Bloodline

But that would have to wait. The first race was at twenty minutes to six and the sun was still well up in the sky as the ten runners were loaded into the stalls at the one-mile start on the far side of the oval track.

‘They’re off in the Crane Park Limited Maiden Stakes,’ I said into my microphone. ‘Quarterback Sneak breaks well and is quickly into stride on the nearside. He goes into an early lead with Waimarima a close second. Popeye’s Girl is next in the pink jacket and sheepskin noseband, with Apache Pilot alongside in the dark green. Next is Banker’s Joy with the yellow crossbelts and then Marker Pen in the hoops, with Kitbo now making some headway on the outside in the white cap.’

The race unfolded and I continued to describe the action as they swung right-handed into the straight as a closely bunched group, the horses spreading across the track as their jockeys searched for a clear run to the line.

And every one of the jockeys looked to me just like Clare.

I almost lost it completely but I forced myself to concentrate on the horses and pulled myself back from the brink.

‘Quarterback Sneak is still just in front but here comes Apache Pilot with Popeye’s Girl going very well on the wide outside. Just between these three as they enter the final hundred yards. Quarterback Sneak seems unable to quicken, and Popeye’s Girl goes on to win easily from Apache Pilot, with Kitbo a fast finishing third. Next comes Quarterback Sneak, then Marker Pen and Banker’s Joy together, followed by Waimarima who faded badly in the closing stages.’

I went through the rest of the field and then clicked off my mike.

I leaned back wearily against wall of the commentary box and wiped a bead of sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt wretched and wondered if I would ever again be able to commentate on a race like that without seeing Clare as one, or all, of the jockeys.

Throughout her career, and particularly in the early years, she had ridden often at the all-weather tracks, especially during the winter months when there was no turf flat racing in Great Britain. It was how up-and-coming jockeys nowadays learned their trade, taking rides in January and February while many of their more established colleagues were sunning themselves on Caribbean beaches, or riding winners in the warmth of Australia, Dubai or Hong Kong.

I sat down on the stool in the commentary box and looked out across the racecourse, the lights of the aircraft landing at Heathrow now shining brightly in the darkening sky.

I told myself that the reason I didn’t feel like going down to the weighing room was that I didn’t want to meet anyone who had read the Daily Gazette, or who might ask me difficult questions having seen the Racing Post

. But, in reality, it was because I felt I had to psych myself up in readiness for the next race.

I realized that commentating hadn’t been a problem the previous day because Clare had never ridden at Stratford, and never would have done so as they only stage hurdle races and steeplechases. Only tonight, here at Kempton, was I suddenly struck by her absence on a racecourse.

Staying in the box, however, wasn’t the ideal preparation for the next race as I couldn’t see the runners in the parade ring, which, at Kempton, was situated right behind the main grandstand.

I studied the racecard and tried to memorize the colours, but there was nothing like actually seeing the jockeys wearing the silks. All too often, the pigment of the inks used in the printing bore little or no resemblance to the actual dyes used in the material.

I went out of the commentary box and turned left.

As was the case at many racecourses, the commentary box at Kempton was situated in the grandstand high above and behind the public seating, but still under the large cantilever roof. It was one of a number of separate boxes that opened off a long corridor that ran along behind them all to a metal staircase at one end.

During the races, the various boxes contained not only the course commentator but also the judge, the race stewards, television cameramen, as well as the photo-finish technicians who were on a higher level still, immediately above the judge’s box, accessed by a second metal staircase at the far end.

It was a strange world that the public never saw with multiple cable tracks running along the tops of the undecorated walls, each of them essential for carrying the pictures and sounds to the racecourse crowd and beyond.

I went along to the end of the corridor and climbed the staircase towards the photo-finish box. Opposite there was a door that opened out onto the grandstand roof. I unlocked the door and stepped out.

The Kempton grandstand had been built in 1997 and, like many similar projects of the time, much of its structural support was gained from a tubular steel framework that sat above the roof like a series of gigantic wire coat-hangers.