‘Maybe I should do a feature about you,’ Jerry said.
‘Anytime you like,’ I said, smiling.
‘Do you have anything running this evening?’ he asked.
‘Balham in the Sprint Qualifier.’
‘Any chance?’
‘Fair to middling,’ I said. ‘He’s coming back from injury.’
‘Good luck. And I’ll be in touch about that feature.’
‘Thanks.’
Jerry hurried away and I went on smiling. A feature in the Racing Post was just the sort of publicity I had hoped for after the Derby win.
‘So what are you so happy about?’ said a booming voice, bringing me back from my daydreaming.
Bill Parkinson, a member of the Potassium syndicate, was standing a few yards in front of me, and he was no longer in his morning-dress striped trousers.
‘Hi, Bill,’ I said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I’m a guest at the charity dinner.’ He pointed over towards the Riverbank Restaurant marquees on the far side of the parade ring.
‘Which charity?’ I asked.
He looked somewhat perplexed. ‘I’m not sure. Something to do with cancer, I think. They seem to think I might bid at their auction.’
‘And will you?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘Depends on what they’re selling. I have a bit of spare cash after Saturday, but most of that is already spoken for.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be getting back as the auction will be starting soon, and I should at least be there for it.’
I watched his back as he strode away.
Bill Parkinson was a brash outspoken man, originally from Birmingham, who had run a highly successful chain of video rental stores right across the south of England before the introduction of online streaming of films by Netflix had quite suddenly and catastrophically put him out of business. Such had been the rate of takeover by internet downloads from rented DVDs that Bill’s video-rental company had gone from having over two hundred busy and successful stores in January 2013 to total closure, compulsory liquidation, and bankruptcy just nine months later.
I knew this because Victrix is required to make background checks on all its syndicate members to ensure they meet the racing authority’s definition of a ‘fit and proper’ person, and to ensure that money-laundering regulations are adhered to.
Fortunately for Bill, the bankruptcy of his company didn’t apply to him personally, which was lucky for me too, because the British Horseracing Authority regulations clearly state that any person or entity that is subject to any form of insolvency proceedings is banned from having any legal or beneficial interest in a horse running in any race.
I went back to the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant for some steak and kidney pie, and to watch the first two races, and then, during the third, I wandered over to the saddling boxes to wait for Richie Mackenzie and Balham to arrive. On my way, I stopped at one of the Tote betting desks and wagered ten pounds each way on him because I knew that Derek Berkeley would check.
I didn’t always go and watch the Victrix horses being saddled, but I liked to if I could.
With great respect for the horsemanship — or rather the lack of it — of most of my syndicate members, it was my general rule that they should go directly to the parade ring rather than try to watch their horses being saddled. A large group of people, each of them jostling to get a better view, could easily upset the animal at a time the trainer and I were doing our best to keep it calm.
However, my general rule didn’t apply to me as I felt an extra pair of calming, helping hands could be useful, especially if the horse was frisky or skittish.
On this occasion, Balham was far from that, appearing somewhat lifeless.
‘Is he all right?’ I asked Richie. ‘He seems half asleep.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘He’s always like this at home. He’ll soon wake up when he gets out on the track.’
I stood back and watched Richie go to work.
While the stable lad stood in front of the head, using the reins to hold the animal still, Richie first placed a square nonslip chamois leather cloth over the horse’s back. Next went on the saddle pad, then the weight cloth was placed on top of that, above the withers.
A weight cloth is a synthetic or leather purse-like device with pockets for holding lead sheets to bring the total weight the horse has to carry up to the correct amount — that’s if the jockey and his saddle together are lighter than is required.
Next to go on was a black number cloth with the horse’s racecard number boldly printed in large white figures on each side, then finally the jockey’s saddle itself, with its attached stirrup irons, all secured in place by a wide girth connected to two buckles on either side of the saddle and tightened around the horse’s body.
As a final safety measure, in case the regular girth or buckles were to fail, Richie placed a webbing overgirth around the whole lot, tightening it under the belly.
‘There,’ Richie said. ‘That should do him.’
He gave the horse an affectionate wake-up slap on its rump as the stable lad led him out of the saddling box and across to the parade ring. Richie and I followed behind and met up again with the syndicate members, who were already standing in a group on the grass.
‘So, did you back him?’ Derek Berkeley asked me bluntly as I arrived.
‘Of course.’ I briefly waved my Tote ticket at him, but with my thumb strategically placed over the stake amount.
We were soon joined by our featherweight jockey. He was wearing the Victrix colours.
This race might have just been a Class 3 handicap at a Monday evening meeting at Windsor, rather than the Group 1 Derby on Epsom Downs last Saturday, but I never tired of the feelings of pride and nervous anticipation that the sight of the royal blue-and-white-striped silks gave me.
There were eleven runners in total in this race, and I studied each one of them in turn.
In spite of still appearing rather lethargic, Balham looked well, with a nice shiny coat, but so did Kennedy Curse, as did most of the others.
Richie gave our jockey a leg up onto Balham’s back, and while he was being led out onto the track, the syndicate members and I went back to the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant to watch the race itself.
Windsor Racecourse is like a squashed figure eight surrounded on three sides by the meandering River Thames. It has a long straight down the middle, with a loop at either end. The six-furlong start was at the far end of the straight from the grandstands, way away to our left, partially hidden by a slight curve in the running rails.
I watched on the big screen in front of the grandstand as the horses were taken behind the starting stalls and loaded. Balham had been drawn in stall number one, closest to the far-side running rail.
‘They’re off,’ called the racecourse commentator as the starter dropped his flag and the gates snapped open. This race was over only half the distance of the Derby, and it was, as its name suggested, a straightforward sprint from the start to the finish, lasting a mere seventy seconds.
The eleven horses broke in an even line. Balham had clearly now woken up as he made the running along the rail over the first couple of furlongs. I watched the screen as Kennedy Curse cruised up on his outside, taking over the lead by a head. But as the race progressed into the final furlong, those extra ten pounds of weight on his back compared to Balham’s began to take their toll as he came under pressure from his jockey, and I knew he would be beaten.
And he was. But so was Balham.
One of the other runners, one that was carrying even less weight, came up late on the outside to pip him on the line in a thrilling finish — but ultimately not a thrilling result, at least not for my syndicate members, all of whom had been totally convinced we were going to win.