Dick Francis - In the Frame

The night passed. Well, it passed.

In the morning I did a spot of one-handed shaving and some highly selective washing, and Jik came up, as he’d insisted, to help with my tie. I opened the door to him in underpants and dressing gown and endured his comments when I took the latter off.

‘Jesus God Almighty, is there any bit of you neither blue nor patched?’

‘I could have landed face first.’

He stared at the thought. ‘ Jesus .’

‘Help me rearrange these bandages,’ I said.

‘I’m not touching that lot.’

‘Oh come on, Jik. Unwrap the swaddling bands. I’m itching like hell underneath and I’ve forgotten what my left hand looks like.’

With a variety of blasphemous oaths he undid the expert handiwork of the Alice hospital. The outer bandages proved to be large strong pieces of linen, fastened with clips, and placed so as to support my left elbow and hold my whole arm statically in one position, with my hand across my chest and pointing up towards my right shoulder. Under the top layer there was a system of crepe bandages tying my arm in that position. Also a sort of tight cummerbund of adhesive strapping, presumably to deal with the broken ribs. Also, just below my shoulder blade, a large padded wound dressing, which, Jik kindly told me after a delicate inspection from one corner, covered a mucky looking bit of darning.

‘You damn near tore a whole flap of skin off. There are four lots of stitching. Looks like Clapham Junction.’

‘Fasten it up again.’

‘I have, mate, don’t you worry.’

There were three similar dressings, two on my left thigh and one, a bit smaller, just below my knee: all fastened both with adhesive strips and tapes with clips. We left them all untouched.

‘What the eye doesn’t see doesn’t scare the patient,’ Jik said. ‘What else do you want done?’

‘Untie my arm.’

‘You’ll fall apart.’

‘Risk it.’

He laughed and undid another series of clips and knots. I tentatively straightened my elbow. Nothing much happened except that the hovering ache and soreness stopped hovering and came down to earth.

‘That’s not so good,’ Jik observed.

‘It’s my muscles as much as anything. Protesting about being stuck in one position all that time.’

‘What now, then?’

From the bits and pieces we designed a new and simpler sling which gave my elbow good support but was less of a strait-jacket. I could get my hand out easily, and also my whole arm, if I wanted. When we’d finished, we had a small heap of bandages and clips left over.

‘That’s fine,’ I said.

We all met downstairs in the hall at ten-thirty.

Around us a buzzing atmosphere of anticipation pervaded the chattering throng of would-be winners, who were filling the morning with celebratory drinks. The hotel, I saw, had raised a veritable fountain of champagne at the entrance to the bar-lounge end of the lobby, and Jik, his eyes lighting up, decided it was too good to be missed.

‘Free booze,’ he said reverently, picking up a glass and holding it under the prodigal bubbly which flowed in delicate gold streams from a pressure-fed height. ‘Not bad, either,’ he added, tasting. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Art. God rest his soul.’

‘Life’s short. Art’s long,’ I said.

‘I don’t like that,’ Sarah said, looking at me uneasily.

‘It was Alfred Munnings’s favourite saying. And don’t worry, love, he lived to be eighty plus.’

‘Let’s hope you do.’

I drank to it. She was wearing a cream dress with gold buttons; neat, tailored, a touch severe. An impression of the military for a day in the front line.

‘Don’t forget,’ I said. ‘If you think you see Wexford or Greene, make sure they see you.’

‘Give me another look at their faces,’ she said.

I pulled the small sketch book out of my pocket and handed it to her again, though she’d studied it on and off all the previous evening through supper.

‘As long as they look like this, maybe I’ll know them,’ she said, sighing. ‘Can I take it?’ She put the sketch book in her handbag.

Jik laughed. ‘Give Todd his due, he can catch a likeness. No imagination, of course. He can only paint what he sees.’ His voice as usual was full of disparagement.

Sarah said, ‘Don’t you mind the awful things Jik says of your work, Todd?’

I grinned. ‘I know exactly what he thinks of it.’

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Jik said to his wife, ‘He was the star pupil of our year. The Art School lacked judgment, of course.’

‘You’re both crazy.’

I glanced at the clock. We all finished the champagne and put down the glasses.

‘Back a winner for me,’ I said to Sarah, kissing her cheek.

‘Your luck might run out.’

I grinned. ‘Back number eleven.’

Her eyes were dark with apprehension. Jik’s beard was at the bad-weather angle for possible storms ahead.

‘Off you go,’ I said cheerfully. ‘See you later.’

I watched them through the door and wished strongly that we were all three going for a simple day out to the Melbourne Cup. The effort ahead was something I would have been pleased to avoid. I wondered if others ever quaked before the task they’d set themselves, and wished they’d never thought of it. The beginning, I supposed, was the worst. Once you were in, you were committed. But before, when there was still time to turn back, to rethink, to cancel, the temptation to retreat was demoralising.

Why climb Everest if at its foot you could lie in the sun.

Sighing, I went to the cashier’s end of the reception desk and changed a good many travellers’ cheques into cash. Maisie’s generosity had been far-sighted. There would be little enough left by the time I got home.

Four hours to wait. I spent them upstairs in my room calming my nerves by drawing the view from the window. Black clouds still hung around the sky like cobwebs, especially in the direction of Flemington racecourse. I hoped it would stay dry for the Cup.

Half an hour before it was due to be run I left the Hilton on foot, walking unhurriedly along towards Swanston Street and the main area of shops. They were all shut, of course. Melbourne Cup day was a national public holiday. Everything stopped for the Cup.

I had taken my left arm out of its sling and threaded it gingerly through the sleeves of my shirt and jacket. A man with his jacket hunched over one shoulder was too memorable for sense. I found that by hooking my thumb into the waistband of my trousers I got quite good support.

Swanston Street was far from its usual bustling self. People still strode along with the breakneck speed which seemed to characterise all Melbourne pedestrians, but they strode in tens, not thousands. Trams ran up and down the central tracks with more vacant seats than passengers. Cars sped along with the drivers, eyes down, fiddling dangerously with radio dials. Fifteen minutes to the race which annually stopped Australia in its tracks.

Jik arrived exactly on time, driving up Swanston Street in the hired grey car and turning smoothly round the corner where I stood waiting. He stopped outside the Yarra River Fine Arts gallery, got out, opened the boot, and put on a brown coat-overall, of the sort worn by storemen.

I walked quietly along towards him. He brought out a small radio, switched it on, and stood it on top of the car. The commentator’s voice emerged tinnily, giving details of the runners currently walking round the parade ring at Flemington races.

‘Hello,’ he said unemotionally, when I reached him. ‘All set?’ I nodded, and walked to the door of the gallery. Pushed it. It was solidly shut. Jik dived again into the boot, which held further fruits of his second shopping expedition in Alice Springs.