be run at give-no-quarter speed, and he came into the finishing straight in a bunch of flying horses, lying sixth or eighth, as far as I could see.
Malcolm shouted‘Come on,’ explosively as if air had backed up in his lungs from not breathing, and the ladies around us in silk dresses and hats, and the men in grey morning suits, infected by the same urgency, yelled and urged and cursed in polyglot babel. Malcolm put down the raceglasses and yelled louder, totally involved, rapt, living through his eyes.
Blue Clancy was doing his bit, I thought. He hadn’t blown up. In fact, he was hanging on to fifth place. Going faster. Fourth …
The trainer, more restrained than owners, was now saying, ‘Come on, come on’ compulsively under his breath, but two of the horses already in front suddenly came on faster than Blue Clancy and drew away from the field, and the real hope died in the trainer with a sigh and a sag to the shoulders.
The finish the crowd watched was a humdinger which only a photograph could decide. The finish Malcolm, Ramsey, the trainer and I watched was two lengths further back, where Blue Clancy and his jockey, never giving up, were fighting all out to the very end, flashing across the line absolutely level with their nearest rival, only the horse’s nose in front taking his place on the nod.
‘On the nod,’ the trainer said, echoing my thought.
‘What does that mean?’ Malcolm demanded. He was high with excitement, flushed, his eyes blazing. ‘Were we third? Say we were third.’
‘I think so,’ the trainer said. ‘There’ll be a photograph.’
We hurried down from the stand to get to the unsaddling enclosure, Malcolm still short of breath and slightly dazed. ‘What does on the nod mean?’ he asked me.
‘A galloping horse pokes his head out forward with each stride in a sort of rhythm, forward, back, forward, back. If two horses are as close as they were, and one horse’s nose is forward when it passes the finishing line, and the other horse’s happens to be back… well, that’s on the nod.’
‘Just luck, you mean?’
‘Luck.’
‘My God,’ he said, ‘I never thought I’d feel like that. I never thought I’d care. 1 only did it for a jaunt.’
He looked almost with wonderment at my face, as if I’d beenbefore him into a far country and he’d now discovered the mystery for himself.
Ramsey Osborn, who had roared with the best, beamed with pleasure when an announcement confirmed Blue Clancy’s third place, saying he was sure glad the half-share sale had turned out fine. There were congratulations all round, with Malcolm and Ramsey being introduced to the owners of the winner, who were Italian and didn’t understand Ramsey’s drawl. Press photographers flashed like popping suns. There were television cameras, enquiring journalists, speeches, presentations. Malcolm looked envious of the Italian owners: third was fine but winning was better.
The four of us went for a celebratory drink; champagne, of course.
‘Let’s go for it,’ Ramsey said. ‘The Breeders’ Cup. All the way.’
‘We’ll have to see how he is after today,’ the trainer said warningly. ‘He had a hard race.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ Ramsey said with hearty confidence. ‘Did you see the distance? Two lengths behind the winner. That’s world class and no kidding.’
The trainer looked thoughtful but didn’t argue. The favourite, undeniably world class, had finished second, victory snatched away no doubt by his earlier exhausting outing. He might not come back at all after his gruelling‘Arc’. The French favourite (and mine), Meilleurs Voeux, had finished fifth which made Blue Clancy better than I’d thought. Maybe he wouldn’t be disgraced in the Breeders’ Cup, if we went. I hoped we would go, but I was wary of hope.
The afternoon trickled away with the champagne, and Malcolm, almost as tired as his horse, sank euphorically into the limousine going back to the airport and closed his eyes in the jet.
‘My first ever runner,’ he said sleepily. ‘Third in the “Arc”. Not bad, eh?’
‘Not bad.’
‘I’m going to call the yearling Chrysos.’
‘Why Chrysos?’ I said.
He smiled without opening his eyes, it’s Greek for gold.’
Malcolm was feeling caged in the Savoy.
On Sunday night, when we returned from Paris, he’d hardly had the energy to undress. By Monday morning, he was pacing the carpetwith revitalised energy and complaining that another week in the suite would drive him bonkers.
‘I’m going back to Quantum,’ he said. ‘I miss the dogs.’
I said with foreboding, ‘It would take the family half a day at most to