Proof by Dick Francis

Author:Dick Francis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Beverages, Mystery & Detective, Horse racing, Fiction, Mystery fiction, General, Cooking, Wine & Spirits, Vintners
ISBN: 9780425203934
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2005-07-05T20:05:21.667934+00:00

THIRTEEN

He was right. They were late off. Orkney’s fancy finished dead tired and second to last and we were indeed rushed for Breezy Palm.

Orkney was seriously displeased. Orkney became coldly and selfishly unpleasant.

I dutifully walked Flora down to the saddling boxes, though more slowly than our angry host had propelled his lady. (‘You didn’t mind him calling you my walker, did you, dear?’ Flora asked anxiously. ‘Not at all. Delighted to walk you anywhere, any time.’ ‘You’re such a comfort, Tony dear.’) We reached the saddling boxes as the tiny saddle itself went on over the number cloth, elastic girths dangling.

Breezy Palm, a chestnut with three white socks, looked as if he had a certain amount of growing still to do, particularly in front. Horses, like children, grew at intervals with rests in between: Breezy Palm’s forelegs hadn’t yet caught up with the last spurt in the hind.

‘Good strong rump,’ I said, in best Jimmy fashion.

The brisk travelling head lad, busy with girth buckles, glanced at me hopefully but Orkney was in no mood for flattery. ‘He’s coming to hand again at last,’ he said sourly. ‘He won twice back in July, but since then there have been several infuriating disappointments. Not Jack’s fault, of course…’ His voice all the same was loaded with criticism. ‘… jockeys’ mistakes, entered at the wrong courses, frightened in the starting gate, needed the race, always something.’

Neither the head lad nor Flora looked happy, but nor were they surprised. Orkney’s pre-race nerves, I supposed, were part of the job.

‘Couldn’t you have saddled up sooner?’ Orkney said crossly. ‘You must have known the last race was delayed.’

‘You usually like to see your horses saddled, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, but use some commonsense.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Can’t you hurry that up?’ Orkney said with increasing brusqueness as the head lad began sponging the horse’s nose and mouth. ‘We’re damned late already.’

‘Just coming, sir.’ The head lad’s glance fell on the horse’s rug, still to be buckled on over the saddle for warming muscles on the October day. There was a pot of oil also for brushing gloss onto the hooves… and a prize to the lad, it said in the racecard, for the best turned-out horse.

‘It’s too bad,’ Orkney said impatiently. ‘We should be in the parade ring already.’ He turned away sharply and stalked off in that direction, leaving Isabella, Flora and me to follow as we would.

Isabella looked stoically unaffected. Flora began to scurry after Orkney but I caught her abruptly by the arm, knowing he’d think less of her for hurrying, not more.

‘Slow down, slow down, the jockeys aren’t out yet.’

‘Oh. All right, then.’ She looked guilty as much as flustered, and walked with small jerky steps between the long-legged Isabella and myself as we joined Orkney in the parade ring, no later than any other owner-trainer group.

Orkney was still in the grip of his outburst of bad temper, which failed to abate when Breezy Palm finally appeared in the ring looking polished. The jockey, approaching it seemed

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