Under Orders Read Online Free PDF Page A

all to have left his run too late but, to a deafening roar from his tens of thousands of faithful supporters, he charged up the hill to win by a whisker.
    The crowd went wild, cheering and shouting and even throwing their soggy hats into the air. The big grey nodded his head in approval as he took the applause on the walk to the winner’s unsaddling enclosure. He was a hero and he knew it. Grown men cried with joy and hugged their neighbours whether they knew them or not. The only unhappy faces were the bookies who would lose a fortune. Oven Cleaner was a national icon, and housewives had bet the housekeeping and children had loaded their pocket money on his nose. ‘The Cleaner’, as he was affectionately known, was a god amongst racehorses.
    The cheering rose to a new height as the legend was led into the unsaddling enclosure by his euphoric lady owner.
    Then the legend died.
    Tears of joy turned to tears of despair as the much loved champion suddenly stumbled and collapsed onto the grass, pulling down his owner and pinning her leg under his half-ton bulk. The crowd fell silent, save for a group of celebrating punters at the back still unaware of the unfolding tragedy. The screams of the horse’s owner, her ankle trapped and crushed, eventually cut through to them too, and they were hushed.
    Oven Cleaner had given his all. His heart, so strong in carrying him up the Cheltenham hill to victory, had failed him in his moment of triumph.
    Willing hands managed to free the poor owner but she refused to leave for medical treatment on her broken ankle, cradlingthe horse’s head in her lap and crying the inconsolable tears of the bereaved.
    I watched a vet examine the animal. He placed a stethoscope to the grey-haired chest and listened for a few seconds. He stood up, pursed his lips and shook his head. No paramedics, no mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, no defibrillator pads, no cardiac massage, just a shake of the head.
    A team of men hurried in with green canvas screens that they set up around the still steaming bulk. No screens, I thought, for the poor human victim who had died on the same spot not three hours before. But the screens were not really necessary. Whereas, earlier, the crowd had grown to watch the human drama, now they turned away, not wanting to witness the sad end of such a dear friend.
    Deep gloom descended on the racecourse. It was not helped by an objection from the clerk of the scales because Oven Cleaner’s jockey had failed to weigh in.
    ‘How could I?’ he protested. ‘My bleeding saddle is still on the bleeding horse halfway to the bleeding glue factory.’
    The ‘bleeding saddle’ in question had, in fact, been removed by the trainer when the horse had collapsed and had been placed out of sight under the cloth-covered table used for the presentations of the trophies. An uncommon amount of good sense broke out when it was agreed by the Stewards that the jockey, finally reunited with his saddle, could weigh in late.
    I wondered what the rule would have been if the jockey had died instead of the horse. Could his lifeless corpse be carried to the scales? Dead weight. I smiled at the thought and receivedsome stern looks for being so cheerful at a time of national mourning.
    The fourth race on Gold Cup day is the Foxhunter Steeple Chase, often referred to as the amateur riders’ gold cup. The favourite won but returned to almost silent grandstands. The will to cheer had gone out of the crowd, which politely applauded the winner’s return.
    ‘Where’s that bloody jockey of mine?’ Bill Burton was asking anyone and everyone outside the weighing room.
    ‘Huw Walker?’ I asked as Bill hurried towards me.
    ‘Bloody unreliable bastard, that’s what he is. Gone bloody AWOL. Have you seen him, Sid?’ I shook my head. ‘He’s due to ride Leaded Light in the next but I can’t find him. I’ll have to declare another jockey.’ He went back inside to change his declaration.
    Leaded Light was beaten into