Episode 25: A Day at the Races

Season 1: The World Unseen

Newmarket, Suffolk

May 1900

It is a race day at Newmarket Racecourse. And not just any old race day. Today the 2,000 Guineas Stakes, one of the five Classics of British horse racing, is being contested on the Rowley Mile. And not just any old 2,000 Guineas Stakes either. One of the Prince of Wales’ favourite horses, Diamond Jubilee, is running. The colt has excellent breeding but his temperament is suspect. Most bookmakers and punters regard him unreliable and cowardly. Diamond Jubilee performed inconsistently last year and even attacked his jockeys. And today he’s being ridden by an inexperienced nineteen-year-old.

The course betting reflects these doubts. Diamond Jubilee is the third favourite, behind Elopement and Sailor Lad, in a field of ten runners.

From his position in the betting ring, Kiran Nambudiri gazes past a sea of bobbing top hats to the Jockey Club enclosure, where he can see a host of well-dressed men and women, many of whom, Mr Smiggins assures him, are aristocrats from Europe and beyond.

‘And one of your countrymen too,’ Mr Smiggins says. ‘Prince Frederick Duleep Singh himself.’

‘Ah, but Prince Freddy was born in London, so he is as much your countryman as mine. More so, perhaps.’

‘Well, yes, that may be true. But you know what I meant.’

Kiran laughs. ‘Forgive me, sir. I knew exactly what you meant. I was only teasing.’

Mr Smiggins, who is still getting used to Kiran’s humour, shrugs. He is a tolerant chap, and somewhat in awe of Kiran’s mathematical abilities, but he is the boss, and Kiran must be careful when unleashing his natural cheekiness.

It is a fortnight since Kiran became assistant to the well-known bookmaker, Henry Smiggins, and this is the third racecourse he has visited after Epsom and Sandown Park. To his delight, the weather here is the best he has experienced since arriving in England. Bright sunshine floods the scene and a gentle breeze is blowing the rich scents of earth, turf, and horse across Newmarket Heath. It is not hot — is England ever hot? — but it is warm and Kiran is grateful for that.

He is still acclimatizing to the British racing milieu, and here at Newmarket it manifests in all its boisterous, larkish, devil-may-care plenitude. Hundreds of people have come in trains from all over the country to watch the six races being run today. And people of all classes too. Horse racing, it seems to Kiran, is a much more democratic pastime than it is in his native land.

From his position between the rails and the stands, he can see all the classes arrayed — cohabiting, even rubbing shoulders, but certainly not mingling. The British class system is a simpler, less nuanced hierarchy than the caste system he is so familiar with. But it is still very new to Kiran, and he has yet to grasp its subtleties.

Those of the rich and titled who aren’t in the Jockey Club enclosure sit high in the stands, surveying the Rowley Mile imperiously, served by waiters bearing champagne and lobster salad. The lower stands are where the higher echelons of the middle-class congregate, also attended by waiters. But none of those in the stands venture down to the betting ring where Mr Smiggins and the other bookmakers have their pitches. They place their bets via telephone.

Here, down on the turf, is where the lower middle-class and working class punters watch the races. The former tend to loiter nearer the stands, the latter closer to the rails. There is an automatic stratification in action.

Kiran is a Brahmin and used to mixing mostly with people of his own high caste. But his meagre savings have required him to take lodgings in working-class Wapping, near to where he stepped off the boat from India. The people there have accepted him. It is a Docklands district, and they are used to darker skins and foreign accents. They are curious, certainly, and think some of his habits odd, but there has been less colour prejudice than he expected. Less, but still some. That is to be expected. He has known plenty of prejudice in India, though more about caste than colour. Still, colour plays a part, even in India. Many Brahmins value light skin as much as Englishmen do.

Kiran cranes his neck to catch a sight of the runners in the 2,000 Guineas Stakes as they emerge from the paddock and canter down the course. The noble beasts and the jockeys in their colours are a thrilling sight. He must describe them when he next writes to Cochin. He has yet to tell his family and Sitara, his betrothed, that he has a new occupation.

‘Look, lively, lad,’ says Mr Smiggins. ‘Here comes the rush before the race.’

The starting gun will fire in less than ten minutes, and the punters who have been holding back, waiting to see the horses in the paddock, assessing their physical condition with pernickety attention, now queue up to place their bets. There are eight bookmakers in the ring and all of them are besieged.

Mr Smiggins stands on a wooden platform, in front of a chalkboard displaying the runners and odds, from where he banters with the punters and takes their bets. Kiran sits next to the platform at a fold-up desk, where he issues the betting slips, recording the horse backed, the odds, and the stake.

From his vantage point, Mr Smiggins also keeps an eye on the odds offered by the other bookmakers in the ring. It is a delicate balance they must all maintain. Offering a longer price on one of the favourites will attract more punters, but if the horse wins, then the bookmaker’s losses will be large. None of them wants to get too out of step with the others. It is a business of fractional advantage and constant readjustment.

Kiran’s other principal duty is to compute Mr Smiggins’ current position in relation to the day’s transactions. Is he in profit, and if so, by how much? Or is it turning out to be one of those days when most of the favourites win and he will leave the racecourse in the red — and in a foul temper?

Kiran calls out the current position at regular intervals and is rewarded with a nod or a scowl from Mr Smiggins, depending on his report.

‘A fiver on Diamond Jubilee,’ says the next man in the queue.

‘A fiver on Diamond Jubilee at fifteen to four,’ shouts Mr Smiggins to Kiran, taking the banknote and adding it to the wad in his left hand.

Kiran writes out the booking slip and hands it to the man, who snatches it as if it is his ticket to riches.

The next punter also backs Diamond Jubilee and once his bet is taken, Mr Smiggins peers around the ring at the other bookmakers’ boards. Two have already shorted their odds on the colt to 7/3. They may have got wind of some fresh information about the horse or his rider. Or maybe the savvier punters liked the look of Diamond Jubilee when he came through the paddock. Or it could be because of a rumour started by a bookmaker to rattle his rivals.

Kiran looks up and sees Mr Smiggins is weighing the situation. Leaving the odds longer will get him more business, but will leave him exposed if the horse wins. Mr Smiggins runs his fingers through what little hair he has left and rubs his earlobe, a sure sign that his brain is whirring. Then he takes a cloth from his trouser pocket, rubs out the ’15/4’ next to Diamond Jubilee’s number, and chalks up ‘7/3’.

Kiran and Mr Smiggins are so busy in the last five minutes before the start that there is barely time to catch their breath. But though the odds on Diamond Jubilee have shortened, he remains the third favourite behind Elopement and Sailor Lad.

Finally, the horses are under starter’s orders and Mr Smiggins bellows, ‘No more bets on the 2,000!’

So much banter, bustle, and brooding for a race that lasts just one minute and forty-one seconds. And Diamond Jubilee wins it, with the unfancied Bonarosa coming in second. Despite the flurry of late bets on the winner, Mr Smiggins and the other bookmakers radiate contentment. The two favourites have made a poor show and therefore they are all in profit: Elopement comes in fourth and Sailors Lad does not even finish.

There is loud cheering in the crowd, as much for the Prince of Wales as for the horse. Kiran cannot see the prince but imagines him throwing his top hat in the air, laughing and cheering himself. There is another flurry of custom at the pitch as most of the punters who backed Diamond Jubilee come to collect their winnings. And then Mr Smiggins goes off for some ‘refreshment’ with one of his bookmaker cronies, leaving Kieran in charge, though with strict orders not to change any of the odds for the rest of the afternoon’s races.

But there is very little betting in this post-race lull. Kiran amuses himself by looking over the seething crowd at the platform where the tic-tac man, bowler-hatted and white-gloved, stands like a captain on his quarterdeck. It is the tic-tac man’s job to keep the bookmakers on the further reaches of the racecourse — the ones who are neither well-established enough nor wealthy enough to rent a pitch in the betting ring — abreast of the odds being offered at the trackside.

He conveys this information with a complex repertoire of hand signals, indicating races, horses, and odds, all carried out in rapid motion, the white gloves standing out against the dark shades of his surroundings.

There are many things Kiran finds strange and enchanting about the English horse-racing scene and the tic-tac man is one of his favourites. This is partly due to his fascination with codes and secret signals, and partly because it seems another instance of the famed English eccentricity.

He wonders, for the thousandth time, how the Indians had come to be ruled by such an odd people. But then who else but an odd people would want to take on the administration of a cacophonous, multi-lingual sub-continent? In any case, his father, a wry and cynical student of history, has told him the simple truth of the matter: it was Indian bankers who funded the ventures and machinations of the East India Company, and it was Indian troops who made up their foot soldiers. Perhaps, he thinks ruefully, it’s we Indians who are the really odd ones.

Kiran shakes his head and his mind drifts to another oddity, an encounter that morning on the way to the racecourse. A beggar boy, his face grimy and his clothes tattered, grabbed his hand and pleaded with him for some coins. Even the beggars in India weren’t that bold. Mr Smiggins kicked the boy and said he would get a constable on him. But the boy kept his eyes fixed on Kiran’s and wouldn’t let go. Only now, recalling the event, does it strike Kiran that the boy’s blond hair, hidden mostly under a cap, looked awfully clean for a beggar boy’s. He recalls, too, the slight dizziness he felt as the boy gripped his hand and fixed his gaze. But it was over in moments. Mr Smiggins dragged the boy off and pushed him into the gutter.

A gentleman approaches the pitch and takes a betting slip from his wallet. Kiran recognizes his face and the dull red scar that runs down the right side of it. He was one of the last men to bet on the 2,000 Guineas.

‘Very good, sir,’ Kiran says, examine the betting slip. ‘Diamond Jubilee at seven to three with a ten-pound stake’. He opens the money bag that Mr Smiggins left with him and counts out the notes and coins. ‘So here’s your ten-pound stake back and here’s your twenty-three pounds, six shillings, and seven pence in winnings. A shame you didn’t back the horse when he was at fifteen to four.’

‘Oh, I’m not really a betting man,’ the gentleman says. ‘Not when it comes to horses, anyway. No idea what I’m doing. I heard someone say that Diamond Jubilee looked well in the paddock so I backed him. Pure luck.’

An odd thing for a punter to say about a win. In Kiran’s experience, most of them were quite boastful in these circumstances. He looks at the man properly for the first time.

A tall man with neat brown hair and brown questing eyes. Kiran is a great admirer of the Sherlock Holmes stories by Mr Arthur Conan Doyle, and especially of Holmes’ deductive powers.

The gentleman seems in no hurry to leave, so Kiran uses the brief silence between them to exercise his own deductive powers.

Let’s see now. A military man, judging by his posture. He’s seen some close action too, if that scar on his face is anything to go by. Brown, weathered skin — he’s clearly spent time in a hot climate. Perhaps in India or Africa.

The gentleman seems to sense he is being assessed, but neither moves nor speaks.

So Kiran says, ‘I observe, sir, that you have a military bearing. May I ask which regiment you served in?’

The gentleman smiles the briefest of smiles. ‘That’s very perceptive of you. I was in the King's Shropshire Light Infantry.’

‘And I suppose, from your complexion, that you have dwelt in hotter climes. India, perhaps, or Egypt?’

‘Both, actually.’

Kiran cannot stifle a smirk of satisfaction. ‘And I gather it’s not a love of racing or betting that has brought you to Newmarket today?’

‘Very astute of you.’

Kiran hesitates. It would be the height of rudeness to ask the chap what his purpose is. And yet…

The gentleman seems to read the question in Kiran’s expression.

‘So you’re wondering what has brought me to Newmarket Racecourse?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. I was curious — but only as a student of human behaviour.’

‘No need for an apology,’ he says. ‘It’s quite simple. I came here to find you.’