Despite her intention to stop when she was ahead, once again Alice found herself in the Tote queue behind Millie, who was about to put ten pounds to win and ten to place on her late husband’s horse, currently at sixteen to one on the Tote.
‘What does IRE mean? By the horse’s name?’ she asked Millie.
‘Means that it was bred in Ireland. Or by an Irish stallion.’ She looked down at her racecard. ‘You fancy number thirteen, do you? The Gossoon? Didn’t you see it in the paddock? It’s about the size of a milk pony.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘It’d be better off running at the dog track.’
But Alice wasn’t deterred. For some reason or other – and she knew not either – she had quite fancied the burly little horse, so instead of following Millie’s example she put her twenty pounds on number thirteen. Then she hurried off to join Millie and Rory on the lawn in front of the stands.
It was a fierce gallop from the off, which made Millie groan.
‘Too fast too soon,’ she said. ‘Always the way in these handicap hurdles. Particularly when Mr Pope has a runner.’
‘The difference between hurdles and fences being?’ Alice asked, needing reminding.
‘Hurdles are much smaller than fences and you can knock them over,’ Millie replied, still watching the race through her binoculars. ‘Although it’s not particularly advisable. But you can do and get away with it.’
‘They really are going awfully fast,’ Alice observed as the field thundered past them for the first time. ‘I never realised they went that fast.’
‘Our chap’s pulling the jock’s arms out,’ Millie muttered. ‘He’s taken a hell of a hold, Rory.’
‘He’s all right,’ Rory muttered from behind them. Too nervous to watch the race, he was staring up at the sky and following what was happening via the commentary. ‘It’s OK – he likes to front-run.’
And so indeed it seemed, since as they headed for the hill and for home with only two hurdles to jump, their horse Trojan Jack was a good ten lengths clear of the field and still going strong, while the rest of the runners behind had wilted, as was obvious from the desperate thrashing of whips and kicking from their beaten jockeys. The only danger was The Gossoon, who was still on the bridle, going easily, and in between the two last hurdles now starting to mount a challenge.
‘Come on, Trojan Jack!’ Millie urged, finding herself suddenly in full voice as she realised her horse was probably going to win. ‘Come on, our lovely boy! Come on!’
Torn between shouting for her friend’s horse and the horse moving up so smoothly on the outside, Alice chose instead to keep quiet and watch, which was more than Rory could do. Hearing what he could not believe and then seeing it, he had now turned his back completely on the action, closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.
‘Come on, Trojan, my love!’ Millie was shouting. ‘For God’s sake, horse! Come on! Come on!’
But it seemed that The Gossoon might have him, so easily was he going, his jockey not having had to make a move other than give one shake of the reins. Coming to the last Trojan Jack was still two lengths to the good, but with the Sandown hill still to contend with the little dark bay had him, and that was for sure, even to Alice’s inexperienced eye.
‘Come on, The Gossoon,’ she said quietly to herself, quite unable to believe her luck. ‘Come on.’
The race was the little dark horse’s bar a fall until his idiotic jockey tried to organise him at the last hurdle, shortening up and kicking him into a stride. Consequently the animal half checked, put down, and hit the hurdle hard. Thanks to the blinkers Trojan Jack had been unaware of the horse that had been mounting such a challenge to him, although he must have sensed that he had a fight on his hands, because he stood well off the last hurdle and flew it as consummately as he had flown every previous one, landing running and pulling a good five to six lengths clear of The Gossoon who, although now clearly beaten, somehow remained on his feet.
‘He’s won, Rory!’ Millie shouted, turning to her trainer, who still had his head in his hands. ‘You’ve only gone and done it! He’s only gone and blasted well won!’
Rory put up his glasses at last, just in time to see his horse gallop past the winning post with The Gossoon four lengths behind in second.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, pushing his cap to the back of his head. ‘I just do not Christmas Eve it.’
Millie turned and threw her arms round her trainer’s neck and kissed him on both cheeks, while for the first time in what seemed to him to be a very, very long time Rory found himself smiling.
‘Amazing,’ he said quietly. ‘Amazing. Well, well, well.’
‘Well done, well done indeed,’ Alice said, putting her hand out to shake his. ‘What a very good race. Really well done.’
‘Thank you,’ Rory replied. ‘Thank you very much.’
Alice smiled at him, then looked out on to the track where a couple of officials had gathered just by the winning post. She pointed towards it with her hired binoculars.
‘I don’t suppose it matters that something dropped off just before the post, does it?’
Rory stared at her, hoping he had not heard right.
‘Dropped off what?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Off what? Dropped off the horse? My horse?’
‘Yes. I thought I saw something drop off him just there.’ Alice pointed to where the two officials were standing, one of them holding something that the other was inspecting.
‘Looks as if a weight cloth just dropped off someone, Rory,’ a fellow trainer said, as he began to leave the stands. ‘Hope it’s not yours, dear boy.’
‘And if it is our weight cloth, Rory?’ Millie asked, faintly, even though she already knew the answer.
Rory didn’t reply. He had his race glasses up again, observing in close-up as one of the two men now held up what was quite clearly a weight cloth for another official who was hurrying to the scene to see.
‘It’s a weight cloth all right,’ Rory muttered, putting his glasses down. ‘And I have a terrible feeling that it’s Jack’s.’
‘What difference should that make, Millie? I don’t understand,’ Alice wondered as Rory hurried off to the unsaddling enclosure. ‘Your horse won fair and square, surely?’
‘If his weight cloth fell off I think the rule is that the horse didn’t finish with the correct weight, which means Jack will be disqualified.’
‘Even though he was first past the post?’
‘That’s the rule, duck,’ Millie replied, looking tight-lipped and starting after Rory. ‘I’m very much afraid.’
The result was announced over the tannoy. Trojan Jack was disqualified for failing to finish the race with his correct weight which meant that The Gossoon was automatically promoted to the winning spot.
‘Oh, that really is terrible luck,’ Alice sympathised, taking Millie by the arm. ‘Come on, let me buy you a very large double something or other.’
‘One man’s bad luck,’ Millie said resignedly. ‘It means you won.’
‘Oh.’ Alice stopped and thought for a moment. ‘You mean the horse I backed – The Gossoon? I see what you mean. Yes, of course, I see what you mean.’
‘How much did you have on it?’
‘Twenty pounds. I think. Ten to win, ten to place.’
‘And this from the girl who wasn’t going to bet.’
‘I’d far, far rather you’d won,’ Alice said, pulling a face. ‘Talk about turning to dust in your mouth.’
Millie shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s racing, Allie. Come on – let’s go and collect your winnings and have that double something or other.’
They walked off to the Tote window, and Alice began to search through her chaotic handbag for her purse. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve lost the ticket.’
‘You can’t have done. What about your jacket pockets?’
More searching revealed no winning ticket, just as the results of the dividend were bein
g announced over the tannoy.
‘What can I have done with it?’
‘Maybe you dropped it,’ Millie replied. ‘If so, we are going to have to find it. Did you hear what they’re paying out? Eleven to one your horse! So we are going to have to find that ticket.’
Millie marched Alice back over the way they had come, retracing their steps up to the place on the lawn where they had watched the race. Alice looked about her at the sea of dropped tickets. ‘You’ll never find it, Millie. Not in a month of whatevers.’
Millie looked up at her. ‘I might not. But you and I might, so you do the lawn while I look on the steps here.’
Reluctantly Alice began sorting through the discarded litter that lay on the grass while Millie started sifting through the trash lying on the steps. As they searched, they were observed by a couple of older gentlemen racegoers who stopped to watch.
‘I’ll say this for Sandown,’ one of them remarked. ‘It attracts an altogether better class of bag woman.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Millie muttered. ‘That’s all we need.’
‘Got it!’ Alice suddenly cried.
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely. Look!’ Alice waved the winning ticket from the lawn. ‘It must have dropped out of my handbag when I got a hankie to clean my binoculars.’
After they had walked away from the Tote window, with Alice stuffing into her already packed handbag another large wad of money, they went looking for Rory. They eventually ran him to earth in the trainers’ and owners’ bar, standing up in the corner staring darkly into a very empty glass.
‘Cheer up, Rory,’ Millie said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Kind of you to say, but of course it was my fault. I saddled him up.’
‘Was that what it was? A saddling-up error?’
‘The jockey insisted on using his own numnah.’
‘That’s the thing that goes under the saddle,’ Millie explained to Alice.
‘I saw it,’ Alice returned. ‘That sheepskin thing.’
‘It shouldn’t have been,’ Rory said. ‘Should have just been a cloth, but Dennis had a fall yesterday and hurt his – whatever that bone is at the bottom of your spine.’
‘Coccyx,’ Alice said helpfully. ‘Least I think that’s what it’s called.’
‘If only,’ Rory sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have let him – then the bloody saddle wouldn’t have slipped. And et cetera.’ He raised his eyebrows helplessly, which made him look even more tragic, and to Alice even more Florentine. She felt like taking him into her arms and giving him a hug, and then remembered her age.
‘Did you have a bet, Rory?’ Millie asked, as Alice disappeared to order some drinks.
‘Better not go there, Millie,’ Rory replied. ‘Don’t go anywhere near there.’
‘OK.’ Millie grinned, nodding in Alice’s direction. ‘But if you need a loan, ask Mrs Midas. She’s hit just about every winner so far. If she goes on like this, she’ll be warned off.’
‘I’m going to need more than a loan, Millie,’ Rory said. ‘I’m going to need a miracle. The yard is in something of a mess.’
Alice returned from the bar carrying a tray with three glasses of champagne.
‘Not in celebration,’ she said. ‘In commiseration.’
Millie looked at her friend and decided that this was very much not the person she had brought racing. Gone was what she thought of as Alice’s startled rabbit look and in its place was an altogether different person. In fact if Millie hadn’t been with her all afternoon she would have sworn that her best friend had just fallen in love.
‘What is it they say about champagne?’ Alice wondered, setting the glasses in front of them. ‘I read it somewhere. About the best time to drink it. I can’t remember what it was for the life of me. Any time, that was it. The great thing about champagne is that it can be drunk at any time – for anything.’
‘Last glass I’ll be having for a while,’ Rory muttered. ‘Of all the things to happen. Wait till the old man gets to hear.’
‘How is he?’ Millie asked. ‘Is he back with us yet?’
‘Sort of,’ Rory replied. ‘I mean he’s come round, thank God, and they don’t think there’s any – any brain damage or anything. There certainly will be if he gets to hear about my performance today.’
‘You’re being awfully hard on yourself, if I may say so,’ Alice chimed in. ‘My husband always maintained there are such things as accidents, pure and simple. And that the sooner we recognise that fact the better able we shall be to cope with them. It was an accident.’
‘You’re really very kind, Mrs Dixon.’
‘Alice, Mr Rawlins.’
‘OK, Alice.’ Rory nodded. ‘And I’m Rory.’
‘I know.’ Alice smiled.
‘The trouble is I compounded the felony – or accident as you so kindly have it – by placing a rather large bet on the horse, with money I simply do not have.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I said you’d see him right,’ Millie joked.
‘Of course,’ Alice agreed. ‘If you really are a bit stitched, Mr Rawlins – I mean Rory—’
‘If the seat were hanging out of my trousers, Alice,’ Rory said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t take a penny.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I’m sure you are. And so am I.’ Rory smiled at her then took a drink of his champagne. ‘Of course you could always buy a horse and put it in training with me.’
‘Could I?’ Alice’s frown deepened.
‘That was a joke,’ Rory said. ‘And not a very gallant one either. Sorry.’
‘But I could buy a horse, could I? When we’ve all stopped joking.’
‘You won that much?’ Rory laughed. ‘Sorry – there I go again.’
‘Depends how much a horse costs,’ Alice said. ‘Anyway. What I have in my handbag isn’t all I have.’
‘Alice?’ said Millie. ‘Steady.’
‘I’m being serious, Millie,’ Alice insisted. ‘Anyway, this is your fault. You brought me here, and if you really want to know, other than your poor horse losing so unfairly, I don’t think I’ve had as much fun in – well, actually I don’t remember when last I enjoyed myself so much.’
‘You’re not a regular then?’ Rory asked. ‘You don’t do this – go racing – this isn’t something you do?’
‘This is my first time on a racecourse. And it certainly won’t be my last. I’d love to come and see your stables. That’s somewhere else I’ve never been. A racing yard.’
‘There are better yards to see,’ Rory replied. ‘It might put you off.’
‘Nonsense. Perhaps Millie and I – I’m staying with her at the moment.’
‘If you really want to,’ Rory said. ‘But as I said, it’s not exactly Lambourn.’
‘The Newmarket of jump racing,’ Millie explained once more.
‘Thank you,’ Alice said. ‘Actually I think it might be rather fun.’
‘Visiting the yard?’ Rory said with a frown.
‘Having a racehorse,’ Alice replied. ‘And visiting your yard, of course.’
Before the matter could be taken any further a slim, beautifully if traditionally dressed man stopped by their table, putting a consolatory hand on Rory’s shoulder.
‘Rory,’ Grenville Fielding said. ‘I say. Such hard luck, really. Of all the things to happen.’
‘That’s racing, as they say, Grenville,’ Rory said, before introducing the visitor to Alice and Millie.
‘Sorr-ee,’ Grenville said when he realised everyone’s attention was being drawn to one of the people with him. ‘Yes. This is – this is a friend of mine,’ he continued, hoping there was enough uncertainty in his delivery to indicate that the person in question was an acquaintance rather than a bosom buddy. ‘Let me introduce you to Lady Frimley.’
Constance looked round from one face to another, and as she did so she had the same pleasurable feeling she experienced standing by a nice, warm fire.
<
br /> ‘How do you do?’ she said as she shook everyone’s hand. ‘How very nice.’
When Alice was introduced the two women smiled at each other, Constance because she found herself immediately taken by what she saw as the kindness and honesty in Alice’s eyes, and Alice because she found herself privately approving of the older woman’s style, pleased that at least some people still bothered to dress up when going out for the day, rather than wearing clothes that made them look as though they were living in what Evie always called a Fifth World country.
‘I do like your hat,’ she told her, after the introductions. ‘I wish more people wore hats nowadays.’
‘Some of the men could do without them altogether,’ Constance replied, narrowing her eyes. ‘That ghastly little man Grenville was talking to—’
‘A steward, Lady Frimley,’ Grenville interrupted with a helpful smile. ‘One of the stewards.’
‘Got a hat like a scoutmaster’s,’ Constance continued. ‘Looks like an old pixie.’
‘My father had a hat very like that,’ Grenville told her. ‘Used to actually steam it into that shape.’
‘Backed any winners?’ Millie enquired. ‘Alice here has absolutely emptied the Tote.’
‘I only ever bet on the Tote,’ Constance replied. ‘I cannot abide bookmakers. One thing the French have got right. I used to adore going racing in Deauville. But of course France is no longer the same, one just has to face it. You have to say the Revolution was the worst possible thing for the wretched French, you really do.’
‘I did tell her to back The Gossoon,’ Grenville informed the company. ‘With respect of course, Rory.’
‘I couldn’t possibly back a horse with such an absurd name,’ Constance retorted, now seated and fishing out of her handbag a small cheroot which she lit with a large old-fashioned silver table lighter, also produced from her bag. ‘I cannot stand all these foreign names they keep giving these poor creatures.’
The Enchanted Page 11
