Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“How is Claudia?” my mother asked.

“Fine, thank you,” I said. “She sends her love.”

“She should have come with you.”

Yes, I thought, she should have. There had been a time when we couldn’t bear to be apart from each other even for a single night, but now that longing had seemingly evaporated. Perhaps that is what happens after six years.

“High time you made an honest woman out of her,” my mother said. “Time you were married and raising children.”

Was it?

In spite of what had happened to my parents, I’d always believed that someday I would marry and have a family. A few years ago, I’d even discussed the prospect with Claudia but she had dismissed the notion, saying that marriage was for boring people and that children were troublesome and not for artists like her who were busy pushing the boundaries of existence and imagination. I wondered if she still felt the same way. There had certainly been no recent hints about rings on the finger or brooding over other people’s babies, but, if there were, would I still have welcomed them?

“But you and Dad are hardly a great advertisement for marriage,” I said, possibly unwisely.

“Nonsense,” she said, turning around to face me. “We were married for thirty years and brought you into the world. I would call that a success.”

“But you got divorced,” I said in disbelief. “And you fought all the time.”

“Well, maybe we did,” she said, turning back to her pans. “But it was still a success. And I don’t regret it.” I was amazed. She must be getting soft in her old age. “No,” she went on, “I don’t regret it for a second because otherwise you wouldn’t exist.”

What could I say? Nothing. So I didn’t.

She turned back to face me once more. “And now I want some grandchildren.”

Ah, I thought. There had to be a reason somewhere.

And I was an only child.

“You should have had more children yourself, then,” I said with a laugh. “Not good to put all your eggs in one basket.”

She stood very still, and I thought she was going to cry.

I placed my glass down on the kitchen table, stepped forward and put my arm around her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right,” she said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing her eyes. “You never knew.”

“Knew what?” I asked.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

It clearly wasn’t nothing if it reduced her to tears all these years later.

“Come on, Mum,” I said. “Something’s obviously troubling you. Tell me.”

She sighed. “We wanted more children. We wanted lots. You were the first, although you were quite a long time coming as we’d been married for nearly eight years by then. I was so happy you were a boy.” She smiled at me and stroked my cheek. “But something had gone wrong with my insides, and we couldn’t have any more.”

It was me who was almost crying now. I had always so wanted brothers and sisters.

“We tried, of course,” she said. “And once I did become pregnant, but the baby miscarried at three months. It nearly killed me.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say, so once more I said nothing. I just hugged her instead.

“It was the real reason behind so much unhappiness in our marriage,” she said. “Your father gradually became so bitter that I couldn’t have any more babies, stupid man. I suppose it was my body’s fault, but I couldn’t do anything about it, could I? I tried so hard to make up for it, but…” She tailed off.

“Oh, Mum,” I said, hugging her tight again. “How awful.”

“It’s all right,” she said, pulling away from me and turning back towards the stove. “It’s a long time ago, and I’ll overcook these potatoes if I don’t get to them now.”

We sat at the kitchen table for dinner, and I ate myself to a complete standstill.

I felt bloated, and still my mother was trying to force me to eat more.

“Another profiterole?” she asked, dangling a heaped spoonful over my plate.

“Mum,” I said, “I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another thing.”

She looked disappointed, but, in fact, I had eaten far more than I would have normally, even in this house. I had tried to please her, but enough was enough. Another mouthful and my stomach might have burst. She, meanwhile, had eaten almost nothing.

Whereas I had plowed my way through half a cow, along with a mountain of potatoes and vegetables, my mother had picked like a bird at a small circle of steak, much of which she had fed to an overweight gray cat that purred against her leg for most of the meal.

“I didn’t know you’d acquired a cat,” I said.

“I didn’t,” she said. “It acquired me. One day he just arrived and he has hardly left since.”

I wasn’t surprised if she regularly fed it fillet steak.

“He sometimes goes off for a few days, even a week, but he usually comes back eventually.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “He isn’t wearing a collar. He’s a visitor, not a resident.”

Like me, I thought. Just here for a good meal.

“Are you going to the races tomorrow?” she asked.

The April meeting at Cheltenham ran for two days.

“Yes, I’ll go for the first few,” I said. “But I have some work to do here in the morning. I have my computer with me. Can I use your phone and your broadband connection?”

“Of course you can,” she said. “But what time do you plan to leave? I don’t want to rush you away but I have the village historical society outing tomorrow afternoon.”

“The first race is at two o’clock,” I said. “I’ll go around twelve.”

“Then I’ll get you some lunch before you go.”

The thought of yet more food was almost unbearable. And I knew she would have bought the makings of a full English breakfast as well.

“No thanks, Mum,” I said. “I’m meeting a client there for lunch.”

She looked sideways at me as if to say she knew I’d just lied to her.

She was right.

Idon’t like it, but we have to do as he asks,” said Patrick when I called him at eight in the morning using my mother’s phone in the kitchen. “I’ll get Diana on it right away.” Diana was another of his assistants, the one who had just qualified as an IFA. “Are you at Cheltenham again today?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I’ll probably just stay for the first three.”

“Try and have another word with Billy Searle. Get him to see sense.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But he seemed pretty determined. Scared, even.”

“All sounds a bit fishy to me,” Patrick said. “But we are required by the Regulator to do as our clients instruct and we can’t go off to the authorities every time they instruct us to do something we don’t think is sensible.”

“But we have a duty to report anything we believe to be illegal.”

“And do you have any evidence that he wants to do something illegal with the funds?”

“No.” I paused. “But I wonder if breaking the rules of racing is illegal?”

“Depends on what he’s doing,” said Patrick. “Defrauding the betting public is illegal. Remember that case at the Old Bailey a few years back.”

I did indeed.

“Billy told me he owed a guy some money,” I said. “Seems he needs a hundred grand. That’s a very big debt. I wonder if he’s got mixed up with a bookmaker.”

“Betting is not illegal,” Patrick said.

“Maybe not,” I agreed, “but it is strictly against the rules of racing for a professional jockey to bet.”

“That’s not our problem,” he said. “And if you do ask Billy any questions, for God’s sake try and be discreet. We also have a duty to keep his affairs confidential.”