Rat Race - By Dick Francis Page 0,3

air, scraps of what they were saying floated across.

‘… simply asking for a dope test.’ Anne Villars.

‘… if you can’t ride a losing race better than last time… find someone else.’ Goldenberg.

‘… very difficult position…’ Major Tyderman.

A short sharp snap from Kenny, and Anne Villars’ exasperated exclamation. ‘Bayst!’

‘… not paying you more than last time.’ The Major, very emphatically.

Indistinct protest from Kenny, and a violently clear reaction from Goldenberg : ‘Bugger your licence.’

Kenny my lad, I thought remotely, if you don’t watch out you’ll end up like me, still with a licence but with not much else.

A Ford-of-all-work rolled down the road past the grandstands, came through the gate in the boundary fence, and bounced over the turf towards the aircraft. It stopped about twenty feet away, and two men climbed out. The larger, who had been driving, went round to the back and pulled out a brown canvas and leather overnight grip. The smaller one walked on over the grass. I took my weight off the wing and stood up. He stopped a few paces away, waiting for the larger man to catch up. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a whitish cotton sweater with navy blue edgings. Black canvas shoes on his narrow feet. He had nondescript brownish hair over an exceptionally broad forehead, a short straight nose, and a delicate feminine looking chin. All his bones were fine and his waist and hips would have been the despair of Victorian maidens. Yet there was something unmistakably masculine about him: and more than that, he was mature. He looked at me with the small still smile behind the eyes which is the hallmark of those who know what life is really about His soul was old. He was twenty six.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

He held out his hand, and I shook it. His clasp was cool, firm, and brief.

‘No Larry?’ he enquired.

‘He’s left. I’m Matt Shore.’

‘Fine,’ he said noncommitally. He didn’t introduce himself. He knew there was no need. I wondered what it was like to be in that position. It hadn’t affected Colin Ross. He had none of the ‘I am’ aura which often clings around the notably successful, and from the extreme understatement of his clothes I gathered that he avoided it consciously.

‘We’re late, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Have to bend the throttle.’

‘Do my best…’

The larger man arrived with the grip, and I stowed it in the forward luggage locker between the engine wall and the forward bulkhead of the cabin. By the time the baggage door was securely fastened Colin Ross had found his empty seat and strapped himself into it. Goldenberg with heavy grunts moved out again so that I could get back to my lefthand place. The larger man, who was apparently the dilatory trainer Bob Smith, said his hellos and goodbyes to the passengers, and stood watching afterwards while I started the engine and taxied back to the other end of the strip to turn into wind for take-off.

The flight north was uneventful: I went up the easy way under the Amber One airway, navigating on the radio beacons at Daventry, Lichfield and Oldham. Manchester control routed us right round the north of their zone so that I had to drop down southwards towards Haydock racecourse, and there it was, just as Larry had said, near the interchange of the two giant roads. We touched down on the grass strip indicated in the centre of the course, and I taxied on and parked where the Major told me to, near the rails of the track itself, a mere hundred yards from the grandstand.

The passengers disembarked themselves and their belongings and Colin Ross looked at his watch. A faint smile hovered and was gone. He made no comment. He said merely, ‘Are you coming in to the races?’

I shook my head. ‘Think I’ll stay over here.’

‘I’ll arrange with the man on the gate to let you into the paddock, if you change your mind.’

‘Thanks,’ I said in surprise. ‘Thanks very much.’

He nodded briefly and set off without waiting for the others, ducking under the white-painted rails and trudging across the track.

‘Pilots’ perks,’ Kenny said, taking his raincoat from my hand and putting his arm forward for the saddle. ‘You want to take advantage.’

‘Maybe I will,’ I said, but I didn’t mean to. Horse racing began and ended with the Derby as far as I was concerned, and also I was a non-gambler by nature.

Anne Villars said in her deceptively gentle voice, ‘You