Bloodline

I, in contrast, wasn’t doing anything useful, merely being a spectator. I thought about leaving and going home. But that wouldn’t make me feel any better. At least here I had something to watch, something to take my mind off Clare.

Guilt was a soul-destroying emotion and I had lain awake half the previous night staring into the void, into the emptiness of despair and self-condemnation. Why hadn’t I answered the bloody telephone? How could I have ignored her when she had needed me the most?

‘There’s a dog on the course at Leicester,’ Derek said through the talk-back while looking at the pictures coming down the line. ‘Can we get a close-up?’

Dogs on racecourses, although rare, were always good for ‘atmosphere’ shots, just provided the dogs didn’t actually delay the races and screw-up the schedule. Most racing folk loved their dogs as much as they did their horses and there was nothing like a loose puppy to provide a bit of ‘Aahh’ appeal to a broadcast. It made a welcome change from the crying babies with runny noses that the cameramen usually found amongst the crowd.

The afternoon continued without any significant problems. I watched on the transmission screen as Iain Ferguson interviewed guests in the paddock and talked about the horses, performing the role that I should have had. He was good. Too damned good, I thought. I’d better be careful or he’d have my job permanently, and I certainly didn’t want that.

I loved my work, and I specifically enjoyed the variation that came from splitting my time between presenting for Channel 4 and RacingTV, and also doing the racecourse commentaries. And I had no intention of allowing someone else to take over any of my hot seats. I’d better sort my head out fast and get back to my jobs while I still had them.

The production assistant counted down to an ad break. ‘Two minutes and forty seconds,’ she called, and everyone relaxed as the pre-set sequence was played direct from the RacingTV headquarters building near Oxford. The ads were the only ‘down-time’ during the whole four-hour broadcast and the crew in the scanner used the break to get coffee, to visit the loo, or just to stretch cramped legs.

‘You all right?’ Derek asked, standing up and turning round to me.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Makes a change for me to see you at work rather than just to hear it on the talk-back. It’s very interesting.’

‘Well, don’t get any ideas of taking my job.’ He smiled at me, but he wasn’t exactly making a joke. In times of recession and cuts, everyone, it seemed, was watching their backs, and none more so than in the TV business.

‘Coming out of break in twenty seconds,’ called the production assistant. Everyone sat down again at their places. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’ She fell silent, and the whole juggernaut rolled back smoothly into motion bang on cue.

‘Four minutes to shut-up,’ said the production assistant through the talk-back.

It was now precisely seven minutes to six and all the races were over for the afternoon. Iain was doing the round-up, the last few moments of each race being shown in turn with his voice-over, mostly discussing possible future plans for each of the winners.

‘Two minutes to shut-up,’ said the assistant.

Iain went on talking without a pause as the production assistant’s voice spoke into his ear, not only with the countdown to shut-up but also those to the end of each piece of VT.

‘Iain, coming to you in picture in five seconds,’ said Derek, adding to the chatter.

‘Thirty seconds to shut-up,’ said his assistant at the same time. ‘Four, three, two, one, cue Iain.’

‘Well that’s it for this afternoon,’ said Iain, his smiling face now being broadcast to the viewers. ‘Join us later here on RacingTV for American racing live from Belmont Park in New York.’

‘Twenty seconds.’

‘And tomorrow we’ll be back for live flat racing from Folkestone and also six contests over the sticks from Newton Abbot.’

‘Ten seconds. Nine, eight....’

‘So this is Iain Ferguson here at Windsor wishing you a very good evening.’

‘...two, one, shut-up,’ said the assistant as Iain fell silent and the programme titles and theme music were brought up by the vision mixer.

‘Well done, everybody,’ said Derek. ‘Production meeting tomorrow morning at Folkestone at eleven. And, Iain, can you come to the scanner before you go home?’ Derek flicked off his microphone and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head. He yawned loudly. ‘God, I’m tired.’