I WATCHED THE first two races, with Toni Beckett, from the seats on level four, even having a small bet on the second, which sadly lost.
I had told her to back the horse Owen trained, and it had finished eighth of the twenty-two runners, out of the money in more ways than one.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not a very good tipster.”
“So should I bet on Potassium?” she asked.
“His price will be pretty short,” I said. “Probably best to keep your money in your purse.”
“Don’t you expect him to win?”
Had she seen the message?
“I hope he wins,” I said. “But I never expect anything in racing. And I’m afraid I have to go now, to start getting the horse ready for the race. You can come with me if you want, but you will have to stay well away from the horse, and I don’t have a paddock pass for you to use.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I may just wander about on my own for a while. I’m used to doing that. I’ll see you later, back in the car park with Mr Spencer.”
I stood up to go.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thanks.”
I left her sitting there alone in the grandstand seats.
Why was I worried that she was cross with me for leaving her?
Potassium looked magnificent as he was led around the pre-parade ring, his well-groomed coat shining brightly in the afternoon sunshine.
There were only eight runners in the St James’s Palace Stakes. So Owen had been right about Potassium’s supplementary entry frightening some of the competition out of the final declaration. The connections of the others must have decided to find an alternative race to run in rather than go up against the Derby winner.
Owen appeared with Jimmy Ketch’s saddle and waved the lad to bring Potassium over to one of the saddling boxes. I went to join them but stayed out of the box because Owen had brought his assistant with him to help.
I watched as the two of them went about their business, not forgetting to fit the weight cloth securely under the saddle. In this race, all the runners carried the same weight, nine stone two pounds, plus the allowance for the safety vest.
It was a true test to find the best three-year-old colt over a mile.
Satisfied that all was in order, and with the horse’s racecard number six showing clearly behind the saddle, Owen told his assistant and the stable lad to take Potassium through to the main parade ring while he walked on behind.
I went over to join him.
“All good?” I asked.
“Perfect,” he replied, totally relaxed.
And I found I was relaxed too. All that nervousness I’d experienced on Derby day at Epsom had not reappeared here. I realised it was because Potassium had already proven himself as a great horse. A win today would be the icing on the cake, but the cake was already assured, whatever the outcome. As long as he came home sound, I’d be happy.
Not that I didn’t want him to win.
I did. Desperately.
Most importantly, I didn’t again want Squeaky Voice believing that any loss was prearranged by me on purpose.
Nick Spencer was already in the parade ring, standing in a group with six other syndicate members, including Bill Parkinson, with me making up the maximum of eight paddock passes I had managed to acquire.
“All set?” I asked, joining them.
They all nodded, some of them showing obvious signs of nerves.
“Gentlemen, we are going to enjoy this,” I said. “Potassium has already done more than we could have asked of him. He’s an Epsom Derby winner. No one can ever take that away from him. If he wins today, then that would be great. If he doesn’t, well, he will have another day in another race.”
They all smiled at me, and some of the tenseness seemed to go out of their shoulders.
In a while, Jimmy Ketch joined us, wearing the Victrix silks.
“No time to waste in this race,” Owen said to him earnestly. “It’s only a mile, so we want a strong pace from the off, to sap the finish out of the sprinters. So jump him out of the stalls, and don’t be afraid of going immediately to the front. But don’t go mad. Keep enough in reserve to kick on again just before the two-furlong pole, after you’ve completed the turn into the final straight.”
“Yes, guv’nor,” Jimmy said.
The bell was rung, and Owen took Jimmy over to Potassium and gave him a leg up onto the horse’s back. There was now no more he could do.
As always when there was a large crowd, I stayed in the parade ring to watch the race on the large-screen TV. In the past, I had tried to get through to the owners’ viewing steps, only to be thwarted by the crush from seeing the race at all.
What is known as the “round course” at Ascot is, in fact, triangular with rounded points, and the one-mile start was at the apex farthest from the grandstand, close to that part of the course known as Swinley Bottom.
Who Swinley was is a mystery lost in time, but the Bottom refers to the lowest part of the racecourse, some seventy-three feet below the finish line. It was the original site of a kennel established by Queen Anne to house the royal pack of hounds, known as the Buckhounds.
Potassium had been drawn in stall number two, and I watched on the big screen as he and the other seven runners were loaded without fuss.
“And they’re off in the St James’s Palace Stakes,” called the race commentator through the public address system as the gates snapped open.
Jimmy did as he was told and jumped Potassium out of the stalls fast, and he built a three-length lead in the first twenty strides. As they settled down, Potassium hugged the inside rail, going the shortest distance, and by the time he started the long turn into the finishing straight, he had extended his lead to five lengths, and the rest of the field were well spread out behind him, chasing hard.
Two of the other runners began to close round the turn, but Jimmy had indeed kept a little in reserve, and he kicked again as they straightened up, stretching the lead once more.
Within the last furlong, Potassium’s stride began to shorten as he tired, and the others started to gain on him. Then, in the last hundred yards or so, he began to paddle, with his head going up and down, but he had established enough of an advantage, and he managed to keep going, passing the winning post still a length to the good.
No need for a photograph this time. The result was clear for all to see.
“First number six,” called the judge.
That’s all I needed to hear.
The celebration in the parade ring around the winners unsaddling enclosure started even before the horse appeared, with most of the rest of the syndicate somehow having bypassed the men in bowler hats to gain entry, many of them with wives and partners in tow, all of them laughing and smiling.
It was moments like this that made up for all the disappointments, and in horseracing, there were lots of those.
Claire Spencer had made it in too, and she beamed at me.
After a few minutes, and accompanied by a fanfare from the trumpeters of the Household Cavalry, Potassium and Jimmy Ketch arrived through the tunnel into the ring and were led into the space reserved for the winner.
I went in there with them as everyone cheered.
Jimmy dismounted, removed his saddle, and then posed for press photographs with Owen, me, and the horse, with the other syndicate members waving madly in the background.
Jimmy then went off towards the weighing room, carrying his saddle and other equipment, including the weight cloth. Now all he had to do was weigh in at the same weight as he’d weighed out. Only then could the trophy presentation begin.
“Horses away,” shouted an official.
Potassium was led out, back towards the racecourse stables, now wearing his new rug with “Royal Ascot—Winner The St James’s Palace Stakes” emblazoned on both sides.
“Weighed in. Weighed in,” was announced over the public address, and there were no triple tones indicating a Stewards’ Enquiry.
We had won. It was now official.
The forty-six-thousand-pound supplementary fee had been well spent.
As we waited for the presentation party to arrive, both Owen and Jimmy were interviewed by ITV racing. Then the cameras switched onto me.
“Well done, Chester,” said the interviewer. “So what’s next for Potassium?”
For the media, it was always about what’s next rather than what’s past.
“We’re not quite decided yet. He’s entered for both the Eclipse at Sandown and the Sussex Stakes at Goodwood, and we’re also looking at the International Stakes at York in August.”
“How about the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes back here next month?”
“He’s been entered for that too,” I said with a smile. “A multitude of riches. But we’ll have to see how he recovers after today.”
The presentation party was now ready, and I collected the St James’s Palace Stakes perpetual silver trophy from a senior member of the royal family on behalf of the winning syndicate, while Owen received a silver cup, and Jimmy a silver photo frame.
As we stood on the presentation platform for yet more press photographs, I could see someone in a yellow dress waving wildly from the viewing steps to my left.
It was Toni Beckett.
I waved back, smiling broadly.
The Racing Post journalist, Jerry Parker, was waiting for me outside the weighing room when I went to sign for the trophy.
“The Victrix Racing feature will run in the paper this Thursday,” he said. “When we knew Potassium had been supplemented for The St James’s Palace, we held it back, to see what happened in the race. I’ll now write the last bit.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I hope it’s all good.”
“Of course,” he said with a smile, but there was something about the way the smile failed to reach his eyes that slightly worried me.
The celebrations by the other syndicate members were still going on when I came out with the trophy in its box.
“Everyone is invited to join me in car park for a victory party,” Nick Spencer said loudly.
There were still three races to be run, but I reckoned that none of this lot would see any of them. And I couldn’t blame them.
“How about you, Chester?” Nick asked. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be there a little later,” I said. “I need to secure this first.” I held up the trophy box.
“Bring it with you,” Bill Parkinson said loudly with a laugh. “We can fill it with champagne and pass it around.”
“Best not to,” I said. “It’s survived more than a hundred years, and I’d hate for us to be the ones who lost it.”
“But it’s ours for now,” Bill said quite belligerently. “We’re the owners of the horse.” He turned to the other members. “Come on, let’s have a vote. Who wants the trophy taken to the car park?”
“Bill, stop being naughty,” I said sharply. “You know perfectly well that, although prize money is shared, trophies remain the responsibility of Victrix.”
“Spoil sport.”
Was I?
Once in the past, I had taken a trophy out to a celebration in a racecourse car park, only for it to get run over by a reversing car. This one was far more valuable—and I was the one who’d just signed for it.
“Okay,” I said. “But just for a little while.”
Before they all get too drunk, I thought.
Owen was still standing there with them.
“Are you coming?” I asked him.
“I may later,” he said. “But I doubt it. I have a runner in the last anyway. And there’s usually a drinks party in the trainers’ car park after racing. I normally go to that for a single beer before heading home. It’s far too long a week for me to get plastered on the first day.”
I agreed. Like him, I would be here every day. There were two more Victrix runners to come, one on Thursday and the other on Saturday, although neither was trained by Owen, and I also had a possible new Victrix trainer to meet, as well as some prospective new syndicate members. Potassium’s win should now make those conversations a little easier.
I’d already spent many hours on the telephone speaking to bloodstock agents and breeders about their yearlings that would be going to the sales in the coming autumn. I’d even been to see quite a few, and I had started making up my list of interest.
Potassium’s Derby win, plus his one today, might allow me to raise my sights somewhat, perhaps to spend a little more money on a horse at the sales than I had in the past, in order to secure the ones I really wanted for next year.
Provided, of course, that Squeaky Voice hadn’t destroyed my business by then.