them.”
“The problem is,” I said, “about my being his brother. He has left the Saxony Franklin company to me.”
The size of the problem suddenly revealed itself to him forcibly. “You’re not his brother, Derek Franklin? That brother? The jockey?”
“Yes. So ... could you find out from Weatherby’s whether the horses can still run while the estate is subject to probate?”
“My God,” he said weakly.
Professional jockeys, as we both knew well, were not allowed to own runners in races. They could own other horses such as brood mares, foals, stallions, hacks, hunters, show-horses, but they couldn’t run them.
“Can you find out?” I asked again.
“I will.” He sounded exasperated. “Dozen Roses should trot up on Saturday.”
Dozen Roses was currently the better of Greville’s two horses whose fortunes I followed regularly in the newspapers and on television. A triple winner as a three-year-old, he had been disappointing at four, but in the current year, as a five-year-old, he had regained all his old form and had scored three times in the past few weeks. A “trot-up” on Saturday was a reasonable expectation.
Loder said, “If Weatherby’s gives the thumbs-down to the horse running, will you sell it? I’ll find a buyer by Saturday, among my owners.”
I listened to the urgency in his voice and wondered whether Dozen Roses was more than just another trot-up, of which season by season he had many. He sounded a lot more fussed over than seemed normal.
“I don’t know whether I can sell before probate,” I said. “You’d better find that out too.”
“But if you can, will you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, puzzled. “Let’s wait and see, first.”
“You won’t be able to hang on to him, you know,” he said forcefully. “He’s got another season in him. He’s still worth a good bit. But unless you do something like turn in your license, you won’t be able to run him, and he’s not worth turning in your license for. It’s not as if he were favorite for the Derby.”
“I’ll decide during the week.”
“But you’re not thinking of turning in your license, are you?” He sounded almost alarmed. “Didn’t I read in the paper that you’re on the injured list but hope to be back racing well before Christmas?”
“You did read that, yes.”
“Well, then.” The relief was as indefinable as the alarm, but came clear down the wires. I didn’t understand any of it. He shouldn’t have been so worried.
“Perhaps Saxony Franklin could lease the horse to someone,” I said.
“Oh. Ah. To me?” He sounded as if it were the perfect solution.
“I don’t know,” I said cautiously. “We’ll have to find out.”
I realized that I didn’t totally trust him, and it wasn’t a doubt I’d have felt before the phone call. He was one of the top five Flat race trainers in the country, automatically held to be reliable because of his rock-solid success.
“When Greville came to see his horses,” I asked, “did he ever bring anyone with him? I’m trying to reach people he knew, to tell them of his death.”
“He never came here to see his horses. I hardly knew him personally myself, except on the telephone.”
“Well, his funeral is on Friday at Ipswich,” I said. “What if I called in at Newmarket that day, as I’ll be over your way, to see you and the horses and complete any paperwork that’s necessary?”
“No,” he said instantly, Then, softening it, “I always discourage owners from visiting. They disrupt the stable routine. I can’t make any exceptions. If I need you to sign anything I’ll arrange it another way.”
“All right,” I agreed mildly, not crowding him into corners. “I’ll wait to hear from you about what Weatherby’s decides.”
He said he would get in touch and abruptly disconnected, leaving me thinking that on the subject of his behavior I didn’t know the questions let alone the answers.
Perhaps I had been imagining things:
“The problem is,” I said, “about my being his brother. He has left the Saxony Franklin company to me.”
The size of the problem suddenly revealed itself to him forcibly. “You’re not his brother, Derek Franklin? That brother? The jockey?”
“Yes. So ... could you find out from Weatherby’s whether the horses can still run while the estate is subject to probate?”
“My God,” he said weakly.
Professional jockeys, as we both knew well, were not allowed to own runners in races. They could own other horses such as brood mares, foals, stallions, hacks, hunters, show-horses, but they couldn’t run them.
“Can you find out?” I asked again.
“I will.” He sounded exasperated. “Dozen Roses should trot up on Saturday.”
Dozen Roses was currently the better of Greville’s two horses whose fortunes I followed regularly in the newspapers and on television. A triple winner as a three-year-old, he had been disappointing at four, but in the current year, as a five-year-old, he had regained all his old form and had scored three times in the past few weeks. A “trot-up” on Saturday was a reasonable expectation.
Loder said, “If Weatherby’s gives the thumbs-down to the horse running, will you sell it? I’ll find a buyer by Saturday, among my owners.”
I listened to the urgency in his voice and wondered whether Dozen Roses was more than just another trot-up, of which season by season he had many. He sounded a lot more fussed over than seemed normal.
“I don’t know whether I can sell before probate,” I said. “You’d better find that out too.”
“But if you can, will you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, puzzled. “Let’s wait and see, first.”
“You won’t be able to hang on to him, you know,” he said forcefully. “He’s got another season in him. He’s still worth a good bit. But unless you do something like turn in your license, you won’t be able to run him, and he’s not worth turning in your license for. It’s not as if he were favorite for the Derby.”
“I’ll decide during the week.”
“But you’re not thinking of turning in your license, are you?” He sounded almost alarmed. “Didn’t I read in the paper that you’re on the injured list but hope to be back racing well before Christmas?”
“You did read that, yes.”
“Well, then.” The relief was as indefinable as the alarm, but came clear down the wires. I didn’t understand any of it. He shouldn’t have been so worried.
“Perhaps Saxony Franklin could lease the horse to someone,” I said.
“Oh. Ah. To me?” He sounded as if it were the perfect solution.
“I don’t know,” I said cautiously. “We’ll have to find out.”
I realized that I didn’t totally trust him, and it wasn’t a doubt I’d have felt before the phone call. He was one of the top five Flat race trainers in the country, automatically held to be reliable because of his rock-solid success.
“When Greville came to see his horses,” I asked, “did he ever bring anyone with him? I’m trying to reach people he knew, to tell them of his death.”
“He never came here to see his horses. I hardly knew him personally myself, except on the telephone.”
“Well, his funeral is on Friday at Ipswich,” I said. “What if I called in at Newmarket that day, as I’ll be over your way, to see you and the horses and complete any paperwork that’s necessary?”
“No,” he said instantly, Then, softening it, “I always discourage owners from visiting. They disrupt the stable routine. I can’t make any exceptions. If I need you to sign anything I’ll arrange it another way.”
“All right,” I agreed mildly, not crowding him into corners. “I’ll wait to hear from you about what Weatherby’s decides.”
He said he would get in touch and abruptly disconnected, leaving me thinking that on the subject of his behavior I didn’t know the questions let alone the answers.
Perhaps I had been imagining things:
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