Dark Horse

I used to see him walking in the morning. I walk five mornings a week and The Jockey would pass me going the other way most days. We were creatures of habit because this passing always occurred outside the state school where the oval flanked the road. There are lots of walkers in the early morning; it is that sort of suburb in a city with the right sort of weather. Young mums and dads trying to put babies asleep, exercising young adults, dogs walking their owners and the elderly who walk to keep fit or pass time. You do have to be keen if you are older. Our suburb is predominantly hilly with some very steep streets running off the ridges.

 I am not young or old. I am not caring for pets or people.  I walk to to pass time, to leave the house and to try to stay connected. Plus as they say, if you don’t use it you lose it.

He was old but at the same time childlike, short and slight and always swaddled in fleecy clothes regardless of the temperature. Two hundred years ago he would have been a chimney sweep but in this century I judged him to be an old jockey. It turned out that that was an astute observation on my behalf and it’s not often I can say that.

That morning The Jockey, as I now identified him, was not walking. He was sitting on the bench at the bus stop on the main road, not far from where our orbits usually intersected. He looked like a private schoolboy waiting dispiritedly for the early bus, still half asleep, wondering what sort of life he was preparing for when he had to be out of the house and on the way to school by 6.15am. I walked closer and realized my fellow walker slumped on the bench, elbows on knees and head down was distressed, he was panting like an old dog and I wondered if he was having a heart attack. While I contemplated the off-putting possibility of having to perform mouth to mouth on The Jockey I strode up to the bench. Normally when I passed him during our walks his weather beaten face was emotionless; he would just nod to my “Good Morning” as we passed. But now when he looked up he grimaced in pain. He hugged his ribs and groaned.

“You ok mate?” I asked in what I thought as my caring and competent voice. The reality was that it was the one I use when I am conflicted about becoming too involved. I reserve it for revelations about recent breakups or the deaths of pets. I did not want to overcommit on the emotion front if it turned out he just had a bad case of wind and had stopped to see if he could summon a rollicking fart without following through.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” he replied. He spoke with an Irish accent, soft with a rollercoaster cadence.

“I just started to feel a bit dizzy and I was getting a stitch. Lucky the seat was here. I think I just over did it last night and I’m paying the price.”

 His eyes were bloodshot; there was grey stubble on his chin and a network of wrinkles that fanned out from the corners of road map eyes towards his temples.

I said, “So you were out partying last night heh?’

"Well you know it was Oaks day, ladies day at the races, Thursday after the cup. I always go to the races Oaks day, plenty of fillies out looking for a gallop if you know what I mean.”

He straightened up on the seat and took in a few deep breaths. He really was incredibly slight of build; one of the kids who live next door to me is eleven and he was wider and thicker through the chest than The Jockey.

“I think I am starting to feel better,” he said before leaning forward and vomiting into the gutter. I stepped back and felt my own gorge rising. Blood and guts are fine with me but the look, the smell, even the sound that spew makes as it lands on concrete is enough to have me dry retching in sympathy within seconds.

“Shit I needed that,” The Jockey mumbled after leaning back and wiping his mouth on an ancient fleece pullover. He winked at me then.

“So yeah mate, was a big day on the grog and then after, a long night on the job.”

I moved upwind and stared at him.  This bloke was not a day under 70 so he had to be pulling my leg. Or he was off with the fairies. Either way I was losing interest.

“Well as long as you are ok mate,” I said.

Time to go I thought. If I was to believe him it was all self-induced and he would be on the mend now that he had emptied his stomach. His face certainly had more colour. His watery eyes were brighter and I realised The Jockey had been a handsome man when he was younger. He had a movie star face, good cheekbones and a strong jaw. His thick grey hair needed a good wash but there was plenty of it.

“Catch you later then,” I said and started to walk away.

“Mate you can’t leave me here.”

I should have pretended not to have heard and just kept walking.  But big hearted me stopped and turn around. I am not a complete idiot though. So I asked,

“Why not, you said you were alright didn’t you?”

“Yeeess.”

 He drew the word out like children do when they want to cast doubt in the listener’s mind by showing the unsaid doubt in their own. 

“But I wouldn’t mind if you helped me home. It’s just up Freeholm Street, up there next on the left. I’m halfway up in number 37.”

 I hadn’t walked up Freeholm Street in a while because it was bloody steep, bent forward, tight Achilles tendons steep. If The Jockey walked that route every day he was much fitter than he looked, especially the way he looked that day.

He stood and swayed a little. I looked at his legs and noticed that he wore a charcoal pair of suit pants heavily stained on the knees.  I pointed and asked, “You usually don’t walk every day in those, do you?”

 “No of course not, I’m old, not frigging senile. I’m only wearing them today because I couldn’t find my trackkies. I didn’t want to wake the young lady up you see so I just grabbed these off the floor.

He scratched his red nose and emitted a loud burp that frightened a lady and her labradoodle walking past us. They hurried away and I wished that I had done the same when I had the chance.

I was going to ask his name but before I could he ordered, “Well let’s get going then.”

His accent was stronger now; he came close, looked me in the eye and like an elderly grandma he placed his hand on my forearm for support. I don’t know why but I didn’t argue even though his breath was awful. I turned my head away and together we started walking to the corner of his street.

We turned the corner into Freeholm Street and the going became harder. The footpath rose before us and The Jockey began to pant so I slowed my pace. We were only up to number nine when he stopped completely. He was really sucking in the oxygen. As he rested, his hand still on my forearm, he used first one foot and then the other to push the heel of each of his shoes down before he kicked them off.

He moaned. “I’ve got blisters.”

 His socks were new and had a repeating print of a laughing leprechaun.

In between pants he suggested that things might go quicker and his home would be reached earlier if I gave him a piggyback. Before I could say anything The Jockey had his shoes in one hand and with the other was indicating that I should squat down so he could wrap his arms around my neck.

I just looked at him.

“You serious?” I asked.

“Well I’ve seen people in the park early in the mornings flipping tractor tires over, doing squats and running and once I saw them piggy backing each other and other stuff. Getting fit stuff, Boot camp isn’t it? Well think of it the same way. And anyway, look at me mate. I weigh bugger all. I just want to get home and look at you, you’re plenty fit enough. In fact you’re bloody lucky I don’t charge you for the service. ”

For some reason I just went with it. I think it was the challenge, both half dismissive yet insistent that fired me up.

 “Fuck it, come on then but for Christ sake don’t breathe on me. Your breath would kill a rhino.”

I stood in front of him, squatted down and The Jockey wrapped his skinny arms around my neck, clasped the wrist of the hand holding his shoes with the other hand and somehow got the backs of his knees to sit in the crook of my bent arms. I stood up and it was true, there was not much to him. We started up the hill again.

By the time we were outside number 21 he was starting to feel heavier, the street was so bloody steep and he had exaggerated of course. His house, number 37 was actually at the crest of the rise but I had to admit the sheer stupidity of the whole thing had become fun. He must have felt the same because The Jockey suddenly sat up straighter, not so cheek to cheek, and I wondered what he was doing when he started to knee me in the ribs.

By the time we were at number 27 he had morphed into the jockey that I thought he once had been.  We must have looked fucking ridiculous, me speed walking up the hill with this tiny, old bloke on my back gripping my torso with his knees, pretending to ride me like I was a bloody thoroughbred. He wrapped one arm around my throat and the hand that held his shoes was now by his side and he was wielding the shoes on me like a jockey’s whip.

I tried to put him down while telling him to cut the crap but his knees just gripped me harder and he started to strangle me with the arm around my neck. In the end it was just easier to keep moving. The slope eased off at the crest of the hill and I don’t know why but I decided to jog for the last twenty odd metres. This just encouraged The Jockey more and as we passed number 29 he started to call an imaginary horse race. Then at 31 he started to urge some long ago mount to victory.

At first softly and then louder and louder, “C’mon my darling, c’mon Dark Horse, we’re almost there.” He kept repeating this and I went faster. I resisted a sudden, weird urge to whinny and snort as I went past his side fence with number 35 as fast as I could. Then with his garden gate a few metres away I eased off before stopping. I looked around. Thankfully no one was in sight. The Jockey loosened his grip.  I squatted down and he slid off my back.

I turned to look at him. He had a huge grin on his face and he looked twenty years younger. The Jockey stood tall and still for a few seconds before speaking. I think he was imagining a huge crowd cheering as if he had just ridden a winner and was returning to the yard to weigh in. Just for a second I thought I heard something or someone as well but when I looked around again I saw no one.

“There you go,” he eventually said in his Irish lilt, “Now wasn’t that a good bit of exercise and bloody fun too.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I had been under a spell and was only now regaining control of my mind and body. I was soaked in sweat and my thigh muscles were involuntarily twitching from the exertion. The jockey was right though. I felt elated and connected.

He opened his front gate and positively bounded along the path and up the three low steps to the front door. He banged on it vigorously with one hand, his leather shoes still in the other.

He turned around.

“Wait here. You look like you could use some water.”

In a daze I walked up the path reaching the bottom of the stairs just as the front door swung open.

In the doorway was a woman with a striking resemblance to Kate Winslet, a tired, just out of bed Kate Winslet. She was wearing a beautiful dress and in her hands were a pair of high heels, a clutch and what I at first thought was a dead bird before I realised it was a fascinator.

She said, “That was good timing, I was just leaving, I’ll wait out here for the Uber” and instead of stepping aside to let us in she came down the stairs, bent down and kissed The Jockey on his forehead. She whispered something more into his ear before walking down the path. I gawked as she bent down at the gate and slipped on her high heels. Incredulous I turned back around to The Jockey only to see that he had slipped inside and shut the door. It was impossible but somehow he had already found the time to place a tumbler of water on the top step.

I gulped the water down and then walked to the gate. The Uber was pulling into the curb. Just before “Kate” got into the car she turned.

A beatific smile was on her face as she opened the car door and folded herself onto the back seat.  Before closing the door she said, “He is something isn’t he.” It was more a statement than a question.

 Photo by Jeff Griffith on Unsplash