Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [85]
Jules Reginald Harlow watched the filly’s smooth action and listened to the genuine enthusiasm in the salesman’s voice. He thought Sandy Nutbridge good at his job, but beyond that paid more attention to the scudding two-year-old that seemed to be all he needed.
The exercise groom finished two circuits – one walking and trotting, one a fast canter – and, pulling up, trotted to the two watchers on the rails.
‘Thanks, Pete,’ Nutbridge nodded.
‘And thanks,’ Jules Harlow added. He turned to the salesman. ‘Subject to a vet passing the filly sound, I’ll have her at the price we agreed.’
The two men shook hands on the deal and Jules Harlow without excitement climbed into the dark green Lincoln Town Car waiting near by and drove away.
Sandy Nutbridge telephoned the bloodstock agency for whom he acted and reported the successful sale. His principal, Ray Wichelsea, who owned the agency, greatly esteemed Sandy Nutbridge, chiefly as a salesman but partly as a man. Ray Wichelsea saw Sandy’s thickset body, wiry greying hair and sensible English voice as reassuring assets encouraging customers to put their faith in the agency and their money on the line.
‘Our Mr Harlow,’ Sandy Nutbridge reported, ‘is one of your silent types. I wouldn’t say he knows a whole lot about horses. He shook hands on the deal for the filly but, like you told me not to, I didn’t ask him for an up-front deposit.’
‘No. What did he look like?’
Puzzled, Sandy Nutbridge did his best. ‘Well… he was shortish. I suppose about fifty. Ordinary. Sort of posh English accent, though. Wore a grey suit, and a tie. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.’
‘Our Mr Harlow,’ Ray Wichelsea said with peaceful emphasis, ‘the Mr Harlow you’ve just described, is, I am almost certain, a computer originator. An inventor. An entrepreneur.’
‘How does that affect us?’ Nutbridge asked.
‘He can afford a whole bunch of fillies.’
*
The quiet Mr Harlow was buying the splendid two-year-old as an engagement gift for the lively widow who had decided he should be her husband number three. Numbers one and two had bossed her around and then died and left her huge fortunes: Jules Harlow, richer yet, found pleasure in letting her run the show. The widow adored him.
She knew all about horses and spent days of delight at the racetrack. Before he met her, Jules had been barely aware of the Kentucky Derby. He spent his days inventing and developing microchip circuits and was quiet because of the depth of his thoughts.
When these two had first dined and slept together, their different interests and personalities had surprisingly meshed. Time had thoroughly cemented their coalition.
In England, Sandy Nutbridge’s mother packed her own suitcase with excitement and tried unsuccessfully to damp down the high spirits of her two grandchildren, Bob and Miranda (10 and 8), who were to accompany her to South Carolina to spend two weeks of the Easter school holidays with their father.
Sandy Nutbridge, divorced, seldom saw his children. The forthcoming visit, and that of his mother, filled him with genuine joy. Two whole weeks! He had told Ray Wichelsea not to line him up for any work during that time.
He had sent the money for all his family’s fares: his widowed mother lived on a meagre pension, and his ex-wife, remarried, had said if he wanted to have the children to stay, he could pay for them. He went to meet them at the airport and in hugs and kisses considered every dollar well spent. His mother, in new clothes, wiped tears from her eyes, and the children, who had never left England before, stared at the surprising spaciousness of America and were open-mouthed with ingenuous awe.
Sandy Nutbridge lived in a rented fourth floor two-bedroomed lakeside condominium apartment with entrancing views of sailboats,