Chapter 23: Glass Ceiling
Erin's nervous system was totally shot. Watching her cousin ride in the world's most prestigious jump race brought together a deadly concoction of fear and exhilaration, a mix her body struggled to handle. She was lucky for the long flat run before the seventeenth fence, as it finally gave her a chance to regulate her breathing.
"Hey". James smiled at her. "She's alright".
She wanted to believe him, and the evidence from the first circuit did overwhelmingly suggest her fella was right, but Erin still wasn't content. It was a dangerous race and just because Orla got round safely the once, didn't guarantee she would do so a second time. James took matters into his own hands to calm her, smothering her lips with his, even with her parents and his aunt in the same room.
"OI!" Mary shouted at them a second later. "Stop yer canoodlin' and keep yer eyes on the race!"
Grinning like the eejits they were, the two broke away and went back to watching the race as the horses crossed the Melling Road again. Both Rough Quest and Bogside Warrior were making places as they crossed over it, moving past a couple of horses who were beginning to tire. They were sat roughly in ninth and tenth on the approach to what was the opening fence of the contest the circuit before. Her concentration remained laser-like, not allowing for any distractions. She could hear all of the jockey's talking away to each other on her inside, some of them mentioning her, but she never once engaged. Her race was in front of her and she was only going to be looking to the sides when it was necessary.
Rising at the seventeenth, Bogside Warrior cleared it well, though not as well as the favourite. Rough Quest jumped so boldly that he was up with the two leaders, and his jockey Mick Fitzgerald had to hold him back from going on into the lead so soon. Occupying the spot that he'd vacated, Orla found herself as far forward as joint seventh with a couple of horses down the inner. The fact that she'd jumped the same fence one circuit earlier in twenty eighth and last place, showed the considerable progress she'd made throughout.
"She's so good!" Clare squealed with delight.
"My girl… my beautiful girl…".
The race wasn't even over and there were tears in Sarah's eyes. After her uncertainties from the start of the race, she was finally winning the battle to calm down in her own mind. She even briefly entertained the idea that Orla might get round and complete the course, which would be an incredible achievement.
Back at her own home in Derry, Sister Michael's whisky bottle was taking a hammering from disbelief. Her secondary concern, behind that of Orla's safety, was how she was going to deal with inevitable media frenzy at the school gates on Monday morning. The French press would probably be there too, and her professionalism would be tested to the hilt if she had to speak to them. Mr Flanagan was worked up too, but only from the joy of seeing how well the girl from his History class, who treated Oliver Cromwell as a Saint, was doing. His brother knew a good jockey when he saw one, but what he had with Orla was an outstanding horsewoman. They were a lot harder to come by.
The eighteenth fence did little to change the order of things, though Orla allowed Bogside Warrior to first move up to, and then overtake Rough Quest in the first strides after the fence. She still was sitting in around seventh place, moving slightly further out again after she'd got round the favourite. She enabled her horse to have plenty of breathing room on the outer, with Life of a Lord sat just inside her, but no one sat on the outside. The position was held on the short run down to the nineteenth, the first of the open ditches on the circuit. She'd had to think quickly the last time round at the fence, after the fall of Party Politics ahead of her, but the second time around there was no one to avoid. Taking off from afar, she landed perfectly well on the other side, so instead of holding Bogside Warrior back like she had done at other points, she allowed him to reap the benefits of the momentum. Wide out, she was up in joint third, battling away with Life of a Lord, Riverside Boy and Sir Peter Lely to cement it.
"Frankie…". Paul said quietly to the trainer.
"I know… I said he'll stay". He replied without looking the injured jockey in the eye.
"He's going well… really well…".
Frankie didn't want to tempt their fate any more than he had already, but Paul was spot on in his analysis as usual. Bogside Warrior was travelling as good as Frankie had ever seen him at home or in a race. Orla, never having ridden him before and with just the three races under her belt, was coaxing him like a seasoned professional. Perhaps a top six finish was on the cards…
The twentieth fence signalled that two thirds of the jumping was complete, and Bogside Warrior gave Orla and the crowd a huge thrill as he took off like a fighter jet on the outside, jumping level with the leaders Young Hustler and Three Brownies. Third place was cemented with that jump and with the race solely in front of her, Orla could only see two targets for the taking as she realigned her mount. Opting to move inside Young Hustler before the twenty first, she skilfully avoided clipping the heels of the leader, giving plenty of room to Riverside Boy who was sat behind too. The BBC commentator for that part of the course, Jim McGrath, commented on the sudden progress of Bogside Warrior, which was music to the ears of James back in Derry.
"I said she was going to win". He beamed to the others in the room.
"Wise up James!" Deirdre snapped back. "She's not won yet".
"He's right though Deirdre…". Gerry came to the Englishman's aid. "…She will".
Their confidence matched Orla's, and she was ready for the plain twenty-first fence, the last fence before tackling Becher's Brook for the second time. Taking it between Young Hustler and Three Brownies, the latter made a mistake on the inside, which left her upsides the leader. She veered inside slightly more as they came away from the fence, using the space vacated by Three Brownies to her advantage. Though not travelling quite so closely to the rail as that horse had done, there was a bigger gap left between Bogside Warrior and Young Hustler as they contested the lead.
Becher's Brook then loomed up in front of her. Allowing herself a glance to the right to check the progress of the top weight, Orla made a decision on the spot that would either prove effective or costly. Kicking him on for a couple of strides, she sent Bogside Warrior into the lead of the National ahead of the infamous fence. She'd been known to silence a room at home in Derry, but this time Orla McCool silenced the whole world, except for the course announcer and the BBC Commentator McGrath, whose job it was to describe the unbelievable scene.
"And as they come towards Becher's the second time, it's Bogside Warrior who comes through to take it up under Orla McCool, from Young Hustler on the outside… they've got a couple of lengths on Three Brownies, who's disputing third with Sir Peter Lely. Rising at Becher's…it's a fantastic jump from Bogside Warrior!... with Young Hustler unable to match in second… and the leader's kicking on now, taking a couple of lengths as the rest of the field stream over it…"
Orla's plan paid off. It didn't prove costly like it could have done, as Bogside Warrior jumped Becher's as well as he'd jumped at any of the other fences. Paul's advice was clear, her race was in front of her, but the equine rivals no longer were. Her race was now the eight fences between Bogside Warrior and the winning post, each one having to be cleared just as well as they'd clear Becher's Brook.
"Come on boy… yaaaa!".
She kicked on again after Becher's and opened up a few lengths immediately. Chris Maude, on board the top weighted Young Hustler, knowing he couldn't follow from that far out or he'd never get home, eased up. If a jockey was making their move as early as Becher's the second time around, then they had to be sure their mount held enough in the tank to make it home. The other jockeys, even those on horses with lower weight, followed Maude's approach. Orla was an amateur after all, and she could be forgiven for kicking on too early, learning a valuable lesson for future attempts at the race.
"It's too soon". Joe huffed as he pulled the binoculars away for a second.
"Why Joe?" Michelle asked him, having joined him out on the balcony rather than returning to the television inside.
"She'll never make it at that pace… not from there. Christ she'll be lucky if she can finish!"
"Yer being a wee bit dramatic there Joe". She scoffed. "I know this is Orla and… ye know… she says some fuckin' stupid shite… but she's class at this horse racing like. She knows what she's doin'".
He wished it could have been someone else stood with him, and not the mouthy gobshite that was Michelle Mallon, but her confidence in Orla did at least warm Joe's heart. For him though, it was already time to start thinking of how to deal with a disappointed Orla in the following days. She was never going to make it from there…
Bogside Warrior popped over the Foinavon fence the second time around and the commentator estimated her gap to have opened to seven lengths over Young Hustler, a huge amount of ground to have made up on what was a short run between fences. She was still barely moving on her horse though; only when kicking him on after Becher's had she got low in the saddle. Her hold on the reins was firm, to prevent him running off too freely, though loose enough to indicate the horse wasn't making plans to bolt off towards the Canal Turn anytime soon.
Normally the jockeys would ease right up as they measured the approach to the turn, certainly the second time around where they could pick their line better. However, with a bold rush of confidence, Orla threw the conventional approach right out of the window. Kicking the horse on, she gallantly approached the canal turn at pace from wider out, aiming for the inside to cut the corner. With no one in her way, she couldn't hinder anyone, the only potential hinderance would be to herself if she misjudged it.
"She's not…". Joe trailed off in disbelief as he witnessed her decision unfold from his binoculars.
Taking off, Bogside Warrior brushed through the top of the fence, but at no cost to his momentum or his shape. He landed running, receiving an appreciative slap down the neck from Orla as she looked ahead to the four fences that were waiting her down the stretch that took her back towards the stands. She couldn't hear anything other than the panting of her horse… everything else being drowned out by her concentration of what was in front of her. Another jockey might have been tempted to check back to see where their rivals were after jumping the Canal Turn, but another jockey didn't have Paul's advice to take with them. She would listen to him over anyone.
The essence of the tranquil barrier she'd created around her allowed Orla to talk to her horse and guide him over the next fences. They were down the inside rail now, saving as much energy as possible by taking the shortest route. It was just the two of them against four green monsters, but she'd very quickly thought of a way to make it seem less daunting for them. Each fence represented a friend, and it was easier to think of the fences as friends than monsters… because a friend was there to help them and not stop them.
"Valentine's first boy… a lover at heart but with a fearsome side… ach this is James, so it is…".
Throwing the horse at it again, her idea worked, as Bogside Warrior was as good as gold, clearing the fence without failure. Though she couldn't hear it, the crowd were thunderous in their cheers already as she made her way down the side of the course.
The 'James' fence was done with and the second of the four down the straight was the plain fence that she'd negotiated without failure previously.
"Hmm… well boy…". She started as they raced on down to it. "… this one can cause ye to panic if ye get it wrong… say hello to Clare…".
To the girl being described as a fence, every single one of the green monsters would cause her to panic, so the description could have been applied to all of them. There would be no need for Orla to panic though, Bogside Warrior brushing through the top of it in their splendid isolation. All they could keep doing was following Paul's advice. The race was in front of them… focus on what was ahead…
The following fence required a ghost to be put to rest. The third down that side nearly put them out of the race on the first circuit, and made Orla look like a young French jockey and not a young Irish one. The first of two open ditches, it was not a forgiving fence, but after a circuit away, it would always welcome a second chance at perfection for those who didn't meet its standards the first time around and lived to tell the tale.
"This one… this one is Michelle".
If Michelle knew she was being compared to a fence then she would slap Orla back over the Irish Sea, all the way to Dennis's wee shop. Michelle the fence didn't need to show a forgiving side though, as Bogside Warrior breezed over the top without mishap, landing full of running. She didn't try to think about it too much, but if Orla was being honest, her mount was going faster than he had done for the whole race. There was not a jot of tiredness in the animal with three obstacles remaining before the run in up the elbow.
The final open ditch seemed equally unforgiving, but it was often talking a bigger game than it could muster when it came to claiming casualties.
"Ach, well this one has to be Erin… doesn't it boy?".
The rhetorical question was aimed at the horse, who showed his agreement with his rider when he threw himself over it, catching the top of it but without any incident. Orla viewing the fences as her friends had certainly helped the pair, as their partnership was still intact with only the long run to the last two fences, the obstacles themselves, and the elbow left to go in the marathon contest.
Crossing the Melling Road for the final time, she was still motionless on the dark horse, his white face gleaming in the sunlight of the Mersey afternoon. Her arms were rigid on the reins, still without an overly firm hold, but not having to move them an inch. Bogside Warrior was enjoying his afternoon and his petrol gauge didn't appear to be waning. She didn't know what the others had left in their respective engines, though she was expecting to be joined at any moment. But the race was in front of her still, she didn't need to worry about that…
If she broke her concentration and looked up, she would have seen the crowds in the distance and if her ears were not fixed on Bogside Warrior's breathing, she'd have heard them too. Rounding the bend with the second last firmly in her sight, she remembered another one of Paul's lessons.
Come off the rail before the finish… ye don't wanna be on it with the elbow ahead of ye…
Moving off of it, waiting to see whoever would have to switch further out to make their challenge, Orla plotted the route to the finish for Bogside Warrior. Pulling her goggles down, she took her first view of the fences without them, picking the exact spots where she wanted her mount to jump at each one. The noise of the crowd still hadn't reached her; in her own little world Orla was having the time of her life on the 200-1 shot. And yet from behind, they still didn't come…
She would have never heard them coming anyway, with her ears solely trained on her horse, but taking off at two out, there was no sign of a challenger on either side yet. They were biding their time well…
And they were very close to getting away without a battle.
Despite asking for a safe jump, Bogside Warrior committed an act of rebellion and launched himself at it like he had done at the previous few fences. She didn't want that this time around and he went right down onto his nose on the landing side, Orla holding on with everything to make sure she didn't end up over his head. Yanking the reins back, she got him back to a normal pattern of strides, nonetheless leaving her Jack the ripping with him a second later.
"Fine, we'll have it yer way… but yer getting Jenny Joyce on Monday so ye are!"
Sometimes after a shuddering mistake, a horse would be returned to reality, and would never pick up again, but Bogside Warrior was not going to be one of those horses. He was soon flying along, and as they got up to the final fence of the 1996 Grand National, still none of the others came to challenge Orla's lead. They were running out of race to do so…
Instead of asking him for the simple jump she'd asked for at the second last, confidently, but dangerously, Orla allowed Bogside Warrior to pick what he wanted to do. He again chose to throw himself at it, only this time she kept full control and they cleared the final fence to head on up the running. The crowds were in front of them, like the race was, so she could see them, but still chose not to focus on them. Their race was ahead of them as Paul told her… she wasn't going to focus on anything that could distract them, and she most certainly wasn't going to look back.
On the top floor of the Altnagelvin Hospital, in a private recovery room, two male voices shouted at the little television set in the corner.
"COME ON ORLA! COME ON!" James's shouts were more joyful cries.
"GO ON LOVE… YOU'VE GOT IT!" Gerry was equally choked up.
Erin, Mary and Deirdre were all blubbering messes, their usually hardened exteriors melting away at the scene of Orla clearing the final fence. The impossible dream…
Mr Flanagan sat in his living room with tears of joy streaking down his face. If anyone in the world deserved it, it was Orla. She'd been such a rock to her group of friends after the attack on James and the good lord was repaying her strength. The free-spirited young McCool, with a heart of gold… the heart of a champion…
Sister Michael's whisky bottle was more terrified than Sarah had been at the start of the race. Orla's safety was no longer a concern after the final fence, and there wouldn't be a press frenzy at the gates… they would be in the school wanting to interview the group… and as their headmistress they would want to interview her! The girl who needed to wise up… wising up too far, too soon…
"Dear Lord, please take pity on me!" She was shaking as she poured a further glass of it.
Baby Anna wouldn't understand what was going on when her Uncle Colm started roaring at the television, but she knew enough not to cry either. Her brilliant cousin…
At the racecourse itself, before the last was even negotiated, Joe led the others running off to get down to the finish. Michelle and Clare, in their elegant dresses, snapped at his heals with grins as wide as the mouth of the Foyle slapped across their faces, and tears in their eyes. The tears already escaped Sarah and Kathy as they ran with the kids behind him, Sarah weeping with joy as her daughter came home. The free-spirited wonder girl…
It was up to Peter O'Sullevan, the legendary British broadcaster who'd covered the Grand National every year since the end of the Second World War via radio or television, to call them in.
"A fairy tale dream is coming true as Bogside Warrior is clear as he starts on up the elbow!... This sixteen year old jockey Orla McCool… she was only supposed to be leading the horse up!... and now she's leading him to the line! There isn't a dry eye in the crowd at Liverpool!… Bogside Warrior gets up to win the National!"
He had a habit of calling the winner a little way from the line, and though Orla couldn't hear him, a voice in her head told her to have a look round just before the post. She was back on the rail, forcing anyone who might have challenged to have to travel wider to do so. In the end, it didn't matter… not one bit. She finally broke Paul's rule about looking back and knew straight away he wouldn't have minded.
Not one of the other horses had started the elbow yet, Rough Quest and Encore Un Peu the next two just coming up to it.
Orla and Bogside Warrior hadn't just won the National.
They'd annihilated it.
Standing up in the stirrups, with her typically unused whip in her hand, the noise of the crowd finally broke through her defences. And it was deafening. Which meant her shout had to be equally so.
"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"
Pandemonium.
Complete and utter pandemonium.
Mary, Gerry and Deirdre were all on their feet, tears streaming from their faces, hugging like they'd never hugged before or ever would again.
Ignoring his healing injuries, Erin flung herself at James, and the two of them were hugging and kissing wildly in his hospital bed. The tears were flooding out from them too.
Their Orla had just won the Grand National. And they were all winning owners too.
The scenes at Mr Flanagan's house and Sister's Michael's may have contrasted, the tears of the History teacher against the Whisky-driven worries of the headmistress… but they shared one feature. They were both immensely proud of their student. Uncle Colm, a man of so many unnecessary words, couldn't find a single one to bore Anna with, far too overjoyed to contemplate it. With her parents at German ambassador's residence in London, Harriet was leaping for joy at one of her best friend's great triumph. She knew a Grand National winning jockey… who wanted to take her camping. A fairy tale indeed.
But the most chaotic scenes of celebration of all were reserved for those who were at the course themselves.
Frankie, joined by the girls from the village who'd made the trip and a little way behind them Paul, sprinted out from under the rails to greet his winning horse and rider. The little-known Irish trainer with only a few horses at his stables back home, crossed the Irish Sea to produce the first Irish trained winner of the race in over twenty years. He was sobbing like a wain, the girls and Paul were too, and the cameras quickly picked up the scenes of them congratulating Orla and Bogside Warrior. Orla herself was about the only one not crying.
"Orla… ye…". Paul could barely speak.
"I know… I WON! I WON!"
Her giggled shouts brought joy to those around her, Paul beaming back at her. A part of him should have been annoyed that she'd stolen his moment, but he didn't think honestly think he held the grit and determination to give the horse the gutsy ride Orla had. He couldn't be angry.
As the other jockeys that got round came in, they all shouted their congratulations to her or steered their slowing mounts alongside to high five her. Whenever they'd raced against women in the past, it was considered embarrassing to lose to one, the element of male pride taking over. None of them were embarrassed by Orla. On the day, they were simply destroyed by a sixteen year old girl who had more balls than the lot of them put together. There was nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to foolishly stir their pride.
They were still trundling in when Joe and the girls reached them, the stewards very wisely getting out of his way instead of trying to stop him like they probably should have done.
"GRANDA! MAMMY!" She shouted to them.
Bending down to receive the hugs and kisses of her mother, Sarah nearly pulled her out of the saddle, with only Joe steadying the pair of them preventing a disaster. Michelle and Clare's grins were still plastered across their faces, with the accompanying rivers of tears. They were soon reaching up to hug and kiss her on the cheek, Orla accepting all of the attention merrily. The crowd cheered throughout and thousands upon thousands could say they had the honour of witnessing perhaps the greatest National of them all in the flesh.
Orla's National.
Slowly but surely, they made their way back to the winner's enclosure. The police and stewards were having a very hard time in controlling the crowds, who were all trying to get a glimpse of the heroic horse and rider. She patted the horse down the neck repeatedly and Bogside Warrior really was a warrior; he was walking in so calmly and effortlessly, people would have been forgiven for not realising he'd just won the Grand National. He could probably go round again if she asked him too.
The cameras followed her all of the way to the winner's enclosure, waving to the crowds as she went past them. There was not a single slander against her for who she was and what she'd done; a very different experience than when she went out for her very first race earlier that month. It didn't matter if she'd won a three mile race around Enniskillen or the Grand National though, every time she came back in she garnered more respect. Now she held the respect of the world. An instant celebrity, the tag of Grand National winning jockey would stay with her to the grave, no matter how soon her death would come.
Dismounting to a rapturous round of applause, she was pulled in for a group hug with the family, which was captured beautifully by the cameras. The front-page pictures of most major newspapers for the next couple of days was sealed. They stayed with her on the television as she went to weigh in after her ride, with the weighing judge confirming no discrepancies. Whilst she was weighing in, many of the jockeys came over to hug her and whilst she was talking to the judges afterwards, the whole weighing room filtered outside to give her the greatest gift of all. Lining the way back to her mount in the winner's enclosure, they formed a guard of honour for Orla, cheering as raucously as the crowd and her family were. They were incredibly powerful scenes, especially for the family watching back home, moving Erin to further tears as she cuddled up in James's arms.
Media duty was unavoidable as a race winner, and after giving her race report to the still emotional Frankie, she walked over to where Sue Barker stood waiting. It was round two with Sue.
"Orla… Orla… Orla… I think the noise of the crowd tells us everything!".
Orla couldn't get a word in as they roared for her again, with pictures on television screens around the world showing the red eyes of many men and women in the crowd.
"I can't imagine how you must feel now!" The broadcaster commented to her as the crowds died down. Sue's eyes betrayed tears too.
"I am famished, so I am Sue. I've not had a Wham bar in days!".
"Haha!" She broke out into laughter at Orla's comment. "I was speaking to your grandfather Joe off air a moment ago and he was saying you'd dieted all week as if you knew you would be riding. Did it come to you in a dream?"
"No but ye just never know do ye? I'm sad for Paul like, he would have probably done a better job than me ye know!"
Orla's modesty was beautiful, highlighting to the world the person who she was and how she looked after and cared for her friends.
"That was… well that was an outstanding ride!" Sue exclaimed. "Talk us through how you approached the race…".
Orla took a moment to think about it, smiling as she did and taking a breather. The first signs of just how exhausting the ride had been, hit her.
"I… I realised after the first that I was having a cracker of a time like… and ye know I just… went round and followed the others for a bit and then… won. Not much to tell really".
She was never going to change for the cameras, giving the same answer she would have given whether it had been Sue Barker or Sue who worked at the bakery on Pump Street who'd asked the question. Though the former stood very little chance of schooling her laughter when it came to Orla. To Sue Barker and the viewing public, she was absolutely adorable and hilarious.
"But!" Orla stopped the next question before it could be asked. "I have to say, Paul's advice got me round ye know. He told me not to look back and I didn't the whole way until the line".
"As you alluded to earlier, it was incredibly sad for Paul to miss the ride. How much influence has he had on your riding career?"
"Ach Paul's a class fella, so he is Sue. He's one of me best friends and he's always lookin' out for me ye know. I couldn't have done it today without him, and I'm not spoofin' or nothin'".
"And just before I let you go back to your family and friends, we touched earlier on James, the co-owner of Bogside Warrior who is recovering from the attack on him earlier this month. I imagine he's going to be very proud watching on, is there anything you want to say to him?"
"I do… I do!" She jumped up in joy. "James, this one's for you and Erin, so it is. Love ya… the both of you's".
With her final message of love to her friend and her cousin, Orla made her way back to her friends and family. Frank swapped over and went to do his piece with the cameras, praising Orla to the heavens as he did. They were stood talking for ages, watching Bogside Warrior eventually being led back to the stables to be cooled down properly ahead of loading him back onto the horsebox.
"I can't fuckin' believe it!". Michelle was still crying.
"Orla… yer… incredible". Clare too, and she couldn't stop hugging her friend.
"It wasn't so bad to be honest like… I was expectin' it to be a bit more challenging".
Only Orla McCool could win a Grand National and come back into the winner's enclosure to complain that it wasn't hard enough. It was no word of a lie on her part though. Except the three times that her horse decided to not do his job at the fences, it was somewhat smooth sailing for her. She didn't even consider her incredibly quick reaction to Party Politics falling in front of her as anything out of the normal. It was just part of the job…
Normally, the BBC would show a re-run of the race before the trophy presentation, but they were that desperate to have Orla review her race live with them, that they arranged with the racecourse to have the presentation earlier. Peter O'Sullevan, blown away by a performance that he'd not seen at the National in fifty years of covering it, was quickly drafted in to present the trophies to the owners, the trainer and the winning jockey.
"We're about to be live to the world…". Kathy laughed at the thought. "… I'm just… I'm so glad that I put my money into this horse".
"Yer a class lady Kathy". Joe told her. "I can say we're all proud to have ye back in James's life and into ours".
Kathy broke into tears and hugged Joe as they waited to be called up. For a woman who not even half a year earlier had wrote a letter disowning her own son, now found herself as a Grand National winning owner. There was no doubt that it was her place to be there with them, not needing to be at all times, but there when they needed her the most. She'd found her place in the world once again. Just like Orla… except Orla was right on top of it. On top of the world…
"Now…". O'Sullevan's voice drowned out the crowd over the microphone. "… we begin with the winning owners of Bogside Warrior… please show your appreciation for the Derry Girls Syndicate".
Joe led them up onto the stage, holding Sarah's hand as she walked alongside him. Kathy stood between Michelle and Clare, holding both of their hands as if they were wains, but instead of doing it for their safety, she was holding their hands to feel the warmth of loving energy pass between their palms. The trophy for the winning owners was handed to Joe, pausing for a photo with O'Sullevan as it was handed over to them.
"And now for the winning trainer. A round of applause if you please, for Frank Flanagan".
The crowd did as they were told, and the now much calmer Frankie made his way up to the stage to receive his trophy. It left Orla, still in her silks though now without her helmet, standing with Paul, and as Frankie was interviewed again, she struck up a conversation with him.
"Yer comin' with me ye know". She smiled, Paul looking at her and then shaking his head in return.
"I can't Orla. I didn't win… you did".
"The win is as much as yer's as it is mine. I want ye with me".
Paul found himself submitting to her request. Like many people, he just couldn't say no to a pleading Orla McCool.
"Finally, the winning jockey". O'Sullevan cut in to interrupt them. "She deserves the largest cheer of them all, please give it up, for Orla McCool!"
Walking up onto the stage, with Paul limping away in his suit by her side, she collected the trophy, and instructed Paul to put his hand on it too. On a count of three from Joe, she raised the trophy into the air with a cheer and another picture worthy of the front pages was created. The Grand National trophy, being held aloft by Paul O'Meara, the jockey who should have won it, and Orla McCool, the jockey who did.
When she reviewed the race with the BBC a few minutes later, Orla got the chance to see just how well she'd done for herself. She was more than happy to relive her emotions alongside former jockeys Richard Pitman, Peter Scudamore and Bill Smith. They were incredibly interested in how she'd avoided Party Politics at the third fence, claiming it to be a brilliant piece of riding, but she brushed them off. It was nothing in her eyes. Her own interest was in what happened behind after she'd taken the lead. She had a fair idea of all the goings on up and until the second time round at Becher's Brook, but as she never looked back, she had no idea what else may have occurred.
The picture that was painted was quite startling.
From the moment Young Hustler's jockey chose not to follow her, all Bogside Warrior ever did was put more space between himself and the field. The landing side of the Canal Turn already saw them over ten lengths clear and going down the side of the course was where she won the race. She'd noted how fast she felt she was going at the time, but upon review, Bogside Warrior moved more like a champion sprinter on the flat than a marathon distance Grand National winner. He charged down the fences she pretended were her friends, and the gap just kept growing and growing… the others were incapable of following Bogside Warrior's turn of foot. The second last was also a lot closer run thing than she first thought; she was tantalisingly close to capsizing. It made her feel a lot better about taking her winning horse to school to listen to Jenny Joyce singing on Monday at least.
After she'd finished with her media duties, they had to get going straightaway in order to catch the night ferry back to Belfast. The horse and the rest of them had already gone for the ferry that they were catching, so once she'd changed, she found herself back where they'd started Wednesday afternoon. Sat between Michelle and Clare in Granda Joe's car. Except they were a few hundred thousand pounds richer than when they'd start. The money was brilliant, but it was secondary to the incredible achievement Orla had ridden to.
"What a fuckin' couple of days". Michelle concluded as Joe started the car in the owner's car park.
"OI!" Joe reprimanded her. "I've been good to ye today… don't test me!".
"Fine…". She huffed. "…Ye got a light Sarah?"
Michelle, cigarette in mouth, leaned forward a moment later to receive the light from Orla's ma, who in turn held a cigarette in her own mouth. Clare rolled her eyes at the smoking; she wasn't a fan of it.
"I just… I can't believe ye won still!" Clare exclaimed once more to Orla.
"Me neither love…". Sarah agreed. "… god I was so nervous like Orla… ye should have seen me".
"Ach Mammy, ye shouldn't. I was fine".
"Gave Clare a run for her money in the shite the tights race there Sarah". Michelle snickered.
Joe listened in without saying anything as he reversed out of their bay. They'd already waved Kathy goodbye as she headed off back to London, though not without receiving her word that she would be visiting Derry for Easter, agreeing to pick the girls up from school on the Thursday afternoon. Joe also wished for one last bit of fun to be poked the way of Michelle before they left, who'd been quite the pest for the last few days.
"So what are ye up to with the waiter fella then Michelle?" He cheekily asked.
Michelle going bright red was a source of amusement for Clare and Orla, and Sarah always loved a bit of gossip, so she was interested too. Joe knew what he was doing.
"I… well… he… he gave me his… his telephone number…". Michelle was stuttering like an Anti-Aircraft battery. "… and I gave him our phone number".
"You and Erin both like wee English fellas". Orla correctly pointed out.
"Aye, it's cute so it is". Clare chuckled, receiving an icy glare from Michelle.
"Yer Aunt Deirdre will love him so she will". Sarah noted.
"Why's that?"
"He's a waiter… he can carry the plates to the dinner table for you's".
Michelle was glowing red again as she'd not considered the thought of inviting Tom to Ireland to meet the family. It could be a disaster. Her parents would try and embarrass her, and fate would probably see to Tom and James becoming great friends. It would be tragic…
"Yeah well… enough about me. We've got Derry's record breaking, Grand National winning Jockey in the car, and you's are interested in who I'm seein'… wise up!"
It wasn't until the live slow-motion review she'd conducted with the BBC that Orla found out just how many records she'd broken that afternoon.
The previous largest priced winner was 100-1… she'd steered Bogside Warrior in at 200-1
Furthest winning distance… they'd equalled the official 'a distance' mark, but almost certainly had won by the furthest distance ever had they counted it.
Mr Frisk's 1990 winning time of eight minutes and forty seven seconds… they'd done it in eight minutes and forty five….
Bruce Hobbs's 1938 win on Battleship at aged seventeen… she'd done it at sixteen…
The first female to win the Grand National… that was her record.
The glass ceiling of expectation of female jockeys in racing was only meant to be dangled over her head. She could run her hand along it at best, nobody would expect her to do anymore because no one ever had.
Instead, she punched a hole in it and threw the glass back at them.
As they headed out onto the main road outside the Aintree racecourse, the sun remained shining, with a solitary cloud appearing in an otherwise clear sky.
It was a dark cloud.
And it was looming.
