THERE WAS A party atmosphere at Windsor races on Monday evening, which was just as well because, in spite of winning the Derby just two days earlier, I was in need of a lift.
James’s departure back to Bristol had been fraught.
Gary Shipman had arrived at our house in his car at eleven o’clock.
“Morning, Mr Newton,” he said when I answered the front door to him. “Thank you for Saturday night.”
“Yeah, well, it was not quite what we’d planned,” I replied.
“No. But I’m glad everything turned out all right in the end.”
James came bounding down the stairs with a holdall over his shoulder while Georgina came rushing out of the kitchen. She had tears in her eyes, and she grabbed hold of James’s arm, begging him not to go.
“I have to, Mum,” he said with obvious embarrassment at the scene that was playing out in front of his best friend. “I can’t stand it here. You’re both driving me crazy.”
She didn’t like that. Crazy was a word we tried to avoid using in this household at present, especially anywhere around Georgina.
James unhooked her fingers from his arm and walked out the door.
“Bye, Dad,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him.
Georgina sobbed as if in grief.
“Stop it,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to control the anger in my voice. “He’s only gone to Bristol, for goodness sake.”
“But I’ve lost both my babies.”
“They’re not babies,” I said. “They’re adults. And you must learn to let them go with a smile on your face, or they will never come back.”
It did little to console her.
“Look,” I said, “why don’t you come to Windsor Races with me this evening. It will take your mind off things.”
She looked at me. “You and your bloody horses.”
“It’s my job. You used to enjoy going racing.”
“Well, I don’t anymore.”
So I went to Windsor on my own, and to be honest, it was a relief.
Whereas Georgina had once pandered to the Victrix syndicate members, she had recently become something of a liability.
At Cheltenham in March—the last time she had been to the races with me—she had not held back from openly criticising their horses, their dress sense, and anything else that came into her mind, and all of it in their presence.
When I’d remonstrated with her about it on the way home, she had just waved a dismissive hand, as if she didn’t care about the potential damage to my business.
The theme of the Windsor race evening was the 1960s, and there was an abundance of flared jeans, tie-dyed shirts, multicoloured bandanas, and Jesus boots on display by both sexes, even though I was personally sporting a sand-coloured linen summer suit.
A Beatles tribute band blasted out the Fab Four’s greatest hits both before and after racing, Babycham was being drunk by the lorryload, and the main greeting spoken by people of all ages was “Peace, Man!”
But the racing itself was far from as it was back in 1960.
Modern methods were employed, including the use of starting stalls, large TV screens for the crowd to watch, and the bookmakers’ on-site computers generating instantly printed betting slips, to say nothing of the scanning of the microchips inserted in all the horses’ necks to check for “ringers,” and the rigorous, routine urine dope testing of all the winners for illegal stimulants.
The Victrix-owned horse I had come to see was a three-year-old bay colt called Balham, due to run in the fourth race at seven-fifteen, the Class 3 Windsor Sprint Series Qualifier, over six furlongs.
This was his first outing of the season, but he had shown considerable promise as a two-year-old, winning one race and placing in his other two runs before an injury had cut short his season. If things went well tonight, I had hopes of him competing in the prestigious Class 2 bet365 Handicap at the Newmarket July Festival.
As always, I had emailed the Balham syndicate owners with the details, and I knew from the replies that at least six of the twenty shareholders were planning to attend, some with their wives, husbands, or children.
All racecourses looked after the owners of the horses running in their races, affording them complimentary entry, a free meal, and subsidised drinks. Windsor was no exception, providing an excellent facility with balconies on each side overlooking both the parade ring and the track.
They appreciated, as we all did, that racing couldn’t continue without owners prepared to invest their money into bloodstock, and to pay the training, race-entry, and other fees. Up to eight owners’ badges were available for each horse declared to run, with further badges on offer for larger syndicates, although those had no free meal attached.
It was the job of one of my assistants to liaise with both the syndicates and the racecourses to ensure the maximum number of our members could make use of the badges on offer, and to ensure that everyone had their turn.
As usual, I had agreed to meet my syndicate members in the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant before the first. I didn’t need to be here to supervise the preparations for the race—the trainer would do all that. My job, as always, was to be the Victrix PR front man. The members would expect me to be here to welcome them and to give them any inside information I might have about the horse.
Many of them liked to have a bet on their horses—mostly a small wager just for fun—and the size of the stake might be affected by my report on how the animal had been performing in its training and my evaluation of its chances.
The racing regulations clearly state that an owner is allowed to bet on their runner, or indeed on any other, but they are not allowed to “lay” their own horse, that is, they are not allowed to take bets from others—in effect betting that their horse will lose—such as is now possible on the online betting exchanges like Betfair or BETDAQ.
Similarly, trainers can bet on any horse, even those in their care, but are not allowed to “lay” their own, or instruct anyone else to do so on their behalf, or to receive any of the proceeds of any such bet.
There are also restrictions on anyone involved in any way with a horse contacting directly or indirectly with betting organisations, particularly against passing on insider information to bookmakers about the likely chances of their horse in any given race.
Overall, the racing authorities have a very peculiar love–hate relationship with bookmakers and the betting companies. While they recognise that gambling revenues are the lifeblood of the sport, and without legalised betting, horseracing as we know it would not exist, they are also aware that betting can invite corruption.
Their prime concern is to maintain probity and trust within the sport. Consequently, they have to weave a middle path, allowing owners and trainers to bet—but not jockeys—while attempting to maintain the integrity of the races.
Bookmakers and online betting companies also pour tens of millions of pounds into race sponsorship, not only to support the goose that lays their golden eggs but also as a form of advertising to the punters.
Balham was trained by Richie Mackenzie, a young up-and-coming trainer from Newmarket, whom I had spotted as a potential Victrix trainer as soon as he had acquired his licence, and it had been a fruitful choice. He now had five Victrix horses in his ever-expanding string, and he was building a new stable block at home to house yet more.
As with my other trainers, I had spoken to Richie this morning. He had also agreed to meet me in the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant, forty minutes before the first race, but he was there ahead of me, chatting to the syndicate members.
One of the side benefits of syndicate membership were the stable visits I regularly arranged for members to visit their horses at home and to watch them at exercise on the gallops. Trainers were usually very good at accommodating members, and feeding them with bacon rolls, and there had been a stable visit to Richie’s yard only a couple of weeks ago, so some of them were already well acquainted.
“So, Richie,” I said after all introductions were complete, “does Balham have a good chance this evening?”
“I would say so,” he replied. “He’s been working well at home. But he’s been off a racecourse since last August because of the injury to his hock. That’s all cleared up now, but he might still be a bit race rusty. On the plus side, his handicap rating is generous, and I’d say that he is definitely worth an each-way bet.”
An each-way bet was not only a bet for the horse to win but also one to place, that is for it to finish in the first three. The place bet may not win you much, but it might cover your loss of stake on the win bet, that’s if he came in second or third.
There were murmurs of approval from the syndicate members.
“Do we have any idea what his starting price will be?” asked Derek Berkeley, one of my most long-standing members.
“I expect him to start at about six-to-one, maybe thirteen-to-two if we’re lucky,” Richie said. “Kennedy Curse is the top weight, but he will likely start as favourite, having won easily at Newmarket last month. He might be as short as nine-to-four or even two-to-one, but he’s giving us ten pounds in the handicap, and I reckon he’s been overrated.”
Handicap races were those in which the weight a horse carried on its back was determined by a rating given to it by the official handicapper, based on its previous performances—the better the horse, the higher was its rating, and so the more weight it carried. The aim was to give every horse an equal chance of winning, to make the races highly competitive, ideal for encouraging the public to go racing and gamble on the outcome, something the racecourses desperately wanted.
Five of the seven races at Windsor this evening were handicaps, the other two being novice races for inexperienced young horses.
“So will you be backing Balham?” Derek asked Richie pointedly.
Richie laughed. “I’m backing him with my reputation.”
Everyone else now laughed, but it was more of a nervous titter than an outright guffaw.
“Right,” said Richie. “I also have a runner in the second race that needs my attention. Don’t forget, Balham is in the fourth, at a quarter past seven. I’ll see you all in the parade ring beforehand.”
Richie walked away with the thanks of the syndicate members ringing in his ears, and then, as one, they turned their attention to me.
“So what do you think?” Derek asked.
“I agree with Richie,” I said.
“So will you be backing him?”
“Yes, I will,” I said quickly. “As Rickie recommended, I’ll have a small each-way bet.”
And it will be a small bet, I thought, because I hated losing. I was staking too much on the success of Victrix horses as it was, without adding to it with my hard-earned cash.
I left my syndicate members in the restaurant to enjoy their free steak-and-kidney-pie supper while I went down to the weighing room, not so much to see anyone in particular as to be seen. It was good for business.
“Hi, Chester. Well done with Potassium on Saturday,” said a man coming out of the Press Room.
“Thanks, Jerry,” I replied.
Jerry Parker worked for the Racing Post, the sport’s dedicated daily newspaper.
“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.
Overall, I was quite encouraged by Balham’s run after such a lengthy injury layoff, but it was a group of very glum-faced owners that I led down to the space reserved in the unsaddling enclosure for the second.
“Ah well,” said Derek Berkeley with resignation. “Let’s hope for better luck next time.”
Yes, indeed, I thought. We had lost only by a nose, the same margin by which Potassium had won the Derby. Some you win, some you lose. Such are the fine margins between victory and defeat, joy and despair. But I know which of the races I would have rather won.
The syndicate members went to the bar to drown their sorrows while I made my excuses and decided to go home, stopping only briefly to collect my meagre winnings from the Tote and to have a quick chat with Richie to congratulate him on getting Balham safely back to the racecourse after his injury.
“So do you still fancy having a tilt at the bet365 Handicap next month?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“It depends on what happens to his rating after today,” he said.
Every racehorse the world over is given an official handicap rating every Tuesday.
“We may have to wait now until next week to see if this result changes it. But we can easily wait until then before making any decisions.”
“All right, let’s do that,” Richie said. “But thanks for coming. Sorry I didn’t manage a win for your team.”
“Maybe next time,” I said.
The fifth race was in progress as I walked out to the car park.
Only when I was sitting inside my Jaguar, with the engine started, did I notice that there was a piece of paper tucked under one of the windscreen wipers.
Bloody advertising, I thought.
All too often these days, someone puts flyers on the windscreens of all the cars in the car park during racing, advertising everything from vehicle maintenance to exotic holidays.
I got out of the car again to remove it.
It was a plain white piece of paper, folded in half, but it wasn’t an advert.
I unfolded it. There was some writing on it in black capital letters. Three short lines of text:
I AM WATCHING YOU
DO AS I TELL YOU
OR ELSE