Pulse(84)

He shook his head. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’re all sorted then. I’ll try and be home a bit earlier. How about if I cook you steak and chips with a peppercorn sauce?’

His favourite. A peace offering.

He smiled and it lit up my life. ‘That would be lovely.’

Shame he didn’t get it.





31


The only good thing to say about the Thursday of the April meeting was that it was less busy than the day before, at least as far as the medical team was concerned. However, the sunshine of the previous day had given way to overcast skies and a steady drizzle, interspersed with heavier showers as a cold front moved in from the west. Definitely an anorak day.

I dropped the boys off at their cricket-coaching course at eleven. They didn’t mind the rain as they would be inside anyway, using the indoor nets in the college sports hall.

‘Don’t wander off,’ I told them seriously. ‘And wait inside for Dad to collect you. He should be here by six.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ they said, rolling their eyes in unison. ‘We could have caught a bus home, you know. We’re no longer little kids.’

Catching a bus would have involved walking down the hill from the college to the bus station in the town centre, as well as along our road in Gotherington at the other end and, for reasons I didn’t explain, I wasn’t keen for them to be out wandering the streets alone. Not just at the moment.

Indeed, I checked all around to ensure I couldn’t spot a lurking long black Mercedes before I was happy to leave them and go on to the racecourse.

As on the day before, I was the first doctor to arrive at the medical room, but there were already three jockeys waiting in there for clearance to ride.

One of them was Mike Sheraton with his stitched right knee, and he wasn’t pleased to see me.

‘I’ll come back,’ he mumbled to no one in particular, walking back out into the changing room.

Go ahead, I thought, taking off my coat.

I didn’t want to see him every bit as much as he clearly didn’t want to see me.

The other two were straightforward and I removed their Red Entries from RIMANI.

Next, I helped the nurse go through all the medical supplies, checking that they were all back in order after busy use the previous afternoon.

Adrian Kings arrived as we were finishing off.

‘Ah, hello, Chris,’ he said. ‘Thank you for stepping into the breach. Don’t know what we’d have done today without you.’

‘I’ll remind you of that before the Festival next March,’ I said with a laugh.

Mike Sheraton came back into the medical room and presented himself to Adrian.

‘Can you clear me, doc?’ he said.

Adrian was busy working out the doctor and ambulance positions for each race, writing them up on the whiteboard on the wall ready for his briefing.

‘Chris,’ he said to me. ‘Can you do it?’

Mike Sheraton wasn’t happy, and nor was I, but neither of us had much choice.

He pulled up his right trouser leg and put his foot on a chair while I removed the dressing and inspected the knee.

The nurse really had done a good job with the suturing and healing had clearly started.

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Healing well. You will need a support dressing over it but otherwise you are fit to ride.’

He looked at me with distaste.

‘I could have bloody ridden yesterday. You cost me a winner in the last.’

‘My job is simply to ensure you receive the best possible medical care,’ I said. ‘No other considerations are important. Today you are fit to ride, yesterday you were not. I will confirm to the Clerk of the Scales that your Red Entry has been removed.’

He didn’t thank me. He just pulled down his trouser leg and walked out without even waiting for the dressing to be replaced. I wasn’t going to call him back. If he landed on his knee and split it open again, he would have no one to blame but himself.

Did I care?

Not a jot.

Thankfully, there was not a single faller in any of the first three races, which allowed me to remain in the dry of the Land Rover as much as possible.

However, the third race was not without some interest.

I was in the centre of the course for the start of a two-and-a-half-mile handicap hurdle with thirteen runners.

I confirmed to the officials that the medical arrangements were in place and then watched as the horses circled, having their girths tightened by the starter’s assistants.

Mike Sheraton was riding horse number one, the top weight, and he jumped off fast when the flag dropped, skipping over the first hurdle in front of the other twelve.

They’re at it again, I thought.

They must be very sure of themselves.

Mike Sheraton had known I was there, he’d seen me at the start. Perhaps they still didn’t realise I knew what they were up to, or maybe the bets had already been laid and it was too late, and too expensive, to cancel.

Either way, I considered it a personal insult.

But it was none of my business, right?

I had a customer in the fourth race, a pretty young lady jockey called Jane Glenister, who fell at the open ditch at the top of the hill while leading the pack of nine runners.

‘Hi, there,’ I said when I reached her. ‘Dr Rankin here.’