Rat Race by Dick Francis

Author:Dick Francis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Detective and mystery stories, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Horse racing, Fiction, Mystery fiction, Adventure stories, General
ISBN: 9780425210765
Publisher: Berkley Pub Group
Published: 2006-07-05T20:05:33.865992+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

It was the next day that Nancy flew Colin to Haydock. They went in the four seater 140 horse power small version Cherokee which she normally hired from her flying club for lessons and practice, and they set off from Cambridge shortly before I left there myself with a full load in the replacement Six. I had been through her flight plan with her and helped her all I could with the many technicalities and regulations she would meet in the complex Manchester control zone. The weather forecast was for clear skies until evening, there would be radar to help her if she got lost, and I would be listening to her nearly all the time on the radio as I followed her up.

Colin grinned at me. ‘Harley would be horrified at the care you’re taking to look after her. “Let them frighten themselves silly,” he’d say, “Then he’ll fly with us all the time, with none of this do-it-yourself nonsense”.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘And Harley wants you safe, too, don’t forget.’

‘Did he tell you to help us?’

‘Not actually, no.’

‘Thought not.’

Harley had said crossly, ‘I don’t want them making a habit of it. Persuade Colin Ross she isn’t experienced enough.’

Colin didn’t need persuading: he knew. He also wanted to please Nancy. She set off with shining eyes, like a child being given a treat.

The Derrydowns Six had been hired by an un-clued-up trainer who had separately agreed to share the trip with both Annie Villars and Kenny Bayst. Even diluted by the hiring trainer, the large loud voiced owner of the horse he was running, and the jockey who was to ride it, the atmosphere at loading time was poisonous.

Jarvis Kitch, the hiring trainer, who could have helped, retreated into a huff.

‘How was I to know,’ he complained to me in aggrieved anger, ‘That they loathe each other’s guts?’

‘You couldn’t,’ I said soothingly.

‘They just rang up and asked if there was a spare seat. Annie yesterday, Bayst the day before. I said there was. How was I to know…?’

‘You couldn’t.’

The loud voiced owner, who was evidently footing the bill, asked testily what the hell it mattered, they would be contributing their share of the cost. He had a north country accent and a bullying manner, and he was the sort of man who considered that when he bought a man’s services he bought his soul. Kitch subsided hastily: the small attendant jockey remained cowed and silent throughout. The owner, whose name I later discovered from the racecard was Ambrose, then told me to get a move on as he hadn’t hired me to stand around all day on the ground at Cambridge.

Annie Villars suggested in embarrassment that the captain of an aircraft was like the captain of a ship.

‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘In a two bit little outfit like this he’s only a chauffeur. Taking me from place to place isn’t he? For hire?’ He nodded. ‘Chauffeur.’ His voice left no one in any doubt about his opinion on the proper place of chauffeurs.

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