Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,24

and when we like, and we can work them without anxious owners fluttering round to fuss about their feed or exercise. We can sell them again, at the end.’

One of O’Hara’s chief virtues, in my eyes, was his ability to evaluate facts very fast and come up with quick decisions. So ‘Buy them,’ he said, and he’d liberated sufficient funds for a bloodstock agency to acquire the fourteen good-looking no-hopers currently eating oats and hay in our yard.

The actors’ unions having agreed we should use real-life stable personnel for the horses, I’d recruited a young assistant trainer from a prestigious Newmarket yard and installed him in charge of our whole horse operation, giving him the title of horsemaster and also the riding but non-speaking role of assistant trainer in the film.

He was already busy getting lads and horses ready for the morning action when I arrived in the yard at dawn. Moncrieff’s crew had laid felt carpeting over the gravel to silence the progress of the rolling camera dolly. He himself had strategically planted his lighting. Ed, he reported, was already in position upstairs.

The weather was cold and windy with dark scudding clouds. Moncrieff liked the moodiness, humming happily as he arranged for ominous shadows to fall across Nash’s stand-in, who looked hopelessly un-trainerlike in riding gear. When Nash himself – in character – strode out of the house and yelled bad-tempered instructions to the lads it was as real as any such bona fide moment I’d ever seen.

There were annoyances with the camera truck – one of its wheels squeaked despite the felt path. Oil and oaths fixed it. Moncrieff and I fretted at the delay because of light values. Nash seemed less irritated than resigned.

Only two takes were necessary of the assistant trainer giving Nash a leg-up onto his hack; the horse amazingly stood still. Nash wheeled away and sat on his mount in and out of shot while the assistant trainer heaved himself into his own saddle and led the circling string of by now mounted lads out through wide open stable gates onto the Newmarket training grounds beyond. Nash followed last, remembering to look back and up to the bedroom window. When his horse had walked him well out of sight I yelled ‘Cut’, and the whole string ambled back into the yard, the hooves scrunching on the gravel, the lads joshing each other like kids out of school.

‘How did it go?’ I asked Moncrieff. ‘Cameras OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Print, then.’ I walked among the horses to speak to their riders. ‘That was good,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it again, now, though. Two snaps are better than one.’

They nodded. By then they all considered themselves expert film-makers. The second take didn’t go as smoothly, but that didn’t necessarily matter: we would use the version that looked more natural on film.

I followed them on foot out of the gate to where Nash and all the lads were circling, awaiting my verdict.

‘Same again tomorrow morning,’ I said, patting horses’ necks. ‘Different clothes. Off you all go, then. Remember not to get in the way of any real racehorses. Walk and trot only on the grounds we’ve been allotted.’

The string filed off to exercise and Nash returned to the yard, dismounting and handing his reins to the lad left behind for the purpose.

‘Is it still on for tomorrow?’ he asked, turning in my direction.

‘Doncaster, do you mean?’

He nodded.

‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘The stewards have asked you to their lunch, so you can use their box all afternoon and have as much or as little privacy as you want. They’ve sent tickets for two, for you to take a companion.’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever you like.’

‘You, then.’

‘What? I meant a friend, or perhaps Silva?’ Silva was the bewitching actress he’d tumbled around with in bed.

‘Not her,’ he said vehemently. ‘You. Why not? And don’t say you’ll still be doing close shots in the enquiry room. Let’s make damned sure they all get completed this afternoon. I want you because you know the drill on a British racecourse, and the racing people know you.’

Green lights got what they wanted. Moreover, I discovered it was what I wanted also.

‘Fine, then,’ I said. ‘Helicopter at eleven-thirty.’

Watching his familiar back walk off to his ever-waiting Rolls, I called Bedford Lodge from my mobile phone and by persuasive perseverance got the staff to find Howard Tyler, who was in the bar.

‘Just a word, Howard,’ I said.

‘Not more script changes?’ He was acidly sarcastic.

‘No. Urn… simply a word of warning.’

‘I don’t