BY STEPHEN PAX LEONARD
“She looks well-balanced, racing on her left lead”, says Alfie as he passes Reggie the binoculars. Alfie’s Labradors look approvingly as the fillies enter the final furlong at Fakenham. “Come on girl”, roars Alfie as Smells-like-Treason pushes ahead of Show-me-your-Virginity. There are just five runners today, and Reggie could not resist bit of a flutter: placing 20 pounds on Smells-like-Treason at 7/1.
“By golly, it is going to be dash close”. Alfie was always able to impart the vital information under pressure. Reggie holds his hands in the air as if entering a plea, but it is not to be. Show-me-your-Virginity pips her at the post. Reggie turns around in disgust, looking for some sympathy from the welly and green-jacket-clad crowd who fill the stand. Instead, all he finds are content looking bookies. Fakenham is usually Reggie’s lucky course, but alas no joy was to be had today. Looking a trifle sullen, the two chaps head to the Punjabi food van to console themselves.
“Please may I have the Old Delhi butter chicken, chole masala and loaded desi chips”, says Reggie. “Oh, make that two portions of each actually, dear”. “This one is on me, old boy”, Reggie puts his arm around his racing chum. They had a win at Plumpton last week. Not all was lost after all.
“That filly of yours, she is a stayer alright, Reggie”, offers Alfie. “The Derby is coming up, dear boy. It is all going to be rather fun”. They mill around the stand for a while exchanging post-race commentaries before trying to have a quick word with the jockey as he entered the winner’s enclosure.
“She didn’t do a tap, Mr Reggie. Never mind. We’ll sort it out for the Derby”, says Roy over the groom’s shoulder before dashing into the weighing room where the Clerk of the Scales was already huffing and puffing.
It is not long before the boys leave the Norfolk set behind, climb into the faithful Landy and negotiate the country roads in the swollen shadows of late afternoon. The Fens landscape grows heavy with its own silhouette. The dogs snooze in the back. On the long drive home to Oxfordshire, Reggie’s words are few and unvarnished. Alfie is none too chatty either. He had a touch of the old wherry-go-nimbles, and it was not long before they were left trying to eke out the facilities at the Little Chef only to discover they had long since gone out of business.
“Old butter chicken”, you can say that again cursed Alfie more than once as they pulled into the motorway layby and he made a tremendous dash for the loos.
Back at home, Mrs Daddywood was just finishing up for the day when the telephone rang.
“Charles, how good to hear from you and what good timing”, says Reggie as he puts aside the Racing Post.
“You have got a filly for me? How splendid! Tell me more. Have you had a good look at the catalogue?”, he continues holding the receiver close to his ear.
“Sounds like a fine young filly. Now, tell me, does she have big ears?”
As she was wont to do, Mrs Daddywood who was just finishing her chores held a glass to the kitchen door so that she could listen in on the conversation. “Cheeky little wot-name”, she whispered under her breath. “That Mr Reggie is pursuing those débutantes again”, she tutted as she finished drying the dishes.
“You know how I love fillies with big ears, Charles, they are always fast movers. And no puffy legs please!”. Mrs Daddywood grimaced in shock, tightening her facial muscles in strong, prudish disapproval.
“Well, the temperament is important too, you know, Charles. I don’t want a filly who is always looking to burn off excess energy. Give me a calm, relaxed girl any day”, continues Reggie.
“Yes, well, jolly good. Let’s meet this evening, Charles, and think about how to proceed. See you anon”. Reggie places the receiver in the cradle.
“Now, Mrs Daddywood, I shall be heading out later on”, calls Reggie.
Folding up her pinny, Mrs Daddywood appears. “Eren’t u going to Ball, Mr Reggie? I thought I ‘eard sumthing ‘bout débutantes”.
“Débutantes?! Oh, gosh, no. It is not the season. That is during the February recess. No, no, I am off to meet my blood-stock agent, Charles”.
“Your wot, blood agent? What the devil is that? Do you test their blood as well…?”, asks Mrs Daddywood in horror.
Reggie bridled a little. “Oh, golly Mrs Daddywood. You have got the wrong end of the stick. I am looking for another horse, a runner you know. I need to prepare for the Derby next year. Charles in Newmarket is my man. He reckons he has found me the perfect horse. Coming up for sale at Tatters next week. It is awfully exciting”.
Mrs Daddywood turns a crimson colour with embarrassment. “Oh, Mr Reggie. I am so sorry, luv. I got wires crossed ‘gain. ‘Ave a nice evening. I’ll see u tomorrow, ain’t it”.
“Cheerio, Mrs Daddywood”. Reggie picks up a pen, the Racing Post and starts to mutter under his breath:
“Right now. Let’s do some plotting. 1 mile, 4 furlongs and 10 yards. What do we need to do to see her romp home at generous odds? That sharp left-hand downhill turn at Tattenham Corner, we are going to need gallops with cambered turns. I hope Charles has found me a compact, well-balanced filly. She will need to be sure-footed alright. Well, let’s see”.
Stephen Pax Leonard is a writer, linguist, traveller. His book Noble Sentiments for an Exile and Other Writings has been published and is now available here.