‘I don’t like people to see me bet,’ he said, ‘because for one thing it shows them I’m pretty confident, so they put their money on too and it shortens the odds. I usually bet by phone with a bookmaker, but today I wanted to judge the state of the ground first. It can be treacherous, after snow. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
He nodded and hurried off, and I made my way to the Tote windows and disposed of enough to keep me in food for a year. Small, as in Tremayne’s ‘small bet’, was a relative term, I saw.
I joined him in the parade ring and asked if he wanted the tickets.
‘No. If he wins, collect for me, will you?’
‘OK.’
Nolan was talking to the owners, exercising his best charm and moderating his language. In jockey’s clothes he still looked chunky, strong and powerfully arrogant, but the swagger seemed to stop the moment he sat on the horse. Then professionalism took over and he was concentrated, quiet and neat in the saddle.
I tagged along behind Tremayne and the owners and, from the stands, watched Nolan give a display of razor-sharp competence that made most of the other amateurs look like Sunday drivers.
He saved countable seconds over the fences, his mount gaining lengths by always seeming to take off at the right spot. Judgment, not luck. The courage that Mackie loved was still there, unmistakable.
The owners, mother and daughter, were tremblers. They weren’t entirely white and near to dying, but from what they said the betting money was out of their pockets and on the horse in a big way and there was a good deal of lip- and knuckle-biting from off to finish.
Nolan, as if determined to outride Sam Yaeger, hurled himself over the last three fences and won by ten lengths pulling up. Tremayne let out a deep breath and the owners hugged each other, hugged Tremayne and stopped shaking.
‘You could give Nolan a good cash present for that,’ Tremayne said bluntly.
The owners thought Nolan would be embarrassed if they gave him such a present.
‘Give it to me, to give to him. No embarrassment.’
The owners said they’d better run down and lead in their winner, which they did.
‘Stingy cats,’ Tremayne said in my ear as we watched them fuss over the horse and have their picture taken.
‘Won’t they really give Nolan anything?’ I asked.
‘It’s against the rules, and they know it. Amateurs aren’t supposed to be given money for winning. Nolan will have backed the horse anyway, he always does with a hot chance like this. And I get one hundred per cent commitment from my jockey.’ His voice was dry with humour. ‘I often think the Jockey Club has it wrong, not letting professional jockeys bet on their own mounts.’
He returned to the weighing room to fetch Sam’s saddle and weight cloth for Cashless, and I went off to the Tote and collected his Telebiddy winnings, which approximately equalled his stake. Nolan, it appeared, had been riding the hot favourite.
When I commented on it to Tremayne in the parade ring as we watched Cashless being led round, he told me that Nolan’s presence on any horse shortened its odds, and Telebiddy had won twice for him already this season. It was a wonder, Tremayne said, that the Tote had paid evens: he’d expected less of a return. I would do him a favour, he added, if I would give him his winnings on the way home, not in public, so I walked around with a small fortune I had no hope of repaying if I lost it, keeping it clutched in my left-hand trouser pocket.
We went up to the stands for the race and watched Cashless set off in front as expected, a position he easily held until right where it mattered, the last fifty yards. Then three jockeys who had been waiting behind him stepped on the accelerator, and although Cashless didn’t in any way give up, the three others passed him.
Tremayne shrugged. ‘Too bad.’
‘Will you run him in front again next time?’ I asked, as we went down off the stands.
‘I expect so. We’ve tried keeping him back and he runs worse. He’s one-paced in a finish, that’s his trouble. He’s game enough, but it’s hard to find races he can win.’
We reached the parade ring where the unsuccessful runners were being unsaddled. Sam, looping girths over his arm, gave Tremayne a rueful smile and said Cashless had done his best.
‘I saw,’ Tremayne agreed. ‘Can’t be helped.’ We watched Sam walk off towards the weighing room and Tremayne remarked thoughtfully that he might try Cashless in an amateur race, and see what Nolan could do.
‘Do you play them off against each other on purpose?’ I asked.
Tremayne gave me a flickering glance. ‘I do the best for my owners,’ he said. ‘Like a drink?’
It appeared he had arranged to meet the owners of Telebiddy in the Club bar and when we arrived they were already celebrating with a bottle of champagne. Nolan, too, was there, being incredibly nice to them but without financial results.
When the two women had left in a state of euphoria, Nolan asked belligerently whether Tremayne had told them to give him a present.
