Christmas.” He cut off the tape expertly and stuck an address label deftly on the box top. “Twenty-eight so far today.”
“Do you bet, Alfie?” I asked. “Read the racing papers?”
He glanced at me with a mixture of defensiveness and defiance, neither of which feeling was necessary. “I knew you was him,” he said. “The others said you couldn’t be.”
“You know Dozen Roses too?”
A tinge of craftiness took over in his expression. “Started winning again, didn’t he? I missed him the first time, but yes, I’ve had a little tickle since.”
“He runs on Saturday at York, but he’ll be odds-on,” I said.
“Will he win, though? Will they be trying with him? I wouldn’t put my shirt on that.”
“Nicholas Loder says he’ll trot up.”
He knew who Nicholas Loder was: didn’t need to ask. With cynicism, he put his just-finished box on some sturdy scales and wrote the result on the cardboard with a thick black pen. He must have been well into his sixties, I thought, with deep lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth and pale sagging skin everywhere from which most of the elasticity had vanished. His hands, with the veins of age beginning to show dark blue, were nimble and strong however, and he bent to pick up another heavy box with a supple back. A tough old customer, I thought, and essentially more in touch with street awareness than the exaggerated Jason.
“Mr. Franklin’s horses run in and out,” he said pointedly. “And as a jock you’d know about that.”
Before I could decide whether or not he was intentionally insulting me, Annette came hurrying down the passage calling my name.
“Derek... Oh there you are. Still here, good. There’s another phone call for you.” She about-turned and went back toward Greville’s office, and I followed her, noticing with interest that she’d dropped the Mister from my name. Yesterday’s unthinkable was today’s natural, now that I was established as a jockey, which was OK as far as it went, as long as it didn’t go too far.
I picked up the receiver which was lying on the black desk and said, “Hello? Derek Franklin speaking.”
A familiar voice said, “Thank God for that. I’ve been trying your Hungerford number all day. Then I remembered about your brother...” He spoke loudly, driven by urgency.
Milo Shandy, the trainer I’d ridden most for during the past three seasons: a perpetual optimist in the face of world evidence of corruption, greed and lies.
“I’ve a crisis on my hands,” he bellowed, “and can you come over? Will you pull out all stops to come over first thing in the morning?”
“Er, what for?”
“You know the Ostermeyers? They’ve flown over from Pittsburgh for some affair in London and they phoned me and I told them Datepalm is for sale. And you know that if they buy him I can keep him here, otherwise I’ll lose him because he’ll have to go to auction. And they want you here when they see him work on the Downs and they can only manage first lot tomorrow, and they think the sun twinkles out of your backside, so for God’s sake come .”
Interpreting the agitation was easy. Datepalm was the horse on which I’d won the Gold Cup: a seven-year-old gelding still near the beginning of what with luck would be a notable jumping career. Its owner had recently dropped the bombshell of telling Milo she was leaving England to marry an Australian, and if he could sell Datepalm to one of his other owners for the astronomical figure she named, she wouldn’t send it to public auction and out of his yard.
Milo had been in a panic most of the time since then because none of his other owners had so far thought the horse worth the price, his Gold Cup success having been judged lucky in the absence through coughing of a couple of more established stars. Both Milo and I thought Datepalm better than his press, and I had as strong a motive as Milo for wanting him to stay in the stable.
“Calm down,” I assured
“Do you bet, Alfie?” I asked. “Read the racing papers?”
He glanced at me with a mixture of defensiveness and defiance, neither of which feeling was necessary. “I knew you was him,” he said. “The others said you couldn’t be.”
“You know Dozen Roses too?”
A tinge of craftiness took over in his expression. “Started winning again, didn’t he? I missed him the first time, but yes, I’ve had a little tickle since.”
“He runs on Saturday at York, but he’ll be odds-on,” I said.
“Will he win, though? Will they be trying with him? I wouldn’t put my shirt on that.”
“Nicholas Loder says he’ll trot up.”
He knew who Nicholas Loder was: didn’t need to ask. With cynicism, he put his just-finished box on some sturdy scales and wrote the result on the cardboard with a thick black pen. He must have been well into his sixties, I thought, with deep lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth and pale sagging skin everywhere from which most of the elasticity had vanished. His hands, with the veins of age beginning to show dark blue, were nimble and strong however, and he bent to pick up another heavy box with a supple back. A tough old customer, I thought, and essentially more in touch with street awareness than the exaggerated Jason.
“Mr. Franklin’s horses run in and out,” he said pointedly. “And as a jock you’d know about that.”
Before I could decide whether or not he was intentionally insulting me, Annette came hurrying down the passage calling my name.
“Derek... Oh there you are. Still here, good. There’s another phone call for you.” She about-turned and went back toward Greville’s office, and I followed her, noticing with interest that she’d dropped the Mister from my name. Yesterday’s unthinkable was today’s natural, now that I was established as a jockey, which was OK as far as it went, as long as it didn’t go too far.
I picked up the receiver which was lying on the black desk and said, “Hello? Derek Franklin speaking.”
A familiar voice said, “Thank God for that. I’ve been trying your Hungerford number all day. Then I remembered about your brother...” He spoke loudly, driven by urgency.
Milo Shandy, the trainer I’d ridden most for during the past three seasons: a perpetual optimist in the face of world evidence of corruption, greed and lies.
“I’ve a crisis on my hands,” he bellowed, “and can you come over? Will you pull out all stops to come over first thing in the morning?”
“Er, what for?”
“You know the Ostermeyers? They’ve flown over from Pittsburgh for some affair in London and they phoned me and I told them Datepalm is for sale. And you know that if they buy him I can keep him here, otherwise I’ll lose him because he’ll have to go to auction. And they want you here when they see him work on the Downs and they can only manage first lot tomorrow, and they think the sun twinkles out of your backside, so for God’s sake come .”
Interpreting the agitation was easy. Datepalm was the horse on which I’d won the Gold Cup: a seven-year-old gelding still near the beginning of what with luck would be a notable jumping career. Its owner had recently dropped the bombshell of telling Milo she was leaving England to marry an Australian, and if he could sell Datepalm to one of his other owners for the astronomical figure she named, she wouldn’t send it to public auction and out of his yard.
Milo had been in a panic most of the time since then because none of his other owners had so far thought the horse worth the price, his Gold Cup success having been judged lucky in the absence through coughing of a couple of more established stars. Both Milo and I thought Datepalm better than his press, and I had as strong a motive as Milo for wanting him to stay in the stable.
“Calm down,” I assured
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