the sort of day when nonsense made sense. Minty and Warren met relays of drinking pals and left us much alone, which suited me fine, and at the end of the racing programme we sat high up on the stands looking over the course while the sunlight died to yellow and pink and scarlet. Drifts of flamingoes on the small lakes in the centre of the track deepened from pale pink to intense rose and the sky on the water reflected silver and gold.
‘I bet it’s snowing in London,’ I said.
After dark and after dinner Warren drove us round to the sales paddock on the far side of the racecourse, where spotlights lit a scene that was decidedly more rustic than the stands. Sugar icing stopped with the tourists: horse-trading had its feet on the grass.
There were three main areas linked by short undefined paths and well-patronised open-fronted bars; there was the sale ring, the parade ring and long barns lined with stalls, where the merchandise ate hay and suffered prods and insults and people looking at its teeth.
Warren opted for the barns first and we wandered down the length of the nearest while he busily consulted his catalogue. Minty told him they were definitely not buying any more horses until the chipped knees were all cleared up. ‘No dear,’ Warren said soothingly, but with a gleam in his eye which spelt death to the bank balance.
I looked at the offerings with interest. A mixed bunch of horses which had been raced, from three years upwards. Warren said the best sales were those for two-year-olds at the end of the month and Minty said why didn’t he wait awhile and see what they were like.
The lights down the far end of the barn were dim and the horse in the last stall of all was so dark that at first I thought the space was empty. Then an eye shimmered and a movement showed a faint gleam on a rounded rump.
A black horse. Black like Energise.
I looked at him first because he was black, and then more closely, with surprise. He was indeed very like Energise. Extremely like him.
The likeness abruptly crystallised an idea I’d already been turning over in my mind. A laugh fluttered in my throat. The horse was a gift from the gods and who was I to look it in the mouth.
‘What have you found?’ Warren asked, advancing with good humour.
‘I’ve a hurdler like this at home.’
Warren looked at the round label stuck onto one hind-quarter which bore the number sixty-two.
‘Hip number sixty-two,’ he said, flicking the pages of the catalogue. ‘Here it is. Black Fire, five-year-old gelding. Humph.’ He read quickly down the page through the achievements and breeding. ‘Not much good and never was much good, I guess.’
‘Pity.’
‘Yeah.’ He turned away. ‘Now there’s a damned nice looking chestnut colt along there…’
‘No, Warren,’ said Minty despairingly.
We all walked back to look at the chestnut colt. Warren knew no more about buying horses than I did, and besides, the first thing I’d read on the first page of the catalogue was the clear warning that the auctioneers didn’t guarantee the goods were of merchantable quality. In other words, if you bought a lame duck it was your own silly fault.
‘Don’t pay no attention to that,’ said Warren expansively. ‘As long as you don’t take the horse out of the sales paddock, you can get a veterinarian to check a horse you’ve bought, and if he finds anything wrong you can call the deal off. But you have to do it within twenty-four hours.’
‘Sounds fair.’
‘Sure. You can have x-rays even. Chipped knees would show on an x-ray. Horses can walk and look okay with chipped knees but they sure can’t race.’
Allie said with mock resignation, ‘So what exactly are chipped knees?’
Warren said ‘Cracks and compressions at the ends of the bones at the knee joint.’
‘From falling down?’ Allie asked.
Warren laughed kindly. ‘No. From too much hard galloping on dirt. The thumping does it.’
I borrowed the sales catalogue from Warren again for a deeper look at the regulations and found the twenty-four hour inspection period applied only to brood mares, which wasn’t much help. I mentioned it diffidently to Warren. ‘It says here,’ I said neutrally, ‘that it’s wise to have a vet look at a horse for soundness before you bid. After is too late.’
‘Is that so?’ Warren retrieved his book and peered at the small print. ‘Well, I guess you’re right.’ He received the news good-naturedly.