Dick Francis's Refusal by Felix Francis Page B

car to climb out and get themselves ready, and then the three of us joined them, seeking safety in numbers, as we walked together towards the racetrack entrance.
    â€œAren’t you Sid Halley?” one of the men said to me. “The jockey?”
    â€œI used to be him,” I said, smiling, “but now he’s too old.”
    â€œHappens to us all, mate,” the man said. “I used to run marathons, but look at me now.” He grabbed his substantial stomach and guffawed loudly.
    But I didn’t feel like laughing.
    Latterly, and for the first time I had begun to feel my age. I no longer bounded out of bed each morning, and I could no longer shrug off late nights and hangovers.
    My more sedentary and deskbound lifestyle of recent years had also taken their toll on my fitness, and I was now regularly beaten in a sprint by my six-year-old and her friends. Indeed, going for a run around the village had become a chore rather than a joy.
    I was nearing my forty-seventh birthday, and the flecks of gray hair, which had first appeared at my temples about ten years previously, had started to spread right across my head. Soon I would have to admit that it was the dark bits that were the real flecks in an otherwise solid gray landscape. But at least I still had my hair. Some of my former jockey colleagues were long past the comb-over stage and looked even older than I did.
    On top of everything else, the years of racing falls were beginning to catch up with me, and my ankles were regularly sore and aching from arthritis. It didn’t bode particularly well for the future.
    I wondered if Dr. Harold Bryant at Roehampton also did complete foot and ankle transplants.
    â€œSo, Sid, what’s going to win the big race?” asked my marathon friend with the bulging stomach. “You must know, being an insider.”
    Being solicited for tips was the bane of any jockey’s life. Jockeys notoriously make bad tipsters. In my case, when I was riding, I was invariably overoptimistic about my own chances and would tell everyone to back me.
    Early on in my career, I had expected to win every race I’d ridden in. I soon began to realize that I was more disappointed when I lost than I was pleased when I won. Experience soon changed that attitude, and a good job too. Otherwise, it might have been the quick road to depression and suicide. “To tell you the truth, mate,” I said, turning towards him, “I don’t even know what’s running.”
    â€œYou’re just saying that to protect the price.” He placed his finger knowingly down the side of his nose and winked at me.
    I didn’t bother to deny it. He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
    The seven of us made it to the racetrack entrance in easygoing companionship, safe from molestation or abduction, and the four guys peeled off to the nearest bar while Marina, Saskia and I made a direct line towards the Weighing Room. There was still well over an hour to go before the first race, and there were things I had to do.
    â€œYou two can go for a wander round,” I said to Marina. “There are some people I need to talk to.”
    Marina had Saskia firmly by the hand. “We’ll stick with you,” she said, the stress of the past two days etched deeply on her face.
    â€œIt’s all right,” I said to her calmly. “You will be safe in the racetrack enclosures.”
    The look she gave me implied that she didn’t agree. “I’d still rather stick with you. But I’ll give you the space you need to talk to people.” She didn’t like it. She didn’t want me to investigate at all, but she knew we had no choice in the matter.
    â€œMommy, can I go and see the horses?” Sassy said, pulling hard at her mother’s arm.
    â€œNo,” Marina said firmly. “Stay here with Daddy.”
    â€œPlease!” Sassy squealed, pulling harder so that her body was almost at forty-five