NEWBURY RACES WAS very sparsely attended on Thursday afternoon, almost as if the public were also taking a rest before the big five days ahead at Royal Ascot that started the following Tuesday.
Hameed’s race, the Class 3 Novice Stakes for two-year-olds, was the second race on the card, over a straight six and a half furlongs.
As usual, I had emailed all the syndicate members and had arranged to meet those attending before the first race in the Owners Club, situated close to the West Entrance.
The lawyer, Nick Spencer was amongst them, as he also owned a share in Hameed.
“Hi, Chester,” he said jovially as I arrived. “The atmosphere’s a bit different here today compared to that at Epsom on Derby day.” He laughed.
“But let’s hope for the same result,” I replied.
“Do you think we have a chance?” he asked.
“Owen believes we have a good one. He says the horse has come on well at home since coming second at Goodwood last month.”
“Worth a punt then?”
I looked up Hameed’s probable starting price, as printed in the racecard. It stated that his likely price would be four-to-one, second favourite.
“Maybe worth a bit each way,” I said. “But don’t stake your house.”
“I’d never do that. I’m a lawyer, remember. All lawyers are cautious by their very nature.” He laughed again.
I remained in the club to have some lunch with him, and we watched the first race on the racecourse’s closed-circuit TV network.
The pre-parade ring at Newbury is right next to the Owners Club, and immediately after the race, we wandered outside to watch Hameed being walked around.
“Looks great, doesn’t he?” Nick said.
“Splendid,” I agreed.
Some young horses grow in spurts, with different rates front and back, leaving them sometimes looking rather gawky and ungainly, but there was nothing awkward about Hameed. He moved in a smooth easy manner like a well-oiled machine.
When Owen Reynolds appeared carrying Jimmy Ketch’s saddle, pad, and weight and number cloths, I remained leaning on the white rail and resisted the temptation to go anywhere near the saddling box.
I did not want to jog free any hidden memory Owen might have of me being left alone with Dream Filler’s weight cloth for a full three minutes while he had fetched the parade-ring vet at Lingfield.
To that end, I had also chosen not to wear my blue-checked sports coat, opting instead for a more formal dark suit. And I certainly had no intention of repeating my wrongdoing of last Saturday.
This race was a novice stakes, not a handicap, so all the male horses, the colts, were to carry an equal weight of nine stone seven pounds, while the three females, the fillies, each had a five-pound allowance, carrying nine stone two pounds.
Horseracing is one of only a very few sports where males and females regularly compete against each other. Sure there are some races specifically for one gender or another, such as the Oaks at Epsom for fillies only, or the St James’s Palace Stakes at Ascot for colts only, but most races are for both male and female horses racing together, and each can be ridden by a male or female jockey.
However, everything in racing is not quite equal between the sexes. Although no special allowance is made for a female jockey, female horses carry less weight than their male counterparts in the same race, even in the major ones like the Epsom Derby, where the allowance for fillies is three pounds.
The allowance is designed to give the girls an equal chance of winning against the boys, but even so, in the first two hundred and forty-four runnings of the Derby, only six fillies have ever won it, the most recent being back in 1916.
Owen finished saddling Hameed, and then he and his stable lad led the horse out of the saddling box and across into the main parade ring. Nick and I, together with the other members of the owning syndicate, walked over to join them.
There were twelve runners in total, and the connections were soon joined on the grass by the twelve jockeys, their vivid silks brightening up what had become a rather gloomy afternoon under a cloud-filled sky.
Jimmy Ketch, in the blue-and-white-striped Victrix colours, touched the peak of his white cap with his riding whip, as a deferential greeting to the owners, before Owen gave him some last-minute race instructions.
“He was rather slow out of the stalls last time out at Goodwood,” Owen said to him. “There he gave the field a couple of lengths start, so keep your wits about you this time, and jump off fast. Otherwise, use your initiative as to whether to make the early running, and do your best.”
“Yes, guv’nor,” Jimmy replied.
An official rang a bell to indicate that it was time for the jockeys to mount, so Owen and Jimmy walked over to intercept Hameed. The trainer gave the jockey a leg up onto the horse’s back. Jimmy gathered the reins, put his feet into the stirrups, and was led out onto the track with the rest.
I decided I wanted to be alone to watch the race, so I left the others and walked through between the Hampshire and Berkshire Stands onto the lawn, close to the winning post, from where I could watch the race on the large-screen TV set up across the track from the grandstands.
Hameed will run, but he will lose on Thursday at Newbury.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about the impending result. I had done nothing to affect it either way. Like everybody else, I would just have to wait and see what happened.
True to his instructions, Jimmy Ketch jumped Hameed quickly out of the stalls as the gates swung open, so much so that he was a length or more up after just the first two strides.
The field of twelve raced close to the far side running rail and was quite tightly bunched as they passed the five-furlong pole, with Hameed just still having his head in front.
At the halfway stage, four of them were beginning to drop back out of contention, having struggled with the fast early pace, but Hameed was still there, in the lead by a neck.
Having passed the two-furlong pole, Jimmy asked his mount for its final effort, pushing hard with his hands and heels, and giving the horse a gentle reminder down the shoulder with his whip. Hameed immediately responded, going a length and a half clear, but one of the others came back at him, and in spite of Jimmy’s best efforts, they were caught with just a few yards to go.
The judge called for a photograph to determine the winner, but from my position on the finish line, I could tell that Hameed had been beaten into second place.
In spite of not being sure beforehand if I’d wanted him to win or not, I now found that I was hugely disappointed that he hadn’t. And mostly, I realised, it was because I didn’t want Squeaky Voice believing that I had made the horse lose on purpose.
Life at home in the Newton household hardly improved over the weekend.
If it was not one crisis, it was another.
I was just beginning to think that we had weathered the Amanda anxiety, when Georgina’s mother called early on Sunday morning to tell her that her father had taken a turn for the worse overnight.
“We really should go up there to help her,” Georgina said to me, clearly distressed. “Mum’s finding it very hard to cope with him on her own.”
“Shouldn’t he be in hospital?” I asked.
“Neither of them wants that. They think that if he goes into hospital, he’ll never come out again.”
And they were probably right. He’d been unwell for at least the past year, and he’d been gradually going downhill for months. I thought it was only a matter of time now, and not too long a time at that.
“I can’t go at the moment,” I said. “Royal Ascot starts on Tuesday, and it’s the most important five days of my whole year. Not only is Potassium running on the first day, but I also need to be there all week. I’ve arranged meetings with prospective syndicate members for this autumn’s yearlings.”
I could tell that Georgina wasn’t very happy about that.
“You go on your own,” I said. “You can take a train to Leeds and get a taxi from there. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
I knew Georgina didn’t like us to be apart at night, but that was mostly because she was nervous sleeping alone in our house, and she had especially been so when the children were small. Consequently, I had always tried to come home each night, even if I’d been racing way up in the north.
But if she went to stay with her parents, she wouldn’t be alone, at least not in the house, even if she were in bed.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I’ll only go for a couple of days, maybe three.”
“I’m perfectly sure,” I said. “And I won’t feel under pressure to get back here early from Ascot. It’s the perfect solution. You go and pack a bag, and I’ll look up the train times.”
She hesitated for a moment, as if debating with herself. A decision was suddenly made, and she turned and went upstairs to pack a small suitcase while I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop.
According to Trainline, the quickest route from Didcot to Leeds on a Sunday involved first going into London Paddington, then taking the Tube to King’s Cross, and finally catching a train from there to Leeds.
“There’s a train leaving Didcot in half an hour,” I shouted up to her. “Is that okay?”
“Fine,” she shouted back. “I’m almost ready.”
“I’ll buy the ticket online and send it your phone.”
I dropped her at Didcot station at a quarter past ten and watched her safely through the ticket barriers on her way to the platform.
The display indicated that the 10.20 train to London was on time, but nevertheless, I waited until it arrived, and then departed.
“What will you do for food?” Georgina had asked on the way to the station.
“I’ll be fine,” I’d replied. “Perhaps I’ll pop into Tesco on my way home to get something.”
“You could look out for Amanda.”
Indeed I could.
Looking out for Amanda was very high on my agenda.
Amanda was not working in Tesco when I went in, or at least she wasn’t sitting at any of the tills.
I had been unable to resist the temptation of driving slowly past the Raj Tandoori after dropping Georgina at the station, but there was nothing to see. The takeaway was closed, as were all the windows in the flat above.
I hadn’t stopped to knock on the flat front door. Amanda would make her own decision, and in her own time. I was sure that continually pestering her would make the process longer, not shorter.
I bought a couple of microwavable ready meals, along with some sourdough bread and two bottles of red wine, and then drove home.
Coming back through my own front door felt like a release.
I had the house completely to myself, and I suddenly didn’t have to worry about upsetting my wife. I could leave dirty dishes in the sink, fail to make the bed, or leave my shoes haphazardly strewn in the hallway, and no one was going to tell me off about it.
It wasn’t until this actual moment that I realised how much I normally spent my time tiptoeing around on the proverbial eggshells, just in order to have a quiet life.
Now, I walked through the hall into the kitchen, shouting and swearing out loud, like Colin Firth in his portrayal of King George VI in The King’s Speech. I knew it was strange behaviour, and slightly risqué, but I didn’t care. I shouted loudly again all around the house, this time using the very rudest words I knew.
And no one complained or told me to be quiet.
But then my phone rang: No caller ID.
My moment of unbridled joy was instantly cut short.
I answered it but said nothing.
“Chester Newton?” said the squeaky voice.
“Leave me alone,” I shouted, and hung up.
He rang back almost immediately, but I didn’t answer.
He tried twice more, but each time, I just left my phone lying on the kitchen table unanswered.
The phone went beep. A text message had arrived and was shown as a notification on the home page.
Potassium will lose on Tuesday.
I stared at it.
Not if I can bloody help it, I thought.
And had Squeaky Voice made his first mistake in sending me a text?
Texts were always traceable somewhere, but not, I supposed, if he’d used a burner phone. Time would tell.