Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [19]
Cheltenham had been the first racetrack I had ever known and I still loved the place. I had grown up in Prestbury village, right alongside, and I’d ridden my bicycle past the backstretch every morning on my way to school. Each March, as the Steeplechasing Festival approached, the excitement surrounding not only the track but the whole town had been the inspiration for me first to ride a horse, then to pester a local racehorse trainer for holiday jobs and finally to give up a planned future of anodyne academia for the perilous existence of a professional jockey.
Cheltenham was the home of jump racing. Whereas the Grand National was the most famous steeplechase in the world, every racehorse owner would rather win the Cheltenham Gold Cup.
The Grand National was a handicap, so the better horses carried the greater weight. The handicapper’s dream was that all the horses would cross the finish line in a huge dead heat. But it would be a bit like making Usain Bolt run the Olympic 100 meters in Wellington boots to even up the chances of the others. However, in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, other than a slight reduction for female horses, all the participants carried the same weight, and the winner was the true champion.
I had only ridden in it once, on a rank outsider that’d had no chance, but I could still recall the tension that had existed in the jockeys’ Changing Room beforehand. The Gold Cup was not just another race, it was history in the making, and one’s performance mattered even if, as in my case, I had pulled up my horse long before the finish.
Away to my left, at the far end of the straight, the fifteen horses for the first race were called into line by the starter. “They’re off,” sounded the public-address, and they were running.
Two miles of fast-paced hurdle racing with the clatter-clatter from hooves striking the wooden obstacles clearly audible to those of us in the grandstands. The horses first swept up the straight towards us, then turned left-handed to start another complete circuit of the track, ever increasing in speed. Three horses jumped the final hurdle side by side, and a flurry of jockeys’ legs, arms and whips encouraged their mounts up the hill to the finish.
“First, number three, Fallen Leaf,” sounded the public-address system.
Mark Vickers, the other jockey in the race to be the champion, had just extended his lead over Billy Searle from one to two.
And Martin Gifford, the gossip, had trained the winner in spite of his expressed lack of faith in its ability. I wondered if he had simply been trying to keep his horse’s starting price high by recommending that other people should not bet on it. I looked down at my race program and decided to invest a small sum on Yellow Digger in the third race: the other runner Martin had told me would have no chance.
I turned to go back to the Weighing Room, looking down at my feet to negotiate the grandstand steps.
“Hello, Nicholas.”
I looked up. “Hello, Mr. Roberts,” I said in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a racing man.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Always have been. In fact, my brother and I have horses in training. And I often used to watch you ride. You were a good jockey. You could have been one of the greats.” He pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Thank you,” I said.
Mr. Roberts—or, to use his full title, Colonel The Honourable Jolyon Westrop Roberts, MC, OBE, younger son of the Earl of Balscott—was a client. To be precise, he was a client of Gregory Black’s, but I had met him fairly frequently in the offices at Lombard Street. Whereas many clients are happy to leave us to get on with looking after their money, Jolyon Roberts was one of those known to have a hands-on approach to his investments.
“Are you on your day off?” he asked.
“No,” I replied with a laugh. “I’m seeing one of my clients after racing, you know, the jockey Billy Searle.”
He nodded, then paused. “I don’t suppose . . .” He paused again. “. . . No, it doesn’t matter.”
“Can I help you in some way?” I asked.
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “I’ll leave it.”