I knew from experience that it was possible to see the far side of the parade ring from one of the walkways. I’d used it before, the previous year, when I’d twisted my ankle and didn’t fancy going all the way down to ground level to see the horses.
I now spent a few moments checking the jockeys’ silks. It was rare, but not unknown, for the printing in the paper to be wrong, for example if a horse had been sold the night before a race and was running in the new owner’s colours, something that was not that uncommon in the Grand National.
But, on this occasion, I was satisfied that all were attired as expected, and I made my way back down to the commentary box in time to describe them to the crowd as they cantered round the end of the track to the seven-furlong start point on the far side of the course.
This time, when the horses spread out as they entered the straight, I was ready for the ‘Clare moment’ as I decided to call it, that moment when all the jockeys were facing me and each one of them reminded me of her. This time, in some strange way, I felt somewhat comforted by its arrival rather than being overcome.
Far from trying to put Clare out of my mind in case it was too upsetting, I wanted to remember her every day and this would be the way I would do it.
Suddenly I was more at ease with life and I realized that, as for my father, the feeling of guilt over Clare’s death had overshadowed and distorted the grief. From that moment on, I told myself, I was going to rejoice in the memory of her brief existence, and do my best to protect that memory.
Not that I didn’t still feel terrible guilt over not answering the telephone calls from Clare that night. I did. And I lay awake for hours most nights rehearsing to myself what I could have done better to prevent the disaster.
But Jim Metcalf’s advice to say nothing, and to do nothing, was for the old, indecisive me. The new, resolute and well-focused me would call Toby Woodley’s bluff and make him prove what he was claiming was true, or else admit that he couldn’t.
I did go down to the weighing room after the second race and, instead of avoiding people who might ask me questions about the front page of the Daily Gazette or the piece in the Racing Post, I started every conversation by saying how ridiculous it was, and how Toby Woodley was just a little insect that needed stamping on.
‘A worm, more like,’ said Jack Laver, the racecourse broadcast technician who had made me the tea at Lingfield. ‘Nasty piece of work, that one. He was here earlier. Always tries to snoop around the weighing room to see if there’s any gossip he can use, or make up. The Clerk threw him out.’
The Clerk of the Scales presided in the weighing room like a judge in a courtroom, sitting behind a desk and ensuring that everything was done correctly, including keeping the press out.
His primary role was to ensure that all the jockeys ‘weighed out’ for each race at the correct weight, and also that the winner and those placed ‘weighed in’ again afterwards, together with any other jockeys that the Clerk may choose at his sole discretion. He also had to ensure that each jockey was wearing the correct colours and had the right equipment, such as blinkers or a visor, which their horse may have been declared as wearing.
And all the jockeys called him ‘sir’.
Not that they weren’t averse to trying to fool him — usually because they were having trouble getting down to the required weight.
‘Cheating Boots’ have been around almost since racing first began — paper-thin ultralight riding boots used only for weighing out, which the wearer then, illegally, changed for a more substantial pair back in the jockeys’ changing room, well out of sight of the Clerk. Weighing back in is not a problem as riders are allowed up to two extra pounds to provide for rain-soaked clothes, or accumulated mud thrown up from the track.
These days, a jockey’s racing helmet is not included in his riding weight, unlike his saddle, which is. However, the coloured cap that is worn over the helmet, should be included but there are always those who will try to place the cap down on the Clerk’s table while they are weighing out.
Every little helps.
In truth, it was all a bit of a game and, just like with school teachers and their miscreant pupils, the Clerks of the Scales were wise to their schemes and almost always won, but that didn’t stop the jockeys from trying.
‘Everything all right up top?’ Jack asked. ‘Monitor OK?’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘as long as I can turn down the brightness a bit, now that it’s getting dark.’
‘There are some buttons on the side,’ Jack said. ‘Click the menu button twice then use the down button on the brightness. Or do you need me to do it?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back after the next if I can’t.’
I went out to the parade ring keeping a careful watch for Toby Woodley. I really didn’t want to come face to face with him tonight. I wasn’t at all sure I could restrain myself from hitting him, and that surely wouldn’t have helped the situation.
I stood and watched the horses for the third race walking round and round, noting on my racecard the two of them that were wearing sheepskin nosebands on their bridles. Some trainers ran all their horses in sheepskin nosebands. They thought it made them easier to spot, which was true as long as everyone didn’t do it.
The last of the eight races was not until after nine o’clock and, by then, many of the crowd had made their way home, not least because the evening had cooled considerably.
As my commentary of the race echoed round the deserted grandstand I wondered if anyone at the course was actually listening to me, although I hoped that some at home might be, via their televisions.
‘Thanks, Mark,’ said a voice into my headphones as I switched off the microphone for the last time.
‘Pleasure, Gordon,’ I replied, pushing the right button. Gordon was another of the RacingTV producers. ‘See you at Warwick tomorrow?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Derek will be back doing Warwick. I’m in the studio tomorrow, then I’ll be at Haydock Friday and Saturday. You?’
‘I’m presenting for Channel 4 on Saturday at Newmarket. Friday’s a rare day off for me.’
‘Have fun. Bye now.’ There was a click in my ears and the system went dead. It was time to go home.
I packed my binoculars, coloured pens, and racecards into my bag, went down to ground level, and followed the last remaining punters out past the parade ring in the direction of the car parks.
By that time of night, there was a definite chill in the air and I wished I’d brought my coat with me after all. But it was only a hundred and fifty yards or so to my car and I hurried along towards it.
I never got there.
Toby Woodley was in the car park standing beside a white van.
If I’d seen him sooner, I’d have made a detour to avoid him but, as it was, I came round the back of the van and there he was, only about six feet away. I stopped.
‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ I asked him.
He didn’t answer but rolled his head towards me. He was actually leaning against the side of the van with his head back against the metal.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I stepped forward towards him just as he slithered sideways down the side of the van, catching him just before he landed face down on the tarmac. Even in the relatively dim glow of the car park lighting, a bright red streak of blood was clearly visible on the van’s white panelling.