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day, Tuesday, I drove north to Nottingham for a normal day’s hard work hanging around doing nothing much at the races.
    I’d bought the new clothes and a new suitcase and had more or less packed ready for my departure the next morning, and the old long-distance wanderlust that had in the past kept me travelling for seven years had woken from its recent slumber and given me a sharp nudge in the ribs. Millington shouldn’t fear losing me to Filmer, I thought, so much as to the old seductive tug of moving on, moving on … seeing what lay round the next corner.
    I could do it now, I supposed, in five-star fashion, not back-packing;in limousines, not on buses; eating haute cuisine, not hot dogs; staying in Palm Beach, not dusty backwoods. Probably I’d enjoy the lushness for a while, maybe even for a long while, but in the end, to stay real, I’d have to get myself out of the sweet shop and do some sort of work, and not put it off and off until I no longer had a taste for plain bread.
    I was wearing, perhaps as a salute to plain bread, a well-worn leather jacket and a flat cloth cap, the binoculars-camera slung round my neck, a race-card clutched in my hand. I stood around vaguely outside the weighing-room, watching who came and who went, who talked to whom, who looked worried, who happy, who malicious.
    A young apprentice with an ascendant reputation came out of the weighing-room in street clothes, not riding gear, and stood looking around as if searching for someone. His eyes stopped moving and focused, and I looked to see what had caught his attention. He was looking at the Jockey Club’s paid steward, who was acting at the meeting as the human shape of authority. The steward was standing in social conversation with a pair of people who had a horse running that day, and after a few minutes he raised his hat to the lady and walked out towards the parade ring.
    The apprentice calmly watched his departing back, then made another sweep of the people around. Seeing nothing to worry about he set off towards the stand the jockeys watched the races from and joined a youngish man with whom he walked briefly, talking. They parted near the stands, and I, following, transferred my attention from the apprentice and followed the other man instead; he went straight into the bookmakers’ enclosure in front of the stands, and along the rows of bookmakers to the domain of Collie Goodboy who was shouting his offered odds from the height of a small platform the size of a beer-crate.
    The apprentice’s contact didn’t place a bet. He picked up a ledger and began to record the bets of others. He spoke to Collie Goodboy (Les Morris to his parents) who presently wiped off the offered odds from his board, and chalked up new ones. The new odds were generous. Collie Goodboy was rewarded by a rush of eager punters keen to accept the invitation. Collie Goodboy methodically took their money.
    With a sigh I turned away and wandered off up to the stands to watch the next race, scanning the crowds as usual, watching the world revolve. I ended up standing not far from the rails dividing the bookmakers’ section of the stands (called the Tattersalls enclosure) from the Club, the more expensive end. I often did that, as from thereone could see the people in both enclosures easily. One could see also who came to the dividing rails to put bets on with the row of bookmakers doing business in that privileged position. The ‘rails’ bookmakers were the princes of their trade, genial, obliging, fair, flint-hearted, brilliant mathematicians.
    I watched as always to see who was betting with whom, and when I came to the bookmaker nearest to the stands, nearest to me, I saw that the present customer was Filmer.
    I was watching him bet, thinking of the rail journey ahead, when he tilted his head back and looked straight up into my eyes.

CHAPTER THREE
    I looked away instantly but smoothly, and presently glanced back.
    Filmer was still talking to the bookmaker.