The Silver Falcon (39 page)

The fancied French horse was a colt bred in the States, sired by Nijinsky. A beautiful, sleek chestnut, its legs clean of white markings, named by its film star owner as Mexican Star. He had gone over to France himself to fix that one. No middle man could be trusted with that. It wasn't going to beat the Silver Falcon, but it was expected to run into a place, and its form was just as good as Rocket Man's over a mile. He had given Mexican Star's jockey 10 000 pounds to pull his horse. Patsy came towards him; she had a glass of champagne in her hand, and he could tell by the expression on her face that she was slightly drunk.

‘It's two thirty, darling,' she said. ‘Hadn't we better give people their tickets?'

He brought out the badges from his inside pocket. Entrance to the boxes on the first tier. Alycidon and Airborne. Airborne was a grey; there hadn't been another grey among the Derby winners since the war. It looked like an omen. He had chosen to go into the box named after Alycidon himself. The great stallion was in Rocket Man's pedigree. Patsy linked her arm through his.

‘I can't wait,' she said. ‘I know we're going to win –'

‘Yes,' Roy Farrant said. ‘This time, we are. Come on.'

They led the way across the road to the course and joined the slow jostling crowd inside the pathway alongside the course rails. There was the sound of clapping. The Queen had come down from the Royal Box and was coming out onto the green track on her way to the paddock.

Andrew Graham went into Tattersalls. He wore an ordinary suit and a panama straw hat; he carried a race-glasses case slung over his shoulder. He had fought his way through at one of the crowded bars and given himself a double whisky and a ham sandwich. He felt very calm; he took an interest in the racing and placed a successful cash bet on the first two winners. He looked at his watch more than usual: at half past two, he pushed his way out and joined the crowd gathering on the rails to watch the Queen. He was mildly interested to see her.

She passed within a few feet of him, smiling and talking to the Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, a tall heavily built man, who had to stoop to answer her. Andrew was surprised at how good-looking the Queen of England was: her photographs gave no idea of her beautiful complexion and eyes, or the sweetness of her smile. The harsh bright yellow didn't please him; it made her stand out among the greys and blacks, and the paler pastels of her-entourage and family. A perfect target. It seemed to him incredible that she should expose herself to such risks. He had based his own plan on the belief that the security surrounding her would protect anyone else in the vicinity. But he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. There must be detectives among the group following her, but she stood out in front, walking alone with the one escort. Anyone standing as he was, by the rails, could have shot her dead. He turned away, pushing hard to get to the paddock.

It was a wide green circle, flanked by an open stand for spectators, with little mushroom seats at the rails, all fully occupied. Two huge marquees provided a backcloth to the downs. Television cameras probed from above, a helicopter chugged overhead. There was a dense coloured mass of people circling the green paddock, and inside it, walking by, came the best of the world's bloodstock, graceful, satin-coated, led by the gleaming dark dappled silver of the only grey colt, the Silver Falcon. Phil was leading him, dressed in his best brown suit, with a neat shirt and tie, the label bearing the horse's name and number, tied to his left arm. No. 5.

He walked out strongly, showing the horse's paces, murmuring to him, occasionally patting him quickly on the neck. The Falcon held his head high, looking suspiciously at the crowds; his grey tail swished angrily from side to side. There was a slight patch of sweat on his neck, a sign that he was fussing, as Phil described it. ‘There, old son,' he muttered, ‘there, steady on. Nothin' to worry about –'

Immediately behind him was Jakestown, bought for 1500 guineas as a yearling, a nice, handsome bay colt, with a deceptive presence about him, winner of two moderate two-year-old races and running only to please the vanity of his owner. Behind him walked Rocket Man. He looked superb; Dick Shipley had brought him to his peak. He glowed with fitness and there wasn't a sign of pre-race nerves. He seemed interested in the crowds without being in the least disturbed. The French horse Mexican Star was pulling around and jigging from side to side, visibly sweating up in alarm at his surroundings. Behind him, his almost black coat glowing like coal, came the horse which Lester Piggott had announced that he would ride just four days before the race. He had partnered it in the Prix Lupin, when it ran third to the Falcon, and it carried the hopes and the black and white colours of the well-known owner Charles St George, one of the most consistently successful figures in English racing, bidding for his first Derby. Prince of Padua, by Faberge out of a Sea Bird mare. Top-class Classic breeding, but lacking the turn of foot to beat the Falcon. He was drawn no. 2 on the inside. Money was going on him because he was Piggott's choice of mount, and Piggott had won the Derby seven times. A big bay, very impressive, very calm, running for the first time that season, Snow Prince, half-brother to the '74 Derby winner Snow Knight, and without Snow Knight's excitable temperament. A good two-year-old, but an unproven three-year-old. Odds of eight to one were being offered.

Owners, their friends and the trainers were in the centre, making little knots of colour, talking anxiously. The Queen's distinctive yellow dress glowed. A stream of jockeys began to trickle through, splitting up towards their owners, bright as paint in their silks. On the television screens all over the country, and in Europe, people were watching the scene, as were the crowds massed in the bars and pubs, hearing the commentary.

‘We're seeing the favourite now, the grey colt, Silver Falcon, by Silver Dancer – an impressive winner in the States as a two-year-old, and he won the Prix Lupin by three lengths from Just Fair, with Prince of Padua a length away third. A very impressive horse indeed, sweating up a bit though – he was bred by the late Charles Schriber expressly to win the Derby. It looks as if he can do the job today. Not quite so well drawn, he's no. 18 on the outside. Here's Mynah Bird, nice-looking sort but right out of his class, I'm afraid, and there's the second favourite, Rocket Man, looking really well. Dick Shipley always turns his horses out looking a picture and this one certainly impresses – ran very well in the Two Thousand Guineas, where he was second to Lightning Strike, probably do better for the longer trip. If anyone can worry the Silver Falcon it should be him – there's Jimmy Carlton, the Falcon's jockey, wearing Mrs Charles Schriber's green and blue colours – Lester Piggott, riding as usual for Mr Charles St George on Prince of Padua, very dark bay, almost black. There's Prince of Padua now; he's a calm sort, not bothered by all the crowds. Mexican Star in the picture, very sweated up, not liking it at all. He's a strong front runner this horse, but he may well be doing his chances in by getting himself so worked up.'

The bell rang, as Isabel shook hands with Jimmy Carlton.

Jockeys please mount
.

‘Good luck,' she said. He grinned and nodded; the grin disappeared quickly as he strode away towards the grey colt, followed by Nigel and Tim. Nigel legged him up onto the horse, and immediately the Falcon fly-bucked. It took a minute or two to settle him, Carlton soothing him and Phil holding tight to the lead rope. The black patch of sweat on his neck had spread; there were white flecks of foam on it. Isabel watched anxiously. She turned to Richard.

‘He's getting upset,' she said. ‘That isn't like him.'

‘He'll be all right,' Richard slipped his hand through her arm. He was watching the Falcon, and he didn't like what he saw, but he didn't want to worry her even more. The grey colt was bouncing and twisting, fighting the lead rope, trying to unseat his jockey. ‘The sooner they get on with the parade the better,' Richard said. ‘Come on, darling, let's get up to the box.' He led her out of the paddock; the horses were being led out onto the course for the ritual parade in front of the stands, going in alphabetical order. The unconsidered Arthur's Boy, carrying no. 1 on his saddle cloth, had the honour of leading the parade.

Roy Farrant had gone on ahead as soon as Rocket Man was mounted. He was almost sprinting, Patsy trying unsuccessfully to keep up as he shoved his way through. His horse looked a picture; he had never seen him in such marvellous condition, completely unconcerned by the people and the general atmosphere of excitement. A winner if ever he'd seen one. The knots in his stomach were unbearable, and his hands shook. He was out of the lift and hurrying along to the door marked Alycidon, while down below, Patsy found herself getting into a second lift with Richard and Isabel. She smiled at them and held out her hand.

Isabel took it. ‘I can't wish you good luck,' Patsy said, ‘because I do want Roy to win. But congratulations; I hear you're getting married.'

‘Yes,' Isabel said. ‘Thank you.' She felt stiff and awkward. But there was no guile in Patsy Farrant; her beautiful smile was genuine. Richard leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

‘Thanks, Patsy. Give my best to Roy.'

‘I will. Bye.' She drifted out of the lift ahead of them.

‘Richard,' Isabel said, as they reached the box with Mill Reef's name above it – ‘Richard I can hardly breathe I'm so excited – oh, what's happened!' There was a gasp from the crowd below them, and the voice of the commentator on the loudspeaker system came over clearly. ‘Bit of trouble here – Silver Falcon's decanted Jimmy Carlton –' Isabel rushed to the front and looked down.

‘Oh my God,' she said – ‘oh, Richard, look at him!'

The rest of the eighteen horses had passed the grandstand; the grey colt, with Phil and another assistant at his head, was rearing and plunging in the middle of the track. He backed up dangerously close to the rails and fly-bucked viciously towards the crowd. Nigel and Tim were running towards him; the jockey stayed back, not attempting to remount. The other horses had reached the point where they wheeled round and cantered back down to the paddock and the long walk up to the mile and a half start. There was a road to cross and a passage through staring crowds to be endured before the stalls were reached. There was a saying that many a Derby had been lost on the way to the start.

‘The bastard!' Richard said angrily. ‘Look at him, lashing out – he'll crack himself against the rails in a minute –' Isabel just stood and watched, aware of murmurs behind her from Harry Grogan and his wife, and a silence from Sally Foster that was more expressive than any words.

‘He won't even start at this rate,' she heard Grogan say, and suddenly she turned and snapped at him, her nerves breaking with tension. ‘Don't be ridiculous! Of course he will –' And at that moment, they got him under control long enough for Tim to throw the jockey into the plate, and instantly, Phil, Nigel, Tim and the official helping them scattered out of the colt's way, as he half reared, feeling the man on his back, and then with Carlton hanging onto his head, he plunged forward in pursuit of the others, back the way he had come. Isabel was literally shaking. The huge crowd was growing quieter: in the bars the television commentator Peter O'Sullevan's voice came over again.

‘Crossing the road now – Mexican Star really playing up, Rocket Man followed by Jakestown, and there's Prince of Padua, Snow Prince in the colours of Lady Beaverbrook – people are being asked to keep back behind the second rail – there's the favourite Silver Falcon, not liking it at all, sweating up a lot. Jimmy Carlton'll have a problem there – he's very much a horse who likes to go out in front, and he'll have to decide whether to go on so as not to be cut off at the initial elbow after one and a half to two furlongs, or drop him in behind.…'

They were completely out of sight for a time, their progress charted by the commentary, and then the little coloured dots appeared against the green backcloth of the downs, making their way steadily round the back to the starting stalls. Behind the stalls, the runners circled, waiting. Richard had his race-glasses up.

‘He's all right now,' he said. ‘Carlton's got him settled, he's walking round with the others quite calmly. Don't worry, darling – he's fine.' Sally Foster was standing beside them. She put a hand up and tugged at the brim of her smart blue hat. Isabel had never heard her swear before.

‘Jesus God,' she said slowly. ‘I think I've aged twenty years. I don't dare think what Nigel felt like –'

Isabel was watching through her glasses; she was finding it difficult to focus. ‘My hand's shaking,' she said, ‘I can't hold the damned things steady – Can you see him, Richard? What's happening?'

‘They're going into the stalls,' Richard answered. He dropped his glasses; they swung from their strap round his neck. He turned, put his arm round Isabel and kissed her hard on the cheek. ‘He's in,' he said. ‘Went in like a lamb – no trouble at all!'

The voice over the loudspeaker again, ‘All loaded up now bar Rocket Man and Snow Prince – Snow Prince in – Rocket Man giving a bit of trouble there –'

Roy Farrant began to swear under his breath; his glasses were clamped tight against his eyes and he could see his horse, backing away from the starting stalls. His exultation when the Falcon misbehaved had turned in seconds to a crushing terror that somehow, by some crippling blow of fate, Rocket Man would do what he had never in his life done before, and refuse to go into the stalls. Sweat started on his forehead and sprang out over his hands till they were slippery. ‘All in,' the disembodied voice said. There was a sudden, complete silence over the vast crowd; the barking of a dog sounded absurdly loud from the opposite side of the course.