I said to Luca.
“Dunno,” he said. “Nothing much seemed to happen.”
“No,” I said. “But it was fun while it lasted.”
“Where did all those blokes come from?” he said. “They must have been hiding in the stands somewhere.”
“It was a bit of overkill, if you ask me,” I said.
“They must have lost a packet last time.”
“I’ll bet they didn’t do so well this time either,” I said with a grin. “And they don’t like it.” I laughed.
“Serves them bloody right,” Luca said, laughing back at me.
It really did serve them right, I thought. The big boys had no sympathy for independent bookies as they tried to squeeze the lifeblood out of us, so they couldn’t expect much compassion in return when they got rolled over. In fact, the truth was, we absolutely loved it.
“Weighed in,” announced the public address.
The first in line to be paid out was the gorgeous young woman in black and white.
“Well done,” I said cheerfully, giving her fifty pounds for her ten-pound place bet on number eleven.
“Thank you,” she replied, blushing slightly again. “My first win of the day.”
“Would you like to use it to make another bet?” I asked, pointing at the cash in her hand.
“Oh no,” she said in mock shock. “My boyfriend says I should always keep my winnings.”
“Very wise,” I said through gritted teeth.
Damn boyfriend!
The last two races on Royal Ascot Saturday have a distinct “end of term” feel about them. The very last race of the day, the Queen Alexandra Stakes, is the longest flat race in the United Kingdom, at more than two and a half miles, often attracting horses that normally run over the jumps. After the excitement of the Golden Jubilee and the Wokingham Stakes, which were both frantic six-furlong sprints, I always felt that the more sedate pace of the longer events was a slightly disappointing end to the meeting.
Betting was also light as punters drifted away either to beat the race traffic, to have some tea and scones or to sup a last glass of champagne in the bars. The betting ring was not exactly deserted, but the men with the earpieces were now a fairly large proportion of those remaining. They wandered around aimlessly, waiting for something untoward to happen.
It didn’t.
The day fizzled out. The Queen went home to Windsor Castle, and Royal Ascot was over for another year.
Perhaps I wouldn’t come back next year. Or maybe I would.
I spent most of Sunday with Sophie.
It was a lovely summer’s day, and we went for a walk in the hospital grounds. She had improved so much over the past five or six weeks, and I was really hopeful that she would be able to come home very soon.
“Another couple of weeks,” the doctor had said to me when I arrived.
They were always saying “another couple of weeks.” It was as if they were afraid to make the decision to send her home just in case she had a relapse and then they would be blamed for discharging her too soon.
We walked around a small pond set beneath the overhanging branches of a great oak tree. The mental hospital had been created by transforming a minor stately home that had been bequeathed to the nation by someone in lieu of inheritance tax. The building had been greatly changed from its former glory, but the grounds somehow remained rather grand even though the formal flower beds had long ago been converted into simple lawn, more easily cut by tractor mower. The calm tranquillity of the gardens was meant to do the patients good, and the high, supposedly escapeproof wire perimeter fence was out of sight, well screened behind trees. To be fair, the fence was there more to give the local residents a sense of security than to imprison the patients. Those cared for at this facility were placed in secure accommodation for their own safety, not because they posed a risk to others.
Broadmoor, it was not.
“Did you have a good week at Ascot?” Sophie asked as we sat on a bench by the pond.
“Yes,” I said. “A very good week.”
I still hadn’t said anything to her about the events of the previous Tuesday, and maybe I never would.
“There was all sorts of excitement yesterday,” I said. “Someone managed to turn both the Internet and the mobile phones off. The big companies were having a fit.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, smiling warmly at the thought. Sophie knew all about bookmaking. She had stood next to my grandfather and me