Read Online Racing Manhattan by Terence Blacker - Free Book Online Page A

polite and don’t let the lads wind you up. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ I hear the doubt in her voice.
    We walk down the high street, then take a turning towards a housing estate. In the distance, I can see the heath where twelve hours ago I was sleeping.
    â€˜D’you like being a stable lass?’ I ask.
    â€˜Stable lass?’ She laughs. ‘We don’t call them that. Everyone’s a lad in Newmarket – even the girls.’
    â€˜But you like it.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ she says. ‘It’s a bit of a weird place, Wilkinson’s. Old school. Once you know that and look out for yourself, you’ll be fine.’
    â€˜I’ve already had Angus on my case.’
    â€˜It’s not him you should watch out for.’
    I think of the lad who took a pitchfork into the stable of the horse he was doing. ‘Pete?’
    â€˜Here’s rule number one at Wilkinson’s. Keep clear of Pete. Even Angus is scared of him. He would have been out on his ear long ago in any other yard.’
    We are on a housing estate. Laura leads me up a short path, then unlocks the front door of a small house.
    â€˜New girl,’ she calls out.
    â€˜Another new girl?’ The voice has an Indian accent. ‘What’s going on?’
    Laura and I walk into a brightly-lit kitchen. A woman in a sari stands in front of a cooker, her broad back to us. ‘Honestly,’ she is muttering. ‘All this coming and going. I don’t know. How long’s this one going to last?’
    She turns and looks at us. There is something about the fake-angry expression on her face that makes me smile.
    â€˜Oh, my goodness,’ she says. ‘They’re getting younger all the time. You should be at school, young lady.’
    â€˜This is Jay,’ Laura says to her. ‘The latest victim.’
    â€˜Jay, this is Auntie.’
    I learn quite a bit about Auntie that evening. She likes to combine English and Indian food in a way that only sometimes works. Over sausage biryani, she tells me how she came to Newmarket as a young girl, when she was married to Jasminder, who called himself ‘Jas’. Newmarket is full of Asians now, but when Mr Wilkinson took him on, he was one of the first to be employed here.
    â€˜Those were the days when Mr Wilkinson was big news,’ says Auntie. ‘One moment, he is just “the guv’nor”. The next he is “Magic”. It is Magic-this and Magic-that. The press were crazy about him, I tell you.’
    Laura listens, a smile on her face. I get the sense that she has heard this story many times before.
    Auntie’s real name is Sowjanya but no one could remember that, so when her three children, a boy and two girls, grew up and left home, she was happy for her family nickname ‘Auntie’ to be used by her guests.
    About ten years ago Jas decided he wanted to return to India. ‘I told him straight out. I’m not going. I’m happy here. Vamoose.’ She waves a hand dismissively. ‘That’s what I said to him. You’ve done your bit. Now it is my turn.’ It was Mrs Wilkinson who suggested she should be a landlady. ‘The rest is history.’
    â€˜She’s the best landlady in Newmarket,’ says Laura. ‘She’s been in the local paper.’
    â€˜Stop it now, load of nonsense.’ Auntie waves a hand, as if brushing away her fame, but there is a smile on her face. She stands up. ‘Laura will show you the ropes. She’s a good girl. And you can start by doing the washing-up.’
    After supper, as Auntie stays inside watching television, Laura and I sit in the little back garden, mugs of tea in our hands.
    She chats casually about the Wilkinson yard. It’s one of the oldest stables in Newmarket, she tells me, then laughs. ‘And it feels it.’
    â€˜But he’s famous, Mr Wilkinson.’
    â€˜He had his glory days.’ Laura sips at her tea.