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Making Allowances
Chapter 10, Part 1
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After the disappointment at Windsor,
the next race was to be a qualifier for a well-renowned novices hurdle prize.
This was to be held at Chepstow, one of our more easily accessible courses, just
across the Severn Bridge. On this day, Dad finally went as one of the Owners,
with Grampy and two other Uncles, Ray and Maurice. I decided to tag along with
five or six of my cousins, get a few beers on board and watch from the Tatts. Alcohol can do strange things. It
can break down inhibitions, it can help you to relax, yet it can also distort or
exaggerate your perceptions. We had spent rather too much time and money in the
Bar during the afternoon; the atmosphere was more like a family reunion than a
race meeting. We had drunk a lot of beer and exchanged a lot of stories about
the old days, when we would all congregate at one of the Uncle’s houses on
Sundays and get up to all sorts of mischief and pranks. Spirits were very high
and a great feeling of togetherness was, I’m sure felt by all of us. Lifted by this rediscovered family
camaraderie, for some reason, we seemed to find it necessary to reinforce it by
laying healthy stakes on Vendredi’s success that afternoon. It was almost like
putting a value on our family and friendship, but, as silly as it may seem, we
all felt compelled to show how much we valued being together on that day. Vendredi could be found at 12-1 on
the course. My cousins began to place their bets. Two of them went back to the
Tote and bet each-way, but could only get tens. The eldest of my cousins put
twenty down on the nose. Another bet thirty. It was left to me. I took out my
wallet to survey the damage. I had come out with a hundred pounds, sixty were
left. I had not planned to put as much a fifty quid on her, and I couldn’t
just leave it at ten; my cousins knew I now had a good job and although I had a
few debts too, I did not want to lose face in front of them. I remembered how I
had boasted, only a quarter of an hour before, that Vendredi would win a race
before the end of the season. It was probably that which swayed me. I decided,
fortified by Dutch Courage, that it was time to put my money where my mouth was.
Before I could stop myself, the entire contents of my wallet were handed over to
the bookmaker. “Sixty win, Vendredi.” “Sixty, Vendredi, to win seven
twenty, ticket 304.” “Bloody hell”, my youngest
cousin gasped. The adrenaline was rushing like a
raging torrent for that brief moment as I handed over the cash. It had subsided
a little by the time we had made their way to the stands and watched the field
ambling down to have a look at the first flight, before turning back towards the
start. As the runners milled around at the
start, I took a few moments to study the form. As I gazed at the form and the
expert comments, I suddenly began to shake myself from the alcoholic stupor that
had fuelled my act of bravado several minutes previously. Now I could see the
truth behind Vendredi’s odds that I had thought so generous. There were a lot of good horses
running here; Say Please, who had come second in Vendredi’s debut outing and
won since, Lorelei, a full sister to a St Leger winner, and obviously a horse
with a great pedigree and Winter Woolly, who had scored four consecutive second
places; surely he was bound to collect soon? Suddenly, I began to appreciate the
true value of sixty quid. I could have run my car for a month on sixty quid. I
could have bought that jacket I saw in Burtons this morning. I could have got
Clare a nice birthday present. I could have given Mum a bit extra housekeeping.
What a burke. As they lined up, the butterflies
began to flutter again. I took a deep breath and looked around at my cousins. “Come on!!” One growled. One smiled. One clapped. One trained
his binoculars. One jumped on the spot. One prayed. “They’re off!” Up the straight they came and took
the first two flights in a big group. Vendredi was tight up on the inside rail,
running about eighth of the seventeen runners, moving nicely, economically. Past the stands, with a full circuit
to go, they thundered past. Lorelei and Say Please were well up in the leading
group, Vendredi sat in just behind them, moving very easily, biding her time.
Kellett sat still, on a tight rein, glancing around. Swinging out into the country,
Lorelei pecked badly on landing and unseated her rider. Say Please was now
leading the field. Several early pace setters were now beginning to feel the
pinch and were starting to lose ground. Winter Woolly began to creep up from the
rear to move into contention. Kellett sat on Vendredi and waited. They were still holding station in
fifth at the turn for home. “She’s got a lot to do,”
sighed one of my cousins mournfully. “It’s all uphill from now on,”
commented another. “But Kellett’s got a double
handful,” cried the youngest, “watch him! Here they come!” He was right, too. They breezed past
three tired horses and was looming up into second place. Two out, Kellett
started to kick for home. Vendredi began to take huge chunks out of Say
Please’s lead. “Gooo onnnn!” we all cried. Over the second last, Vendredi was
right on Say Please’s tail, driving for home. Say Please began to wander
across to the stands side as Vendredi cruised up on the inner rail. Over the
last, Say Please popped over showing a lot of daylight between himself and the
obstacle. Vendredi, however, brushed through the top of the flight like a
missile, flat fast and lethal. She was home free. “YYYYeeeahhhhh!!” we all roared
and leapt about like lunatics. Kellett kicked on, swooshing his
stick in the air to urge her on. Vendredi, still full of running, galloped on,
surging further and further ahead, putting an insurmountable distance between
herself and the fast tiring Say Please, who was being caught now by Winter
Woolly. But no one was going to catch our horse. She blazed across the line,
some ten lengths ahead of Winter Woolly, with Say Please cantering in third,
still well clear of the remainder. We jumped around screaming at each
other, laughing, hugging and shaking each other in a combined and intense few
moments of pure elation. We laughed and screamed in unbridled joy. We ran down
to the unsaddling enclosure and roared our appreciation as a smiling Ryan
Kellett rode in, grinning boyishly with thumbs aloft, to the winner’s circle. I collected my winnings. Just a few
quid short of eight hundred pounds. I had to stop and pinch myself for a moment.
Could this be real, I thought? Could, at long last, the Racing Game be turning
for this family. I looked down at a bulging wallet. For a brief moment, I
thought of the all the bad breaks we had endured in those early years, all the
heartache. At last, I thought, we’re getting some back-pay. At college, I had a friend who was
forced to quit his course at the start of his final year. He was ill and in
serious debt. I had noted a deterioration in his appearance the year before, but
not realised what symptoms he was displaying. He came back one weekend to
collect some of his things and see some of his friends. It was only then that I
learned that he had become addicted to heroin, that he had gone through a
painful detoxification process and was still trying to piece the broken
fragments of his life together. I asked him how an intelligent
person should become addicted to such a destructive drug. He told me: “When
something makes you feel good, then you automatically think that it’s all
right, and cannot hurt you because you are in control. The better it makes you
feel, the more you indulge, but there comes a point when you no longer control
it, instead, it controls you. By then it’s too late, and whatever you resolve
to do about it, there will be some pain.” Whilst I was fortunate enough to use this knowledge to temper my betting urges, I failed to see the more subtle application. Had I done so, perhaps I could have saved a lot of trouble later on.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
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