“Sometimes I just don’t believe you, Jude. You’re really going to put money on it?”
“Of course I am. Come on, you just look at the horses. Tell me which one you think’ll win.”
“‘Think’ll win’ or ‘like the look of’?”
“Whichever. It comes to the same thing.”
Carole scrutinised all the circling horses with calculating care. Then she pointed to a tall grey. “That one.”
“Number Seven.” Jude consulted her race card. “Gerry’s Tyke. Not a bad choice. Will probably start favourite.”
“You mean I’ve picked the winner?”
“You’ve picked the one most people think’ll win.”
“Oh?”
“Which is a very different thing. Come on, let me show you where the bookies are.”
They dismounted from the viewing steps. As they moved away, the jockeys in their bright silks were starting to appear on the central green of the parade ring, chatting with eager politeness to their paymasters and eyeing up the opposition. As Carole and Jude walked up towards the stands, aromas of curry and onions and chips wafted from the high vans dispensing them. Large men with beer in plastic glasses milled around, but nothing threatened. The atmosphere remained benign, anticipatory, everyone having a good day out.
Jude led Carole through the milling bodies in a passage between the stands that led to the trackside area. Here two rows of bookies plied their trade, the more modern with the horses’ names and odds red on electronic displays, but the majority still relying on printed cards, a felt pen to write up the odds and a finger to wipe them away.
“You can bet on the tote, but I much prefer doing it with the bookies. You can see the odds change from minute to minute.”
Carole nodded, as if she had a clue what she was being told. Jude pointed up at a bookie’s board. “See, Random Missile’s at twenty-fives. Gerry’s Tyke’s eleven-to-eight favourite.”
“Ah.”
“Ooh.” Jude suddenly darted along the row. By the time Carole struggled her way through the crowd to catch up, she saw her friend holding up a ten-pound note to another bookie. “Tenner on Random Missile.”
“Three hundred and thirty pound to ten, Number Four,” said the bookmaker, for the benefit of the recorder behind him, and waited till a ticket was printed out to hand to Jude.
“Why that bookmaker rather than the other one?” asked Carole.
“Because he was offering thirty-three to one. The other was only at twenty-fives.”
“Ah.”
“Which means I win 330 quid.”
“If the horse wins.”
“He will win. I know it.”
“How do you know it?”
“I just do.”
“Hmph,” said Carole.
“Ooh, look! They’re offering seven to four on yours over there.”
“What?”
“Seven to four on Gerry’s Tyke. Go on, grab it; won’t last long.”
“Are you suggesting that I should actually bet on the horse?”
“Yes. You think it’s going to win, don’t you?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“I’d have thought it was exactly the point.”
“Well, I’m not going to bet on it,” said Carole primly. “I didn’t spend all those years contributing to my pension so that I could fritter it all away on horses.”
“Okay. Your decision.” Overhead the tannoy crackled welcomes to the visitors and announced that the horses were coming out onto the course for the first race. “Come on, Carole, let’s get a good vantage point in the stands.”
At the narrow gate from the bookmakers’ area, a red-faced man in a blazer checked their day badges and let them through into the premier enclosure.
“There’s the winning post, you see,” said Jude. “If we get right up into the stands on a line with this, we’ll get a perfect view of the finish.”
Though the crowds were now starting to stream through from the other parts of the course, Carole and Jude were ahead of the rush and managed to secure a good vantage point on the highest of the cement steps overlooking the winning post.
“They start over there for this one.” Jude pointed to the farside of the course, where a blur of moving colours could just be discerned.
“You can see why people bring binoculars,” Carole observed.
“Don’t worry. There’ll be a running commentary while the race is on. There are whole areas of the course that are out of sight. In terms of seeing everything, you do better watching racing on television, but of course it’s more exciting when you’re actually here.”
“Are you telling me, Jude, that you sometimes watch horse racing on television?”
“Yes, of course I do. When I’m bored. But I don’t always have a bet.”
Deflated, Carole let the air puff out of her mouth, with the expression of a woman who had now heard everything.
The buzz of excitement around them grew as more and more people crammed into the stands. The grassy area below, near the winning post, was also filling up, and the level of decibels and excitement mounted as the start approached. Steam rose off the crowd in the March air and dissolved into the high roof of the stand.
Then, with their crackling pre-echoes, the loudspeakers announced the magic words, “They’re under starter’s orders. They’re off!”
As the commentary rumbled around the track, Carole found it difficult to pick out the individual words, but she kept hearing the name of Random Missile. From their vantage point, they could just about see the start, then the horses went almost out of sight down the bottom of the course, but became clearer as they entered the straight.
The commentary also seemed to become clearer at that point-or maybe Carole’s ears were just getting used to the strange sound quality-and there was no doubt from what was being said that Random Missile was way out ahead. Ten lengths, twelve lengths. To her surprise, Carole found herself clutching Jude’s arm. “Goodness,” she said, “yours is winning!”
“Yes, at the moment, but-”
“Ssh! He’s coming up to the finish!”
Random Missile, by now some twenty lengths ahead of his nearest rival, flashed past the post. Carole, uncharacteristically, found herself jumping in the air. “Jude!” she shrieked. “Random Missile’s won! You’ve won three hundred and thirty pounds!”
Perhaps it was the good-humoured laughter from the punters around them, or it could have been the fact that the horses all continued running that made Carole realise something was wrong. Crestfallen, she looked at her neighbour for an explanation.
“They’ve got two more circuits to go.” Jude was trying desperately hard not to sound patronising. “The one who wins will be the one who’s ahead the third time they pass the post.”
“Oh,” said Carole.
By the next time the horses passed the stands, Random Missile’s lead had been cut down to nothing, and as they climbed to the top of the course, he seemed to have found a reverse gear and was slipping back through the pack. Jude jutted out a rueful lower lip. “He never was going to stay in this going.”
Carole didn’t ask for a gloss on this; she got the gist.
The commentary continued, but on the final circuit the names had changed. The horses who had been leading for the first two went virtually unmentioned, though Random Missile did get a couple of name checks. They were: “Random Missile’s trailing the rest by a country mile” and “Random Missile’s pulled up.”
