Somehow or other, through some sort of oversight, I seem to have acquired a racehorse. It all happened very quickly, as these things tend to. I was with the boyfriend, visiting his mother’s yard, where she deals horses. The boyfriend was inspecting a coloured pony for driving. The boyfriend fancies himself on a pony and trap this summer, although I can’t quite see the attraction myself. He tells me it will be fun, the two of us clip-clopping around Cobham on a shiny carriage pulled by a smart little trotter.
So I went with him to inspect Jim Boy. I peered over the stable door at the black and white gypsy cob. He was munching his third hay net of the morning and stirring his bed up with his big unshod hooves. To say he was hairy was an understatement. His forelock covered his entire face, so he looked like a punk rocker. He might have had nice markings, but as he had rolled and rolled until he was entirely covered in muck, the only discernible marking was one big poo-coloured one covering his entire body.
‘What do you think? Isn’t he great?’ said the boyfriend, evidently seeing something that I couldn’t. All I could see was a vision of us driving through Cobham pulled by hairy Jim Boy munching from a nosebag and in all likelihood issuing generous deposits from his rear end as we went past the Black Swan, where all of Surrey society would be sitting on the terrace sipping chilled rosé and giggling at the spectacle. We would be like Steptoe and Son only the husband and wife version.
‘Hmm. Yes. Maybe we could do a rag and bone collection while we’re at it.’ ‘Funny you should say that,’ said the boyfriend, ‘because when we found him he was totting in Croydon.’ ‘Yes, well, he would be trotting.’ ‘No, not trotting, totting.’ ‘Totting? That’s not a word. Have you just made that up?’ ‘No, totting. You know, totting? He was pulling a cart collecting old scrap metal.’ I looked at Jim Boy, ecstatically tossing his huge fringe about as he wrenched hay from his tightly stuffed hay net.
On balance, I was glad to have rescued him from the Croydon totting industry, but I couldn’t help feel that this pony and trap business would have to be something the boyfriend did on his own.
‘Listen,’ I said tactfully, ‘you must take on Jim Boy if you want, but don’t expect me to get on the back of that cart.’ ‘Trap.’ ‘Whatever. It’s just not really my thing. I’d be frightened of falling off on the corners.’
As the boyfriend paid for the cob, I went for a wander. I didn’t get very far. In the very next stable was a tiny foal. A dark bay filly, with a coat like velvet. She put her head over the door, which she could only just reach, and sniffed me. Then she breathed on me. Then she nibbled my hair.
The boyfriend’s mother came over to explain. She had picked her up in a sale where the racing industry had dumped some of its unwanted stock. How on earth could something so beautiful be unwanted?
The foal licked my face. Apparently she was born a few months too late, and so would be too young to race when officially declared a two-year-old. Her father was Marienbard, who won the Arc de Triomphe in 2002 ridden by Frankie Dettori. Her great-grandfather was the legend Nijinsky. Her great great-grandfather was Northern Dancer.
As we pored over her breeding papers that night it seemed as if all the romance of racing was in her bloodlines. The great victories and defeats, the triumphs and tragedies. The legends. Man O’War, Omaha, Mahmoud…‘We have to bring her home,’ I said to the boyfriend, who was by now in too deep himself.
He became transfixed by videos of her sire weaving to the inside rail for his legendary final surge at Longchamp; her grandfather, ridden by Lester Piggott, becoming the first Triple Crown winner since the mighty Barham in 1935.
‘She’s a piece of history,’ he concluded.
She’s also very, very cute. I’ve been thinking up grand, majestic names for her. But every time I talk about her she’s ‘baby’.
‘When can we bring baby home?’ I keep asking the boyfriend.
He’s worse than me. ‘We’re expecting…’ is how he explained the foal to our friends over Sunday lunch, proudly showing off phone pictures.
We haven’t abandoned Jim Boy, however. He’s kicking his heels up in a field. We drove past him the other day on our way back from seeing the filly. He was frolicking in the spring grass, his totting and, in all likelihood, trotting days a distant memory. He looked delighted.
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