Decider. Part 2

CHAPTER 2.

It rained on Stratton Park's steeplechase meeting, but my five elder sons Christopher, fourteen, to Neil, seven grumbled not so much about the weather as about having to wear tidy, un.o.btrusive clothing on a Sat.u.r.day. Toby, twelve, the rider of the red bicycle, had tried to avoid the trip altogether, but Amanda had packed him firmly into the mini-van with the others, providing a picnic of Coca-Cola and ham omelettes in burger buns, which we dealt with in the car park on arrival.

'OK, ground rules,' I said, collecting the wrappings into a single bag. 'First, no running about and banging into people. Second, Christopher looks after Alan, Toby takes Edward, Neil goes with me. Third, when we've chosen a rallying point, everyone turns up there immediately after each race.'

They nodded. The family crowd control measures were long established and well understood. The regular head counts rea.s.sured them rather than irked.

'Fourth,' I went on, 'you don't walk behind horses as they're apt to kick, and fifth, notwithstanding the cla.s.sless society, you'll get on very well on a racecourse if you call every man "sir".'

'Sir, sir,' Alan said, grinning, 'I want to pee, sir.'

I trooped them in through the gates and acquired Club enclosure tickets all round. The white pasteboard badges fluttered on cords from the sliders of the zips on five blue-hooded anoraks. The five young faces looked serious and well intentioned, even Toby's, and I went through a rare moment of being both fond and proud of my children.

The rallying point was established under shelter not far from the winner's unsaddling enclosure and within sight of the gents. We then went all together through the entrance gate into the Club itself and round to the front of the stands and, once I was sure they all had the hang of the whereabouts, I let the paired elder ones go off on their own. Neil, brainy but timid when not in a crowd of brothers, slid his hand quietly into mine and left it there as if absentmindedly, transferring his hold to my trousers occasionally but running no risk of getting lost.

For Neil, as for imaginative Edward, getting lost was the ultimate nightmare. For Alan, it was a laughing matter; for Toby, an objective. Christopher, self-contained, never lost his bearings and habitually found his parents, rather than vice versa.

Neil, easy child, made no objection to walking around in the stands instead of going to see the horses currently plodding wetly round the parade ring before the first race. ('What are the stands, Dad?' 'All those buildings.') Neil's agile little brain soaked up vocabulary and impressions like a sponge, and I'd grown accustomed to hearing observations from him that I would hardly have expected from adults.

We popped our heads into a bar that in spite of the rain was uncrowded, and Neil, wrinkling his nose, said he didn't like the smell in there.

'It's beer,' I said.

'No, it smells like that pub we lived in before the barn, like it smelled when we first went there, before you changed it.'

I looked down at him thoughtfully. I'd reconstructed an ancient, unsuccessful and dying inn and turned its sporadic trade into a flood. There had been many factors reorganised ground plan, colours, lighting, air management, car parks. I'd deliberately added added smells, chiefly of bread baking, but I didn't know what I'd taken away, beyond stale beer and old smoke. smells, chiefly of bread baking, but I didn't know what I'd taken away, beyond stale beer and old smoke.

'What smell?' I asked.

Neil bent his knees and put his face near the floor. 'It's that horrid cleaning stuff in the water the pub man used to wash his lino tiles with, before you took them all up.'

'Really?'

Neil straightened. 'Can we go out of here?' he asked.

We left hand in hand. 'Do you know what ammonia is?' I said.

'You put it down drains,' he explained.

'Was it that smell?'

He thought it over. 'Like ammonia but with scent in it.'

'Disgusting,' I said.

'Absolutely.'

I smiled. Apart from the wondrous moment of Christopher's birth I'd never been a good man for babies, but once the growing and emerging minds had begun expressing thoughts and opinions all their own, I'd been continuously entranced.

We watched the first race, with my lifting Neil up so that he could see the bright action over the hurdles.

One of the jockeys, I noticed in the racecard, was named Rebecca Stratton, and after the race, when the horses returned to be unsaddled, (R. Stratton unplaced), we happened to pa.s.s by while she was looping girths round her saddle and speaking over her shoulder to downcast owners before setting off back to the changing rooms.

'He moved like a torpid stumbleb.u.m. Might try him in blinkers next time.'

She was tall with a flat body and a thin scrubbed face with high hard cheekbones, no compromise with femininity in sight. She walked not in a heel-down scurry like the male jockeys but in a sort of feline loping strut on her toes, as if she was not only aware of her own power but aroused by it. The only other woman I'd seen walk like that had been a lesbian.

'What's a torpid stumbleb.u.m?' Neil asked, after she'd gone.

'It means slow and clumsy.'

'Oh.'

We met the others at the rallying point and I issued popcorn money all round.

'Horse racing is boring,' Toby said.

'If you can pick a winner I'll pay you Tote odds,' I said.

'What about me?' Alan said.

'Everyone.'

Brightening, they went off to look at the next race's runners in the parade ring, with Christopher explaining to them how to read the form line in the racecard. Neil, staying close to me, said without hesitation that he would choose number seven.

'Why seven, then?' I asked, looking it up. 'It's never won a race in its life.'

'My peg in the cloakroom at school is number seven.'

'I see. Well, number seven is called Clever Clogs.'

Neil beamed.

The other four returned with their choices. Christopher had picked the form horse, the favourite. Alan had singled out Jugaloo because he liked its name. Edward chose a no-hoper because it looked sad and needed encouragement. Toby's vote went to Tough Nut because it had been 'kicking and bucking in the ring and winding people up'.

They all wanted to know my own choice, and I ran a fast eye over the list and said randomly, 'Grandfather', and then wondered at the mind's subliminal tricks and thought it perhaps not so random after all.

Slightly to my relief, Toby's Tough Nut not only won the race but had enough energy left for a couple of vicious kicks in the unsaddling enclosure. Toby's boredom turned to active interest and, as often happened, the rest responded to his mood. The rain stopped. The afternoon definitely improved.

I took them all down the course later to watch the fourth race, a three-mile steeplechase, from beside one of those difficult jumps, an open ditch. This one, the second to last fence on the circuit, was attended by a racecourse employee looking damp in an orange fluorescent jacket, and by a St John's Ambulance volunteer whose job it was to give first aid to any jockeys who fell at his feet. A small crowd of about thirty racegoers had made the trek down there beside ourselves, spreading out behind the inside rails of the track, both on the take-off and the landing sides of the fence.

The ditch itself in steeplechasing's past history a real drainage ditch with water in it was in modern times, as at Stratton Park, no real ditch at all but a s.p.a.ce about four feet wide on the take-off side of the fence. There was a large pole across the course on the approach side to give an eye-line to the horses, to tell them when to jump, and the fence itself, of dark birch twigs, was four feet six inches high and at least a couple of feet thick: all in all a regular jump presenting few surprises to experienced 'chasers.

Although the boys had seen a good deal of racing on television I'd never taken them to an actual meeting before, still less down to where the rough action filled the senses. When the ten-strong field poured over the fence on the first of the race's two circuits, the earth quivered under the thudding hooves, the black birch crackled as the half-ton 'chasers crashed through the twigs, the air parted before the straining bunch risking life and limb off the ground at thirty miles an hour: the noise stunned the ears, the jockeys' voices cursed, the coloured s.h.i.+rts flashed by kaleidoscopically... and suddenly they were gone, their backs receding, silence returning, the brief violent movement over, the vigour and striving a memory.

'Wow!' Toby said, awestruck. 'You didn't say it was like that that.'

'It's only like that when you're close to it,' I said.

'But it must be always like that for the jockeys,' Edward said thoughtfully. 'I mean, they take the noise with them all the way.' Edward, ten, had led the pirate ambush up the oak. Misleadingly quiet, it was always he who wondered what it would be like to be a mushroom, who talked to invisible friends, who worried most about famine-struck children. Edward invented make-believe games for his brothers and read books and lived an intense inner life, as reserved as Alan, nine, was outgoing and ebullient.

The racecourse employee walked along the fence on the landing side, putting back into place with a short-handled paddle all the dislodged chunks of birch, making the obstacle look tidy again before the second onslaught.

The five boys waited impatiently while the runners continued round the circuit and came back towards the open ditch for the second and last time before racing away to the last fence and the sprint to the winning post. Each boy had picked his choice of winner and had registered it with me, and when people around us began yelling for their fancy the boys yelled also, Neil jumping up and down in excitement and screaming 'Come on seven, come on seven, come on peg peg.'

I had put my own trust on Rebecca Stratton who was this time partnering a grey mare called Carnival Joy, and as they neared the fence she seemed to be lying second, to my mild surprise, my own expertise at picking winners being zero.

At the last minute the horse in front of her wavered out of a straight line, and I glimpsed the strain on the jockey's face as he hauled on a rein to get himself out of trouble, but he was meeting the fence all wrong. His mount took off a stride too soon and landed right in the s.p.a.ce between take-off pole and fence, where, frightened, it dumped its jockey and veered across into the path not only of Carnival Joy, but of all the runners behind.

Things happen fast at thirty miles an hour. Carnival Joy, unable to see a clear path ahead, attempted to jump both the fence and and the horse on the take-off side, a near-impossible task. The grey's hooves caught the loose horse so that its whole weight crashed chest first into the fence. Its jockey w.i.l.l.ynilly flew caterpaulting out forwards over the birch and in a flurry of arms and legs thudded onto the turf. Carnival Joy fell over the fence onto its head, somersaulted, came down on its side and lay there winded, lethally kicking in an attempt to get up. the horse on the take-off side, a near-impossible task. The grey's hooves caught the loose horse so that its whole weight crashed chest first into the fence. Its jockey w.i.l.l.ynilly flew caterpaulting out forwards over the birch and in a flurry of arms and legs thudded onto the turf. Carnival Joy fell over the fence onto its head, somersaulted, came down on its side and lay there winded, lethally kicking in an attempt to get up.

The rest of the field, some trying to stop, some unaware of the melee, some trying to go round it, compounded the debacle like cars cras.h.i.+ng in a fog. One of the horses, going too fast, too late, with no chance of safety, took what must have seemed to him a possible way out and tried to jump right off the course through the nearside wing.

Wings, on the take-off side of each fence, were located there precisely to stop horses running out at the last moment and, to be effective, needed to be too high to jump. Trying to escape trouble by jumping the wings was therefore always a disaster, though not so bad as in the old days when all wings had been made of wood, which splintered and ripped into flesh. Wings at Stratton Park, conforming to the current norm, were made of plastic, which bent and gave way without injuring, but this particular horse, having crashed through unscathed, then collided with the bunch of onlookers, who had tried to scatter too late.

One minute, a smooth race. In five seconds, carnage. I was peripherally aware that three more horses had come to grief on the landing side of the fence with their jockeys either unconscious or sitting up cursing, but I had eyes only for the knocked down clutch of spectators and chiefly, and I confess frantically, I was counting young figures in blue anoraks, and feeling almost sick with relief to find them all upright and unscathed. The horror on their faces I could deal with later.

Alan, born seemingly without an understanding of danger, suddenly darted out onto the course, ducking under the rails, intent on helping the fallen jockeys.

I yelled at him urgently to come back, but there was too much noise all around us and, powerfully aware of all the loose horses charging about in scared bewilderment, I bent under the rails myself and hurried to retrieve him. Neil, little Neil, scrambled after me.

Terrified for him also, I hoisted him up and ran to fetch Alan who, seemingly oblivious to Carnival Joy's thras.h.i.+ng legs, was doing his best to help a dazed Rebecca Stratton to her feet. In something near despair I found that Christopher too was out on the course, coming to her aid.

Rebecca Stratton returned to full consciousness, brushed crossly at the small hands stretched to help her and in a sharp voice said to no one in particular, 'Get these brats out of my way. I've enough to contend with without that.'

She stood up furiously, stalked over to the jockey whose mount had caused the whole pile-up and who was now standing forlornly beside the fence, and uttered loud and uncomplimentary opinions about his lack of horsemans.h.i.+p. Her hands clenched and unclenched as if, given half a chance, she would hit him.

My brats predictably detested her immediately. I hustled them with their wounded feelings off the course and out of further trouble, but as we pa.s.sed near to the lady jockey Neil said, suddenly and distinctly, 'Torpid stumbleb.u.m.'

'What?' Rebecca's head snapped round, but I'd whirled my small son hastily away from her and she seemed more disconcerted than actively directing fire at anyone except the other unfortunate rider.

Toby and Edward, impervious to her, were more concerned with the mown down spectators, two of whom looked badly hurt. People were in tears, people were stunned, people were awakening to anger. Somewhere in the distance, people were cheering. One of the few horses that had side stepped the calamity had gone on to win the race.

As on most racecourses, the runners had been followed all the way round by an ambulance driven along on a narrow private roadway on the inner side of the track, so that help was at hand. The racecourse official had unfurled and urgently waved two flags, one red and white, one orange, signalling to the doctor and the vet sitting in a car out in the middle of the course that they were both needed at once.

I collected the boys together and we stood in a group watching the ambulance men and the doctor, in an identifying arm band, kneeling beside the fallen, fetching stretchers, conferring, dealing as best they could with broken bones and blood and worse. It was too late to worry about what the boys were seeing: they resisted my suggestion that we should go back to the stands, so we remained with most of the spectators already there, and were joined by the steady stream of new spectators ghoulishly attracted down the course by chaos and disaster.

The ambulance drove off slowly with the two racegoers who'd been felled by the crash through the wing. 'The horse jumped on one man's face,' Toby told me matter-of-factly. 'I think he's dead.'

'Shut up,' Edward protested.

'It's the real world,' Toby said.

One of the horses couldn't be saved. Screens were erected round him, which they hadn't been for the kicked-in-the-face man.

Two cars and a second ambulance swept up fast from the direction of the stands and out leapt another doctor, another vet, and racecourse authority in the shape of the Clerk of the Course, Oliver Wells, one of my visitors from Sunday. Hurrying from clump to clump, Oliver checked with the doctors, checked with the vets behind the screens, checked with first-aid men tending a flat-out jockey, listened to a horse-battered spectator sitting on the ground with his head between his knees and finally paid attention to Rebecca Stratton, whose brief spell of daze was still resulting in hyperactivity and a het-up stream of complaints.

'Pay attention attention, Oliver.' Her voice rose imperiously. 'This little s.h.i.+t caused the whole thing. I'm reporting him to the Stewards. Careless riding! A fine. Suspension, at least.'

Oliver Wells merely nodded and went to have a word with one of the doctors, who looked across at Rebecca and, leaving his unconscious patient, attempted to feel the all-too-conscious lady's pulse.

She pulled her wrist away brusquely. 'I'm perfectly all right,' she insisted. 'You stupid little man.'

The doctor narrowed his eyes at her and took his skills elsewhere, and across Oliver Wells's bony features flitted an expression that could only be described as glee.

He caught me looking at him before he'd rearranged his expression, and changed the direction of his thoughts with a jolt.

'Lee Morris,' he exclaimed, 'isn't it?' He looked at the children. 'What are they all doing here?'

'Day at the races,' I said dryly.

'I mean...' He glanced at his watch and at the clearing up going on around us. 'When you go back up the course, will you call in at my office before you go home. It's right beside the weighing room. Er... please please?

'OK,' I agreed easily, 'if you like.'

'Great.' He gave me a half-puzzled final glance and dived back into his duties and, with things improving on the turf and slowly losing their first intense drama, the five boys at length unglued their feet and their eyes and walked back with me towards the stands.

'That man came to our house last Sunday,' Toby told me. 'He's got a long nose and sticking-out ears.'

'So he has.'

'The sun was making shadows of them.'

Children were observant in an uncomplicated way. I'd been too concerned with why the man was there to notice shadows on his face.

'He's the man who mostly organises the races here,' I said. 'He runs things on race days. He's called the Clerk of the Course.'

'A sort of Field Marshal?'

'Quite like that.'

'I'm hungry,' Alan said, quickly bored.

Neil said 'Torpid stumbleb.u.m' twice, as if the words themselves pleased his lips.

'What are you talking about?' Christopher demanded, and I explained.

'We were only trying to help her,' he protested. 'She's a cow.'

'Cows are nice,' Alan said.

By the time we reached the stands, the fifth race, over hurdles, was already being run, but none of my five much cared about the result, not having had a chance to pick their fancy.

No one had won on the fourth race. Everyone's hopes had ended at the ditch. Edward's choice was the horse that died.

I gave them all tea in the tea-room: ruinously expensive but a necessary antidote to shock. Toby drowned his brush with the real world in four cups of hot sweet milky pick-you-up and every cake he could cajole from the waitress.