He would also know that if something were to happen to the horse in the race, after a vet had cleared him to run, he, Owen, couldn’t be held responsible.
‘If you insist,’ he said with clear irritation. He turned to the stable lad. ‘Keep him walking round. I’ll fetch the parade-ring vet to have a look at him.’
Every racecourse has a designated veterinary surgeon standing by for any such eventuality, and Owen went rushing off towards the weighing room to find him or her.
I went back into the saddling box and waited.
Presently, Owen returned with a man in a green uniform with ‘Racecourse Veterinary Surgeon’ embroidered in yellow on his left breast. I went to join them. Together we watched as Dream Filler was led first towards us and then away again. The vet then felt all four legs of the horse, running his hand down the back, over the tendons, checking to see if there was any heat in them, which might indicate an injury.
‘Nothing,’ announced the vet, standing up straight. ‘He’s as sound as a bell. Clearly fit to race.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s much better to be safe than sorry.’
‘Absolutely,’ said the vet. ‘No problem.’ And with that, he walked away towards the weighing room.
Owen resisted the temptation to say, ‘I told you so.’
‘Right,’ he said instead. ‘Let’s get this horse saddled before I’m fined for him being late into the parade ring.’
We all hurried back to the saddling box, and Owen busied himself with applying the tack while I collected my jacket. Finally all was ready, and the stable lad took the horse through into the main parade ring. Owen and I followed on behind, to meet up with the syndicate members.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Owen as we walked side by side. ‘I’m glad he’s fine.’
‘As you said,’ he replied, ‘it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
But nevertheless, I could tell he wasn’t very happy at my insistence on having a vet check the horse in spite of his own expert opinion that all was well.
To be fair, neither was I.
The syndicate members went to watch the race from the section on the grandstand steps reserved for owners and trainers while Owen and I remained in the parade ring to follow it on the nearby big-screen TV.
‘I think we’ll have this,’ Owen said to me with a smile. ‘I reckoned that Ferguson colt was the only other real danger to us, but he’s been sweating up badly in the ring, with bulging eyes, as if he was having a panic attack. That will drain a lot of his energy. I now think he has no chance against us.’
And the bookmakers clearly agreed with him. They all made Dream Filler the clear favourite, and he was quoted on some boards as short as two-to-one to be the winner.
I felt sick.
Today at Lingfield was what the racecourse described as a ‘mixed’ meeting, insofar that some races were run on the all-weather artificial surface and others on the lush, green, grassy turf.
The opening three races were to be run on the all-weather track, and for this first one, the starting stalls were positioned at the one-mile start, which was at the beginning of the back straight.
I watched on the screen as the nine horses were each loaded into their allocated stall.
‘They’re off!’ called the racecourse commentator as the gates flew open.
Tim Westlake tucked Dream Filler in behind the two early leaders, up against the inside running rail, and he was still third as the field made its way around the long bottom turn into the finishing straight.
Now he eased the horse out slightly wider to give him a clear view ahead. Very smoothly, Dream Filler drifted up alongside the other two and then seemed to have a fresh turn of foot to leave them in his wake, while the Ferguson colt was going nowhere.
Dream Filler won the race by three lengths from his nearest challenger, without ever truly exerting himself, and part of me wondered if the Class 5 race would have been the better option after all.
‘Dream Filler will lose. I know where she is hiding.’
Oh God!
Chapter 14
Owen was over the moon.
‘I told you,’ he said, beaming. ‘Never in doubt.’
I smiled at him, at least on the outside. ‘Well done.’
The two of us walked the short distance to the unsaddling enclosure while I reflected on what might happen now.
The syndicate members were already waiting for us and gave a great cheer as their horse was led into the place reserved for the winner.
‘Champion. Champion,’ said one of them, grinning from ear to ear.
In racing, having a winner was the important thing, irrespective of the class of the race or the size of the purse, and there were multiple high fives and back slapping going on amongst the jubilant owners.
Tim Westlake, also smiling, dismounted and removed his saddle, the sweat dripping in a stream from his head.
‘Don’t forget to weigh in,’ Owen said to him firmly, and he went off towards the weighing room as the horse was washed down with several buckets of cooling water.
‘Horses away,’ called an official and our still-steaming hero was led away, back to the racecourse stables for a well-earned rest before the journey home.
The public address system suddenly emitted a triple-tone alert, the signal that there would be a Stewards’ Enquiry, followed by an announcement reminding racegoers to retain all betting tickets until after the result of the enquiry was known.
‘What’s that all about?’ Owen said sharply. ‘It surely can’t affect the winner — he was too far in front for there to have been any interference.’
But the public address wasn’t finished. ‘Would the trainer Owen Reynolds or his representative report immediately to the stewards’ room.’
Owen looked at me and shrugged his shoulders before rushing off.
‘What’s happening?’ asked one of my syndicate.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘But the result will not be made official until after the enquiry.’
‘Does it mean we won’t keep the race?’ asked another.
‘Let’s just wait and see.’
The syndicate members began to disperse, and I sauntered over towards the weighing room and met Owen coming out. His face was puce with rage.
‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ he said to me.
‘What?’
‘Dream Filler has been disqualified and placed last.’
‘Why?’
‘They say the jockey weighed in two pounds lighter than he weighed out.’
‘How could that happen?’
‘God only knows. I told them it must have been them that made the mistake, weighing him out wrong, but they refuse to believe it. They say they have CCTV to prove it.’
‘So how did it happen?’ I asked.
‘Tim told them that he might have lost the weight in sweat. It is a very hot day today. He claims he’s been sweating profusely under his safety vest and skull cap, but the stewards say that the rules clearly state that the maximum weight loss allowed for sweating is only one pound, not two. To add insult to injury, they’ve also fined me £750 and given Tim a three-day riding ban. They said it’s the standard punishment, irrespective of who is to blame. I tell you, I’m bloody furious about it, and I intend to appeal.’
‘I’d better go and tell the syndicate,’ I said. ‘They’re not going to be happy.’
But I didn’t need to tell them because, at that point, the triple-tone alert sounded again through the public address, followed by another announcement.
‘Here is the result of the stewards’ enquiry. The Clerk of the Scales lodged an objection to the winner on the grounds that the rider weighed in light. After due consideration, the Stewards have disqualified Dream Filler and placed him last.’