chestnut rump of Fierce Temper, his favourite toy. He kicked the heel of his brogue into the turf, barely making an impression. ‘Are you sure Temper can run on this? Bit bloody firm this ground, don’t you think? Too firm if you ask me. It’d better not be a waste of money adding him to the racecard.’
Barry Broadbent merely inclined his head and nodded sympathetically. He was a trainer of the old school, his crinkled sun-weathered face had seen everything the racing game had to offer, and overprotective owners were just part of the scenery. He tipped the brim of his conker-brown trilby towards Oswald and smiled.
‘You know how competitive it is these days, your lordship,’ he said. ‘With the likes of the Coolmore and Godolphin stableyards out there we’ve got to pick races where we think we have a great chance. The ground could do with a bit more juice, but I think we’ve got a great chance today.’
Oswald snorted dismissively and looked over to their young jockey, Finbar O’Connor, a nineteen-year-old Irish boy who had recently been signed up by Barry.
‘Yes, but what about him?’ said Oswald. ‘You know my thoughts on this. The boy is too bloody young. Where’s the experience there, eh? Why can’t you get someone like Kieran Fallon or Dettori locked into your yard? I’m paying you enough, I want quality!’
Broadbent shrugged, but stood his ground.
‘Finbar may be young, sir, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a champion jockey. Remember Walter Swinburn? He was still a teenager when he won the Derby with Shergar. You see sir, Temper is a fantastic horse,’ he smiled affectionately, stroking the white blaze of the chestnut’s nose, ‘but you need someone who can control you, don’t you boy? And Finbar has that in spades.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Oswald, and stalked off.
For once, Oswald’s ill temper hid a real nervousness about the day. Horse racing was the one thing the tenth baron had a genuine and enduring passion for. Since his days at Cambridge in the late fifties when he would skip lectures to take the short hop to Newmarket, he had dreamt of a day like today when he would stand by a winner in the paddock, a winner that actually belonged to him. Well, part-owned, anyway. The fact that he shared Fierce Temper with Nicholas Charlesworth and Philip Watchorn under the name of BWC Holdings Limited was a constant source of annoyance to Oswald; he wanted both ownership of the horse and the glory. OK, so going in with Charlesworth and Watchorn had eased the financial load of owning a world-class racehorse, but what had they brought to the party except money? He was the expert, he was the one with the vision.
Oswald had suggested the idea to Philip and Nicholas twelve months ago. Not that it was much of a hard sell: fellow gambler Charlesworth had taken little persuading, while Watchorn could easily see the corporate hospitality opportunities that came with being an important owner. As soon as the others were on board, Oswald had immediately dispatched Aidan O’Donnell, a respected Irish bloodstock agent, to find them a suitable horse. They had picked up Fierce Temper, son of Triple Crown winner Danes Hill, for a decent price, because the horse had been having a mixed season in his juvenile year and didn’t show any obvious signs of becoming a champion. Aidan O’Donnell had, however, thought otherwise and, having secured the horse, he had brought in Barry Broadbent, a former Derby-winning trainer who, after a bout of prostate cancer ten years ago, had retired from the business. O’Donnell had talked him into returning to the turf and Fierce Temper had become the jewel in the crown of Barry’s new small yard in Epsom. He was the most promising horse he’d seen in years; it was to be his career swansong.
Philip Watchorn had taken a hospitality marquee opposite the Millennium Grandstand from where his guests could have lunch before the race and which would give them a magnificent viewpoint of the Rowley Mile. Oswald sauntered across the ground, revelling in the feeling of being an owner rather than just a punter. He felt like he’d won already.
‘Oswald!’ boomed Philip Watchorn as he walked into the marquee. Thrusting a glass of Moët into his hand, Watchorn introduced Oswald to his guests who, along with Venetia and Jonathon, were sipping champagne and talking excitedly about the bets they had placed for the earlier race, the One Thousand Guineas. Oswald curled his mouth in distaste. Didn’t these people understand how important racing was? It was more than a day out and some free booze.
‘Don’t say you have been harassing Broadbent again,’ said Philip. ‘Can’t you leave the poor man alone?’
‘I hope we made the right decision with him,’ grumbled Oswald, taking a small sip of the champagne. ‘Why didn’t we go to one of the big Newmarket super-yards where all the important owners keep their horses?’ he continued, almost talking to himself.
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong,’ chortled Philip, helping himself to a quail’s egg canapé, ‘but didn’t you talk glowingly of Barry nine months ago? According to you he had a fantastic record and reputation before he got ill – and he’s built up a great yard since we persuaded him out of retirement, hasn’t he? I thought you wanted an Epsom yard – it’s a damn sight nearer to where we all live. I don’t know about you, but I enjoy popping down there to watch Fierce Temper train.’
Oswald secretly knew that he had been premature in dismissing Broadbent’s capabilities. Since he had started looking after Fierce Temper they had won two important Group Two races and he had come third in the top juvenile race, the Dewhurst Stakes – considered to be a training ground for three-year-old champions the next season. Oswald looked around the marquee sourly and made the decision to avoid Philip’s sister-in-law Elizabeth, who was here yet again and wearing her usual predatory gleam. He also had little desire for polite chit-chat with the chairman of a Japanese electronics company and his wife, no doubt invited by Philip as some sort of business sweetener. Bloody freeloading Japs, he thought sourly, they come halfway around the world and stand around in a tent grinning and bowing for no reason – makes you sick.
He moved outside where he found Venetia and Jonathon leaning on the white rails that overlooked the racecourse, sipping Pimms and studiously avoiding eye contact. Venetia, looking beautiful if a little gaunt in an Escada eau-de-nil tulle dress, was studying the racecard intently, and flinched when Oswald moved to her side.
‘Oh, hello Daddy. I thought Maria would be joining us today,’ said Venetia, turning around to face Oswald, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.
Oswald shook his head slightly.
‘No, she’s in Verona this weekend. She’s an incredibly busy woman. Anyway, where’s Camilla, I thought we’d extended an invitation to her? Don’t tell me she has something more important to do than support Fierce Temper?’
‘Actually, I think she’s swotting,’ said Venetia.
‘Whatever for?’ guffawed Oswald.
‘I think she has some Conservative Party selection day this week. Not quite sure how she will swot for it, mind you,’ said Venetia. ‘Read a load of Anthony Trollope? Absorb Maggie Thatcher’s memoirs?’ She took another sip of Pimms, letting the slice of cucumber touch her lips. She noticed with some concern that her father’s face looked like thunder.
‘What does she want to do that for?’ he growled softly. ‘She’s earning good money at the Bar. Paid a fortune for that girl’s education and now she’s wasting her time with her little games. She’s just not cut out for politics.’
‘So, how do you think the race is going to go?’ interrupted Jonathon, unbuttoning his cream linen jacket. ‘Don’t really understand all this form business,’ he said, waving the Racing Post.
Oswald stamped an angry foot on the turf. ‘It’s pretty firm,’ he said, ‘which is OK for us, although God only knows what tactics our so-called trainer is going to employ. He’s a law unto himself.’
‘How much have you got on the horse?’ asked Jonathon, eager to steer the conversation around to money, something he did understand.
‘Only a couple of grand,’ said Oswald, ‘but at ten to one, that should bring home a tidy sum.’ Oswald stepped forward and leant both elbows of his green tweed