Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1993

Copyright © Patrick Robinson and Nick Robinson

Patrick Robinson and Nick Robinson assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780002551328

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780008193379

Version: 2016-06-20

Dedication

To Joe Thomas and Northern Dancer.

They are both gone now, but they left behind an

eternal flame in the Vale of Tipperary.

Authors’ note

Throughout this narrative there are frequent references to huge sums of money, some of them in US dollars and some of them in pounds sterling. We did not attempt to convert these into one single currency, which is the standard editorial practice, because the sums – such as the $10.2 million Keeneland yearling – were often such well-known figures that conversion would have been misleading and almost certainly inaccurate since exchange rates can vary by the hour. A sterling rate of 1.75, for instance, would have converted to ‘the £5,828,571.40 Keeneland yearling’. This would plainly have been absurd. The yearling was bred in the USA, the bidding was in dollars and the colt was paid for in dollars. Thus, when in America we have worked in dollars, and when in England or Ireland we have used pounds – occasionally Irish ones, when a stallion involved an Irish-trained horse going to Coolmore Stud in Tipperary.

There is also the occasional mention of the old-fashioned ‘guineas’ (one pound and one shilling). This is still used at English bloodstock auctions and, where appropriate, we have utilized this measurement. The title of the one-mile classics remains in the old racehorse currency – the 2000 Guineas and the 1000 Guineas. These do not, however, bear any relationship to the modern prize money for these races, which is nowadays over £100,000.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Authors’ note

Prologue

1 Chalk Stream

2 A Glimpse of the Green

3 Facing the Almighty Dollar

4 The Raiders from Tipperary

5 Empires of Kentucky

6 The Minstrel’s Battle-Song

7 Bonanza in the Bluegrass

8 The Soft Steps of the Bedouin

9 ‘Would You Sell Him for $30 Million?’

10 Three Derbys

11 Tipperary v. Arabia

12 The $40 Million Short-head

13 Summit in the Desert

14 The Crash of ’86

15 The Harder They Fall

16 Running Out of Cash

17 The Magic Touch of the Irish

Epilogue

Index

About the Publisher

Prologue: The Historic Blackballing of Lord Soames

It was always tense in The Rooms when they were proposing to elect a statesman to membership. Actually, it was always tense in The Rooms whomever they were proposing to elect to membership. But a statesman created a special feeling of apprehension. Such an event happened only every fifty years or so, because, by and large, the Jockey Club did not see statesmen as the right calibre of chap. Most of them had depressingly brilliant intellects coupled with dazzling charm and tact. Or, put in the more ducal vernacular of the Club, they were too clever by half, ‘too smarmy’.

The Earl of Rosebery, during his Lordship’s tenure as Prime Minister of England, had of course been a member of the Club back in 1894 when his colt Ladas had won the Derby at Epsom. However, having been a member since the age of twenty-two, the touchy business of electing a statesman had never really applied.

The Jockey Club had admitted an Under-Secretary of State for War, Earl Cadogan, in the middle of the nineteenth century, in the knowledge that he was much preoccupied with the unrest along India’s north-west frontier. The same applied, in smaller measure, to the Marquis of Londonderry and the Earl of Zetland in the 1880s when they were appointed as successive Lords-Lieutenants of Ireland. Different frontier, similar unrest among the natives and one or two furrowed brows in the Club. Lord Randolph Churchill, Chancellor of the Exchequer and owner of an Oaks winner in 1889, had had to be elected. And they could not quite avoid accepting his often fractious son Sir Winston, who won the Jockey Club Cup in 1950 with his stout-hearted grey Colonist II shortly before becoming Prime Minister for the second time.

Of course the greatest of all England’s horse-racing monarchs, King Edward VII, was a member. He would have to be included as a statesman – Emperor of India and Ruler of the Lands Beyond the Seas and all that – but like Rosebery he had not really been considered as such when proposed for membership. Elected at twenty-three, he already owned two Derby winners (Persimmon and Minoru) and, during his frequent stays in Newmarket, he usually took the Jockey Club Rooms, in a private apartment with a private entrance – a discreet little throughway not entirely unfamiliar to the occasional visiting mistress. Upon the death of his mother Queen Victoria in 1901, Edward ascended the throne a few months off his sixtieth birthday in 1901 and by this time he assuredly was ‘one of us’.

These very few apart, then, the Jockey Club had stuck for the past two hundred years to its own kind: land-owning horsemen who understood who was to be trusted and who was not. But today, 3 May 1967, in the hours following the running of the first English classic of the season, the 2000 Guineas, on nearby Newmarket Heath, there was an unmistakable apprehension in the Rooms. Before them this evening was written the name of Arthur Christopher John Soames, former Secretary of State for War, Prime Minister Harold Macmillan’s Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries and a Coldstream Guards officer of the highest quality who had been awarded the Croix de Guerre from a grateful, liberated French nation. He was also the son-in-law of the recently deceased member Sir Winston Churchill.

The eighty-five-year-old Earl of Rosebery, son of the nineteenth-century PM, was worried. The Club employed a legendary, not to mention brutal, ‘blackballing’ system, which ended would-be members’ aspirations with the suddenness of a guillotine. The blackballing box is a tall shiny, wooden case, with a round, tube-like aperture close to the top in which the forearm is placed. The ball can be dropped to either side: left in the ‘YES’ slot, right into the ‘NO’ slot. One ball, dropped in the ‘NO’ slot, by any member, was all it took. No one would ever know precisely who had dropped it in. Far less, why it had been dropped in.

Lord Rosebery did not like it. He and the industrialist Sir Foster Robinson had argued about the system just a couple of years previously. Rosebery believed it was a ‘damned bad idea’ because news of a blackballing of someone important would one day get out and there would be hell to pay in the press. With much apprehension, he envisaged ‘the kind of thing Cardigan had to put up with after the “Black Bottle” incident in the officers’ mess of his personal regiment of Hussars’. In the case of Mr Soames the Club had sent letters to all members sounding out the strength of feeling towards his election, conscientiously heading off the possibility of an unseemly blackballing. Indeed no member had intimated even a dislike of the rotund bon vivant Christopher Soames, far less an intention to throw him out of the Club before he was even elected. But Lord Rosebery still did not like it.

He walked slowly into the Jockey Club Rooms, leaning on his walking stick owing to a slight touch of gout that day. The master of the massive castellated Buckinghamshire manor of Mentmore, with its £7 million collection of French furniture and art, breeder of two Derby winners and a Steward as long ago as 1929, was filled with misgivings.

One by one, as the sun slipped below the long western horizon of Newmarket Heath, his fellow members arrived. There was the Chairman of the meeting, the formidable figure of the former Coldstream Guards Major General, Sir Randle ‘Gerry’ Feilden, future High Sheriff of Oxfordshire. There was the Duke of Devonshire, owner of the greatest house in England, Chatsworth, together with fifty-six thousand acres of Derbyshire. There was Bernard Marmaduke Fitzalan Howard, the sixteenth Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of England, owner of the lovely Arundel Castle and twenty-five thousand acres of Sussex. There was Lord Tryon, Keeper of the Privy Purse, Treasurer to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II; the Earl of Halifax, son of Neville Chamberlain’s Foreign Secretary, a former Captain in the Royal Horse Guards, Master of Foxhounds, married to Lord Rosebery’s niece; and the fabulously wealthy Jakie Astor, owner of Hatley Park in Bedfordshire, son of Viscount ‘Waldorf’ Astor and the legendary Nancy Lady Astor, Britain’s first female Member of Parliament.

Quietly reading The Times in the Coffee Room sat The Hon. Major General Sir Harold Wernher, owner of the great English mansion of Luton Hoo, with its four thousand surrounding acres, where the Queen spent her honeymoon. (Sir Harold’s wife, the fabled Lady Zia Wernher, was the Queen’s godmother and daughter of Grand Duke Michael of Russia, first cousin of Czar Nicholas. Lord Rosebery thought she would make a damned good Empress of All the Russias if they ever got fed up with those Bolsheviks …) Lord Howard de Walden (proprietor of three thousand acres and a sizeable portion of central London) was chatting to the wealthiest of all the Scottish whisky heirs, Major Sir Reginald Macdonald-Buchanan, Chairman of Distillers; the eighteenth Earl of Derby, with twenty-two thousand acres of Lancashire, had slipped in after the short drive from his Newmarket home, Stanley House, and was enjoying a quiet drink with the old Cavalry officer Lord Willoughby de Broke, the twentieth Baron, Lord Lieutenant of Warwickshire. This was a rather poetic duo, both the Derby and the Willoughby titles had been awarded by King Henry VII after the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. Both of the first Lords had fought against King Richard III with enormous courage, and here we were, five hundred years later, with Derby and Willoughby still standing, in a sense, shoulder to shoulder.

They all made their way along to the Committee Room, past the bust of the most fearsome Jockey Club president of all, that of Admiral Henry John Rous who completely dominated the English Turf from 1846 until his death in 1877. The Admiral’s creed had been well known: ‘I do not believe in heavy gambling, and any member of this club who wins more than £50,000 on a horse should be expelled.’ Even in 1967 some of the members were a bit reticent to look the white stone bust directly into its dead, but still withering, eye. Most of the thirty or so members seated themselves around the main table with the Chairman. But the great, venerable names of the Jockey Club, such as Rosebery, Derby, Astor and Norfolk, sat in their big personal chairs strategically set around the room.

‘My Lords and Gentlemen,’ said Sir Randle, ‘there is one candidate for the Jockey Club: Mr Christopher Soames, proposed by Mr Blackwell, and seconded by Mr Astor.’ At this point the formal ballot was taken. The official Jockey Club ‘servants’ from the old racing firm of Weatherbys carried round to each member the polished wooden blackballing box. Each one of these extraordinarily influential men, who could be said to own a lion’s share of England rather than merely run it, placed his hand into the ballot box. The little wooden balls rattled into the slot which signified ‘YES’ to Mr Soames. Well, all but one. Whether misfired or maliciously misdirected, a solitary ball landed in the ‘NO’ slot. Sir Randle hesitated for a few moments before he said flatly, and without declaring the actual number of ‘blackballs’, ‘My Lords and Gentlemen, Mr Soames is not elected.’

The room went stone silent, every member, except perhaps for one, embarrassed at what they had somehow managed to achieve. ‘My God!’ whispered Sir Harold Wernher. ‘Someone’s blackballed Winston’s son-in-law.’ But the Major General recovered swiftly and said nothing of the blackballing. In a murderously contrived anti-climax, he declared, ‘My Lords and Gentlemen, the minutes of the last meeting have been circulated. Can I sign them as the correct record?’

A few voices muttered assent and Sir Randle reached for his fountain pen. But the sixth Earl of Rosebery, godson of His Late Majesty (and distinguished former member) King Edward VII, was on his feet, and he was absolutely furious. His words came out in growling torrent.

‘May I say something on that?’ he said. ‘The blackballing, I mean, not the damned minutes. We have all had confidential letters round and presumably you, sir, have read all those replies and come to the conclusion that the Club thought this was an excellent candidate for the Club. Well, if these letters go out … and you yourself read them, and feel a man should be elected, and he is then not elected … well, it does not seem to me there is much good going on this way … not if you are trying to get members into the Club.’

‘I could not agree more, Lord Rosebery,’ replied the Major General.

By now there was an air of great consternation in the Committee Room. The Duke of Devonshire, a former Commonwealth Minister of State in his Uncle Harold’s Government, was mentioning that he was quite sure that his former Tory Party colleague Christopher Soames was to become Britain’s next ambassador to Paris, which would probably carry with it a peerage.

The Duke of Norfolk, sitting forward at the table with his natural magisterial authority, observed that as a result of ‘this damned blackballing’ there were certain people he was not absolutely dying to encounter. He knew beyond all doubt that trouble involving a statesman is apt to be ten times more awkward than that involving anyone else. As seconder to Mr Soames’s candidature, Jakie Astor, himself a former Member of Parliament, was very, very angry.

The previous year’s Senior Steward Tom Blackwell, Brigade Major to the 5th Guards Armoured Division in the Second World War, was now on his feet. It was this former Coldstream Guards officer who had proposed Mr Soames in the first place. He also was not pleased. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I support every word Lord Rosebery said. It is pointless going on with this. We would not have put Christopher Soames up if we had not understood that people approved. If they have changed their minds at the last minute, they might have let the Senior Steward know.’

Major General Feilden declared helplessly, ‘What Mr Blackwell says is absolutely correct. I advised them there was no doubt Mr Soames would be elected to the Club. It must be that people have changed their minds … They should have let me know, I think. My Lords and Gentlemen, do I take it that the Club wants to go back to the original method of election?’

‘The original what?’ asked Lord Rosebery grumpily.

‘The old method of election,’ said the Major General.

‘Oh, yes, that,’ replied his Lordship. ‘We’d better get a sub-committee or something to go into it, rather like they did after the First War. They’d better present it to the Club at the Summer Meeting. Because if it goes on like this people will refuse to be put up for Membership.’

‘And I’, stated the still-irritated Earl Marshal of England, ‘am quite prepared to second Lord Rosebery’s suggestion.’

‘Would that be the wish of the Club?’ asked Sir Randle. The members muttered ‘Agreed’, with each man glancing sideways to see if there was a dissenting voice – perhaps belonging to the men who had embarrassed them all so utterly by ‘blackballing’ the Rt. Hon. Christopher Soames.

The meeting droned on for another hour, discussing a modernization plan for the racecourse at Newmarket. But nobody’s heart was really in it. This packed formal gathering of the great, the landed, the titled and the highest officer classes, was nervous. ‘Damned nervous’, in the words of Tom Blackwell. ‘Because this is not going to reflect at all well on us – and it’s made a damned sight worse because even we do not know who blackballed Soames. We should have listened to Harry Rosebery two years ago and scrapped the blackballing system once and for all.’

The Duke of Norfolk, was widely reputed to be an organizational genius, having masterminded the arrangements for the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II and managed an England Cricket Tour of Australia. Now, as he walked slowly back to the more comfortable morning room, there gathered about him a group of fellow members seeking not only comfort from his great wisdom, but also some guidance as to how to explain the aberration which had just taken place, should the news become public.

Lord Rosebery was not among them. Still furious, he stumped out of the Jockey Club Rooms and headed for his car, uttering only the words: ‘Absolutely ridiculous. Like some bloody secret society. This has to stop …’ Lord Rosebery, who in his prime was properly recognized as a truly formidable orator and a man of serious intellectual power, was oblivious to the fact that, on this black night, the blackball had been deliberately dropped by one of his closest colleagues.

Back in the morning room, Andrew Devonshire was at the Duke of Norfolk’s side, as were John Derby, Jakie Astor, Gerry Feilden, Jocelyn Hambro, Tom Blackwell, and Major General Sir George Burns, who privately thought someone might have merely ‘got a bit muddled up’ and blackballed Soames by sheer carelessness. His Grace did not share this view.

They all stood beneath George Stubbs’s near-priceless oil of the immortal racehorse Eclipse, painted outside the old ‘rubbing house’ on the nearby heath in the less stressful times of the late eighteenth century. ‘Well,’ said Bernard, sipping boldly from a large tumbler of J&B Scotch and soda, ‘this is a real bugger’s muddle. There is someone here with a clear feeling against Christopher Soames. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning and I think we can count on Harry Rosebery to put forward a proposal which will at least prevent this happening again. For the moment I suggest we say nothing, but perhaps make it clear to Mr Soames that such a ‘technicality’ will not happen again, and that he may look forward to becoming a full member at the very next opportunity.’

There was no argument with such a sure-footed course of action, but the members with strong Tory Party connections – Devonshire, obviously, Astor (close friend of the next Prime Minister Edward Heath), and Hambro (friend of the former Chancellor of the Exchequer Reginald Maudling) – were bitterly unhappy. No less so was Gerry Feilden who had chaired this disastrous meeting.

On the Newmarket racecourse that afternoon, the day had held such promise. Royal Palace, a grand-looking bright bay colt owned by Jockey Club member Jim Joel, had won the first English classic, the 2000 Guineas, without even a warm-up race as a three-year-old. In a dramatic, driving finish he had held off the French challenger Taj Dewan by a short head. The joy that always pervades the Jockey Club Room at Newmarket racecourse when an English classic race is won by a member was both sincere and sportsmanlike. Mr Joel, heir to a gigantic South African diamond fortune, was a popular owner-breeder, and his colt had carried a few sizeable wagers on behalf of several of the members. Three hours ago everything had seemed very pukka. And now this … The possibility of open, hostile, national ridicule loomed tiresomely upon the horizon.

As Lord Rosebery had gruffly phrased it: ‘This has to stop.’

At II o’clock the following morning, they all gathered once more at the Jockey Club Rooms in Newmarket High Street. A couple of glasses of port and a good night’s sleep had done precisely nothing for his Lordship’s mood. Harry Rosebery was still furious. ‘Good morning, m’lord,’ a member of staff greeted him as he walked through the main door.

‘I can think, offhand, of nothing, absolutely nothing’, he replied, ‘that is good, or even remotely acceptable about this particular morning.’

He walked steadily along the corridor to find the Senior Steward. They spoke for several minutes together and then joined the meeting in the Committee Room. Above the fireplace hung another magnificent oil by George Stubbs, which was, in fact, shortly to be removed in favour of a large portrait of Sir Winston Churchill, whose son-in-law the Club had just irrevocably humiliated. Major General Feilden called the members to order, which was not a difficult task. This was a very subdued gathering, since, even now, no one had the slightest idea which members had perpetrated the blackballing. The High Tory group were still extremely embarrassed and there was a dignified silence from them.

But there was a deafening silence from the corner occupied by one of the most popular sportsmen in England, the twentieth Baron Willoughby de Broke. For it was he who had blackballed Christopher Soames. Lord Willoughby, with the deadly subversiveness the system encouraged, had registered a secret and decisive protest to the proposed membership.

Major General Feilden proceeded. ‘My Lords and Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘Lord Rosebery has given notice to the Stewards that he wants to raise a point before we get to the main agenda.’

There was again silence as the Club’s most venerable member rose to his feet. He spoke firmly, in that blunt aristocratic manner which has always outlawed any form of interruption:

‘My Lords and Gentlemen,’ said Harry Rosebery, ‘I want to thank the Stewards for their courtesy in letting me bring up Any Other Business at the start. But I have to catch a train, at 12 o’clock.

‘Now then,’ he began, ‘I want to recall to your minds what happened last night when we had a candidate put up and blackballed. Every single person had been asked if they were in favour and every single person – except one – replied to say they were. Well, as I said last night, his subsequent rejection knocks on the head our method of election completely.’ He gazed around the historic room very slowly, and very carefully, before adding, ‘If you cannot trust members of the Club to carry out what they write, I am ashamed to think that you cannot trust them at all.’

He addressed the possibility of a blackballing-by-error in the following words: ‘There is to my mind just a chance – and it is more than just a chance, I think – that a black ball, or even two, can get in by mistake … you know, into the wrong aperture. It has happened in the past, I know. And it might always happen. I am not saying it did happen last night, but I am hoping, for the credit of members of the Club, that it did.’

‘So am I,’ whispered the Duke of Norfolk. But there was an atmosphere of mistrust in the room. Who had blackballed Christopher Soames? And why? The Duke of Norfolk shook his head, conveying his exasperation. Lord Rosebery spoke again.

‘I am proposing’, he said, ‘that we go back to what happened forty-three years ago. At that time there was a general reluctance among people who were put up for the Jockey Club, not at all sure whether they would get elected or not. I myself missed the blackballing system – they never had an opportunity to get me – which is perhaps the only reason why I’m here at all! But in 1924 they passed a resolution making membership the province of a Membership Committee. The late Lord Derby was made chairman, as I remember. A few of us were elected under that system and then, suddenly, they went back to the old method of blackballing … Can’t remember why.

‘Personally I dislike blackballing. I always have. Doesn’t give a man a fair chance. I have never blackballed anyone in my life. For anything. Also I think this system leaves a possibility of one of us making an error. I mean, you might be talking to someone, and put the damn thing in, and it goes into the wrong ‘NO’ or the wrong ‘YES’. There is the possibility for error. I don’t like it.’

He then proposed, formally, that the Club return to the method which was adopted in 1924. ‘I am not a great believer in thinking that the things of the past were better than things of the present. But I do think the 1924 method is superior. I think we are all agreed that it is quite impossible to go on as we are going on now, when people write one thing, and then vote in another way. I propose that the Order of 1924 be re-enacted and made a Rule of the Club.’

The Duke of Norfolk seconded the motion and, although it took almost a year to implement, the return to 1924 was carried out. It would never again be quite such a searching challenge to become a member of England’s Jockey Club, which still remains the most exclusive gathering of men in the history of the free world, with the possible exception of the Last Supper.

Lord Willoughby never did come clean and admit what he had done, although he felt extremely strongly about it. Very late one night, Lord Willoughby, pressed on the subject, put the blackballing down to events in the North African campaign of the Second World War, where Christopher Soames served in the Coldstreams. ‘Tobruk,’ snapped his Lordship. There was not another word. Not another clue.

Christopher Soames was finally elected in May 1968, by which time he was indeed Britain’s ambassador to France, and a Peer of the Realm, as Andrew Devonshire had forecast on that most awful of nights a year previously. His election went some way towards stabilizing relations with the diplomatic world, but it was always overshadowed by his blackballing. The outlook of many members, not least the Duke of Norfolk, had been changed irreconcilably. For them it was essential to recruit new blood into the Club, to make contact with new younger racehorse owners and breeders, who had experience beyond that of the land and the military. But despite some powerful voices in the Jockey Club pushing for a more enlightened and forward-looking approach to the new decade of the 1970s, there remained many reactionaries in the world’s oldest sporting club. They refused to elect to membership Mr David Robinson, England’s biggest racehorse owner, presumably because he made his vast fortune in renting television sets rather than fields of turnips or corn to tenant farmers. As a result Robinson turned his back on racing to fund the most beautiful new college at Cambridge University and dispense charitable largess around the country totalling some £26 million.

However, an era had passed. No longer could the membership be founded on quasi-medieval families, whose main qualifications had been derived through the execution of noblesse oblige: fighting wars, acquiring money and land from the peasant classes and displaying a sycophantic devotion to various dull-witted monarchs. Times were changing. This was the twentieth century. Had been for some time now. It was time to wake up, to breathe new life into the two-hundred-year-old organization which rules, runs and organizes horse-racing in Great Britain, and sets a standard of excellence and integrity for the Sport of Kings which is unmatched anywhere in the world.

Over the centuries the Jockey Club established itself firstly as the supreme rulers of Newmarket and all of the heathland gallops which surround it, virtually all of which the Club now owns. Then, with inordinate speed, before 1800, it became the sole ruler of all racing in Great Britain. In 1967 its traditions were without parallel, its authority unquestioned, its power in racing absolute over all men. Each member wears a little silver badge to admit him to every racecourse in the country, almost all of them with a private room for members. Royal Ascot is run principally for, and essentially by, the Jockey Club. Members have total priority in every aspect of a day at the races.

The Jockey Club still enjoys considerable royal patronage. The Queen and the Queen Mother are its two Patrons; Prince Philip, Prince Charles and Princess Anne are honorary members, and in addition there are the two dukes, Devonshire and Sutherland. One way and another, it is an organization to which any owner of any racehorse might longingly aspire. Today it has more than one hundred and twenty members, still drawn from a frightfully narrow social stratum. With any one of the Queen’s subjects having only a 467,000 to 1 chance of ever being elected, the odds of acceptance are depressingly daunting for the socially ambitious, notwithstanding the 1967 outlawing of the hated blackball. Its membership is still heavily loaded with the military: high-ranking officers combined with haughtily born captains and majors who spent time in Her Majesty’s Service but never threatened to reduce the importance of Field Marshal Lord Montgomery in the roll of British Army strategists. There is certainly no record of a former private, lance corporal or even sergeant ever being elected.

It has always been difficult to assess the precise criteria required for membership, principally because the members have historically behaved in such an arbitrary way. Collectively they have demonstrated a whim of iron. Until the early 1970s there might be said to have been ten ‘Rules’ which had served as general electoral guidelines. They were never, of course, formalized, but they were unfailingly observed:

1 The Club does not like trade, nor the people involved in it.

2 The Club does not like ‘other ranks’ from any branch of the Armed Services.

3 The Club does not like professional sportsmen, or trainers.

4 The Club does not like jockeys.

5 The Club does not like journalists.

6 The Club does not like bookmakers.

7 The Club does not like commercial horsetrading.

8 The Club does not like ostentation – film stars, play actors, entertainers of any type.

9 The Club does not like foreigners.

10 The Club does not like persons of low rank, not Honoured by Her Gracious Majesty.

These ‘Rules’ for membership, unwritten, unspoken, but rigid, have stood the test of time. The centuries-old contempt for all jockeys was encouraged historically by Admiral Rous himself, a man who was proud of the fact that he ‘never shared his dinner table with one’. From the ranks of the race-riders, only one, the late Sir Gordon Richards, was ever made a member. No active trainer has ever been elected to membership. Among journalists, the three exceptions were men whose interest in racing and breeding was equal to their chosen trade. On the other hand, anyone even remotely connected with the betting industry was unmentionable. Owners and breeders showing too keen an interest in the monetary value of horseflesh, with inclinations to deal in bloodstock on a totally commercial level, were unacceptable – might result in a conflict of interest in the future. Show business people were also banned. Period.

However, politicians, undesirable though they may be, did not fall into any banned category. The outrageous breach of etiquette on the night of 3 May 1967, with the blackballing of the Rt. Hon. Christopher Soames, changed everything.

As the great men of the Jockey Club had stared in horror at that black ball in the wrong slot, a Rolls Royce had been moving swiftly away from Newmarket Heath, through the dark English countryside up towards the wooded borders of the ancient county of Cheshire. In the passenger seat sat the smiling figure of the thoughtful northern trainer Eric Cousins.

The driver of the car wore a similar smile, having just had a ‘rather nice little each-way touch’ in the 2000 Guineas, on a horse called Missile which had finished fast at 40–1, right behind Royal Palace and Taj Dewan. His trainer was the somewhat devilish little Irishman from Tipperary, Vincent O’Brien, whom the driver had admired since his schooldays. He had never of course met him, but one day he would become his most trusted friend.

The man at the wheel would, also, one day in the not-too-distant future, sail into the Jockey Club as a full member, without any questions. He would do so in total defiance of ‘Rules’ 1), 2), and 6). He would take ‘Rule’ 7) and single-handedly strangle it. And as for the section of ‘Rule’ 8) which deals with ostentation, well, he would somewhat unwittingly reduce that to rubble. As for the old creeds of Admiral Rous about gambling fortunes on bloodstock, the man driving the Rolls Royce would one day turn the entire thoroughbred breeding world into nothing short of an international commodity market. He would habitually risk gigantic fortunes, on the running of a racehorse. He would back his judgment on a scale never hitherto even dreamed about, by anyone. He would ultimately make Harry the Horse look like Winnie the Pooh.

His name was Robert Edmund Sangster.

1
Chalk Stream

The once-great English seaport of Liverpool ought, in fairness, to hold a truly commanding view across the wide Mersey to the far-off mystic mountains of north Wales. Indeed it would do so, but for a mighty headland which juts like a giant fist straight out of the picturesque Roman city of Chester. The Wirral peninsula measures some fifteen miles by six, and it divides the two broad estuaries of the Mersey and the River Dee. On its north-eastern side are the heavy industrial ports of Birkenhead, Wallasey, Bebington and Ellesmere, which more or less wreck the mystic aspect of Liverpool’s view.

On the far, western coast, however, is a true romance of water and flatlands, of a great river swirling out into the Irish Sea, of west winds from Ireland, perfumed by the heather of County Wicklow. Breathtaking vistas of the sea – the same waters over which Admiral Nelson once sailed his fleet – not to re-store in Liverpool, but for a secret tryst with the most famous and elegant of the local beauties, Lady Emma Hamilton of Parkgate. J. M. W. Turner memorably painted the Welsh mountains from here.

Just to the north of Lady Hamilton’s childhood home stands the eastern seaward point of the headland. Here lies the historic golf links of Hoylake, home of the Royal Liverpool Golf Club, the scene of ten Open Championships and the course which beat Jack Nicklaus. And here, with glorious gardens lapping down almost to the fairways, are some of the most expensive residences in this most exclusive stretch of north-western England. They form a millionaire’s row, known since the age of Queen Victoria as The Golden Mile. What the Hamptons are to New York’s Long Island, so West Kirby is to the Wirral peninsula.

This is Sangster Country. It has been Sangster Country for most of this century. The grand family house, where Robert was raised, is called West Lodge. It stands behind solid, red sandstone pillars, among beautifully clipped lawns. Providentially it always possessed a fine stable block and groom’s cottage within its grounds. The family has been wealthy since Edwardian times. Robert’s grandfather Edmund Sangster founded the fortune with a large warehousing and wholesale business in nearby Manchester shortly after Lord Rosebery’s godfather ascended the throne of England in 1901. Fourteen years later his teenaged son Vernon – Robert’s father – set off with the Manchester Regiment to fight on the Western Front in the Great War. He survived that most awful of conflicts, and returned to a depressed and demoralized England with a view to taking over the family business.

But by nature, Sangsters tend not to take over things. They are more inclined to start things. They are entrepreneurs by instinct, blessed with a touch of daring, but equally blessed by a certain sure-footedness. Young Vernon Sangster and his father proceeded to launch a business, essentially a lottery. They called it Vernons Pools and their plan was to give every working man, for just a few pence, a chance to win a fortune. Every week.

It was built around the results of the Football League matches played in England all through the autumn, winter and spring of the year. Success depended on the devotion of millions of ordinary people who sent in their coupons and their small amount of money, in the hope of scooping up thousands of pounds for correctly forecasting the drawn matches. One unlikely ‘save’ from an unseen goalkeeper playing hundreds of miles away in the pouring rain and mud, could smash millions of dreams. It happened every week. But it did not cost much, and the hopes of millions stayed high. The coupons and the little cheques and money orders kept coming.

Profits grew steadily each year and in the mid 1920s Vernon Sangster and his father moved the operation thirty miles to Liverpool. In the 1930s, with the business of football pools making the family rich, there were two major relocations: Vernon, now married to Peggy, bought West Lodge; and Vernons Pools set up their new headquarters in the north-eastern suburb of Liverpool, Aintree, home of the world’s most famous steeplechase, the Grand National.

Robert was born on 23 May 1936. He was to be an only child and sole heir to a sprawling business which would, before he was out of school, employ six thousand people. Under the umbrella of Vernon Industries there were factories making products to help Britain’s war effort, factories making kitchen and domestic products, factories making plastics, factories making children’s toys. And all the time the great ‘cash cow’ of the football pools increased the vast and diverse fortune of Vernon Sangster.

He was a nice man, rather quiet, but immensely well-liked by both his peers and employees. He was extremely generous to charities, a trait inherited by his son. Vernon was not given to ostentation in any form, and usually had lunch with his wife in a private businessmen’s club in Liverpool. He was, however, obsessed by sports, choosing for Robert’s godfather Dr Joe Graham, a British Boxing Board of Control official fight doctor. He also ensured that Robert was taught the game of golf at a very young age under the tutelage of one of England’s finest players, his friend Henry Cotton, three times winner of the Open Championship and, belatedly, a Knight of the Realm.

Vernon, who played off a handicap of twelve and would one day be elected to membership of the Royal and Ancient at St Andrews, was of course a member of Royal Liverpool Golf Club. He and his wife played the daunting 7000 yards of Hoylake a couple of times a week. This was no ordinary golf club. Royal Liverpool is redolent with legend. Here it was that one of the finest amateurs of all time, Mr Harold Hilton, a local member and the only man who had ever held both the US and British Amateur Championships in the same year, won the 1897 Open beating the five-times professional winner James Braid. Here too the immortal Edwardian golfer James Taylor won the first of his five Open Championships by eight shots in 1913. Also it was at Hoylake that the great American Walter Hagen won the second of his four Open Championships, in 1924, playing the last nine holes in 36, despite visiting three bunkers. Bobby Jones sailed into Liverpool in 1930 and nearly blew his Grand Slam – with a seven at the par-five eighth hole, right at the bottom of the Sangster garden – in the last round of the Open Championship at Royal Liverpool. Ultimately he won by two strokes, but to the end of his life he always said: ‘I’ll never forget Hoylake.’

In the 1967 Open Championship here, in mild conditions, only 19 of the 370 rounds played were under 70. The winner was the Argentinian Roberto de Vicenzo who finished on 278. The holder, Jack Nicklaus, failed by two shots to shoot the 67 which would have given him a tie. Afterwards he stood alone, memorably, outside the Victorian clubhouse, and he gazed out towards the far-distant eighth hole at the end of the formidable links, and he shook his head in disbelief. It is one thing for a local businessman to play off twelve on a well-watered park golf course, but quite another to be able to score like that over Hoylake. Both Vernon and Peggy Sangster became Captains of the Club in 1975, the year their only son set off on his mission to revolutionize The Sport of Kings.

As the Second World War drew to its close and Robert Sangster attained the age of eight, he was sent as a weekly border to the nearby Leas School which was also situated with panoramic views across the golf course. Unsurprisingly he swiftly came to love sports and, by the time he left for public school, Repton (founded 1577), he was a very reasonable cricketer, an enthusiastic rugby player and, at thirteen, a pretty long hitter of a golf ball. But what he could really do was box. Dr Joe Graham had seen to that, having personally shown his godson at a very young age the basics of the straight left, the jab, the hook and the uppercut. Robert even knew how to throw combinations, knew how to shift his weight, to move to the left away from a ‘southpaw’. Above all, he knew how to punch correctly, how to take the impact.

He had accompanied Joe on trips to London. At the age of eleven he had seen the British heavyweight champion Bruce Woodcock suffer a broken jaw at the hands of the American Joe Baksi. Engraved on his memory is the post-fight scene in the dressing room, where the badly hurt Woodcock sat with a white towel over his head, muttering over and over to his manager: ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m so sorry. I’ve let you down.’

In 1951 he watched the brilliant British Middleweight Champion Randolph Turpin beat Sugar Ray Robinson for the world title at London’s Earls Court Stadium. A few years later he was ringside with his godfather at Liverpool Stadium when the British Middleweight Champion Johnny Sullivan entered the ring first for his title fight with Pat McAteer of Birkenhead, and insisted on occupying Pat’s traditional corner. He can still recall the sound and the fury of the packed ranks of the dockers at this affront to their hero; the uproar in the stadium as the referee spun a coin and then led the arrogant ex-booth fighter Sullivan to the opposite corner. ‘No one,’ says Robert, ‘I promise you, no one who was there could ever forget the eruption of joy from that crowd when Pat knocked Sullivan out. I flew out of my seat with my arms in the air.’

He also remembers to this day nearly every punch thrown in the ‘toughest fight I ever saw’, when Dennis Powell fought George Walker for the vacant British cruiserweight crown at Liverpool Stadium on 26 March 1953. He sat behind Dr Joe while the two grim, determined contestants fought it out.

Walker, felled in the first round by a right hook, took an eight count. In the fourth Powell was down for nine from a momentous right from Walker. Then they both went down together, Powell for ‘six’, Walker rising immediately. In the seventh Walker lost his gum shield, Powell’s eye was cut, Walker’s left eye was closing and still they went at it, with thunderous punches.

By the eighth round Walker could see only through his right eye. In the ninth they were considering stopping the fight in favour of Walker, so badly was Powell’s eye bleeding. But the referee let it go on, through a murderous tenth and through the eleventh, with George Walker, fighting for his life, now being hit too often for anyone’s taste. His eye was so badly injured, his chief second Dave Edgar refused to let him come up for the twelfth round. He called the referee over and asked him to stop it. George Walker was heartbroken, begging for a chance, for just one more round. But Edgar was having none of it, and neither was the ref. They named Powell the winner and Robert remembers watching George Walker, sitting on his stool, devastated, alone, as we all must be at such times. ‘I thought then, as I think now,’ says Robert, ‘what a man’. (George Walker was to make and lose a gigantic fortune as Chairman of Brent Walker, owners of bookmakers William Hill, in the late 1980s.)

Whenever he was home from school Robert attended the big fights at Liverpool Stadium. He saw all of the top British fighters of the 1950s: Freddie Mills, Dave Charnley, Terry Downes, Jack Gardner. Dr Joe even took him down to London, to the promoter Jack Solomons’s gymnasium in Windmill Street, off Piccadilly. There the trainers taught him to spar. He used to hold the padded gloves for Freddie Mills to swing at, and he learned to move them quickly, listening to Freddie tell him, ‘Watch my eyes, Bobby, watch carefully, that’s how you read a fighter, that’s how you know when the punches are coming.’

Robert loved to watch Freddie Mills, and he was not yet fourteen years old when Dr Joe took him down to London to watch his hero defend the world cruiserweight championship against the American Joey Maxim. ‘It was’, recalls Robert, ‘the worse night of my life thus far.’ Maxim knocked Freddie out in round ten. He also knocked out three of his front teeth and Mills never fought again. But he still turned up to spar with Robert at Windmill Street.

This involvement with the sport of professional boxing was not absolutely what one might have expected from a young gentleman of Robert’s social standing. But Vernon Sangster was not some old lord crusting around the battlements wondering why the devil his son could not show a decent interest in something less violent, like hunting or shooting. Vernon Sangster was a man of the real world and he understood the excitement of professional sport at that level, and he believed his son would benefit later in life from the raw hardness of such a world. He believed it was excellent training for a boy to understand sacrifice, courage, determination, the joy of winning, and the pain and disappointment of defeat. He saw no harm in Robert’s early devotion to the brutality of the prize ring, and the men who worked in it. He even allowed his son to take eight friends, on his tenth birthday, to the fights at Liverpool Stadium.

Robert was not in fact a great scholar at school, but he was good at maths and long on common sense. He was a very formidable front-row forward on the rugby field and he pleased the Repton cricket coach, the former Derbyshire spin-bowler Eric Marsh, so much that he allowed his wealthiest pupil to keep his car in a garage at his home. Considering that Repton had now been waiting nigh-on half a century for someone to replace their immortal England and Oxford University batsman C. B. Fry (and it clearly was not going to be Robert) this must rank as a gesture of the highest nobility. At boxing, Robert was never defeated in twelve fights in the ring at Repton.

Like all young men leaving school in the 1950s, Robert was required for two years of National Service and he selected one of England’s historic fighting regiments, the 22nd Regiment of Foot, The Cheshires, the headquarters of which were in Chester Castle down at the end of the Wirral peninsula. The regiment had been founded in 1689 by the Duke of Norfolk, the direct ancestor of the one so upset at the Jockey Club blackballing, who sailed his men from Liverpool to fight at the Battle of the Boyne. For nearly three centuries the Cheshires had fought for King, Queen and Country. They had defeated the Americans during the Revolution at the Battles of Rhode Island and New York; they had fought, on and off, in India for a hundred years; they fought in the great battles for Afghanistan in the 1840s under General Sir Charles Napier, once defeating 30,000 Baluchis when outnumbered by ten to one. They fought in the Boer War, and they fought and died by the hundreds at the Somme, at Ypres, all over Passchendaele, and at Gallipoli. In the Second World War the regiment fought with enormous heroism at El Alamein, Sicily, Salerno and Anzio.

Dearly wanting to be an officer in the Cheshires, Robert applied for training but the officer selection board wanted to assess him twice and after his first interviews they requested him to serve a little more time in the regiment and come back in a few weeks in order that they might talk to him again. In the meantime, however, fate intervened and he leapt at a posting with the Commanding Officer in exciting postwar Berlin and, casting his ambitions of leadership to the west winds of the Wirral, he flew to Germany. Private Sangster, foot soldier, reported for duty.

During the first couple of days men were assessed for sports activities. It was viewed as something of a joke among the ranks when this wealthy young chap from Repton College – famed mainly for producing four Archbishops of Canterbury including Dr Ramsay – stuck his hand up to volunteer for, of all sports, boxing. Also he was apt to make the occasional remark which branded him among instructors as something of a ‘smartass’ – and on the first day of training the PTI was expounding the rules of ‘non-hitting’ areas (back of the head, kidneys, and so on), when Robert uttered one wisecrack too many. The instructor chose to teach him a short, sharp lesson in Army etiquette. Summoning to the fore the big, beefy Brigade shot-putt champion, Private ‘Tiny’ Davies, he said, ‘Right men, I am looking for someone to box a demonstration with Tiny here in the ring. Ah yes, Private Sangster, I think you’ll do very nicely.’

Robert gazed at the massive, six-foot-four-inch Tiny, nodded curtly, checked his gloves and climbed into the ring. At eighteen, he was five feet ten inches, weighed one hundred and seventy-two pounds, and he was giving away about forty-two pounds and several inches. But as Tiny advanced in round one, the words of Freddie Mills rang clearly in his mind: ‘Bobby, if ever you’re fighting a man who might be a bit short on experience, and he comes at you, bang him on the nose early – it’ll make his eyes water, unsettle him.’

Tiny came forward, swung twice. Robert, on his toes, backed away waiting for the next advance. Tiny, almost inviting Robert to hit him, again swung wildly. Robert ducked to his right, slipped inside and banged his opponent on the nose with a short left hook. Hard. The soldiers yelled with excitement. Tiny reacted with instant, unutterable rage. He wiped his smarting eyes, leaned back on the ropes for extra leverage and catapulted himself across the ring at Robert. His face was puce with fury, and his fists were drawn back behind his ears.

Robert backed up to the ropes, stood his ground and stared hard into Tiny’s angry eyes. His stance was slightly crouched, with his left jab ready. At the final split second, he shifted his weight to his left foot, and let fly with a text-book straight right hand that would have knocked down a stud bull. The force was doubled by the on-rushing momentum of Tiny, and Robert caught him flush on the jaw, just to the left of centre. Everything was correct, his wrist was locked, his elbow was locked, and his shoulder took the impact, just as Freddie Mills had instructed. Tiny, by the way, was unconscious before he hit the floor, where he remained, with the lights out, for a little over thirty seconds.

The soldiers went wild. Robert was unable to stop laughing, and the Army doctors were busy trying to revive Tiny. It was, upon reflection, Robert’s finest hour in the ring. He went on to win the Berlin Brigade Heavyweight Championship and was never defeated in more than a dozen fights, though most of them, against better boxers, were decided on points. ‘I never once had a chance to hit anyone that hard ever again,’ he recalls. ‘Actually, Freddie would have been proud of me that evening.’

For a young man so naturally captivated by heroism, both in the boxing ring and indeed in the history of his regiment, it was curious that he entirely abandoned his plans to become a second lieutenant and the vague ambition to become Captain Robert Sangster, which does after all possess a rather authoritative ring. But deep down he knew that his time in the Army was limited to just a few months and that back home the challenging, rewarding and glamorous world of big business awaited him. He had already acquired a taste for fast, expensive cars, beautiful girls, vintage champagne and the kind of well-tailored country clothes that young gentlemen of his wealth and education were apt to wear. Having bought himself a car in Berlin, Robert made the most of the great city. He was always zipping in and out of the Russian sector in search of the occasional pot of caviar and his memories of notorious forays into the more expensive night spots with a small group of adventurous, but largely impoverished fellow ‘squaddies’ still bring a beaming smile to his cheerful face even today.

Robert returned to the Wirral in 1957. By now the Vernon Organization was building parts for aircraft and owned a factory that produced a little three-wheel car which did eighty miles to the gallon, in sharp contrast to Robert’s new Mercedes Sports which was pushed to get eighteen to the gallon going downhill. He was glad to be home and was quickly absorbed with the many improvements and expansions his father had implemented during his time in the Army. One of the least successful was in horse-race betting: a credit bookmaking business run in conjunction with the football pools, an innovation which Robert noted swiftly was not making much money. He was also at a loss as to how to help improve it, since his knowledge of horse racing was extremely limited.

He knew one fact about the sport. It was a schoolboy belief that the best trainer of a racehorse lived somewhere in southern Ireland, and was named Vincent O’Brien. This man had trained the winner of the Grand National Steeplechase in each of the last three years Robert had spent at Repton, 1953–55, and achieved this with three different horses too. Robert reasoned that, since no one else had ever achieved this, O’Brien must be the best there is. At school the experts among his friends had asserted that the Grand National was for big, slow plodding ‘chasers’ and that the real kings of National Hunt racing were those who won the two main races at Cheltenham – the Gold Cup and the Champion Hurdle. One fifteen-year-old Irish tipster had then confided that a trainer called O’Brien had won each of those races as well, three times in a row. And that settled it in Robert’s mind. O’Brien must be the best.

Flat racing was essentially a mystery to him but, with Vernons now involved in credit betting, it was his bound duty to understand the basics of all gambling, the odds and the risks. As such he usually noticed the winners of big races like the Derby, where there might be a major pay-out. The 1957 Derby was run just a few days after he returned to the family fold and he saw that it had been won by Crepello. He also noted that the second horse, beaten only a length and half, was named Ballymoss. His price had been 33–1 and, happily for Vernons Credit, not many people had risked more than a few shillings each way. ‘I might have had a few quid on it if I’d known he was running,’ thought Robert. The horse was trained in County Tipperary by Vincent O’Brien.

Three weeks later Robert missed Ballymoss again when he won the Irish Derby by miles. But he did not miss much, since the horse started at an impossible price of 9–4 on. An entire year then slid by without Robert taking a shred of interest in flat racing, until the Royal Ascot meeting of 1958 took place. Because of pressure of work, he was not able to join a group of friends who had travelled south for the Gold Cup, all dressed up, complete with badges for the Royal Enclosure. He glanced rather enviously at the papers the following day to see if any of them had had their photographs taken, but none had. Every inch of the papers were devoted to the great Irish mare Gladness who had beaten all the colts to win the Gold Cup. She had been trained by O’Brien. That really settled it. Robert, at the age of twenty-two, reckoned he knew one shining, copper-bottomed, indisputable fact about flat racing. ‘Vincent O’Brien is the best trainer there has ever been,’ was how he phrased it to his friends, none of whom knew a whole lot more about it than he did.

Like many men of a steady temperament, but with a very busy mind, Robert Sangster was apt to come out with these slightly high-powered remarks from time to time. The fact that they were sudden, and usually sounded arrogant in the extreme, occasionally unnerved people. But they were always followed by a deep, good-natured chuckle at himself. Pompous he was not, but a mind like his needed an outlet, even though he had never actually heard of such legendary trainers as Dick Dawson, Frank Butters, Alec Taylor, John Porter, Fred Darling or Joe Lawson.

The usual setting for these pearls of modern wisdom from young Sangster was Liverpool’s Kardomah Coffee House, the lunchtime gathering place of 1950s’ upwardly mobile Liverpudlians. It was divided essentially into three sections: those set to inherit a considerable fortune; those who had a plan to amass a considerable fortune; and those who were merely working on a plan to earn a considerable fortune. Robert was a founder member of all three groups and, as the only one to already possess a fortune, he naturally became the unchallenged social leader.

The membership at table at which they gathered became an object of immense envy, admittance being unobtainable to those who did not fit these elite criteria. With Rugby Union only played at public schools in the 1950s, Robert and two or three of his colleagues from the highly reputable Birkenhead Park Rugby Football Club saw the playing of this esteemed sport as a qualification to their group. Several of their number were the sons of friends of Robert’s father. Every provincial city in England at that time had such a table in one of the new, expensive coffee houses and country towns had their groups of wealthy young farmers, but big places like Liverpool had trainee businessmen who would one day run financial empires.

Amidst the huge amount of laughter generated by these chosen few, many a great business plan was hatched in the Kardomah. Robert was more inclined than the others to think very carefully before he spoke, because he was the one person at that table who had the financial clout actually to launch a new idea. He knew that a well-thought-out business proposition to his father would be backed, because Vernon Sangster had a firm belief in the inherent entrepreneurial talents of his only son and heir. Now that he had given up his youthful ambition to change his name by deed poll to Rocky Sangster and win the Heavyweight Championship of the World, Robert was eager to make his mark and knew that he deserved to be taken seriously and, if necessary, supported. This was just as it had been between Vernon and his own father Edmund Sangster in the years immediately following the Great War.

Robert fitted into the business world of Liverpool surprisingly well. To meet him it was impossible to avoid the impression of a well-tailored young bon vivant, with several girl friends and eight powerful cylinders to maintain. But he worked hard and was watchful of the firm’s money, ever mindful of how to make more. He also cherished an unspoken, even to himself, ambition to start something of his own within the Vernons Organization just as his father had done so many times.

By the spring of 1960 Robert, now coming up to twenty-four, was planning to get married. He had met and spent almost a year with the very beautiful, tall, dark-haired, Manchester model Christine Street, whose career was on a major upswing with several television appearances to her credit and increasing work in London. Her parents owned the George Hotel in Penrith, a market town in Cumbria, fifteen miles south of the border town of Carlisle. Unsurprisingly Christine was not your average model. She was extremely well educated, having attended one of the best girls’ boarding schools in the north of England – Queen Ethelburga’s at Harrogate – and completed her studies at the Swiss finishing school Brillantmont in Lausanne. She was also extremely well mannered.

A grand society wedding was being planned at Penrith for the month of May, and the lunch club at the Kardomah was heavy with advice for the prospective bridegroom, particularly about the importance of the lunch club, even to a married man. It was into this slightly restless atmosphere that a stranger, named Nick Robinson, walked one morning in early March. He was new to the city and had been brought to the Kardomah by one of the regulars who worked in the giant packaging business built up by Nick’s grandfather, the eighty-year-old Sir Foster Robinson.

Nick’s background was not dissimilar to Robert’s. He had been head boy at his famous prep school, Hawtreys, on the edge of the Savernake Forest in Wiltshire, and had completed his education at Harrow. He had entered the family business at their headquarters in Bristol, but upon his grandfather’s specific instructions had been sent to their Liverpool office for two years to learn the technique of the Sales Department. But where Robert was addicted to hard contact sports like boxing and rugby football, Nick’s game was horse racing. He had been brought up to it, as Robert had been to championship golf.

As they all sat in the Kardomah, the talk turned gradually to the sport which was so important to the newcomer. He told them of his grandfather’s sprawling Wicken Park Stud, in Buckinghamshire, where racing fillies became broodmares and spent almost all of the rest of their lives in foal. He told them of the great breeding stallions of the day, horses who thought nothing of covering forty mares in a season, like Palestine, Court Martial, Swaps, Nashua, Court Harwell, Alycidon and the new young Crepello who had beaten Ballymoss in the 1958 Derby. At that Robert remembered with a blinding flash: ‘That’s my man O’Brien.’ He seriously considered issuing the old ‘Greatest trainer of all time’ line across the young Mr Robinson, but decided against it. Instead he observed, more typically, that upon reflection he’d rather be a stallion than a broodmare.

For a table of young men so profoundly ignorant about the subject of racing thoroughbreds, Nick Robinson was getting a substantial amount of attention. They actually found it rather a fascination. But he really got them when he disclosed the deathless piece of information that the stable which trained for his grandfather thought he might win the Lincolnshire Handicap with his five-year-old bay gelding Chalk Stream. ‘And’, added Nick darkly, ‘it might just be possible to have a really nice touch, at about 20–1.’

Now he was really talking. This group understood money, perhaps above all else, and the chance of landing a sizeable chunk of it without working was, as they say in New York, hitting ’em right where they lived. Robert, already interested, was teetering on the verge of enthralment. ‘OK, Nick,’ he said. ‘Let me just get this straight. The Lincolnshire Handicap is a race, over what distance? One mile? Right. Now, how many are in it? About thirty? Christ, that’s rather a lot, isn’t it? Right. Now why do you think Chalk Stream might win?’

‘Well, for a start, he is a pretty good racehorse. He has some experience, plenty of speed without being a champion or anything, he’s been working extremely well for the past week or so, and above all he runs off a very light weight – under seven stone. We think he has a decent chance.’

‘What do you mean a light weight?’ said someone. ‘I thought they all carried the same weight, otherwise it wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

‘Now this is a tricky subject.’ said Nick doing his best to simplify it. ‘In big races they do all carry the same weight, but this is a handicap and all the horses are weighted differently. The Jockey Club handicapper is basically trying to get them all to finish in a line, a dead heat. So he piles weight on the good horses to slow them up and leaves the less good ones with just a little. The idea being that every horse has a fair chance.’

‘What kind of weight?’

‘Oh, just lead weight slipped into the saddle cloth.’

‘You mean, if the jockey weighs eight stone and the horse has to carry nine stone, they just put fourteen pounds of lead in the cloth?’

‘That’s it. Chuck in a couple of pounds for the saddle and there’ll be six pounds of lead either side of the horse’s flanks.’

‘Yes, but how do they know what weight to put in? How does the handicapper know that his weights will slow the good horse down enough for the slower ones to catch him?’

‘Well, that is a real speciality which can take almost a lifetime to master. But in the broadest possible terms, if, in a one-mile race, Horse A beats Horse B by three lengths at level weights, the handicapper will calculate it at two pounds a length, and he will ask Horse A to carry six pounds more than Horse B the next time they meet over a mile. In theory this should bring them across the line together. Of course it may not, because Horse A may have more in hand than everyone thought, and he may again win by three lengths, and the handicapper will give him six pounds more the next time. Eventually the handicapper will stop him from winning.’

‘So,’ said Robert, ‘if a horse keeps losing, his weight is likely to get a lot lighter?’

‘Precisely. And some trainers deliberately keep a horse losing – it’s called “working him down the handicap” – until he has a weight so light he could not possibly be beaten. I mean, for example, he’s carrying seven stone, when he should really be carrying nine stone …’

‘And that’s when they have a real bet?’ said Robert.

‘Correct.’

‘Christ! Is that what’s happening with Chalk Stream?’

‘I am not sure about that, but Arthur Budgett, his trainer, says he is “very nicely weighted” – and that’ll do for me. I’m backing him to win the Lincoln, 23 March.’

‘Where do they run the Lincoln?’

‘Lincoln. On a Wednesday. The race is always like the Charge of the Light Brigade. They try to go flat out from start to finish and if our horse wins … well, there’s no feeling of elation quite like it.’

‘Especially if your pockets are full of the bookmaker’s money,’ said Robert. ‘OK, Nick,’ he added, seeking some final assurance, ‘now just tell me very simply why you think Chalk Stream is actually going to win.’

‘Well, mainly because he damn nearly won it last year, dead-heated for second place. He has won three races, but last season he was very unlucky, placed second five times. Now I hear he is very well, working sharply in the morning and he has that low weight.’

Robert decided then and there that he would join the owner’s grandson and place a bet of £25 each way on the horse. He did so with another bookmaker, not Vernons Credit Betting, and they all waited, with almost daily conferences at the Kardomah, for the great day to come.

On Saturday morning, 19 March, they met at the coffee house early, prior to Robert driving his colleagues fast back out to the Wirral to play rugby that afternoon for Birkenhead Park. Nick was there first, poring over the Sporting Life, the specialist newspaper for the horse-racing industry. As far as the others were concerned it might have been printed in Latin. But Nick had known his way around that publication almost since birth, and now he had the page open at the Four-Day Acceptors, and he was studying precisely who the opposition would be, the booked jockeys and, above all, the weights.

‘The first thing to check’, he said, ‘is the top weight … damn it. Sovereign Path’s stood its ground.’

‘I suppose there is no possibility of you breaking into English?’ said Robert. ‘What d’you mean “Damn it. Sovereign Path’s stood its ground”?’

‘Well, Sovereign Path, who is a very tough grey horse, has already won six races, one of them by ten lengths. He nearly won a classic trial last season and he is the best horse in the Lincoln. I was rather hoping he would not be ready this early in the season. But he’s in and his jockey is booked. He’ll run. Still, he has a huge amount of weight – nine stone five pounds. No horse has carried that much to win the Lincoln this century. Anyway, I don’t really think he will be happy giving us thirty pounds.’

‘Could you tell me how you know all that stuff, about the biggest weight this century and everything?’ asked Robert.

‘Oh, those are just little facts that all horse-racing people know, or somehow get to know, round about the time of the Lincoln. I think the biggest weight was carried by Dorigen who won in 1933. I’m not sure of the exact amount, but it was less than nine-five.’

‘Well, it would take me about fifty years to learn it all,’ said Robert, and then, ‘Hey! What about this horse, Courts Appeal, he’s from the O’Brien stable in Ireland. Vincent O’Brien, best trainer in the world.’

Nick looked up, grinning. Robert, flushed with success, having detonated his one shining fact about racing, decided to elaborate, and he charged on. ‘Trained the runner-up in the Derby for the same owner, John McShain, a couple of years ago, as I remember. A very shrewd man.’

Nick replied, ‘Yes, and he trained Mr McShain’s mare Gladness to win the Gold Cup a couple of years ago, and they’ll probably make Courts Appeal favourite just because O’Brien is bringing him over from Ireland. But he won’t win, not with eight stone twelve pounds.’

At this stage Robert shuddered at the thought of his early view that this was a rather ‘uncomplicated sport’, since such a notion could clearly have been considered only by a lunatic. This was the most complicated sport he had ever known. It would, he thought, take a lifetime to comprehend it.

On the day of the race, all of them were strategically placed around the city with phone lines open to Robert’s credit office to hear the result. This was, of course, long before the days of commentaries being beamed into betting shops and call-in phone lines. And when they heard the result there was a terrible hush. Chalk Stream had finished nowhere. In fact he had finished twenty-ninth out of thirty-one. Understandably Nick Robinson was a bit sheepish and did not call Robert until he had ascertained that the gelding had been very hesitant at the start, had lost his place in the general mêlée for position, and never got into the race at all. Such things happen every day in racing, but Nick was nonetheless quite upset that his new friend had lost so heavily and told him they would have another chance. Chalk Stream would come good, of that he was sure.

What he did not know was that Robert Sangster did not give a tinker’s cuss about the result, or the £50. He could not remember having had such fun (at least, not since he had flattened Tiny Davies). For weeks now he had been personally involved in this major horse race. Somehow he had lived that Lincolnshire Handicap in his mind. It was almost as if he had been there at the racecourse, listening to the roar of the crowd as the field thundered into the last furling.

In his mind he could almost hear the vicarious pounding hooves, as Sam Hall’s lightly weighted chestnut gelding Mustavon, hard under the whip, fought a gripping battle with Jim Joel’s Major General to win by three parts of a length. It had been a terrific race. There was less than a length between the first three. The big weight had beaten Sovereign Path, as it also had beaten the O’Brien-trained favourite Courts Appeal. In a strange way Robert felt a part of all this, as if their studied calculations in the Kardomah had somehow influenced the result.

There was now only one thing Robert wanted in this life. He wanted to buy a racehorse. And the racehorse he wanted to buy was Chalk Stream.

Quite frankly, Nick was flabbergasted. But Robert did not habitually make jests about matters like £1000, the sum he was offering. Nick knew his grandfather had paid only 620 guineas for Chalk Stream’s dam, Sabie River, and he set about trying to get the horse for racing’s brand new devotee. There were many conferences between Sir Foster and his trainer Arthur Budgett, but after several weeks of negotiation they agreed to sell. Robert gave the son of the stallion Midas to Christine as a wedding present. Chalk Stream would henceforth be campaigned in the colours of Mrs Robert Sangster.

The first thing Robert needed was a trainer and he wanted one close to Chester so that he and Christine could visit the horse. He chose the thirty-nine-year-old Eric Cousins, a rather dashing ex-RAF pilot who had ridden fifty winners as an amateur over the jumps. He was a top-class horseman, a keen fox-hunter and had won the great long-distance handicap, the Ascot Stakes, at the Royal Meeting in 1957, just three years after taking out his licence to train. Better yet, he was developing a burgeoning reputation for his ability to place highly trained horses into exactly the right spot on the handicap. He had just moved his horses from Rangemore, near Burton-on-Trent, right into the heart of Cheshire, at Sandy Brow Stables, outside the country town of Tarporley, less than an hour’s drive from the Wirral.

Chalk Stream journeyed north from the historic Budgett stables of Whatcombe in Berkshire and met his new trainer. He was already fit and sharp, but Cousins set about trying to improve him. He ran him often and the horse showed courage running into the first four on four occasions and then winning, on one glorious afternoon at Haydock Park, eleven miles out of Liverpool. It was a little handicap named after the nearby village of Hermitage Green, but Chalk Stream won it by two lengths at 3–1. Robert and Christine and all of the entourage, including, of course, a massively relieved Nick Robinson, had the most wonderful celebration.

Then Cousins worked the magic again, sending Chalk Stream to victory at the old Manchester Racecourse in early October. It was quite a competitive little contest, its prize money sponsored by a local dog-food firm, and afterwards Eric Cousins announced that he would now prepare Chalk Stream for a shot at a big race, the Liverpool Autumn Cup, to be run on the flat at Aintree, almost opposite the Vernons Pools offices, on a Friday afternoon in the dying days of the flat race season, 4 November. The prize money was about £1000 to the winning owner.

Robert had rarely known such overpowering elation (not since Tiny hit the deck, anyway) as he experienced in the days leading up to that great North Country handicap. Just to have a chance. Just to be in there with a horse. To be at the local racecourse with all of his friends. What a day it was going to be.

The weights were announced. Chalk Stream was in with seven stone two pounds. ‘Is that good?’ asked Robert. ‘That’s very adequate,’ replied Cousins, which Robert took to mean: ‘We’re in with a real shout here.’ He proceeded to have what was the biggest bet of his life, £100 on the nose. Chalk Stream to win. ‘I’ll take 9–1.’ They all went in, some of them with ten bob, Nick with £25.

As the field of eleven went down to post on a cool, windy afternoon at Aintree, Robert and his men gathered in the owners’ little stand with a good view down the course. Eric Cousins had decided the horse was better over distances of beyond the mile of the Lincoln, and today’s test would be over an extended ten furlongs. The trainer mentioned to Robert before they went off that the start was the problem. Chalk Stream hated ‘jumping off’ and was apt to ‘dwell’ making up his mind whether to run. This split-second indecision had cost him his chance in the Lincoln, but today Eric Cousins fervently hoped he would break fast with the rest of the field.

But this time luck was against him. They came under starter’s orders in a good line, but as the tapes flew up, only ten horses rushed forward. Chalk Stream had done it again. Eric Cousins’s whispered oath was not heard by Mrs Sangster, but they all saw Chalk Stream hesitate and finally break several lengths behind the field. ‘Is he out of it?’ asked Robert. ‘Not yet,’ replied his trainer, but the field was racing towards the home turn with Chalk Stream very definitely last with a great deal of ground to make up. His rider, the five-pound-claiming apprentice Brian Lee, was sitting very still and then, halfway round the turn Chalk Stream began to improve. The commentator was calling out the leaders, ‘Royal Chief, Windy Edge, Laird of Montrose, Tompion, the favourite Chino improving …’

Chalk Stream was in the middle of the pack as they came off the turn. Lee switched him off the rails and the big gelding set off gamely down the outside. They hit the two-furlong pole. Chino struck the front, chased hard by Chalk Stream still with two lengths to find. The Liverpool crowd roared as Lee went to the whip and Chalk Stream quickened again. As they hit the furlong pole he burst clear of the field and then drew right away to win by three lengths from Tompion, with Chino the same distance back in third. Robert Edmund Sangster nearly died of excitement. Forget Tiny, this was the biggest moment of his life. To this day he says, ‘I will never forget the Liverpool Autumn Cup. Not if I live for a hundred years.’

Robert ordered the finest champagne for the celebration. Dinner went on into the small hours. ‘I wish’, he told his friends late that night, ‘that this day would never end.’ And in a sense, it never did. Robert Sangster had taken the very first steps towards becoming, one day, the most powerful owner and breeder of thoroughbred horses in the entire two-hundred-year modern history of the Sport of Kings.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.