Malcolm concentrated on the flickering figures until they began to shine more brightly in the fading daylight, but he still paid no close attention to the merchandise itself.
‘They all look very small,’ he said reprovingly, watching a narrow colt pass on its way from stable to sale-ring.
‘Well, they’re yearlings.’
‘One year old, literally?’
‘Eighteen months, twenty months: about that. They race next year, when they’re two.’
He nodded and decided to return to the scene of the action, and again found us seats opposite the big-money crowd. The amphitheatre had filled almost to capacity while we’d been outside, and soon, with every seat taken, people shoved close-packed into the entrance and the standing-room sections: the blood of Northern Dancer and Nijinsky and of Secretariat and Lyphard was on its regal way to the ring.
A hush fell in the building at the entrance of the first of the legend-bred youngsters, the breath-held expectant hush of the knowledgeable awaiting a battle among financial giants. A fat cheque on this sales evening could secure a Derby winner and found a dynasty, and it happened often enough to tempt belief each time that this… this… was the one.
The auctioneer cleared his throat and managed the introduction without a quiver. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now have Lot No 76, a bay colt by Nijinsky …’ He recited the magical breeding as if bored, and asked for an opening bid.
Malcolm sat quiet and watched while the numbers flew high on the Scoreboard, the price rising in jumps of fifty thousand; watched while the auctioneer scanned the bidding faces for the drop of an eyelid, the twitch of a head, the tiny acknowledgements of intent.
‘… against you, sir. No more, then? All done?’ The auctioneer’s eyebrows rose with his gavel, remained poised in elevation, came smoothly, conclusively down. ‘Sold for one million seven hundred thousand guineas to Mr Siddons …’
The crowd sighed, expelling collective breath like a single organism. Then came rustling of catalogues, movement, murmuring and rewound expectation.
Malcolm said, it’s a spectator sport.’
‘Addictive,’ I agreed.
He glanced at me sideways. ‘For one million… five million… there’s no guarantee the colt will ever race, isn’t that what you said? One could be throwing one’s cash down the drain?’
‘That’s right.’
It’s a perfectly blameless way of getting rid of a lot of money very fast, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well …’ I said slowly,‘is that what you’re at?’
‘Do you disapprove?’
‘It’s your money. You made it. You spend it.’
He smiled almost secretively at his catalogue and said, ‘I can hear the “but” ‘in your voice.’
‘Mm. If you want to enjoy yourself, buy ten next-best horses instead of one super-colt, and get interested in them.’
‘And pay ten training fees instead of one?’
I nodded. ‘Ten would drain the exchequer nicely.’
He laughed in his throat and watched the next half-grown blue-blood reach three million guineas before Mr Siddons shook his head.‘… sold for three million and fifty thousand guineas to Mrs Terazzini…’
‘Who’s she?’ Malcolm asked.
‘She owns a world-wide bloodstock empire.’
He reflected. ‘Like Robert Sangster?’
‘Yep. Like him.’
He made a noise of understanding. ‘An industry.’
‘Yes.’
The following lot, a filly, fetched a more moderate sum, but the hush of expectancy returned for the next offering. Malcolm, keenly tuned by now to the atmosphere, watched the bidders as usual, not the nervous chestnut colt.
The upward impetus stopped at a fraction over two million and the auctioneer’s eyebrows and gavel rose. ‘All done?’
Malcolm raised his catalogue.
The movement caught the eye of the auctioneer, who paused with the gavel raised, using his eyebrows as a question, looking at Malcolm with surprise. Malcolm sat in what could be called the audience, not with the usual actors.
‘You want to bid, sir?’ asked the auctioneer.
‘And fifty,’ Malcolm said clearly, nodding.
There was a fluttering in the dovecot of auctioneers as head bent to head among themselves, consulting. All round the ring, necks stretched to see who had spoken, and down in the entrance-way the man who’d bid last before Malcolm shrugged, shook his head and turned his back to the auctioneer. His last increase had been for twenty thousand only: a last small raise over two million, which appeared to have been his intended limit.
The auctioneer himself seemed less than happy. ‘All done, then?’ he asked again, and with no further replies, said,‘Done then. Sold for two million and seventy thousand guineas to… er… the bidder opposite.’
The auctioneer consulted with his colleagues again and one of them left the box, carrying a clipboard. He hurried down and round the ring to join a minion on our side, both of