Boots sauntered across the stableyard, swinging his kit-bag and whistling a tune that only he could recognise. He and Doris, that was. The Doris in question pricked her ears at his approach and stuck her big brown face over the stable door.

'Hiya, Doris!' he called out, while still some way off.

Doris, better known as Appledora on the racecourse and the apple of her young stablelad's eye, whinnied back.

He let himself into her box, emptied out his bag of brushes, and set to work on the filly, achieving a sheen on her coat that would have done credit to a dining table. An hour after he had begun the task he stood back to admire his work.

'I've won the fifty quid sure enough,' he told the filly as she began to doze, 'now it's up to you not to lose it!'

He packed away his brushes once more and hurried away to change from jeans and sweatshirt into a shiny suit, white shirt and grey tie. If the sponsors of the three o'clock at Lingfield Park had been awarding fifty pounds for the best-groomed stablelad, then young 'Boots' Hayes would surely have won. As it was, his beloved Appledora was in with an equally good chance of winning the Best Turned Out Horse award.

The usual crowd was lingering round the ice-cream van, parked under the trees at one end of the parade ring. Boots threaded his way through the gossiping stablelads and bought an orange ice lolly.

'Hey, Boots, how d'yer think your filly will run today?' asked one of the boys from a rival yard as he dropped his own orange-stained lolly stick into the bin.

'She's gonna go in,' Boots assured him, 'we've been laying her out for this one all season.'

'Have you backed her?'

'Not yet. I'm banking on that fifty quid they're offering for the best turned out horse. I'm gonna bung that on her - to win.'

The other lad allowed himself a sneering smile. 'I'd hang on to the fifty quid if I were you, mate. Have you seen who's riding your filly yet?'

'Peterson, of course,' Boots said, without concern, turning round to look at the number board at the far end of the parade ring. Peterson always rode Appledora. The pair were firm friends, the perfect partnership. Boots' eyes scanned the number board carelessly. The number seven spot was empty. No rider's name was displayed for his filly yet. 'Peterson's on her,' he told his rival firmly.

'The same Peterson who broke his wrist this morning out on the gallops?'

'Eh?'

'Peterson. Jeff Peterson. Took a fall this morning. He was s'pose to ride mine in the first, but he never turned up. The guv'nor says he's cancelled all his rides for the day. And your guv'nor's gonna put your apprentice up in the big one.'

Boots half smiled. 'Go on with yer. Pull the other one!'

'If I'm joking, why's his name not up on the boards?'

'Jerry?! You mean he's going to put Jerry Matthews up on my horse?!'

'That's what my guv'nor heard just now in the weighing room. Give young Matthews a chance. That's what he said.' He grinned mercilessly. 'What yer gonna put your fifty on now, Bootsy boy?!'

Jerry sat awkwardly on the bench in the jockeys' changing room, at the peg nearest the door. A cold draught attacked him every every time the door opened, but he was too nervous to notice. All the famous names were in there with him; childhood heroes and role models. They were all down at the other end, joking noisily amognst themselves. The day he could move to a peg down at that end, away from the draught, that was the day he could finally say he'd made it. But for now he had to be content with the unwanted peg by the door.

The valets fetched the other riders their polished boots and silk jackets for the three o'clock, helping them dress for the race. Jerry pulled his own boots out of his sports bag, from which a whip protruded at one end - every bit as effective as a banner declaring 'look at me folks - I'm a jockey!' Earlier on, he'd spent the best part of an hour hanging around outside the weighing room, with his sports bag hanging casually over his shoulder. Everyone had seen him, as they walked in through the turnstiles.

He pulled on his boots, beginning to regret the effort he had put in to polishing them. The valets had been just as thorough on the boots of all the others. But their boots had been worn more than three times. Their boots had cracks and creases. Their boots looked smart and clean under the layers of polish. His boots only looked embarrassingly new. He should have worn them at home, around the house. But the number of races he rode in, he'd have worn them out before his next ride. Jesus, he couldn't afford another pair.

'Hey, they're waiting for you to weigh out!' a valet told him, startling him. He took up his saddle and stood in line to use the scales. Last year's Champion Jockey stood just ahead of him. And the future Champion about to follow him, Jerry thought wistfully.

'I'm claiming seven pounds, Sir,' he told the Clerk of the Scales when his turn came round; and came back to earth with a thud. A seven pound weight advantage over the 'real' jockeys. That just about summed up his ability.

In the parade ring, Boots was leading Doris round for the umpteenth circuit. The strong smell of hoof oil wafted behind them in a trail. The sun reflected off the patterns on the filly's hindquarters, created by painstakingly brushing the hair in different directions. The filly positively gleamed with well-being.

The bell rang, as a signal for the jockeys to mount up. Boots led Doris on to the lawn in the centre of the parade ring and held her still while the guv'nor gave Jerry a leg up into the saddle. Then they set off on another two circuits of the parade ring.

'How is he today, Johnny?' Boots heard the jockey in front ask the lad leading up. Behind them, the jockey didn't know the lad, but he could be heard to say hello and make much the same inquiry. Both lads were now giving their opinions, then listening while their jockeys explained how they would be riding their precious charges.

'D'you think my boots are too shiny?' was Jerry's only comment from the saddle.

'Like a bloody mirror,' Boots told him sourly.

"And the Best Turned Out Horse is number seven, Appledora, for which Daniel Hayes will be receiving a fifty pound prize," announced a bowler-hatted gentlemen in the centre of the parade ring.

'Bad luck,' the two jockeys either side commiserated with their lads.

'Good, now you can pay us back that fiver you borrowed,' Jerry said in congratulations.

Boots gave Doris a final pat as they stepped out onto the racecourse, then slipped off the leading rein and let her canter away. His work was done. It was now in the hands of Jerry Matthews, riding in only his fourth race and still looking for that elusive first winner. Months of effort and preperation for this one race and for what? To entrust the final all-important sixty seconds to an inexperienced idiot like Matthews! And to think that he hadn't taken a holiday in two years in order to be with Doris constantly. Checking that she had eaten up her food each day, that she was healthy, that she did just the right amount of work on the gallops. Putting her right for today's race. And now having to watch from the stands and trust Matthews not to bungle it. It was enough to make him sick.

He watched the filly canter away and headed off to collect his prize money, reinvesting it loyally on Appledora, to win. Well, he couldn't back against her, could he?

The three o'clock race at Lingfield Park took exactly one minute and six seconds to run. In that short space of time Boots managed to shout himself hoarse and Jerry achieved a lifelong ambition and rode his first winner.

The delighted pair now stood in the winners' enclosure, Boots making Doris pose for the photographers, Jerry explaining to his guv'nor exactly how he'd won the race.

'Before you take her away, Hayes, I've decided it's time you had your first ride in public,' the guv'nor said, as Boots got ready to take his heroine back to the stables. Boots swallowed and waited with bated breath.

'You can ride Bright Sequin tomorrow.'

'Thanks, Sir!' Boots beamed delightedly as he led Doris away. Jerry's face fell, his smile fading abruptly. The guv'nor turned to him.

'I hear there's another prize for the best turned out horse tomorrow. So put a little extra effort into Bright Sequin, won't you, Jerry?'