My father had not finished saying, not by six or more calls, mostly, it appeared, to the Press. Three papers on the morning of the Lincoln quoted his opinion that Pease Pudding had no chance. He'd have me in before the Stewards, I grimly reflected, if the horse did any good.
Among all this telephonic activity he rang me only once. Although the overpowering bossiness had not returned to his voice, he sounded stilted and displeased, and I gathered that the champagne truce had barely seen me out of the door.
He rang on the Thursday evening after I got back from Doncaster, and I told him how helpful everyone had been.
'Hmph,' he said, 'I'll ring the Clerk of the Course tomorrow, and ask him to keep an eye on things.'
'Have you entirely cornered the telephone trolley?' I asked.
'Telephone trolley? Could never get hold of it for long enough. Too many people asking for it all the time. No, no. I told them I needed my own private extension, here in this room, and after a lot of fuss and delay they fixed one up. I insisted, of course, that I had a business to run.'
'And you insisted often?'
'Of course,' he said without humour, and I knew from long experience that the hospital had had as much chance as an egg under a steamroller.
'The horses aren't as backward as you think,' I told him. 'You don't really need to be so pessimistic.'
'You're no judge of a horse,' he said dogmatically; and it was the day after that that he talked to the Press.
Major Barnette gloomed away in the parade ring and poured scorn and pity on my hefty bet.
'Your father told me not to throw good money after bad,' he said. 'And I can't think why I let you persuade me to run.'
'You can have fifty of my hundred, if you like.' I offered it with the noblest of intentions, but he took it as a sign that I wanted to get rid of some of my losses.
'Certainly not,' he said resentfully.
He was a spare, elderly man of middle height, who stood at the slightest provocation upon his dignity. Sign of basic failure, I diagnosed uncharitably, and remembered the old adage that some owners were harder to train than their horses.
The twenty-nine runners for the Lincoln were stalking long-leggedly round the parade ring, with all the other owners and trainers standing about in considering groups. Strong, cold north-west winds had blown the clouds away and the sun shone brazenly from a brilliant high blue sky. When the jockeys trickled through the crowd and emerged in a sunburst into the parade ring, their glossy colours gleamed and reflected the light like children's toys.
The old-young figure of Tommy Hoylake in bright green bounced towards us with a carefree aura of play-it-as-it-comes, which did nothing to persuade Major Barnette that his half share of the horse would run well.
'Look,' he said heavily to Tommy, 'Just don't get tailed off. If it looks as if you will be, pull up and jump off, for God's sake, and pretend the horse is lame or the saddle's slipped. Anything you like, but don't let it get around that the horse is no good, or its stud value will sink like a stone.'
'I don't think he'll actually be tailed off, sir,' Tommy said judiciously, and cast an enquiring glance up at me.
'Just ride him as you suggested,' I said, 'And don't leave it all in the lap of the Gods.'
He grinned. Hopped on the horse. Flicked his cap to Major Barnette. Went on his light-hearted way.
The Major didn't want to watch the race with me, which suited me fine. My mouth felt dry. Suppose after all that my father was right- that I couldn't tell a fit horse from a letter-box, and that he in his hospital bed was a better judge. Fair enough, if the horse ran stinkingly badly I would acknowledge my mistake and do a salutary spot of grovelling.
Pease Pudding didn't run stinkingly badly.
The horses had cantered a straight mile away from the stands, circled, sorted, lined up, and started back at a flat gallop. Unused to holding race glasses and to watching races head-on from a mile away, I couldn't for a long time see Tommy at all, even though I knew vaguely where to look for him: drawn number twenty-one, almost midfield. I put the glasses down after a while and just watched the mass making its distant way towards the stands, a multi-coloured charge dividing into two sections, one each side of the course. Each section narrowed until the centre of the track was bare, and it looked as though two separate races were being held at the same time.
I heard his name on the commentary before I spotted the colours.
'And now on the stands' side it's Pease Pudding coming to take it up. With two furlongs to go, Pease Pudding on the rails with Gossamer next and Badger making up ground now behind them, and
Willy Nilly on the far side followed by Thermometer, Student Unrest, Manganeta-' He rattled off a long string of names to which I didn't listen.
That he had been fit enough to hit the front two furlongs from home was all that mattered. I honestly didn't care from that moment whether he won or lost. But he did win. He won by a short head from Badger, holding his muzzle stubbornly in front when it looked impossible that he shouldn't be caught, with Tommy Hoylake moving rhythmically over the withers and getting out of him the last milligram of balance, of stamina, of utter bloody-minded refusal to be beaten.
In the winner's unsaddling enclosure Major Barnette looked more stunned than stratospheric, but Tommy Hoylake jumped down with the broadest of grins and said, 'Hey, what about that, then? He had the goods in the parcel after all.'
'So he did,' I said, and told the discountenanced pressmen that anyone could win the Lincoln any old day of the week: any old day, given the horse, the luck, the head lad, my father's stable routine, and the second best jockey in the country.
About twenty people having suddenly developed a close friendship with Major Barnette, he drifted off more or less at their suggestion to the bar to lubricate their hoarse-from-cheering throats. He asked me lamely to join him, but as I had caught his eye just when, recovering from his surprise, he had been telling the world that he always knew Pease Pudding had it in him, I saved him embarrassment and declined.
When the crowd round the unsaddling enclosure had dispersed and the fuss had died away, I somehow found myself face to face with Alessandro, who had been driven to Doncaster that day, and the previous day, by a partially revitalised chauffeur.
His face was as white as his yellowish skin could get, and his black eyes were as deep as pits. He regarded me with a shaking, strung up intensity, and seemed to have difficulty in actually saying what was hovering on the edge. I looked back at him without emotion of any sort, and waited.
'All right,' he said jerkily, after a while. 'All right. Why don't you say it? I expect you to say it.'
'There's no need,' I said neutrally. 'And no point.'
Some of the jangle drained out of his face. He swallowed with difficulty.
'I will say it for you, then,' he said. 'Pease Pudding would not have won if you had let me ride it.'
'No, he wouldn't,' I agreed.
'I could see,' he said, still with a shake in his voice, That I couldn't have ridden like that. I could see-'
Humility was a torment for Alessandro.
I said, in some sort of compassion, 'Tommy Hoylake has no more determination than you have, and no better hands. But what he does have is a marvellous judgement of pace and tremendous polish in a tight finish. Your turn will come, don't doubt it.'
Even if his colour didn't come back, the rest of the rigidity disappeared. He looked more dumbfounded than anything else.
He said slowly, 'I thought- I thought you would- what is it Miss Craig says-? rub my nose in it.'
I smiled at the sound of the colloquialism in his careful accent.
'No, I wouldn't do that.'
He took a deep breath and involuntarily stretched his arms out sideways.
'I want-' he said, and didn't finish it.
You want the world, I thought. And I said, 'Start on Wednesday.'