a pipe up and connected it to a garden hose running along inside, below the ridge. The hose has small holes in it. The water squirts out OK.’
‘Henry! You’re a genius.’
‘I had a bit of time yesterday, when you went off to London, and I reckoned the racecourse couldn’t afford another calamity like the stands. A good precaution’s never wasted, I thought, so I rigged up this very basic sprinkler. Don’t know how long it would work. If ever flames got that high, they could melt the hose.’ He laughed. ‘Also, I, or someone who knows, has to be around to turn the tap on. I had to stick tape and those labels all over it, saying, “DO NOT TOUCH THIS” in case someone turned it on while all the crowds were inside tucking into their smoked salmon sandwiches.’
‘My God!’
‘Roger knows about it and Oliver, and now you.’
‘Not the Strattons?’
‘Not the Strattons, I don’t trust them.’
Keith, definitely, would have soaked the paying customers to ruin their day.
Henry went on, trying to reassure me. ‘But Keith won’t actually try to kill you, not after he said in public that he was going to.’
‘That wasn’t public. That was the Stratton family.’
‘But I heard him, and the waitresses did.’
‘They would pay off the waitresses and swear you misheard.’
‘Do you mean it?’
‘I’m certain they’ve done that sort of thing often. Maybe not for murder, but other crimes, certainly.’
‘But… what about newspapers?’
‘The Strattons are rich,’ I said briefly. ‘Money will and does buy more than you’d think. Money’s for using to get what you want.’
‘Well, obviously.’
‘The Strattons don’t want scandal.’
‘But they can’t bribe the Press!’
‘How about the sources that speak to the Press? How about suddenly blind waitresses with healthy bank balances?’
‘Not these days,’ he protested. ‘Not with our insatiable tabloids.’
‘I never thought I’d feel older than you, Henry. The Strattons can outbid the tabloids.’
Henry’s mind I knew to be agile, practical, inventive and straight, but of his homelife and background I knew nothing. Henry the giant and I had worked together in harmony over a stretch of years, never intimate, always appreciative; on my part, at least. Henry’s junk dealings had found me a whole untouched Adam room once, and dozens of antique fireplaces and door frames. Henry and I did business by telephone – ‘Can you find me…’ or ‘I’ve come across this…’ These Stratton Park days were the first I’d spent so much in his company and they would, I thought contentedly, lead to a positive friendship.
We rounded the far end of the big top and watched the runners for the second race walk by on their way out onto the track. I found I was liking more and more to watch them, having given them little thought for most of my life. Imagine the world without them, I thought: history itself would have been totally different. Land transport wouldn’t have existed. Mediaeval battles wouldn’t have been fought. No six hundred to ride into a valley of death. No Napoleon. The seafarers, Vikings and Greeks, might still rule the world.
Horses, fleet, strong, tamable, had been just the right size. I watched the way their muscles moved under the groomed coats; no architect anywhere could have designed anything as functional, economical, supremely proportioned.
Rebecca rode by, adjusting her stirrup leathers, her attentions inward on the contest ahead. I had never wanted to ride, but at that moment I envied her: envied her skill, her obsession, her absolute commitment to a physical – animal – partnership with a phenomenal creature.
People could bet; they could own, train, breed, paint, admire, write about thoroughbreds: the primaeval urge to be first, in both runner and rider, was where the whole industry started. Rebecca on horseback became for me the quintessence of racing.
Henry and I stood on the ex-circus stands and watched the race together. The whole field jumped the restored open ditch without faltering. Rebecca finished well back, not taking part in the finish.
Henry said racing didn’t grab him like rugger and went away to patrol his defences.
The afternoon passed. ‘There were the usual disasters,’ Roger said, dashing about.
I came across the racecourse doctor taking a breather between casualties. ‘Come to see me on Thursday,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll take all those clips out. Save you waiting around in the hospital.’
‘Great.’
Oliver, in the office, dealt with enquiries and wrathful trainers and arranged for a Stewards’ enquiry into an objection to the winner to take place in the inner office among the computers, copier and coffee machine.
On the whole, the