Gold Trip Wins The Melbourne Cup— And Egg Loses It

5

Gold Trip Wins The Melbourne Cup— And Egg Loses It

November. Well it was a soggy day for the world-famous Melbourne Cup and there’d been an attempt to vandalise the track, incredible in a racing-mad country like Australia one would have said, but all was well nonetheless and the races went ahead. We Junior Drones huddled in assorted shabby macs providently brought out from England with us on the “You Never Know” principle, and in spite of the rain our spirits were undimmed. And bets were put on this and that runner, my choice of a French horse for no other reason than that he was, being loudly rubbished by the knowledgeable. And intense discussions, not to use a stronger word, arose over which nag had the Form, and etcetera. Well also my horse had a lovely name. And dear old Sid kindly agreed with me that he did, and decided to put a tenner on him on his own account.

    Well goodness, the odds at that point were twenty-one to one, so work it out! That maths whizz, Crumpet (Lucius) Lamont had long since done so, of course, and was able to inform us loftily that betting on a rank outsider at those odds was a mug’s game. Likewise Egg, whose money was on the favourite, Deauville Legend. Helpfully the dashed Bean pointed out, head in some sort of Racing Bible, that my lovely French horse was carrying 57.5 kilogrammes, and nothing at that sort of weight had ever won the Cup except the famous mare Makybe Diva in her third triumphant Melbourne Cup and what made me imagine that this nag was in her class? At which point Egg, possibly getting a look at my face, hurriedly told the misguided sibling to shut up, as I didn’t want to know, and given the going why shouldn’t a French horse win? (Extra-nicely, not meaning a word of it.) And Mr O.’s jockey, Devon Holmes, who wasn’t in the Cup but had a ride in an earlier race that day, agreed kindly and not only helped me to put my bet on but bet on my lovely French horse himself! At least, added his money to mine, I have an idea jockeys aren’t allowed to bet in person, so to speak.

    Well after a very wet morning indeed, it began to clear for the big race, tho of course the track itself remained damp. Excitement mounted, people crowded forward, race glasses were trained, the horses paraded in the paddock seemingly endlessly, but at last they were lined up, and the Big Race was off!

    It was thrilling, absolutely thrilling, and even Devon, who isn’t old but has nevertheless seen it all, admitted it was one of the most exciting races he’d ever seen, with a tremendous finish. With two hundred and fifty metres to go, my horse began to move up, HURRAY! He passed Egg’s pick, Deauville Legend; he was moving up, COME ON! Bean’s and Crumpy’s choice Emissary was in front but tiring, my horse was hanging in there, he was moving up, HURRAY! He passed Emissary, he was going to win, he was going to win—

    HURRAY! My wonderful French horse Gold Trip won by two lengths! Vive la France! Vive le brave cheval! Vive the Melbourne Cup!

    Naturally after that, one had to Celebrate. Well I did, and so did Devon—laughing like anything, and awarding me a fervent kiss on the cheek, with the assurance that I’d brought him luck and I must promise to watch him in his next race, which was on the Thursday, “Ladies’ Day” as it was popularly known. Yes, he’d be riding Little Princess, that was right! And we gathered up Sid and went to collect our winnings, grinning like mad, what time those whose horses had lost and who had neglected to put their money on both ways scowled after us…

    “Crikey. ’Ow much did yer put on, love?” croaked Sid, goggling, as I collected my load of moolah.

    “Well fifty dollars, Sid, but it’s not like pounds, you know, it’s only about twenty-five…”

    Devon broke down in sniggers as I looked bemusedly at the bunch of strange Australian money in my fist. “She’s won a thousand and fifty dollars!” he choked.

    “Strewth! Well, good on yer, Mel, love,” the old head lad conceded, carefully counting his own winnings. “Funny-looking money, eh? –Yeah: two ’undred an’ ten, that’s right.”

    “What about you, Devon?” I asked eagerly—he’d already divided it up.

    He winked. “Same as you. Wish I’d risked a hundred, now! Right, now: how about some champers at my hotel? It’s not far.”

    Sid eyed him drily. “If you’re thinking I’m gonna trust you to look after Mel proper while I’m with the nags yer can think again.” –Well he did sort of have a point, the crazed terrorists apart: Devon Holmes, who was short but good-looking with considerable charm, was well-known as a lady-killer and reputed at the Ovenden Stables to have a new girlfriend every week.

    “Uh—she is a big girl now,” the jockey replied weakly.

    Possibly at this point it dawned on Sid that the chap didn’t have a clue why I was out here. “Never mind that,” he said quickly. “She come with Alan and the boys and she’s sticking with ’em, geddit?”

    “I was only going to suggest a drink in the lobby bar, it’s very comfortable. And not wet,” Devon added drily.

    “And too bloody near yer bedroom, yeah. Go on, push orf.”

    “Um, Sid, I really think I’d be all right with Devon.”

    “Oh, sure!” he replied with huge irony. “Five dozen of the Arab owners staying there, are there?” he demanded nastily.

    Poor Devon blinked. “Uh—no, it’s a decent hotel but not in that bracket… What the Hell are you on about?”

    “Nuffink. Put it like this, Devon ’Olmes, none of us’d trust you with Mel for five minutes and if Mr O. got to ’ear I’d let her go orf with you ’e’d ’ave me guts fer garters. –Come on, Mel, if yer want fizz we can ’ave it ’ere.”

    “Well, um, couldn’t poor Devon come, too? I mean, he’s a stranger here too, Sid.”

    Devon had recovered himself. “And there’s safety in numbers,” he drawled.

    “I'm not stopping yer,” the old head lad replied tersely, grabbing my elbow and dragging me off forcibly.

    Well naturally the bars were somewhat crowded with Aussies either exulting over their unexpected win (the minority) or drowning their sorrows, but we finally managed to get glasses of… Well um, lovely bubbles! …Okay, Bean, it was Australian.

    So the Junior Drones voted to go back to our hotel. True, this would entail making our way across stretches of the city, because whoever had been responsible for the bookings apparently either hadn’t been able to read a map or hadn’t been able to get us any closer to Flemington…

    So off we set. It was not precisely an exciting drive, not merely because of the weather and the traffic. In spite of all those brightly-coloured tourist brochures acquired by certain persons, and the incessant googling by other or even the same persons, not looking at anyone, Michael Fullarton-Browne, aka Bean, the city of Melbourne is not precisely a bright tourist mecca, in fact its central bits are distinctly grey—old stone buildings, yes. Well oldish, I suppose. Victorian. (Oops, not a pun, M. being in the state of Victoria as aforementioned. Built during the 19th century.)

    As might have been gathered from the fact that on Tuesday 1st November it poured and was distinctly chilly, its climate is not precisely tropical, either. If one looks at the map—yes, thank you, Bean, seen it before!—if, as I say, one looks, the place is at the bottom of the continent, the most southerly of the big cities. Well there is a state capital further south, Hobart, which is on the island of Tasmania right down at the bottom of the map, kind of thing, but I got the strong impresh. that most Aussies don’t count that.

    Our hotel was actually more of a hotel-motel in that its bottom part, okay ground floor, le rez de chaussée, thank you again, Bean, was almost entirely given over to parking space in addition to its basement parking, and it was clear from the shiny hardware crowding the area that most of the guests had brought their cars. But it was a multi-storey place and from the street one would have thought just an hotel. But okay, yes, one of the brochures did indicate “hotel-motel”— At that point I lost it and threw the bally thing at my ubiquitous sibling.

    Well what I’m trying to say is when we got back there the big downstairs lounge bar was fairly busy and fairly merry but we managed to grab some seats round a little table and the grinning Sid ordered champagne, tho noting that at some point he’d have to get off to the stables and check on the horses. But Egg pointed out there was no reason to suppose that they weren’t perfectly okay, they had been first thing this morning, and the security arrangements were excellent, not that anyone in their right mind would bother to nobble any of them. Which did not go down too well, Sid bristling up and pointing out not quietly that Little Princess had a good chance, given her form and the other runners in her race, et tout et tout. Well I think poor Egg was really cheesed off because the dashed favourite had let him down.

    Oh dear, when it came it wasn’t actual champagne. Not if one’s criterion is “Appellation contrôlée, Champagne”. True, it was in a champagne bottle. It was white, it was fizzy, its name was “Angas Brut” and it was Australian.

    Immediately Devon leapt up, Leave this to me! and fought his way over to the bar.

    “That won’t work,” said Egg sourly. “They’ll spot him for a Pommy, too.”

    Er… In that case wouldn’t they try to sell him the dearest thing on the wine list? Well that was what would happen in Paris to any poor foreigner and most certainly in Oncle Albert LeBec’s Restaurant LeBec should any stray tourist happen to venture therein, which is not all that likely, as it’s just off the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis at the point where it starts to go uphill and gets definitely unfashionable, never mind what trendy culinary folderol might be going on down the lower end.

    “My money’s on Devon, tho!” said good old Crumpy cheerfully. “Six to four, Egg?”

    “No!” he snapped.

    We stared at him in astonishment: that was really most unlike Egg.

    And the tactless Bean asked: “How much did you lose on that nag, old man?”

    “Only ten doll— Never mind!”

    “Thing is,” said Sid in a confidential tone, not neglecting to grin as he said it, “’e thought ’e was a judge of horseflesh, and the nag couldn’t lose.”

    “A mistake. Statistics indicate—” the misguided Crumpet began.

    “YES!” shouted poor Egg, now very red in the face.

    “Um, we all lost, actually, except Mel and Sid,” said Bean Minor uneasily into the resultant ringing silence in our part of the crowded, cheery lounge bar.

    “Yes; next time maybe we’d all better chose a horse because it’s got a pretty name!” added Trelawney with an awkward laugh.

    This merited a sour glare, alas. And after that we just waited for Devon to resurface…

    Two bottles. Champagne bottles, true. And they did say “Appellation contrôlée, Champagne”. Er…

    “Is this all they had?” croaked the Bean.

    “Uh—’tis French champagne,” offered poor Devon.

    “It hasn’t got a year on it!” he cried.

    “Uh—oh. Sorry. The barman said that was all they had left. Um well, there did seem to be plenty of it but they all seemed to be the same…”

    “Okay, we’ll toast losing our dough on the Melbourne Cup in non-vintage champagne,” said Egg heavily. “Go on, you might as well open it.”

    “Yes, come on, chaps!” said Crumpy in a rallying tone. “Grab a glass!”

    We grabbed glasses and Devon started in on the first bottle’s wire.

    “No, ’alf a tick!” Sid got up, glass in hand. “Lessee what them types are drinking!” Forthwith he went over to a nearby table which featured a clutch of empties, half a dozen drinkers, and a genial, red-faced chap in the act of pouring.

    We watched numbly as he spoke to them, the chap showed him the bottle, there was general laughter, and he generously poured him a glass. Since he was holding an empty one, presumably. Also since it was Melbourne Cup Day, presumably. Also possibly because his, the chap’s, money had been on my darling Gold Trip, too? Or possibly merely because he was well away.

    Sid returned to our table grinning widely. “Same!” he reported. “Well ’ere’s to it! Mel’s lucky guess, eh? Cheers!” And he downed it.

    “What’s the verdict?” asked Devon with a grin.

    “It’s got bubbles and it’s alcoholic, what more do yer want? Go on, pour!”

    So Devon poured…

    Ooh, bubbles, lovely!

    The assembled males conceded it was white, it was fizzy, it was relatively dry… Silly chumps!

    “Come on, chaps, let’s have another couple of bottles, why not?” I cried in would-be rallying tones. “One only wins a thousand and fifty dollars on the Melbourne Cup once in a lifetime, after all! On me, this time!”

    “How much?” gasped Egg, turning an unlovely greenish shade.

    “Um, I thought you knew? A thousand and fifty dollars. Um, Australian,” I ended lamely.

    “Both of us,” noted Devon airily. “Well—just for fun, y’know! Never thought it’d come home for us. –Cheer up, Alan, for God’s sake! Have another.”

    “No thanks. I’m going back to the stables to check on the horses,” he said grimly. “Crumpy, I’m relying on you to keep an eye on Mel.”

    “Uh—of course, old man,” fumbled the spongy comestible in Q. “But don’t dash off yet.”

    “I’ve no intention of sitting here and getting pie-eyed, thanks. –You coming, Sid?”

    “What, now?”

    “All right, don’t. But just be warned: it’ll be your neck if Mel makes a fool of herself with bloody Devon and Dad finds out!” With that he strode off.

    Well one of us was now very red about the old physiog., don’tcha know. “I will not!”

    Unfortunately Sid replied to this: “Not while I’m ’ere, yer won’t, no. So are we gonna have another round, or not?”

    “Yes of course. And it’s on me, Mel,” said Devon firmly, heading for the bar.

    “’E can afford it, made a fortune these last few years,” noted Sid chattily. “One meeting he won five races in a row. Well it was only (name of presumably insignificant English racing venue) but it was pretty good going all the same. ’Ope he gets some crisps, I could do with a nibble.”

    “Yes, me too,” Bean agreed, looking at his watch. “Good grief, is that the time? Uh—maybe one or two of us should’ve gone with Egg,” he noted uneasily.

    Carefully Sid up-ended the bottles and poured the last few dregs into his glass. “Crap. Comes but once a year, dunnit? ’Ere’s to good ole Gold Trip!”

    Yes well, as might be envisaged, after that it sort of went downhill, so to speak, and non-vintage or not, far more champagne was consumed than was necessary or, really, desirable, and even the huge Aussie steaks we were served in the dining-room, it being far too late to go out and look for a restaurant, especially in a town we didn’t know, failed to entirely sop it up and somehow when Devon volunteered to come and tuck me up in my virtuous little bed I didn’t say no, tho I did look round for Sid, but he was snoring in one of the large comfortable armchairs the hotel provided for its drinkers, I mean guests, so…

    Oh well. Like Sid says, it comes but once a year. Tho if one was being absolutely frank one would have to admit that neither Devon nor I precisely emulated that well-known saying. So to speak. Tho we did wake up with horrible heads which there is no doubt were thoroughly deserved.

    … “You didn’t!” gasped young Trelawney, going bright red with sheer horror as it dawned, consequent upon a Beanish somewhat forthright remark.

    “Of course she did!” shouted my elder sibling. “She’s like that! Hasn’t that dawned YET?”

    “Um, he doesn’t really know her that well, Bean,” muttered Bean Minor uncomfortably, avoiding everyone’s eye.

    “He does now,” noted the Bean sourly. “Didn’t you think of John once, Mel?”

    Oddly enough at this point, even tho this discussion or more accurately confrontation was taking place in the hotel’s lobby, rather publicly, I shouted: “NO! I don’t even know where he IS!” And burst into tears and rushed off to my room.

    … “I suppose it didn’t dawn,” said the Egg tightly, quite some time later that day, when first things had come first and the horses had been tenderly looked to, “that I might have liked to know that our head lad was passed out in the bloody hotel bar last night!”

    “Well, uh… Y’couldn’t have done anything about it, y’know,” muttered Crumpy, shuffling his feet.

    The Egg took a deep breath. “I dare say. And while he was getting pissed out of his tiny brain it didn’t occur to you to keep an eye on Mel as asked, I suppose?” he enquired arctically.

    Ouch! Poor darling Crumpy went as red as a beet and blurted: “But I thought you only meant make sure no dashed terrorists were in the offing!”

    “Right,” he said grimly. “While poor John Raice is incarcerated somewhere known only to the bloody MOD, devoid of all human contact, without a clue as to where his supposed girlfriend might be, make that where in the world!” –Rather loud on the last word, tho true, one couldn’t really find it in one’s heart to blame him.

    “I didn’t mean to,” I said weakly. “It was the champagne.”

    “Yes, that and damned Devon Holmes turning on the charm! For God’s sake, Mel! You know what he’s like! He’s been riding for Dad for ten years!”

    Yes, I’d have been twelve when he started. And actually he’d been more or less coming on to me for more than half of those ten years. Whenever we happened to meet, that was. Well he certainly gave me the eye that time when he came to visit John, when he was laid up with his broken leg and Bean Minor and I were looking after him in his cottage. That was back when I was sixteen, and admittedly rather well-developed. I overheard Devon saying: “That’s a bit of all right, John! Pity she’s not a year or two older or frankly I’d be up there like a ferret!” To which my Colonel Raice replied that he admitted the soft impeachment… Blast! A tear rolled down my cheek before I could stop it.

    “For the Lord’s sake don’t bawl, Mel,” said Bean heavily. “It’s all your own fault, you didn’t have to get off with the frightful bounder.”

    “He isn’t a bounder!” I said, the tears drying up in sheer astonishment.

    “Rats. Mr. O.’s lads all say there’s a different bimbo on his arm every week, if that’s not the definition of a bounder I’d like to hear what is!”

    “Um yes, but I don’t see how we could have stopped him, really,” said Crumpy uneasily.

    “You could have knocked him flying, for a start, Crumpet!” the Egg replied crossly.

    “Um, but he’s supposed to ride one of your dad’s owners’ horses tomorrow, isn’t he?” croaked Trelawney.

    “Well, yes!” the Crumpet agreed in relief. “I mean, much as one would have liked… Well, I mean, would you, Egg, old man?”

    The Egg’s mouth was seen to tighten. “I wouldn’t have needed to,” he replied grimly.

    “Y— Nuh— To be fair, old man, you did go off and leave us to it!”

    “Quite. I won’t make that mistake again. –As for you, Mel, all I can say is, you don't bloody deserve a decent man like John Raice!”

    At which I naturally burst into tears and rushed off to my room again.

    Well what came next, more or less, was rather surprising. In fact it caused young Trelawney to croak, not realising that I was overhearing him: “I say, you chaps, it’s not because Egg was jealous of Devon getting off with Mel, is it?”

    The which was soundly rubbished by the Bean and the Crumpet. And Bean Minor explained helpfully: “No, he’s never fallen for her, and what’s more he’s always known what she’s like. He was just disgusted that she could do that when she's practically engaged to Colonel Raice. And then, he was pretty pissed off that Gold Trip won the Cup when he was sure the other nag that was the favourite was going to win. Um, but it’s more than that… I mean, he’s always been a responsible sort of chap, hasn’t he? Reliable. I mean, known for it at School, of course. But I think it’s been getting him down. Especially with old Sid playing up a bit, um, and us more or less leaving it all to him,” he ended, swallowing loudly.

    “It’s not you lads that ought to be blaming yourselves, it’s me and Bean,” said Crumpy glumly.

    At this point I was very tempted to emerge from behind the useful potted palm in the hotel’s lobby that was generously sheltering me and say: “Hear, hear!” but I nobly refrained. And in fact retreated noiselessly to the lifts in order to make a rather public official appearance, as it were.

    Well poor old Egg. And God knows I’m the last one that ought to be throwing stones in glass houses, but I must say it was a jolly old shock to the system. Well I knew he’d had lots of blonde bimbos at Oxford none of whom meant a thing to him, because the others had passed on the intel—especially Flossie, not that he had room to talk. But I’d really thought that Egg had more or less um, settled down, that’s not putting it very well, but um, that he and Carrie-Ann were a definite permanent item, and he’d given up the blondes. Well I’m sure the percipient younger legume was quite right in saying it was largely reaction against having to be the responsible one all the time, but golly! The Egg going off the rails?

    Because what happened was this…

    We’d had a lovely day at the Oaks on Thursday, and Egg seemed to have cheered up, especially since the other chaps were rallying round like anything and Sid was minding his Ps and Qs and according to Crumpy had apologised for getting pissed out of his brain (Sid’s own expression) on the Tuesday. The lovely Little Princess didn’t win her race but it was a strong field unquote and she didn’t disgrace herself. And the owner, who’d come out specially to watch the race, wasn’t annoyed, the more so as he’d had five hundred (“just a little flutter”) on Gold Trip—well work it out! And to set the seal on his pleasure an Arab owner made a very good offer for Little Princess straight after her race. Which possibly in the afterglow of five hundred at twenty-one to one even if it had been Aussie dollars not pounds, he cheerily turned down. Then he wanted to party and was sure that Devon knew some pretty girls, eh? –Big buffet on the back for the unfortunate jockey. Well he’s very strong and wiry but weighs in at about a third of what the owner does, gulp. But as of course he thought he could round up some girls, grin, grin, the party was on! And we were all invited. After the horses had been properly seen to, naturally. So we went.

    It was at someone’s house, I never did find out whose, and the alcoholic refreshment flowed like alcoholic refreshment generally flows when a bunch of keen partiers have had a series of wins on the gees and in the case of some have been more or less partying all week… There was food, yes, but not enough to quench the enthusiasm, as it were. None of us had any idea who all the girls were but there were certainly plenty of them present. And dancing. That is to say, the sort of dancing that generally goes on when the alcoholic refreshment has been flowing for quite some time and none of the participants are expert in the terpsichorean art. For a while everybody of the one sex pretty much danced with everybody else of the other sex, as it were, Little Princess’s owner seeming particularly keen on getting a dance with all the girls. Or even part of a dance, one couldn’t have called him a terpsichorean practitioner but he was certainly an expert in the traditional art of Cutting In. But after some time people seemed to sort themselves out into more or less fixed twosomes—which does sometimes tend to happen at such gatherings if the participants are human, yes.

    And Egg seemed to sort himself into a twosome with a particularly clinging blonde bimbo…

    “Who on earth is that girl that’s captured Egg?” I asked Devon, with whom I happened to be shuffling at the time.

    “Uh—she’s Australian,” he offered.

    I think I could have guessed that from the tall, the somewhat loud apparel and the large white teeth, actually. Not to say the overdone hairdo which had earlier sported guess what? A Fas-cin-a— Quite. “And?”

    “Uh… Anthea! That’s it.”

    Right. Anthea. Tall, blonde, Australian and clinging. “Predator” written all over her.

    Well it did not get better. I stopped drinking in order to be quite sure of what happened. Not that it did me any good. Because towards the end of the proceedings the two of them disappeared, her positively glued to him and him grinning that fatuous grin that chaps tend to grin in such circs. Idiotic chaps.

    “I suppose he’s as entitled as anyone,” said Devon feebly—possibly he had perceived the steam coming out of my ears.

    “Is he? When he’s got a lovely, sensible girlfriend back home that we all thought was just right for him!”

    “Oh, shit,” the luckless fellow muttered. “Come on, Mel, it’s Melbourne Cup Week, it’ll just be one of those things, it won’t last.”

    Oh, yes? Predatory females that look like clingers do not just give up after one one-night stand. I took a deep breath.

    “I think I’ll give it away. Would there be any hope of getting a taxi?”

    “Uh—shouldn’t think so. Hang on, think old Terry said their group had a designated driver.”

    Well I held on without hoping for much but a miracle occurred and Terry, who was a fellow jockey from Blighty, tho surfacing looking very drunk with something flashy, tall, busty and Australian plastered all over him, produced one, Gazza. Who grinned amiably and admitted that he was the designated driver and no, he hadn’t been drinking. Well one glass of fizz “yonks back.” And he could take four of us.

    So Devon and I scooped up Bean Minor and Trelawney, both just about still on their feet, and the obliging Gazza drove us to the hotel. Where Devon offered to come in with me but I turned him down. Not really out of anything approaching a principle, no, because for one thing John and I were in accord that little bits on the side didn’t count, and if anything in riding breeches ever qualified as one of those Devon Holmes was it, I,T. No: more because I had a sort of feeling that I would never want to see, hear or experience anything approaching S,E,X for a very, very long time to come. Because my (and John’s) little bits were neither here nor there, but Egg? Solid, sensible, responsible Egg that all the Junior Drones looked up to and relied on, even Flossie Nightingale, the most flippant, offhand character that one could imagine? It was horrifying! More than enough to induce celibacy for life.

    … Well gee. On the Saturday, which was “Family Day” of the Melbourne Cup Carnival, a casual sort of day with picnic baskets and so forth, depending on the weather, there was Anthea, sparking on all cylinders, tall, curvaceous, lipsticked, loudly clad, flashing the teeth and plastering herself to him! I couldn’t take it: I retired to the stables with good old Sid.

    “Uh—well he’s young,” the old head lad offered feebly. “S’pose he’s as entitled as any bloke.”

    “Don’t you start,” I replied grimly.

    “No, all right. But at least you’re heading orf to South Australia after this. ’Undreds of miles away, innit? She won’t follow ’im all that way.”

    “You wanna bet? She’s a clinger, Sid!”

    “Eh?”

    “A clinger! Like that awful Mrs Berrington that’s been chasing John for years even tho she’s got a husband of her own to keep her in the flashy frocks and hideous jewellery and ludicrous shoes.”

    He looked at me in horror, he knows her well, the Berringtons are neighbours of the Ovendens’.

    “Yes,” I said grimly. “The sort that gets her hooks in and never lets go.”

    “Uh—well you can’t say the Colonel’s ever given in to the cow, she hasn’t actually got ’er hooks in, love.”

    “No, but she keeps trying!”

    This was undeniably true.

    “And the Anthea cow has completely sunk her claws into Egg, Sid!”

    “Yeah,” he said glumly. “Well to tell the truth, Mel, love, I think ’e’s been a bit browned orf with Carrie-Ann having to work in London and not managing to get down to the stables every weekend, neither.”

    Look, if it was anyone else but Egg Ovenden in question I would say that that was a possible motive, yes. But Egg?

    “I’d have said he was too sensible to let that sort of thing get to him, Sid.”

    He sighed. “He is only young.”

    Something like that.

    “It’ll blow over, Mel. Just make sure Michael and Lucius keep their traps shut, eh?”

    “Actually I think they were as horrified as I was to see the female turning up again today. I’m quite sure they won’t be tempted to tell poor Carrie-Ann.”

    “Good. Just, um, look on it as wild oats, love.”

    “I suppose it is,” I said heavily. “And you’re right, he is only young, we’ve been expecting him to behave like a greybeard.”

    “Yeah,” Sid agreed, putting his warm, wiry arm round me.

    Well I did feel comforted.

    But alas, it didn’t last. Because on our very last morning in Melbourne, of course after we’d seen Sid and the horses safely off on their return journey to England, as we were assembling in the hotel lobby with our bags, ready for the trip to South Australia, the dashed female turned up all smiles and flashing large teeth and lipstick, and plastered herself to Egg. And carolled: “Don’t forget, Alan, honey-bunny! I’ll be over in SA for Christmas! See you on the twenny-third, oke? Have a good trip!”

    Given that the syllables “Ess Ay” in Australia are the abbreviation for the name of the state of South Australia, other meanings used elsewhere in the world do not apply, that was it, I,T. The silly chap had lost it. And after what he’d said to me, too!

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