eighteen inches tall and made undoubtedly of sterling silver.
‘What’s it for?” I asked.
‘I don’t know yet. Haven’t made up my mind.’
‘But… the engraving?’
‘Mm. The Coochie Pembroke Memorial Challenge Trophy. Rather good, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He gave me a sidelong glance. ‘I thought you’d think so.’ He retraced his steps to the door.‘Right, then, a horse.’
Just like old times, I thought with half-forgotten pleasure. The sudden impulses which might or might not turn out to be thoroughly sensible, the intemperate enthusiasms needing instant gratification… and sometimes, afterwards, the abandoning of a debacle as if it didn’t exist. The Coochie Pembroke Memorial Challenge Trophy might achieve world-wide stature in competition or tarnish un-presented in an attic: with Malcolm it was always a toss-up.
I called him Malcolm, as all his children did, on his own instructions, and had grown up thinking it natural. Other boys might have Dad: I had my father, Malcolm.
Outside Ebury’s room, he said, ‘What’s the procedure, then? How do we set about it?’
‘Er …’ I said. ‘This is the first day of the Highflyer Sales.’
‘Well?’ he demanded as I paused. ‘Go on.’
I just thought you ought to know… the minimum opening bid today is twenty thousand guineas.’
It rocked him only slightly. ‘Opening bid? What do they sell them for?’
‘Anything from a hundred thousand up. You’ll be lucky today to get a top-class yearling for under a quarter of a million. This is generally the most expensive day of the year.’
He wasn’t noticeably deterred. He smiled. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and start bidding.’
‘You need to look up the breeding first,’ I said. ‘And then look at the animals, to see if you like them, and then get the help and advice of an agent…’
‘Ian,’ he said with mock sorrow, ‘I don’t know anything about the breeding, I can just about tell if a thing’s got four legs, and I don’t trust agents. So let’s get on and bid.’
It sounded crazy to me, but it was his money. We went into the sale-ring itself where the auction was already in progress, and Malcolm asked me where the richest bidders could be found, the ones that really meant business.
‘In those banks of seats on the left of the auctioneers, or here, in the entrance, or just round there to the left…’
He looked and listened and then led the way up to a section of seats from where we could watch the places I’d pointed out. The amphitheatre was already more than three-quarters full, and would later at times be crammed, especially whenever a tip-top lot came next.
‘The very highest prices will probably be bid this evening,’ I said, half teasing him, but all he said was, ‘Perhaps we should wait, then.’
‘If you buy ten yearlings,’ I said,‘six might get to a racecourse, three might win a race and one might be pretty good. If you’re lucky.’
‘Cautious Ian.’
‘You,’ I said,‘are cautious with gold.’
He looked at me with half-shut eyes. ‘Not many people say that.’
‘You’re fast and flamboyant,’ I said,‘but you sit and wait for the moment.’
He merely grunted and began paying attention to the matter in hand, intently focusing not on the merchandise but on the bidders on the far side of the ring. The auctioneers in the box to our left were relaxed and polished, the one currently at the microphone elaborately unimpressed by the fortunes passing.‘Fifty thousand, thank you, sir; sixty thousand, seventy… eighty? Shall I say eighty? Eighty, thank you, sir. Against you, sir. Ninety? Ninety. One hundred thousand. Selling now. I’m selling now. Against you, sir? No? All done? All done?’ A pause for a sweep round to make sure no new bidder was frantically waving. ‘Done, then. Sold to Mr Siddons. One hundred thousand guineas. The next lot…’
‘Selling now,’ Malcolm said. ‘I suppose that means there was a reserve on it?’
I nodded.
‘So until the fellow says “selling now”, it’s safe to bid, knowing you won’t have to buy?’
‘Yours might be the bid that reaches the reserve.’
He nodded. ‘Russian roulette.’
We watched the sales for the rest of the afternoon, but he aimed no bullets at his own head. He asked who people were. ‘Who is that Mr Siddons? That’s the fourth horse he’s bought.’
‘He works for a bloodstock agency. He’s buying for other people.’
‘And that man in navy, scowling. Who’s he?’
‘Max Jones. He owns a lot of horses.’
‘Every time that old woman bids, he bids against her.’
‘It’s a well-known feud.’
He sniffed. ‘It must cost them fortunes.’ He looked around the amphitheatre at the constantly changing