In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,40

to see the vulgarity of their choice, so they invented a rule that the officers’ enclosures were for men only, which effectively silenced their popsies’ pleas to be taken.’

I laughed ‘Very neat.’

‘It’s easier to establish a tradition,’ Hudson said, ‘than to get rid of it.’

‘You’re establishing a great tradition for fine wines, Donald says.’

The sad-looking eyes twinkled with civilized pleasure. ‘He was most enthusiastic. He travelled round all the big vineyards, of course, besides visiting us.’

The horses for the third race cantered away to the start, led by a fractious chestnut colt with too much white about his head.

‘Ugly brute,’ Hudson said. ‘But he’ ll win.’

‘Are you backing it?’

He smiled. ‘I’ve a little bit on.’

The race started and the field sprinted, and Hudson’s knuckles whitened so much from his grip as he gazed intently through his binoculars that I wondered just how big the little bit was. The chestnut colt was beaten into fourth place. Hudson put his race-glasses down slowly and watched the unsatisfactory finish with a blank expression.

‘Oh well,’ he said, his sad eyes looking even sadder. ‘Always another day.’ He shrugged resignedly, cheered up, shook my hand, told me to remember him to Donald, and asked if I could find my own way out.

‘Thank you for your help,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Any time. Any time.’

With only a couple of wrong turnings I reached ground level, listening on the way to fascinating snippets of Australian conversation.

‘… They say he’s an embarrassment as a Committee man. He only opens his mouth to change feet…’

‘… a beastly stomach wog, so he couldn’t come…’

‘… told him to stop whingeing like a bloody Pommie, and get on with it…’

‘… won twenty dollars? Good on yer, Joanie…’

And everywhere the diphthong vowels which gave the word ‘No’ about five separate sounds, defying my attempts to copy it. I’d been told on the flight over, by an Australian, that all Australians spoke with one single accent. It was about as true as saying all Americans spoke alike, or all British. English was infinitely elastic; and alive, well and living in Melbourne.

Jik and Sarah, when I rejoined them, were arguing about their fancies for the Victoria Derby, next race on the card.

‘Ivory Ball is out of his class and has as much chance as a blind man in a blizzard.’

Sarah ignored this. ‘He won at Moonee Valley last week and two of the tipsters pick him.’

‘Those tipsters must have been drunk.’

‘Hello Todd,’ Sarah said, ‘Pick a number, for God’s sake.’

‘Ten.’

‘Why ten?’

‘Eleven minus one.’

‘Jesus,’ Jik said. ‘You used to have more sense.’

Sarah looked it up. ‘Royal Road. Compared with Royal Road, Ivory Ball’s a certainty.’

We bought our tickets and went up to the roof, and none of our bets came up. Sarah disgustedly yelled at Ivory Ball who at least managed fifth, but Royal Road fell entirely by the wayside. The winner was number twelve.

‘You should have added eleven and one,’ Sarah said. ‘You make such silly mistakes.’

‘What are you staring at?’ Jik said.

I was looking attentively down at the crowd which had watched the race from ground level on the Members’ lawn.

‘Lend me your raceglasses…’

Jik handed them over. I raised them, took a long look, and slowly put them down.

‘What is it?’ Sarah said anxiously. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That,’ I said, ‘has not only torn it, but ripped the bloody works apart.’

‘What has?’

‘Do you see those two men… about twenty yards along from the parade ring railing… one of them in a grey morning suit?’

‘What about them?’ Jik said.

‘The man in the morning suit is Hudson Taylor, the man I just had a drink with. He’s the managing director of a wine-making firm, and he saw a lot of my cousin Donald when he was over here. And the other man is called Ivor Wexford, and he’s the manager of the Yarra River Fine Arts gallery.’

‘So what?’ Sarah said.

‘So I can just about imagine the conversation that’s going on down there,’ I said. ‘Something like, “Excuse me, sir, but didn’t I sell a picture to you recently?” “Not to me, Mr Wexford, but to my friend Donald Stuart.” “And who was that young man I saw you talking to just now?” “That was Donald Stuart’s cousin, Mr Wexford.” “And what do you know about him?” “That he’s a painter by trade and drew a picture of you, Mr Wexford, and asked me for your name.”’

I stopped. ‘Go on,’ Jik said.

I watched Wexford and Hudson Taylor stop talking, nod casually to each other, and walk their separate ways.

‘Ivor