—
“I DIDN’T THINK you’d be here today,” Derek said from behind me as I climbed the half dozen steps up to RacingTV’s scanner, the blacked-out production truck parked in a compound near the Windsor racetrack stables. “I’ve arranged for Iain Ferguson to present.”
“That’s fine by me,” I said, turning around. “I’ll just help where I can. To be honest, I don’t feel up to much anyway.”
“No,” said Derek. He paused. “Look, mate, I’m really sorry about Clare. I can’t actually believe it.”
“Thanks, Derek,” I replied. “I can’t believe it either. Half the time I feel that life has to go on as normal and then, the next minute, I wonder why I bother to do anything at all. I think it’s the frustration that’s the worst, frustration that I can’t turn back time, can’t bring her back.”
I was close to tears once more and I knew it was evident in my voice. Open displays of emotion could be unsettling, and I could tell that Derek didn’t quite know what to do.
“It’s OK,” I said, breathing deeply. “You must be busy. You get on.”
“Right,” he said, clearly relieved. “I had better. Are you coming to the production meeting?”
“I thought I’d sit in at the back.”
Whether I was working for Channel 4 or for RacingTV, the first task of my day was always to attend the production meeting, where the running order for the show was discussed and agreed upon. The meeting took place in the scanner at least three hours before the broadcast was due to begin.
The producer, Derek in this case, began by handing out the printout of the draft running order. That afternoon, RacingTV was covering all seven races at Windsor, and also seven from Leicester racetrack a hundred or so miles to the north, the paddock presenter there joining us via live video link.
The program was on the air from two o’clock to six, four hours of high-octane adrenaline. If things went wrong and off script, as they usually did at some point during the afternoon, then we just had to carry on regardless. The thing about live television was that mistakes were history as soon as you made them, there was nothing you could do to unmake them. There was no saying, “Let’s do that again,” as you might in a recorded program where you could do it over and over until it was perfect.
In all, there were three race meetings taking place that afternoon, with Hamilton being broadcast on the other satellite network. Even though a race was scheduled only every half hour at each track, the times were staggered so that, across the three venues, a race was due to start every ten minutes, from ten past two until five-thirty, which was fine as long as all of them went off roughly on time.
If a horse got loose or lost a shoe on the way to the start, or if a stirrup leather or bridle broke, the delay could throw out the whole schedule, resulting in races at different courses running simultaneously. And that gave the producer a big headache.
Added to the actual broadcasting of the races were interviews with winning trainers and jockeys, trophy presentations, video footage of prior races of the main participants, as well as comments from the paddock presenters. And somewhere there also had to be found the time to fit in a set number of breaks for advertisements and also promos for future races.
Manic, it was not, but it was full-on nevertheless, and everyone would breathe a collective sigh of relief come three minutes to six o’clock when the production assistant would say “Shut up” in everyone’s ears, meaning the show was over and we were off the air.
Derek called the production meeting to order. “There’s to be a minute’s silence here at Windsor in memory of Clare Shillingford.” Everyone in the scanner instinctively turned around to glance at me. “It will be before the first race at two twenty-five, after the horses have gone out onto the course. There will be a loud beep over the public address to start and also to finish the minute. Iain, do the introduction, please, but don’t talk during the minute, your mike will stay live. During it we will show the flag on the grandstand, which is flying at half-mast, and then slowly fade to a picture of Clare after forty seconds. If we are on schedule, it should come comfortably after the first from Leicester. If there’s a delay at Leicester and the silence occurs during their race, we will record the silence here at Windsor and play it back immediately after as if live. Iain, your cue to speak will be the second beep, and we’ll go pretty much straight to a commercial break after a few words. Understand?” Iain nodded. “And full silence, please, everyone, for the whole minute, not even any talk-back.”
Talk-back was what played continually into everyone’s ear through an earpiece on a coiled wire like those worn by Secret Service agents. The producer, his assistant, and the director would all speak, giving cues to presenters, or instructions to cameramen and the vision mixer, or counting down time while the clips were shown or commercials transmitted.
One became used to listening to all the chatter but picking up only the material that was relevant to you. The art of great presenting was to absorb and react to the talk-back while speaking live on air at the same time. Only the very best could carry on an interview, listening and responding to an interviewee’s answers while at the same time taking in appropriate talk-back information.
Derek went through the rest of the planned running order, assigning jobs to be done and detailing all the many expected “Astons,” the captions that are overlaid pictures to give the viewers information, be it betting prices, horses’ and jockeys’ names, details of non-runners, and so on and so on. It was the full-time job of two staff members sitting at the back of the scanner to type Astons and have them ready whenever the producer called for them.
And then there were the video clips of prior races to be annotated and spoken about, all of which would be recorded before the program went on the air so that the clips, or VTs, were stored and ready to broadcast. VT stood for “video tape,” and the term was still used even though the recordings were stored not on tapes these days but on a computer hard drive.
The magic of television allowed two complete afternoons of racing, one from Leicester and the other from Windsor, to be fitted into the time of just one of them.
By careful use of VTs, the runners could be shown in the parade ring while they were really on their way to the start. Interviews with trainers at Windsor might be recorded while races from Leicester were being run, then played back at a time when the trainers would have been unavailable, busy saddling their horses.
Often the only things that were “live” in the whole broadcast were the races themselves, and that was a “must do” rule. The rest didn’t matter. Interviews recorded after the first race might be shown later in the afternoon, if time permitted, or dropped altogether if no slot could be found. Everything was timed and cut to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle around the immovable races, filling up four hours of television that then seemed to whiz past in a flash.
I spent the first part of the afternoon in the scanner, sitting behind Derek and getting an unfamiliar view of the production as he marshaled his troops at the two racetracks, slotting everything together like a dry-stone waller taking irregular-sized segments and fashioning them to form a coherent, solid structure. It was an art, and Derek was one of the best.
Immediately after the third race at Windsor, I ventured out of the dark cavern of the scanner into the bright Berkshire sunlight.
As I walked across to the parade ring through the fairly meager Monday-afternoon crowd, it became apparent to me that the bereavement of others can be a disorienting and distressing experience for some. No end of people, including some I knew quite well, averted their eyes and hurried away as if they didn’t want to burst some imaginary grief bubble that surrounded me. Even those who did talk to me seemed uncomfortable doing so.
I think it was the concept of suicide, rather than the death itself, that made for the embarrassment. Somehow, it seems that taking one’s own lif
e carries an even greater stigma than taking someone else’s.
I was beginning to wish I hadn’t left the comfort and security of the scanner, but I was a man on a mission—I was looking for Geoff Grubb, the trainer of Scusami, who had a runner in the fourth.
“Good God, Mark. What are you doing here?” said a man, grabbing me by the arm as I was walking by. “I thought you’d be at Oxted.”
It was Brendan Shillingford, my cousin who trained in my grandfather’s old yard in Newmarket.
“I’m working with RacingTV. At least I’m meant to be, but I don’t really know myself what I’m doing here. I just had to get away from the rest of the family.”
Brendan nodded. He knew all about his relations.
“I spoke to both James and Stephen yesterday at Uncle Joe’s. They said things were pretty awful. What a bloody business.”
“Yeah,” I said. “A real bugger.”
“Any news yet on a funeral?”
“Not as yet,” I said. “The police have to agree.”
“Police?” Brendan asked. “Why are they involved?”
“Something about all sudden deaths having to be investigated. They released a statement yesterday that there were no suspicious circumstances, so I don’t suppose we’ll have to wait too long. The coroner may have already said we can go ahead. I just haven’t heard yet.”
“Do you have any idea why she did it?” Brendan asked.
“None at all,” I said. “Clare and I had grown slightly apart these last few months. But I know she’d been seeing someone she didn’t want anyone to find out about. Perhaps that had something to do with it.”
“Who was it?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea. I’m looking for Geoff Grubb in the hope that he might be able to tell me.”
“That’ll be a waste of time,” Brendan said. He forced a smile. “Geoff wouldn’t know about anything unless it’s got four legs and a tail.”
“I think I’ll ask him anyway. Give my love to Gillian.” I started to move away.
“Let me know about the funeral,” Brendan called after me. “I need time to organize flights for Mom and Dad from Marbella. And try to avoid Thursday, Friday, or Saturday next week. It’s the Cambridgeshire meeting.”
Good point, I thought. I had better make sure that my father or brothers weren’t in the process of fixing a funeral date without first referring to the racing calendar.
I found Geoff Grubb hurrying out of the weighing room with a tiny racing saddle over his arm.
“Geoff,” I said. “Do you have time for a word?”
He slowed. “Only a quick one. I’ve got to go and saddle Planters Inn.”
“I’ll walk with you,” I said, falling in beside him.
“I’m really sorry about Clare. Bloody nuisance, too, I can tell you. I’ve had to find different jockeys for all my runners.”
I considered that to be a minor inconvenience, in the circumstances, but I let it pass.
“Geoff, I know that Clare had been seeing someone recently.”
“Seeing someone?” he asked.
Perhaps Brendan had been right about it being a waste of time.
“Yes,” I said. “Seeing someone—you know, a boyfriend.”
“Oh, right,” Geoff said, nodding.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“It wasn’t me,” he said seriously.
“No,” I agreed. Not even for a nanosecond did I imagine that my sister had been having an affair of the heart with Geoff Grubb. He might have been outstanding with his horses, but his people skills were almost nonexistent. “But do you know who it was?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Did you ever see anyone coming and going from Clare’s place?” Clare had lived in a cottage attached to Geoff’s training stables.
He shook his head again. “Not that I recall.”
“Was there ever a car parked outside?”
“That sports car of hers was there,” he said unhelpfully.
“Any others?”
“A few, now and again, but not a regular one,” he said. “Not that I can remember anyway.”
It wasn’t that his memory was bad. He could have told me in detail about every race run by every horse in his expansive yard, not just this year but throughout their whole lives. He simply didn’t notice anything else going on around him, not unless it impacted on the training of his horses.
“Do you mind if I come and have a look round her cottage?”
“Help yourself,” he said. “The rent’s paid for the rest of the month. Will you be clearing her things?”
“Probably. Me or someone else in the family.”
“There’s a spare key in the yard office.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try to be up there sometime this week.”
He hurried off toward the saddling stalls, and I watched him go.
Clare had ridden as his number one stable jockey for the past four years and they had made a good team. I wondered if he had been the one that Clare had liked to control. But she hadn’t ridden exclusively for Geoff Grubb. As was the case with all jockeys, she had also been engaged by other trainers when Geoff didn’t have any runners.
And I knew that Bangkok Flyer wasn’t one of Geoff’s.
—
BACK IN THE SCANNER, the afternoon was progressing on schedule. There had been no significant delays in the races, and Derek was calm, which meant that everyone else was also calm, all of them working smoothly together.
I, in contrast, wasn’t doing anything useful, merely being a spectator. I thought about leaving and going home. But that wouldn’t make me feel any better. At least here I had something to watch, something to take my mind off Clare.
Guilt was a soul-destroying emotion and I had lain awake half the previous night, staring into the void, into the emptiness of despair and self-condemnation. Why hadn’t I answered the bloody telephone? How could I have ignored her when she had needed me the most?
“There’s a dog on the course at Leicester,” Derek said through the talk-back while looking at the pictures coming down the line. “Can we get a close-up?”
Dogs on racetracks, although rare, were always good for “atmosphere” shots, provided they didn’t actually delay the races and screw up the schedule. Most racing folk loved their dogs as much as they did their horses, and there was nothing like a loose puppy to provide a bit of “Aahh” appeal to a broadcast. It made a welcome change from the crying babies with runny noses that the cameramen usually found amongst the crowd.
The afternoon continued without any significant problems. I watched on the transmission screen as Iain Ferguson interviewed guests in the paddock and talked about the horses, performing the role that I should have had. He was good. Too damn good, I thought. I’d better be careful or he’d have my job permanently, and I certainly didn’t want that.
I loved my work, and I specifically enjoyed the variation that came from splitting my time between presenting for Channel 4 and RacingTV, and also doing the racetrack commentaries. And I had no intention of allowing someone else to take over any of my seats. I’d better sort my head out fast and get back to my jobs while I still had them.
The production assistant counted down to a commercial break. “Two minutes and forty seconds,” she called, and everyone relaxed as the preset sequence was played direct from the RacingTV headquarters building near Oxford. The commercials were the only downtime during the whole four-hour broadcast, and the crew in the scanner used the break to get coffee, visit the bathroom, or just to stretch cramped legs.
“You all right?” Derek asked, standing up and turning around to face me.
“Fine,” I said. “Makes a change for me to see you at work rather than just to hear
it on the talk-back. It’s very interesting.”
“Well, don’t get any ideas of taking my job.” He smiled at me, but he wasn’t exactly making a joke. In times of recession and cuts, everyone, it seemed, was watching their backs, and none more so than in the TV business.
“Coming out of break in twenty seconds,” called the production assistant. Everyone sat down again at their places. “Five, four, three, two, one.” She fell silent, and the whole juggernaut rolled back smoothly into motion bang on cue.
—
“FOUR MINUTES TO SHUT-UP,” said the production assistant through the talk-back.
It was now precisely seven minutes to six, and all the races were over for the afternoon. Iain was doing the roundup, the last few moments of each race being shown in turn with his voice-over, mostly discussing possible future plans for each of the winners.
“Two minutes to shut-up,” said the assistant.
Iain went on talking without a pause as the production assistant’s voice spoke in his ear, not only with the countdown to the shut-up but also those to the end of each piece of VT.
“Iain, coming to you in picture in five seconds,” said Derek, adding to the chatter.
“Thirty seconds to shut-up,” said his assistant at the same time. “Four, three, two, one, cue Iain.”
“Well, that’s it for this afternoon,” said Iain, his smiling face now being broadcast to the viewers. “Join us later here on RacingTV for American racing live from Belmont Park in New York.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“And tomorrow we’ll be back for live flat racing from Folkestone, and also six contests over the sticks from Newton Abbot.”
“Ten seconds. Nine, eight . . .”
“So this is Iain Ferguson here at Windsor wishing you a very good evening.”
“. . . two, one, shut up,” said the assistant as Iain fell silent and the program titles and theme music were brought up by the vision mixer.
Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931) Page 6
