All The Nice Girls (15 page)

‘Then you must know my worthless young nephew,
George
Dewberry.’ The Hon. Mrs Julian Dewberry did not so much speak to Dagwood as hail him, warning him to keep a good look-out up there in the watch-tower.

‘Oh yes, I know him quite well,’ said Dagwood. ‘We used to go to the odd jazz concert together in Portsmouth.’

‘How is he getting on?’

‘Oh very well, I think,’ said Dagwood, untruthfully. The last time he had seen George Dewberry, he was being led away by the Hampshire constabulary.

‘Stuff,’ retorted The Hon. Mrs Julian Dewberry. ‘He’s a good-for-nothing drunkard, like his father before him. M’sister’s got his liver in a bottle. I saw it last Christmas. Looks like a moth-eaten turd, you’ve never seen such a thing!’

‘Did you back the winner in that race, ma’am?’ Dagwood asked.

‘Don’t call me “ma’am”,’ said The Hon. Mrs Julian Dewberry, though flattered. ‘I never back horses. I only come here to support The Hunt.’ She spoke of The Hunt as though it were some savage Aztec fire-god who needed frequent human sacrifices. ‘This used to be a place where you could meet yer friends, repay hospitality to the farmers, and so on. Now look at it! Like a circus! All the wrong people can afford to keep hunters these days. I can only just afford Samson.’

‘Confound all presents wot eat!’ said Dagwood, remembering his Jorrocks.

As a joke, the remark went down flatter than a lead balloon. There was a silence, during which everyone remembered that it must be nearly time for the next race.

The second race, for Adjacent Hunts, went much as the first had done. Seventeen horses were promised in the race card and five paraded in the paddock. Four were offered from 5-1 to 20-1 and the fifth, Legs Eleven, at 2-1 on. Dagwood was tempted but, recalling The Bodger’s advice in time, placed ten shillings with Mr Calvin, waited for Legs Eleven (the solitary survivor of the second circuit) to be weighed in and collected his fifteen shillings.

The third race, the Beaufortshire Forest Hunt Cup, provided a little variety on what now seemed to Dagwood the traditional pattern. Exhibition Man, the favourite, fell at the penultimate fence when leading by a distance. The second horse, over-excited by visions of glory, fell at the same fence. The rider of the third horse happened to be Roger Glossop who had already decided to pull up. But on being advised of the position by the crowd and urged to continue, he rallied his horse, completed the remainder of the course with many alarms and excursions, and plodded past the winning post at 100-6, to the great delight of Fiona, whose selection he had been.

The fourth race was the Ladies’ Cup. Dagwood disliked ladies’ races on principle. They were unfair to male punters. One could hardly shout at a beaten favourite ‘Why couldn’t yer pick yer feet up, yer lazy lump of ‘orse liver, you! ‘ as one would have been perfectly entitled to do had the jockey been masculine. Still, this was the race which included Hilda’s redoubtable sister Sarah. Dagwood noticed the family resemblance as Sarah rode past on her way to the post, holding her horse in and looking perfectly collected and competent. Sarah had the same cast of feature as Hilda but in her case they were sharpened and hardened. She looked a horsewoman; Dagwood had no doubt that at some time in the future he would switch on a television set and witness Sarah Judworth being awarded a pair of spurs or a sash at the White City.

The bookmakers evidently shared Dagwood’s mistrust of Ladies’ races. The betting market was unwilling to open and it was some time before Joe Calvin reluctantly wrote the odds on his board, giving Sarah Judworth’s mount Hurrymint odds of 5-4 on and the other two runners which made up the total field of three odds of 2-1 against.

In the absence of any clear lead from the book, Dagwood restrained himself from betting and this proved to be very prudent of him because there were no survivors at all of even the first circuit of the course for the Ladies’ Cup. There appeared to be no survivors of even the first few fences because the loudspeaker commentary, which had set off confidently enough with the leader and the order of running, soon tailed off. The crowd, the bookmakers and the line judge waited in an uninformed and lengthening silence.

‘Somebody’s fallen,’ said the loudspeaker guardedly, at last.

‘In Australia they guarantee to mention every horse every furlong,’ said Dagwood.

‘One normally knows all the horses here,’ said Hilda.

‘There’s somebody else fallen,’ said the loudspeaker, still refusing to commit itself.

‘Perhaps they’re going the long way round,’ Dagwood suggested.

‘Oh
really
Dagwood, do shut up!’ Hilda burst out. ‘Can’t you see I’m worried about Sarah?’

‘I think they’ve all fallen,’ said the loudspeaker.

At last, a mud-spattered figure appeared out of the mist, on foot, and leading her horse. It was Sarah. Hilda rushed to the rope rail.

‘Sarah, what
happened?
’

Sarah turned and looked blindly into the crowd through her tears.

‘The bugger threw me,’ she said, calmly.

‘Sarah!’

Sarah led her horse sadly away, to appreciative cheers from the bookmakers who, because no horse had properly completed the course, had had a skinner on the race. ‘Never mind, lass,’ said a stentorian voice from their ranks, ‘at least you must have bounced! ‘

The last race of the day, the Open Race, had attracted the comparatively enormous field of eleven runners. This large number had its effect on the betting market which was much more open than for any previous race. Favourite at 2-1 was Nautical Laddie, to be ridden by Fulke Judworth, with a mare named Sweet Fanny Adams, the property of Sir Rollo, second favourite at 9-2. The Beaufortshire Forest Hunt was blessed with a particularly conscientious parade ring official (the Chief Constable in private life) who insisted that all horses parade in race card order and prevented the more bashful contestants from executing a token circuit of the paddock and then mounting and escaping the critical eyes of the crowd. The conduct of the Beaufortshire Forest parade ring was probably more orderly than that at many meetings under Rules. Dagwood, however, was not so interested in the horses as in the crowd. At last, he caught sight of The Bodger, with Julia and Caroline, on the other side of the paddock. He sidled round towards them.

‘How are you doing, Dagwood?’ The Bodger greeted him.

‘Not so well, sir, I’m afraid.’

‘You should take my advice. Julia, have you met Dagwood here?’

‘Yes darling, we met at
Seahorse
’s commissioning party. How are you, Dagwood?’

‘Very well, though I could do with a winner at a decent price! ‘

‘So could we all! ‘

Julia was just the sort of wife Dagwood would have expected The Bodger to marry. Although she had been married to a naval officer for some time she had not acquired that weather-beaten appearance characteristic of so many officers’ wives. She looked as fresh and as gay as the day she was married. She had cheerfully packed and followed her husband, making a new home after every move. She looked as though she had had almost as much amusement from her husband’s career as The Bodger had had himself.

‘Caroline,’ said Julia, ‘you haven’t met Dagwood Jones.’

‘How do you do,’ said Caroline, in a neutral voice.

‘How do you do,’ Dagwood said, politely.

She was wearing calf-length boots, blue woollen stockings, a tweed skirt and a light blue duffle coat with the hood folded back. She had a white skiing band round her hair and she looked at Dagwood as she might have looked at one of the paddock posts.

‘We have met before, actually,’ Dagwood ventured. ‘I’m afraid I was the clumsy fellow who knocked you down the other day.’

‘Oh, that was you, was it,’ said Caroline, closing the subject.

Dagwood cleared his throat. ‘What do you suggest for this race, sir?’ he asked The Bodger.

‘That horse looks in good nick.’ The Bodger nodded towards Nautical Laddie, a big chestnut with a white star which was being held by a man in a tan polo jacket. Major O’Reilly and Fulke Judworth were in deep conversation near by.

Fulke, too, had the family face but he looked much younger than his sisters and very nervous. He kept licking his lips and blowing out his cheeks and fiddling with his padded jockey’s skull cap.

‘I don’t blame you, son,’ thought Dagwood. ‘If I had to ride that great brute I’d be nervous too.’

‘They do say that one ought to back the horse that’s come the longest distance in Open Races,’ said The Bodger. ‘That’s that bay over there. Speedy Gonzales. He’s come all the way from Shropshire.’

Speedy Gonzales was a handsome half-bred gelding, by Bois Roussel out of a hunter mare. His groom had obviously taken a great deal of trouble over his appearance. He was fully clipped out, his mane carefully plaited and his hooves polished. He was standing stock-still with his head up and his ears pricked, looking fit to jump out of his skin. A well-known amateur jockey under National Hunt Rules had travelled up specially to ride him and in the circumstances it seemed curiously brave of the book to oppose him with odds as generous as 6-1 against.

‘I’m going to put all my winnings on that one,’ said The Bodger.

‘I think I’ll do the same, sir. He looks fit enough to jump over the moon.’

The Open Race promised to be the best race of the day. Roger Glossop went straight into a ten lengths lead, fighting to hold in a black horse called Lucky Alphonse which seemed so determined to treat the race as a six furlong sprint that the crowd were divided as to whether Roger Glossop or Lucky Alphonse had the upper hand.

‘He won’t last,’ said The Bodger, laconically.

Nevertheless, Roger Glossop led the field for the first time round, Lucky Alphonse plunging and pecking at each obstacle, with Nautical Laddie and Speedy Gonzales taking close order behind.

When they passed the winning post for the first time Roger Glossop was still leading but came off precipitately at the next fence. Fulke Judworth and the National Hunt jockey were left to go on together, the rest of the field now trailing them by thirty or forty lengths.

At this point Caroline was distracted by the arrival of a young man who announced himself by coming up to Caroline and giving a little pirouette and a sort of hiccough.

‘Nigel!’ said Caroline, in surprise. ‘How are you? Are you on leave?’

‘Yes, my darling, how lovely to see you! ‘

‘The boy-friend,’ Julia murmured to Dagwood. ‘His father’s in shipping.’

Dagwood hated Nigel on sight. He hated his suit, he hated his small hat which was tilted forward so obliquely as to cover his eyes, he hated his glassily-polished shoes, his cane, his binoculars, his race card, his slack lower lip, and his nervous habit of tossing his head. It was an irrational hatred because Dagwood knew very well that Nigel’s ensemble was the product of much time and money, that it was nothing less than the approved appearance of young Guardees attending any race meeting between Goodwood at the end of July and Guineas Week at Newmarket in April.

Nigel fastened his attention on Dagwood. ‘Are you a farmer?’ he asked, without waiting for Caroline to introduce them.

‘No.’

‘What do you do then?’

‘I’m in shipping.’

‘Good God, what line?’

‘Grey Funnel Line. The underwater branch of it.’ Dagwood saw that he had not been understood. ‘I’m a submariner. I go to sea in a submarine,’ he explained, labouring the point.

‘Good God.’ The nostrils flared and the lower lip curled in another maltreated catenary. ‘Didn’t know we still made that sort of thing.’

‘Indeed yes, we still have them,’ said Dagwood pleasantly. ‘And what do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?’

The head tossed and the nostrils twitched. ‘I’m in the Brigade, actually.’

Dagwood pounced. ‘
Really?
’ he said, with interest. ‘Which one - Fire, Boys’, or St John’s Ambulance?’

Nigel’s shocked expression was so exquisitely frozen, so cinematically perfect, that everyone who saw it laughed out loud. Even Caroline could not help smiling. Also, Dagwood fancied that he caught in her eyes a look of awareness, of awakening interest.

‘Fulke’s down!’

It was a cry of pain from Hilda. Fulke had been riding extremely well, matching the gentleman N.H. jockey jump for jump. But at the open ditch on the far side of the course Nautical Laddie put in one step too many. The horse crashed through the fence and dumped Fulke on the ground. The N.H. jockey was left with the race at his mercy and proceeded to reel off the remaining fences as though at riding school. The nearest runner was now Sir Rollo’s mare Sweet Fanny Adams, a full three hundred yards behind.

With a fatherly eye The Bodger watched the sum of thirty pounds which he stood to win jumping calmly and confidently towards him round the rest of the course.

But at the last fence, in front of The Bodger’s eyes, the situation suddenly changed. Either through tiredness or overconfidence, Speedy Gonzales made no attempt to rise for the fence but took it by the roots, wallowed and writhed on its crest, and recoiled back towards the take-off side. The jockey toppled from the saddle and lay on the ground, holding his right wrist with an expression of agony on his face.

‘Can’t you get up?’ roared The Bodger. ‘Hell’s teeth, I’ve got thirty quid on this! ‘

The jockey made no reply, neither did he protest when The Bodger leaped the rope rail, seized his skull cap off his head and snatched his whip from the ground.

Speedy Gonzales was an animal of equable temperament and showed no sign of surprise when The Bodger flicked the reins over his head and struggled up into the saddle. Once more possessed of a rider, Speedy Gonzales trotted towards the fence again, but being also an animal of some discretion, headed towards the gap torn in the fence by his previous attempt. The fence came nearer. The Bodger gritted his teeth.
‘Giddap!’
roared the crowd, in unison. The Bodger tapped with his whip. Speedy Gonzales hopped neatly and delicately through the gap.

The Bodger, coming down, met the saddle, coming up, in good order and began to scrub the horse for home like a veteran flat-race jockey. A purist might have pointed out The Bodger was riding a good deal faster than his horse was coming, but the crowd were in no mood for such niceties and The Bodger was cheered as though he were first over the line in the Derby.