Wills Writing Competition Entry

Wrinkled fingers gripped tightly onto the handle of a stained coffee cup. Droplets of water raced down the window pane. The man humoured himself, watching each individual speck of water. Silly, he thought. He raised the cup to his mouth, and took a sip of the black liquid, wiping the froth from his moustache. Placing the mug on the table, he stared out of the window. Through the rain, he saw the entrance to what he used to call Heaven. The racing ground. Through the rusty gates, he could just about see the track – outlined by a white fence. Anyone else would simply see the ground as nothing more than a ground. But for the aged jockey, he saw much more.
In 1951, Victor Horvil celebrated his first – and evidently last -racing victory. He and his horse – Jackpot – had thundered through the rain. Jackpot’s hooves plummeted into the mud, and resurfaced at regular intervals. Unlike the other contestants, they were used to such conditions. In three minutes and forty three seconds, the two crossed the finish line. Through the chinking of champagne glasses, and being raised up into the air, Horvil celebrated his success, but it didn’t last long.
He left the proceedings and went to visit his prized horse. In solitude, he opened the stable door. He expected to see his most prized possession, but instead, he saw nothing. His horse didn’t greet him, lick his face, or beg to be stroked. Frantically, he raced around the grounds, shouting; “Has anyone seen Jackpot?!”as loud as his short frame would allow. He stared expectantly into the crowds eyes. He didn’t need a verbal response. Their shocked, yet sullen faces answered by themselves. Victor collapsed onto his knees, his head resting in his hands.
After a full police inquest it was discovered that Jackpot had been stolen shortly after his final race. Forced into a horse box, and taken away by two men. Their interests in the horse were unknown. However, when the police tracked Jackpot down it was apparent that he had passed away from shock. It was on that day that Victor Horvil finished his career as a racing jockey.

The wind roared, striking with its bitter, blade like finger tips – tearing through Horvil’s paper-like skin. He raised his hood, a feeble form of protection against this ominous beast he seemed to be fighting. The rain had since passed, but it had left a slippery reminder of its presence on the roads. His leather shoes shuffled over the tarmac, towards the racing ground. A chain covered the main entrance, with a piece of wood attached to it; “Closing Down,” read the sign. ‘Typical’, the man thought. ‘Another legendary space – demolished for housing. Typical’. He lifted the chain over his head, and crept beneath it. The gates had once been strong and majestic with the words; “Ackworth Racing Ground” imprinted upon them in gold. Now however, the text had long since eroded away – similar to the lock. With ease, Horvil lifted the gate open, allowing him entrance into his favourite place on earth.

For a while he stood beneath the band stand and looked out over the track. A million memories suddenly raced back into his mind. Though he only ever won one race, he still felt victorious after every event. Maybe it was just the thrill – of the wind in your face, and the feeling of being in control? He didn’t know. But he knew one thing – he loved his horse, and missed him terribly. In an interview, he once claimed that Jackpot meant everything to him. But on that dark night in 1951, everything changed. He could vividly remember his thoughts and feelings as he stepped into the stable, as he raced around the grounds, the inquest.
Fighting through the wind, he battled towards the seating area. He ran his palm over the back of the seats. Slowly peeling the tattered white paint from the wood. He took a seat in the chair nearest to him. Resting his head in his palms. For a second, he was glad the race ground was closing. It would finally allow Victor to come to terms with that terrible night in 1951.
It rained on that night, almost as heavy as it had earlier, leaving a slippery memory of its presence. Eventually, the rain will dry up, but what Victor felt daily would never fade away – as far as he was concerned. He’d lost a partner, an alliance, but most of all; a best friend. However, he still tried to carry on with his life. He ended his career as a jockey, hoping to make a fresh start, completely separate to his time as a sportsman. But it failed. He yearned to be back on the track, back with Jackpot.
They say that the final stage of grief is acceptance. Horvil made a decision, he’d stop avoiding it, stop covering it up, or trying to forget it. Instead, he would accept it. Victor got out of his seat and headed towards the gates. In 1951, Victor Horvil lost his best friend. Fifty years later, he left the racing ground, with a rare smile upon his wrinkled features.