Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Heart’s Story has 11 stones 6 pounds on her,’ said Jason glumly. ‘I would have bet on her, but—’

‘So what?’ said Sajid. ‘She’s used to Jock Mackay, and he can outride anyone on this track. He’ll use up a good part of that 11 stones odd, and that’s live weight, not lead pellets. It makes a difference.’

‘It makes no difference. Weight is weight,’ said Jason. His attention was caught by a strikingly attractive European woman of middle age, who was talking to Jock Mackay in low tones.

‘My God — that’s Mrs DiPiero!’ said Varun, in a voice half fascinated, half terrified. ‘She’s dangerous!’ he added with admiration.

Mrs DiPiero was a merry widow who usually did well at the races by gleaning tips from knowledgeable sources, in particular from Jock Mackay, who was reputed to be her lover. She often bet a few thousand rupees on a single race.

‘Quick! Follow her!’ said Jason, though the direction of his intentions only became clear when she went to the bookies and he turned his attention from her figure to the chalk markings on the blackboards which the bookies were rapidly rubbing out and re-marking. She was placing her bets in such a low voice that they could not hear her. But the bookies’ notations told their own tale. They were changing their odds in the wake of her heavy betting. Heart’s Story had come down from 7-to-l to 6-to-l.

‘That’s it!’ said Sajid languorously. ‘I’m betting on that one.’

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ said Jason. ‘Obviously he’d praise his own horse.’

‘But not at the cost of her displeasure. He must know it’s undervalued at the odds.’

‘Mmm,’ intervened Varun. ‘One thing worries me.’

‘What?’ said Sajid and Jason simultaneously. Varun’s interventions were usually to the point in racing matters. He was a true but cautious addict.

‘It’s the rain. The heavily handicapped horses suffer the most when the ground is so wet. And 11 stones 6 pounds is about the heaviest handicap you can get. I think they penalized that mare because her rider held her back three weeks ago on the finishing straight.’

Sajid disagreed. His cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. ‘It’s a short race,’ he said. ‘Handicap doesn’t matter all that much in a short race. I’m going to bet on her anyway. You two can do as you please.’

‘What do you say, Varun?’ said Jason, undecided.

‘Yes. OK.’

They went to buy their tickets from the tote rather than the bookies, since a couple of two-rupee tickets each was all they could afford. Besides, the bookies’ odds on Heart’s Story had now come down to 5-to-1.

They returned to their enclosure and stared out at the rainy course in a state of uncontainable excitement.

It was a short race, only five furlongs of a mile. The starting point, on the other side of the course, was invisible because of the rain and the distance, especially from their lowly position, so far below the members’ enclosure. But the thundering sound of the horses’ hooves and their indistinct, swift movement through the blurred wall of rain had them shouting and screaming. Varun was almost foaming at the mouth with excitement and yelling: ‘Heart’s Story! Come on, Heart’s Story!’ at the top of his lungs. At the end all he could manage was:

‘Heart! Heart! Heart! Heart!’

He was grasping Sajid’s shoulder in an ecstasy of uncertainty.

The horses emerged round the bend for the final straight. Their colours and the colours of their riders became more distinct — and it became clear that the green-and-red colours of Jock Mackay on the bay were to the fore, closely followed by Anne Hodge on Outrageous Fortune. She made a valiant effort to spur him on for a last effort. Exhausted by the churned earth around his ankles — his fetlocks perhaps — he gave up the struggle when it seemed certain that he would succeed: just twenty yards from the finishing line.

Heart’s Story had won by a length and a half.

There were groans of disappointment and screams of delight all around them. The three friends went wild with excitement. Their winnings swelled in their imaginations to vast proportions. They might have won as much as fifteen rupees each! A bottle of Scotch — why even think of Shamshu? — was only fourteen rupees.

Joy!

All they had to do now was to wait for the white cone to go up, and to collect their winnings.

A red cone went up with the white.

Despair.

There had been an objection. ‘Number seven has objected to Number two crossing,’ said someone nearby.

‘How can they tell in all that rain?’

‘Of course they can tell.’

‘He’d never do it to her. These are gentlemen.’

‘Anne Hodge wouldn’t lie about something like that.’

‘This Jock chap is very unscrupulous. He’ll do anything to win.’

‘These things can happen by mistake as well.’

‘By mistake!’

The suspense was unbearable. Three minutes passed. Varun was gasping with emotion and stress, and Sajid’s cigarette was quivering. Jason was trying to look tough and unconcerned, and failing dismally. When the red cone slowly went down, confirming the result of the race, they embraced each other as if they were long-lost brothers, and went off immediately to collect their earnings — and to place their bets on the next race.

‘Hello! Varun isn’t it?’ She pronounced it Vay-roon.

Varun swung around and stared at Patricia Cox, dressed elegantly in an airy white cotton dress and carrying a white umbrella which doubled as a parasol. She was not looking mousy at all, but rather cat-like in fact. She too had just won on Heart’s Story.

Varun’s hair was wild, his face red; the racing form in his hands was crushed; his shirt was wet with rain and sweat. Jason and Sajid were flanking him. They had just received their winnings and were jumping up and down.

Miraculously, however, Sajid’s cigarette had not been dislodged, and was hanging down from his lip as supportlessly as ever.

‘Heh, heh,’ laughed Varun nervously, looking this way and that.

‘How delightful to meet you again,’ said Patricia Cox with unmistakable pleasure.

‘Erh, eh, heh, heh,’ said Varun. ‘Hum. Er.’ He couldn’t remember her name. Box? He looked undecided.

‘Patricia Cox,’ said Patricia Cox helpfully. ‘We met that evening at your house after dinner. But I suppose you’ve forgotten.’

‘No, er, no, heh, heh!’ laughed Varun weakly, looking for escape.

‘And I suppose these are your Shamshu friends,’ she continued with approval.

Jason and Sajid, who had been looking on astonished, now gaped at Patricia Cox, then turned questioningly and a little threateningly towards Varun.

‘Heh, heh,’ bleated Varun pathetically.

‘Do you have any recommendations for the next race?’ asked Patricia Cox. ‘Your brother’s here as our guest. Would you like to—’

‘No — no — I have to go—’ Varun found his voice at last, and almost fled from the hall without even laying a bet on the next race.

When Patricia Cox returned to the members’ enclosure she said brightly to Arun: ‘You didn’t tell me your brother would be here. We didn’t know he was keen on the races. We would have invited him too.’

Arun stiffened. ‘Here? Oh yes, here. Yes, sometimes. Of course. Rain’s let up.’

‘I’m afraid he doesn’t like me much,’ continued Patricia Cox sadly.

‘He’s probably afraid of you,’ said Meenakshi perceptively.

‘Of me?’ Patricia Cox found this difficult to believe.

During the next race, Arun found it impossible to concentrate on the track. While everyone else around him was (with some restraint) cheering on the horses, his eyes, as if of their own accord, strayed downwards. Beyond the path from the paddock to the track was the exclusive (and exclusively European) Tollygunge Club where, now that the rain had stopped, a few members were having tea on the lawn and watching the races at leisure. And here, where Arun was sitting as a guest of the Coxes, was the balancing social pinnacle of the members’ enclosure.