coming over the PA system. Every second counted
now. Already my mind was firmly on the finishing line, a wooden post seven furlongs away. We all became very closely packed on the railings. It was a bad situation – no-one wanted to take his mount on the outside, since making a wide arc off the rails would lose you ground.

Liam, on a cranky horse named Captain Haddock, was leading the field. In second position was Susan Holmes on Kerrysilver. There were eleven other runners and riders, all in a huddle, all giving it the utmost. We urged our mounts on with words and with our legs and arms.

The hooves thundered along the ground, but we were packed far too close. I tried to move up with Golden Boy, but he was young and inexperienced like myself. I needed to inspire him. There was so little time – seven furlongs are almost like a long jump at this speed.
Everyone
was going all out, straining on the bit, poised and keen. Goggles stuck to our faces.

I brought my mind back to the banks of the Putumayo, to El Dorado and me, alone with the river at night. ‘Come on, El Dorado,’ I yelled. I gave the horse plenty of stirrup to make him want to gallop. ‘All out, El Dorado,’ I pleaded with him. ‘All out.’

We slipped forward one place, then another, and soon I was on the hind flank of Susan’s mount, Kerrysilver, who was leading. Then the crowd were up and roaring as we galloped on. I knew that somewhere my papa was watching with Grandma and Grandad. But I had to
concentrate
. I must not make any wrong moves. Then the
finishing post was ahead of us. Suddenly we shot past it. I had come second.

Susan Holmes had won it on Kerrysilver. They were
surrounded
by a crowd as we came in. I got a pat on the back from someone as I made my way back behind the bookies. I caught sight of one price for Golden Boy: 7–1. Oh well, I was long odds, but I decided I had won by my own
standards
– I had had a good run, come in a good place and I had not fallen or caused any other problem for the horse.

Mrs Harris was pleased when I met her, as I dismounted and began unbuckling the bellyband to remove the saddle. One of the stable lads handed me my trench coat and I pulled it on quickly, feeling like a cavalry general. I rubbed down Golden Boy and patted him furiously. Then he was taken away for a wash down since he was out in a foamy sweat. His head was still up and he looked almost startled, as if he wanted to get back in the race.

I picked up the saddle and headed back to the weighing room with it, along with all the other young jockeys, all chatting away excitedly. When I came out I stood silently for a moment to take in what had
happened
to me. Suddenly everything seemed to
disappear
– the crowds, the horses – as I saw Papa running towards me.

‘Pepe, my son, in second place?’ he smiled. ‘That horse looked just like your old friend El Dorado.’

‘That was me all right,’ I grinned proudly, throwing my arms around him.

‘I have news. An e-mail from your mother,’ he said.

‘You read it for me,’ I told him.

It was the best news I could have got. At last I would see Mama again!

On the way to Fordstown Grandma sat in the front with Grandad, while Papa and I sat in the back. At the pub there was hot food. Seán, the barman, winked and said if I ate a big dinner, he would not phone the Curragh and tell the master of the scales! All the men in the pub wanted tips for horses. They said that if I won the Derby or any race at Cheltenham I could drink for free in
Ford-stown
from then on.

The music began and it wasn’t long before Papa was called to the microphone with his guitar. He played a few Irish ballads and then said he wanted to sing a song he’d written, ‘A Horse Called El Dorado’. I couldn’t believe it – it was great, and he belted it out so well that it brought the house down, as they say in that part of County Meath. So much so, in fact, that everyone shouted for an encore, so he sang it again. The chorus goes like this:

Ah, but you should hear it sung.

Papa stayed for two weeks after that great day and night. He went to Dublin a few times to meet some people in the music business and give them copies of his demo CD. I stayed with him in Fordstown. It was a
special
time. We went to CHASE to see the school, and to Mrs Harris’s in Killantubber, and spent a day shopping in Dublin. Then I had to get back to work, and Papa had to return to Canada.

I went with Papa to Busáras, the bus station in Dublin, and we both travelled out on the airport bus. For a long time, he kept his arm on the seat behind me, touching my shoulder and telling me how close he felt to me. He said he would try to do better at his music, to get a band together and move back to Ireland where there might be regular gigs and enough work for him to live.

We checked in his bag, and his guitar in its black case, and went for a bite to eat. I walked to the gate with him when his flight to Canada was called. We had talked so much. Everything was fine between us. Of course, I was sad that he was going.

‘It’s good about Maria moving to London,’ he said, meaning Mama. ‘I will try my best to get back to you, little man.’

‘Don’t worry. I will be okay. I am happy with my work, just like you.’

‘Ah, you’re too good to me, Pepe. Too good,’ he said, becoming sad. ‘I seem to be always just getting talking to
you when I’m about to leave you. Isn’t it awful? Your old papa is an awful restless wanderer. Didn’t I sing “I was Born Under a Wandering Star” at the big night for you in Fordstown?’

‘That is the way you are,’ I said.

‘Listen to me, I will be back again soon.’ He hugged me. ‘Let’s be men and save our tears for when we meet again.’

‘Okay,’ I said, about to overflow. ‘Take care of
yourself
, Papa. For me.’

‘I will. And you take care of yourself for me. Send me an e-mail real soon.’

Then Papa got up and walked through the barrier. I watched as he turned around for the last time. ‘Hey, I forgot to ask, Pepe. Was my song any good?’

‘Your song “A Horse Called El Dorado”?’ I asked timidly.

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘It was the business, Papa. It was the business.’

‘Ride a winner for me, okay?’ He smiled. He turned to give me a wave. I felt he might make it back to Ireland, and somehow I would have my parents close by again, just like when I was so young in Colombia. I felt a sting of loneliness, but I had grown up a lot over the last few years. Secretly I felt proud. I just wanted to get back to Golden Boy, my El Dorado, and the stable. I love my work. I love being a lad in a yard. Maybe some day I
will
ride a winner in a big race.