have been that tractor, the racecourse tractor, which was used.’
‘I’ll bet it was, though.’ I told Chico about the photographed initials and payments. ‘Tomorrow I’ll check the initials of all the workmen here from Ted Wilkins downwards against that list. Any one of them might have been paid just to leave the tractor on the course, lying handy. The tanker went over on the evening before the meeting, like today. The tractor would have been in use then too. Warm and full of fuel. Nothing easier. And afterwards, straight on up the racecourse, and out of sight.’
‘It was dusk,’ agreed Chico. ‘As long as no one came along the road in the minutes it took to unhitch the ropes or chains afterwards, they were clear. No traffic diversions, no detours, nothing.’
We sat watching the tractor lumbering about, gloomily realising we couldn’t prove a word of it.
‘We’ll have to move,’ I said presently. ‘There’s a hurdle just along there, about fifty yards away, where those wings are. They’ll be down here over the road soon.’
We adjourned with Revelation back to the horse box half a mile away down the road to the west and took the opportunity to eat our own breakfast. When we had finished Chico went back first, strolling along confidently in my jodphurs, boots and polo-necked jersey, the complete horseman from head to foot. He had never actually sat on a horse in his life.
After a while I followed on Revelation. The men had brought the hurdles down into the semi-circular piece of track and had laid them in place. They were now moving further away up the course, unloading the next lot. Unremarked, I rode back to the bushes and dismounted. Of Chico there was no sign for another half hour, and then he came whistling across from the road with his hands in his pockets.
When he reached me he said, ‘I had another look round the stands. Rotten security, here. No one asked me what I was doing. There are some women cleaning here and there, and some are working in the stable block, getting the lads’ hostel ready, things like that. I said good morning to them, and they said good morning back.’ He was disgusted.
‘Not much scope for saboteurs,’ I said morosely. ‘Cleaners in the stands and workmen on the course.’
‘Dusk tonight,’ nodded Chico. ‘That’s the most likely time now.’
The morning ticked slowly away. The sun rose to its low November zenith and shone straight into our eyes. I passed the time by taking a photograph of Revelation and another of Chico. He was fascinated by the tiny camera and said he couldn’t wait to get one like it. Eventually I put it back into my breeches pocket, and shading my eyes against the sun took my hundredth look up the course.
Nothing. No men, no tractor. I looked at my watch. One o’clock. Lunch hour. More time passed.
Chico picked up the race-glasses and swept the course.
‘Be careful,’ I said idly. ‘Don’t look at the sun with those. You’ll hurt your eyes.’
‘Do me a favour.’
I yawned, feeling the sleepless night catch up.
‘There’s a man on the course,’ he said. ‘One. Just walking.’
He handed me the glasses and I took a look. He was right. One man was walking alone across the racecourse; not round the track but straight across the rough grass in the middle. He was too far away for his features to be distinguishable and in any case he was wearing a fawn duffle coat with the hood up. I shrugged and lowered the glasses. He looked harmless enough.
With nothing better to do we watched him reach the far side, duck under the rails, and move along until he was standing behind one of the fences with only his head and shoulders in our sight.
Chico remarked that he should have attended to nature in the gents before he left the stands. I yawned again, smiling at the same time. The man went on standing behind the fence.
‘What on earth is he doing?’ said Chico, after about five minutes.
‘He isn’t doing anything,’ I said, watching through the glasses. ‘He’s just standing there looking this way.’
‘Do you think he’s spotted us?’
‘No, he couldn’t. He hasn’t any binocs, and we are in the bushes.’
Another five minutes passed in inactivity.
‘He must be doing
‘Well, he isn’t,’ I said.
Chico took a turn with the glasses. ‘You can’t see a damn thing against the sun,’ he complained. ‘We should have camped up the other end.’
‘In the car park?’ I suggested mildly. ‘The road to the stables and the main gates runs along the other end. There isn’t a scrap of cover.’
‘He’s got a flag,’ said Chico suddenly. ‘Two flags. One in each hand. White on the left, orange on the right. He seems to be waving them alternately. He’s just some silly nit of a racecourse attendant practising calling up the ambulance and the vet.’ He was disappointed.
I watched the flags waving, first white, then orange, then white, then orange, with a gap of a second or two between each wave. It certainly wasn’t any form of recognisable signalling: nothing like semaphore. They were, as Chico had said, quite simply the flags used after a fall in a race: white to summon the ambulance for the jockey, orange to get attention for a horse. He didn’t keep it up very long. After about eight waves altogether he stopped, and in a moment or two began to walk back across the course to the stands.
‘Now what,’ said Chico, ‘do you think all that was in aid of?’
He swept the glasses all round the whole racecourse yet again. ‘There isn’t a soul about except him and us.’
‘He’s probably been standing by a fence for months waiting for a chance to wave his flags, and no one has been injured anywhere near him. In the end, the temptation proved too much.’
I stood up and stretched, went through the bushes to Revelation, undid the head collar with which he was tethered to the bushes, unbuckled the surcingle and pulled off his rug.
‘What are you doing?’ said Chico.
The same as the man with the flags. Succumbing to an intolerable temptation. Give me a leg up.’ He did what I asked, but hung on to the reins.
‘You’re mad. You said in the night that they might let you do it after this meeting, but they’d never agree to it before. Suppose you smash the fences?’
Then I’ll be in almighty trouble,’ I agreed. ‘But here I am on a super jumper looking at a heavenly course on a perfect day, with everyone away at lunch.’ I grinned. ‘Leave go.’
Chico took his hand away. ‘It’s not like you,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ I said flippantly, and touched Revelation into a walk.
At this innocuous pace the horse and I went out on to the track and proceeded in the direction of the stands. Anti-clockwise, the way the races were run. Still at a walk we reached the road and went across its uncovered tarmac surface. On the far side of the road lay the enormous dark brown patch of tan, spread thick and firm where the burnt turf had been bulldozed away. Horses would have no difficulty in racing over it.
Once on the other side, on the turf again, Revelation broke into a trot. He knew where he was. Even with no crowds and no noise the fact of being on a familiar racecourse was exciting him. His ears were pricked, his step springy. At fourteen he had been already a year in retirement, but he moved beneath me like a four-year-old. He too, I guessed fancifully, was feeling the satanic tug of pleasure about to be illicitly snatched.
Chico was right, of course. I had no business at all to be riding on the course so soon before a meeting. It was indefensible. I ought to know better. I did know better. I eased Revelation gently into a canter.
There were three flights of hurdles and three fences more or less side by side up the straight, and the water jump beyond that. As I wasn’t sure that Revelation would jump the fences in cold blood on his own (many horses won’t), I set him at the hurdles.
Once he had seen these and guessed my intention I doubt if I could have stopped him, even if I’d wanted to. He fairly ate up the first flight and stretched out eagerly for the second. After that I gave him a choice, and of the two obstacles lying ahead, he opted for the fence. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was on his own. They were excellent fences and he was a Gold Cup winner, born and bred for the job and being given an unexpected, much missed treat. He flew the fence with all his former dash and skill.
As for me, my feelings were indescribable. I’d sat on a horse a few times since I’d given up racing, but never found an opportunity of doing more than riding out quietly at morning exercise with Mark’s string. And here I was,
