own scenes, the joins of real to acted would be invisible – given no rain.
Cibber stood in the parade ring with his wife (Silva), and I positioned Nash’s stand-in within easy scowling distance. Moncrieff rolled his camera around on a dolly to get interesting architectural background. It all, as ever, took time, but as soon as possible I sent the townspeople home. Boredom was my enemy; bore them, and they wouldn’t return. Every child received a helium balloon on leaving (UNSTABLE TIMES in blue on silver), given with jokes and thanks.
The jockeys had been asked to stay in the parade ring for a briefing. I found them standing stiffly in a group there, their attitude distrustful and surly.
Not understanding this, I began, ‘Just pretend it’s a normal race tomorrow. Do everything you normally do on the way down to the start.’
One of them almost belligerently interrupted, ‘Is it true you raced once as an amateur?’
‘Well, yes, for three seasons.’
‘Why did you stop?’
I frowned. It wasn’t their business to ask such questions, and certainly not like an inquisition, but I needed their cooperation, so I said mildly, ‘I went to Hollywood to make films of horses instead.’
Silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
After a long pause, one of them told me, ‘It says about you in the Drumbeat…’
‘Ah.’ Light arrived. I looked at the cool faces, all highly cynical. I needed these jockeys to ride their hearts out the next day; and I could see with absolute clarity that they weren’t going to.
How odd, I thought, that I’d feared losing my authority over the film crews, but in fact had had little difficulty in re-establishing it, only to find now that I’d lost it among men I thought I understood. I asked if they’d watched the Lincoln and seen me talking to Greg Compass. None had. They’d been too busy working, they said. They’d been riding in races.
I said, ‘If any of you has doubts about doing a good job for me tomorrow, I’ll race him here and now.’
I didn’t know I was going to say it until I did. Once said, there was no going back.
They stared.
I said, ‘I’m not incompetent or a buffoon or a tyrant. Newspapers tell lies. Surely you know?’
They loosened up a little and a few began staring at their boots instead of my face, but one of them slowly and silently unbuttoned his shiny green and white striped shirt. He took it off and held it out. Underneath he wore the usual thin blue sweater, with a white stock round his neck.
I unclipped the walkie-talkie from my belt and whistled up Ed.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘In the stables.’
‘Good. Send three of the horses back, will you, with racing saddles and bridles, each led by a lad.’
‘Sure. Which three?’
‘The three fastest,’ I said. ‘And find the doctor we brought with us. Ask him to come to the parade ring.’
‘You don’t have to be an effing hero,’ one of the jockeys said. ‘We get your point.’
The one who’d removed his colours, however, still held them out as a challenge.
I unzipped my navy windproof jacket, took it off, and dropped it on the grass. I pulled off my sweater, ditto, and unbuttoned my shirt, which followed. I wore no jersey underneath, but I didn’t feel my bare skin chill in the wind: too much else to think about. I put on the offered green and white stripes and pointed to the stock. Silently, it was handed over, and I tied it neatly, thanking my stars that I remembered how.
As it had been only a rehearsal that afternoon, and all on foot, no one carried a whip and none of the jockeys was wearing the normal shock-absorbing body protector that shielded fallen riders from horses’ hooves. No one mentioned this absence. I buttoned the shirt and pushed the tails down inside my trousers; and I was passed a crash helmet with a scarlet cap.
Ed, in the distance, was walking back with three horses.
Moncrieff suddenly arrived at my elbow and demanded, ‘What in hell are you doing?’
‘Going for a ride.’ I put on the helmet and left the strap hanging.
‘You can’t!’
‘Be a pal and don’t film it in case I fall off.’
Moncrieff threw his arms out and appealed to the jockeys. ‘You can’t let him. Tell him to stop.’
‘They’ve read the Drumbeat,’ I said succinctly, ‘and do we want one hell of a race tomorrow, or do we not?’
Moncrieff understood all right, but made ineffectual noises about insurance, and moguls, and O’Hara,