had winners over in Ireland at Punchestown, at Kempton, at Cheltenham in front of all the cameras, and then finally a spectacular and thrilling second-place photo finish with a horse called Dieseltown Blues at the Grand National, on the day when every granny in the country placed a bet, the ultimate test for horse, jockey and trainer. And then they started coming.
High-profile owners who were maybe dissatisfied with their trainers – in the way that high-profile owners often were dissatisfied if they weren’t winning everything – brought some serious stock along for Charlie to look at. And if the animals weren’t fit, he told them so. Fitness and diet and a different but uncompromising training regimen for each horse was what Charlie was all about. But the original trainers were disgruntled to hear that Charlie had told so-and-so that their horses were unfit. Some of them took it personally.
And when one owner decided he wanted to pull all six of his horses from their current stable and move across to Charlie, that was when he got the hex.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ his head lad said.
Charlie let go of the fetlock of the bay he was attending to and saw a man in a sheepskin coat and a cloth cap getting out of a Jaguar XJ6 luxury saloon. He recognised the man from televised horse racing, though they’d never met. It was William Osborne. There were two top trainers in the country at that time, battling for supremacy. Osborne was one of them.
Osborne, a fox-faced man, tucked his chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat as he walked across the yard, so that his warm smile was half hidden. From across the yard he offered a handshake and greeted Charlie like they were old pals. ‘Charlie,’ he said. Charlie! ‘How come we’ve not met in person before now? How’s that then, hey?’
‘It’s Mr Osborne?’ Charlie asked, shaking the hand, still wondering what the hell this was all about.
‘Will, please, Will to you, Charlie. We trainers are one of a kind.’
No we’re not , thought Charlie. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Cup o’ tea would be grand,’ Osborne said. He stuck out a long tongue to advertise how parched he might be.
Charlie kept an electric kettle and a box of tea bags in the tack room, so he led the way through. Without being invited, Osborne took a chair. Charlie leaned his back against the wall, arms folded, while the kettle boiled.
‘I’ve got a filly. Very sweet. Should be doing much better. Big hopes for her. But she keeps fizzling out. I’ve done everything and I want you to have her, see what you can do.’
‘What?’ Charlie said. ‘Why am I so honoured?’
Osborne wrinkled his eyes. ‘You’ve got a hell of a reputation for ironing out these things.’
‘Have I?’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Have a word with Charlie about her. That’s what they’ve all said.’
‘Who? Who said?’
Osborne tapped his nose. ‘Those who know.’
Charlie sighed. ‘If she’s fading, you can’t always straighten ’em. Depends how she’s been treated. If she’s injured, that’s another thing.’
The kettle boiled. Charlie made tea in two chipped mugs.
‘Milky and sweet, if you don’t mind,’ Osborne said. ‘Will you take her, Charlie? I’ll pay top dollar. That goes without saying.’
Charlie handed over the mug of tea. ‘Of course I’ll bloody take her. I’ll be glad to.’
‘Good man! That’s what I was hoping to hear.’ He slurped the tea nosily. ‘Lovely.’
They talked for a while about the season, and some of the successes both men had had. Osborne was very complimentary about the race run by Dieseltown Blues at the Grand National. He said it could win it next year. He wondered where Charlie was sourcing his stock.
‘I’ve been over to France a few times. Looking for something different, you know?’
Osborne said he did know. He even suggested Charlie might keep an eye out for him on his next run across the Channel. He got near the bottom of his mug of tea
High-profile owners who were maybe dissatisfied with their trainers – in the way that high-profile owners often were dissatisfied if they weren’t winning everything – brought some serious stock along for Charlie to look at. And if the animals weren’t fit, he told them so. Fitness and diet and a different but uncompromising training regimen for each horse was what Charlie was all about. But the original trainers were disgruntled to hear that Charlie had told so-and-so that their horses were unfit. Some of them took it personally.
And when one owner decided he wanted to pull all six of his horses from their current stable and move across to Charlie, that was when he got the hex.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ his head lad said.
Charlie let go of the fetlock of the bay he was attending to and saw a man in a sheepskin coat and a cloth cap getting out of a Jaguar XJ6 luxury saloon. He recognised the man from televised horse racing, though they’d never met. It was William Osborne. There were two top trainers in the country at that time, battling for supremacy. Osborne was one of them.
Osborne, a fox-faced man, tucked his chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat as he walked across the yard, so that his warm smile was half hidden. From across the yard he offered a handshake and greeted Charlie like they were old pals. ‘Charlie,’ he said. Charlie! ‘How come we’ve not met in person before now? How’s that then, hey?’
‘It’s Mr Osborne?’ Charlie asked, shaking the hand, still wondering what the hell this was all about.
‘Will, please, Will to you, Charlie. We trainers are one of a kind.’
No we’re not , thought Charlie. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Cup o’ tea would be grand,’ Osborne said. He stuck out a long tongue to advertise how parched he might be.
Charlie kept an electric kettle and a box of tea bags in the tack room, so he led the way through. Without being invited, Osborne took a chair. Charlie leaned his back against the wall, arms folded, while the kettle boiled.
‘I’ve got a filly. Very sweet. Should be doing much better. Big hopes for her. But she keeps fizzling out. I’ve done everything and I want you to have her, see what you can do.’
‘What?’ Charlie said. ‘Why am I so honoured?’
Osborne wrinkled his eyes. ‘You’ve got a hell of a reputation for ironing out these things.’
‘Have I?’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Have a word with Charlie about her. That’s what they’ve all said.’
‘Who? Who said?’
Osborne tapped his nose. ‘Those who know.’
Charlie sighed. ‘If she’s fading, you can’t always straighten ’em. Depends how she’s been treated. If she’s injured, that’s another thing.’
The kettle boiled. Charlie made tea in two chipped mugs.
‘Milky and sweet, if you don’t mind,’ Osborne said. ‘Will you take her, Charlie? I’ll pay top dollar. That goes without saying.’
Charlie handed over the mug of tea. ‘Of course I’ll bloody take her. I’ll be glad to.’
‘Good man! That’s what I was hoping to hear.’ He slurped the tea nosily. ‘Lovely.’
They talked for a while about the season, and some of the successes both men had had. Osborne was very complimentary about the race run by Dieseltown Blues at the Grand National. He said it could win it next year. He wondered where Charlie was sourcing his stock.
‘I’ve been over to France a few times. Looking for something different, you know?’
Osborne said he did know. He even suggested Charlie might keep an eye out for him on his next run across the Channel. He got near the bottom of his mug of tea
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