Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,9
the local supermarket in their place. If MaryLou objected to this continental influence, it was too bad.
Only half my dining-room manpower had actually turned up so they, and I, were still busy laying the tables when the first of the lunch guests was due to arrive, but we had nearly made it with only the wine glasses on a couple of the tables still to be put out.
MaryLou had stood back and watched us as we worked.
We had laid starched white tablecloths over the stained and chipped plywood tables and that had instantly improved the look of the room. I liked using Stress-Free Catering as their equipment was of a higher quality than much of that available from other catering hire services. Kings pattern cutlery and decent water and wine glasses soon transformed the bare tables into settings fit, maybe not for a king, but certainly for a tractor and combine harvester manufacturer from across the pond.
Carl had even managed to rescue the pink and white carnation centrepieces from the cold-room before it was sealed and they, together with the alternate pink and white napkins, gave the final touch to the room.
I stood back and admired our handiwork. I was sure the guests would be impressed. Even MaryLou seemed to be pleased. She smiled. ‘Just in time,’ she said as she laid place name cards around the tables.
I looked at my watch. Twenty-five to twelve. Only the daylight outside told me it was a.m. and not p.m. My body clock had stopped hours ago and needed rewinding with a decent sleep before it would start again.
‘No problem,’ I said.
I felt clammy all over and longed to put my head down on a nice feather pillow. Instead, I retreated to the kitchen and doused my aching crown under cold water at the sink. I hoped that Angela Milne couldn’t see me through the window. The Food Standards Agency wouldn’t approve of a chef wetting his hair under the kitchen tap. I emerged slightly more refreshed but, overall, it wasn’t a great improvement. I yawned loudly with my mouth wide open, leaned on the sink, and looked out across the parade ring towards the town centre.
Newmarket on 2000 Guineas day. The town was abuzz with excitement for the first classic race of the year with every hotel room for miles occupied with the hopeful and the expectant.
Newmarket was nicknamed ‘Headquarters’ by racing people, although it had long since relinquished its role as the official power base of the Sport of Kings. The Jockey Club headquarters had been established at Newmarket in the 1750s to regulate the already thriving local racing scene, and it had soon expanded its authority over all Thoroughbred racing in the land. Indeed the Jockey Club had wielded such power that in October 1791 the Prince Regent, the future King George IV, was investigated for ‘irregularities in the running of his horse Escape’. The irregularities in question were that the horse pulled up on one day at short odds only to win the next day at long. The Prince sold his horses and his stud and never returned to Newmarket and it is much rumoured that he was, in fact, privately ‘warned off’ by the stewards although officially he was just ‘censured’.
Nowadays, the Jockey Club is still a huge influence in Newmarket itself as it owns not only the two racecourses, but also some 2,400 acres of training gallops around the town. But the role it once had in the running and control of British racing has faded away to almost nothing with the establishment first of the British Horseracing Board and then, more recently, the creation of the British Horseracing Authority, which has taken over the enquiries and disciplinary matters within the sport. The Jockey Club has returned to what it was at its original meetings in a London tavern, a social gathering for like-minded individuals who enjoy their racing. That is, of course, unless they happened to be a professional jockey. There are no actual jockeys in the Jockey Club. In the eyes of the members, jockeys are servants and have no place socializing among their betters.
Carl roused me from my daydreaming.
‘We can only get half the pies in these ovens,’ he said, ‘so we’re borrowing the space in the ovens down the passage. They’re serving a cold buffet so there’s plenty of room.’
‘Great,’ I said. I was so tired I hadn’t even realized there was a problem. ‘What time do they go in?’ I tried hard