I sighed. ‘No one. It’s a racing programme.’
‘Oh, very well. If you must.’ But she smiled.
I switched on, and we saw the end of a variety show. I enjoyed the songs of the last performer, a vivacious blonde, but Joanna, technique-minded, said her breath control creaked. A batch of advertisements followed, and then the fluttering urgent opening bars of ‘The Galloping Major,’ accompanied by speeded-up superimposed views of horses racing, announced the weekly fifteen minutes of ‘Turf Talk.’
The well-known good-looking face of Maurice Kemp-Lore came on the screen, smiling and casual. He began in his easy charming way to introduce his guest of the evening, a prominent bookmaker, and his topic of the evening, the mathematics involved in making a book.
‘But first,’ he said, ‘I would like to pay a tribute to the steeplechase jockey, Art Mathews, who died today by his own hand at Dunstable races. Many of you have watched him ride... I expect nearly all of you have seen televised races in which he has appeared... and you will feel with me a great sense of shock that such a long and successful career should end in a tragedy of this sort. Although never actually champion jockey, Art was acknowledged to be one of the six best steeplechase riders in the country, and his upright incorruptible character has been a splendid example to young jockeys just starting in the game...’
Joanna lifted an eyebrow at me, and Maurice Kemp-Lore, neatly finishing off Art’s glowing obituary, re-introduced the bookmaker, who gave a clear and fascinating demonstration of how to come out on the winning side. His talk, illustrated with films and animated charts, described the minute by minute decisions made daily in a big London starting price office, and was well up to the high standard of all the Kemp-Lore programmes.
Kemp-Lore thanked him and rounded off the quarter of an hour with a review of the following week’s racing, not tipping particular animals to win but giving snippets of information about people and horses on the basis that there would be more interest in the outcome of a race if the public already knew something of the background of the contestants. His anecdotes were always interesting or amusing, and I had heard him called the despair of racing journalists since he so often beat them to a good story.
He said finally, ‘See you all next week at the same time,’ and ‘The Galloping Major’ faded him out.
I switched off the set. Joanna said, ‘Do you watch that every week?’
‘Yes, if I can,’ I said. ‘It’s a racing must. It’s so full of things one ought not to miss, and quite often his guest is someone I’ve met.’
‘Mr. Kemp-Lore knows his onions, then?’ she said.
‘He does indeed. He was brought up to it. His father rode a Grand National winner back in the thirties and is now a big noise on the National Hunt Committee; which,’ I went on, seeing her blank look, ‘is the ruling body of steeplechasing.’
‘Oh. And has Mr. Kemp-Lore ridden any Grand National winners himself?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he rides much at all. Horses give him asthma, or something like that. I’m not sure... I only know him by sight. He is often at the races but I have never spoken to him.’
Joanna’s interest in racing, never very strong, subsided entirely at this point, and for an hour or so we gossiped amicably and aimlessly about how the world wagged.
The door bell rang. She went to answer it and came back followed by the man whose portrait she was attempting, the second of her two blood stirrers, still stirring away. He put his arm possessively round her waist and kissed her. He nodded to me.
‘How did the concert go?’ she asked. He played a first violin in the London Symphony Orchestra.
‘So so,’ he said; ‘the Mozart B flat went all right except that some fool in the audience started clapping after the slow movement and ruined the transition to the allegro.’
My cousin made sympathetic noises. I stood up. I did not enjoy seeing them so cosily together.
‘Going?’ asked Joanna, detaching herself.
‘Yes.’
‘Good night, Rob,’ he said, yawning. He took off his black tie and loosened the neck of his shirt.
I said politely, ‘Good night, Brian.’ And may you rot, I thought.
Joanna came with me to the door and opened it, and I stepped out into the dark cobbled mews and turned to say good-bye. She was silhouetted against the warm light in the studio room where Brian, I could see, was sitting down and taking off his shoes.
I said flatly, ‘Thank you for the steak... and the television.’
‘Come again,’ she said.
‘Yes. Well, good night.’
‘Good night,’ she said, and then in an afterthought added, ‘How is Paulina?’
‘She is going to marry,’ I said, ‘Sir Morton Henge.’
I am not sure what I expected in the way of sympathy, but I should have known. Joanna laughed.
Three
Two weeks after Art died I stayed a night in Peter Cloony’s house.
It was the first Cheltenham meeting of the season, and having no car I went down as usual on the race train, carrying some overnight things in a small suitcase. I had been engaged for two races at the meeting, one on each day, and intended to find a back street pub whose charges would make the smallest possible dent in my pocket. But Peter, seeing the case, asked me if I were fixed up for the night, and offered me a bed. It was kind of him, for we were not particularly close friends, and I thanked him and accepted.
From my point of view it was an unexciting day. My one ride, a novice hurdler revoltingly called Neddikins, had no chance of winning. His past form was a sorry record of falls and unfinished races. Tailed-off and pulled-up figured largely. I wondered why on earth the owner bothered with the wretched animal, but at the same time rehearsed in advance some complimentary things to say about it. I had long ago discovered that owners hated to be told their horses were useless and often would not employ again a jockey who spoke too much unpalatable truth. It was wiser not to answer the typical question ‘What do you think we should do with beautiful Neddikins next?’ with an unequivocal ‘Shoot it.’
By working hard from start to finish I managed to wake Neddikins up slightly, so that although we finished plainly last, we were not exactly tailed off. A triumph, I considered it, to have got round at all, and to my surprise this was also the opinion of his trainer, who clapped me on the shoulder and offered me another novice hurdler on the following day.
Neddikins was the first horse I rode for James Axminster, and I knew I had been asked because he had not wanted to risk injury to his usual jockey. A good many of that sort of ride came my way, but I was glad to have them. I reckoned if I could gain enough experience on bad horses when nothing much was expected of me, it would stand me in good stead if ever I found myself on better ones.
At the end of the afternoon I joined Peter and we drove off in his sedate family saloon. He lived in a small village, scarcely more than a hamlet, in a hollow in the Cotswold Hills about twenty miles from Cheltenham. We turned off the main road into a narrow secondary road bordered on each side by thick hedges. It seemed to stretch interminably across bare farm land, but eventually, turning a corner, it came to the edge of the plateau and one could see a whole village spread out in the small valley below.
Peter pointed. ‘That bungalow down there is where I live. The one with the white windows.’
I followed his finger. I had time to see a neatly-fenced little garden round a new looking house before a curve in the road hid it from view. We slid down the hill, rounded several blind corners with a good deal of necessary horn blowing, and at the beginning of the village curled into an even smaller lane and drew up outside Peter’s house. It was modern, brick-built, and freshly attractive, with neatly-edged flower beds and shaven squares of lawn.