* * *
—
By November, history was repeated.
Queen of Hearts was just too good.
Matador tried his heart out, when they’d raced twice more and he’d faded. But there was one chance still to come; a final Group One was to be run in the city, early December, and Ennis McAndrew was building
him. He’d said he’d faded because he still wasn’t ready; this was the one he wanted. It had a strange name—not a plate or guineas, a cup or a stakes—but a race called the Saint Anne’s Parade. It would be Matador’s last ever run. Race Five at Royal Hennessey. December 11.
* * *
—
On the day, they did what she liked to do.
They put a dollar on Matador in the fifth.
She asked an arse-scratcher to put the money on.
He did it but told them, laughingly: “You know he’s got bloody no hope, don’tcha? He’s up against Queen of Hearts.”
“So?”
“So he’s never going to win.”
“They said that about Kingston Town.”
“Matador’s no Kingston Town.”
But now she beat him up a bit. “What am I even talkin’ to you for? How many wins have you had lately?”
He laughed again. “Not many.” He ran a hand down his cheekfuls of whiskers.
“That’s what I thought. You’re not even sharp enough to lie about it. But, hey”—she grinned—“thanks for putting the bet on, okay?”
“Sure,” and when they went their separate ways, he called out to them one more time. “Hey, I think you might have convinced me!”
* * *
—
The crowd that afternoon was the biggest they’d ever seen, for Queen of Hearts was also leaving, for a stint running overseas.
There was almost no room in the grandstand, but they found two seats, and watched Petey Simms, doing laps with the horse in the mounting yard. McAndrew, of course, looked pissed off. But that meant business as usual.
Before the jump, she held his hand.
He looked outwards, he said, “Good luck.”
She gave him a squeeze, then released it—for when the horses left the barriers that day, the crowd was on its feet; people screamed, and something changed.
The horses hit the turn, it was wrong.
When Queen of Hearts surged forward, Matador, black and gold, went stride for stride, beside her—which was really saying something, because her strides were so much bigger. When she accelerated, he somehow went with her.
The grandstand shade became desperate.