Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,59

prices in the boxes, whatever that means, and that it made him very angry.’

‘Bar prices?’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Is that so bad, dear?’

‘Judging from race meeting bar prices, about a hundred and fifty per cent profit on a bottle of scotch.’

Flora worked it out. ‘So Orkney has to pay in his box more than double what the same bottle costs in your shop?’

‘Yes, a good deal more than double.’

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I’d no idea drinks in the boxes cost so much.’

‘A pound barely wets the glass.’

‘You’re teasing me.’

‘Not entirely,’ I said.

‘No wonder Orkney resents having to pay that much when he used to take his own.’

‘Mm,’ I said reflectively. ‘The caterers do have big overheads, of course, but to charge by the tot in the boxes…’

‘By the tot, dear?’

‘Thirty-two tots to a bottle. That’s the single measure for spirits in all bars, racing or not. Two centilitres. One large mouthful or two small.’

Flora hardly believed me. ‘I suppose I don’t often buy drinks in bars, dear,’ she said sighing. ‘Jack does it, you see.’

In hindsight Orkney Swayle’s hand on the bottles had been lavish: generosity well disguised by a cold demeanour. And the external manners, I came to see during the afternoon, were not intentionally rude, but a thoughtless habit, the sort of behaviour one could inherit in ultra-reserved families. He appeared not to be aware of the effect he had on others and would perhaps have been astonished to know he reduced Flora to quivers.

Orkney made inroads in his gin with his regard impassively on my face.

‘Are you knowledgeable about horses?’ he asked.

I began to say ‘marginally’ but Flora didn’t want any sort of modest disclaimers on my part, she wanted Orkney to be impressed. ‘Yes of course he is, Orkney, his mother is a master of hounds and his father was a colonel and the greatest amateur rider of his generation and his grandfather was also a colonel and nearly won the Grand National…’

The faintest of gleams entered and left Orkney’s eyes and I thought with surprise that somewhere deep down he might have after all a sense of humour.

‘Yes, Flora,’ he said. ‘Those references are impeccable.’

‘Oh.’ She fell silent, not knowing if he were mocking her, and went pink round the nose, looking unhappily down at her drink.

‘Breezy Palm,’ Orkney said, oblivious, ‘is by Desert Palm out of Breezy City, by Draughty City, which was a half-brother to Goldenburgh whose sire won the Arc de Triomphe, of course.’

He paused as if expecting comment so I obligingly said, ‘What interesting breeding,’ which seemed to cover most eventualities, including my own absolute ignorance of all the horses involved.

He nodded judiciously. ‘American blood, of course. Draughty City was by Chicago Lake out of a dam by Michigan. Good strong hard horses. I never saw Draughty City of course, but I’ve talked to people who saw him race. You can’t do better than mixed American and British blood, I always say.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said.

Orkney discoursed for several further minutes on Breezy Palm’s antecedents with me making appropriate comments here and there and Flora, on the edge of my vision, slowly beginning to relax.

Such progress as she had made was however ruined at that point by the arrival from the powder room of the lady to whom Orkney wasn’t married, and it was clear that however much Orkney himself made Flora feel clumsy, his lady did it double.

Compared with Flora she was six inches taller, six inches slimmer and approximately six years younger. She also had strikingly large grey eyes, a long thin neck and luminous make-up, and was wearing almost the same clothes but with distinctly more chic: tailored suit, good shoes, neat felt hat at a becoming angle. An elegant, mature, sophisticated knock-out.

To the eye it was no contest. Flora looked dumpy beside her, and knew it. I put my arm round her shoulders and hugged her and thought for one dreadful second that I’d reduced her to tears.

‘Flora,’ Orkney said, ‘of course you and Isabella know each other… Isabella, my dear, this is Flora’s walker… er… what did you say your name was?’

I told him. He told Isabella. Isabella and I exchanged medium hello smiles and Orkney returned to the subject of American forebears.

The races came and went: first, second, third. Everyone went down each time to inspect the horses as they walked round the parade ring, returning to the box to watch the race. Orkney gambled seriously, taking his custom to the bookmakers on