Bloodline

5

On Monday I went to the races, and back to work. It seemed like the logical thing to do.

I had sat at home alone all day on Sunday feeling miserable, answering the hundreds of e-mails that kindly people had sent and dealing with the fifty or so voice messages on my phones. How I wished Clare had left a message on Friday evening.

Why hadn’t I answered her call?

By Monday morning I’d been desperately in need of some human contact and the thought of going back to my family in Oxted had filled me with horror. So much so that I’d invented a sudden nasty cold in order to escape from them all day on Sunday.

‘Are you sure you can’t come?’ my mother had asked when I’d called early.

‘Quite sure,’ I’d replied while holding my nose. ‘I don’t want to give this cold to Dad.’

I’d been on safe ground. She knew as well as I did that my father was obsessive about avoiding people with colds. Indeed, he was obsessive about lots of things. How she had put up with him for fifty-two years I couldn’t imagine.

‘I didn’t think you’d be here today,’ Derek said from behind me as I climbed the half dozen steps up to RacingTV’s scanner, the blacked-out production truck parked in a compound near the Windsor racecourse stables. ‘I’ve arranged for Iain Ferguson to present.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ I said, turning round. ‘I’ll just help where I can. To be honest I don’t feel up to much anyway.’

‘No,’ said Derek. He paused. ‘Look, mate, I’m really sorry about Clare. I can’t actually believe it.’

‘Thanks, Derek,’ I replied. ‘I can’t believe it either. Half the time I feel that life has to go on as normal and then, the next minute, I wonder why I bother to do anything at all. I think it’s the frustration that’s the worst, frustration that I can’t turn back time, can’t bring her back.’

I was close to tears once more and it showed in my voice. Open displays of emotion could be unsettling, and I could tell that Derek didn’t quite know what to do.

‘It’s OK,’ I said, breathing deeply. ‘You must be busy. You get on.’

‘Right,’ he said, clearly relieved. ‘I had better. Are you coming to the production meeting?’

‘I thought I’d sit in at the back.’

Whether I was working for Channel 4 or for RacingTV, the first task of my day was always to attend the production meeting where the running order for the show was discussed and agreed. The meeting took place in the scanner at least three hours before the broadcast was due to begin.

The producer, Derek in this case, began by handing out the print-out of the draft running order. That afternoon RacingTV was covering all seven races here at Windsor and also seven from Leicester racecourse a hundred or so miles away to the north, the paddock presenter at Leicester joining the meeting via live video link.

The programme was on-air from two o’clock to six, four hours of high-octane adrenalin. If things went wrong and off-script, as they usually did at some point during the afternoon, then we just had to carry on regardless. The thing about live television was that mistakes were history as soon as you made them, there was nothing you could do to unmake the error. There was no saying ‘Let’s do that again’ as you might in a recorded programme where you could do it over and over until it was perfect.

In all, there were three race meetings taking place that afternoon, with Hamilton being broadcast on the other satellite network. Even though a race took place only every half hour at each course, the times were staggered so that across the three meetings a race was due to start every ten minutes from ten past two until five thirty, which was fine as long as all of them went off roughly on time.

If a horse got loose or lost a shoe on the way to the start, or if a stirrup leather or bridle broke, the delay could throw out the whole schedule, resulting in races at different courses running simultaneously. And that gave the producer a big headache.

Added to the actual broadcasting of the races were interviews with winning trainers and jockeys, trophy presentations, video footage of prior races of the main participants, as well as comments from the paddock presenters. And somewhere there also had to be found the time to fit in a set number of advertisement breaks and promos for future race days.

Manic it was not, but it was full-on nevertheless, and everyone would breathe a collective sigh of relief come three minutes to six o’clock when the production assistant would finally say ‘Shut-up’ into everyone’s ears, meaning the show was over and we were off-air.

Derek called the production meeting to order. ‘There’s to be a minute’s silence here at Windsor in memory of Clare Shillingford.’ Everyone in the scanner instinctively turned round to glance at me. ‘It will be before the first race at two twenty-five, after the horses have gone out onto the course. There will be a loud beep over the public address to start and also to finish the minute. Iain, do the introduction please but don’t talk during the minute, your mike will stay live. During it we will show the flag on the grandstand, which is flying at half mast, and then slowly fade to a picture of Clare after forty seconds. If we are on schedule it should come comfortably after the first from Leicester. If there’s a delay at Leicester and the silence occurs during their race, we will record the silence here at Windsor and play it back as if live immediately after. Iain, your cue to speak will be the second beep, and we’ll go pretty much straight to an ad break after a few words. Understand?’ Iain nodded. ‘And full silence please, everyone, for the whole minute, not even any talk-back.’

Talk-back was what played continually into everyone’s ear through an earpiece on a curly wire like those worn by secret service agents. The producer, his assistant and the director would all speak, giving cues to presenters, or instructions to cameramen and the vision mixer, or counting down time while the video clips were shown or ad breaks transmitted.

One became used to listening to all the chatter but picking up only the material that was relevant to you. The art of great presenting was to absorb and react to the talk-back while speaking live on-air at the same time. Only the very best could carry on an interview, listening and responding to their interviewee’s answers, and, at the same time, take in the appropriate information on the talk-back.

Derek went through the rest of the planned running order, sharing out the jobs to be done and detailing all the many expected ‘Astons’, the captions that are overlaid onto the pictures to give the viewers information, be it betting prices, horses’ and jockeys’ names, details of non-runners, and so on, and so on. It was the full-time job of two staff at the back of the scanner to type the Astons and have them ready whenever the producer called for them.

And then there were the video clips of prior races to be annotated and spoken about, all of which would be recorded before the programme went on-air so that the clips, or VTs, were stored and ready to broadcast. VT stood for video tape and the term was still used even though, these days, the recordings were stored not on tape but on a computer hard drive.

The magic of television allowed two complete race afternoons, one from Leicester and the other from Windsor, to be fitted into the time of just one of them.

By careful use of VTs, the runners could be shown in the parade ring while they were really on their way to the start. Interviews with trainers at Windsor might be recorded while races from Leicester were being run, then played back at a time when the trainers would have been unavailable and busy saddling their horses.

Often the only things that were ‘live’ in the whole broadcast were the races themselves, and that was a ‘must-do’ rule. The rest didn’t matter. Interviews recorded after the first race might be shown later in the afternoon if time permitted, or dropped altogether if no slot could be found. Everything was timed and cut to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle around the immovable races, filling up four hours of television that then seemed to whizz past in a flash.

I spent the first part of the afternoon in the scanner, sitting behind Derek and getting an unfamiliar view of the production as he marshalled his troops at the two racecourses, slotting everything together like a dry-stone waller taking irregular-sized segments and fashioning them to form a coherent and solid structure. It was an art, and Derek was one of the best.

Immediately after the third race at Windsor, I ventured out from the dark cavern of the scanner into the bright Berkshire sunlight.

As I walked across to the parade ring through the fairly meagre Monday afternoon crowd, it became apparent to me that the bereavement of others can be a disorienting and distressing experience for some. No end of people, including some I knew quite well, averted their eyes and hurried away as if they didn’t want to burst some imaginary grief-bubble that surrounded me. Even those who did talk to me seemed uncomfortable in doing so.

I think it was the concept of suicide rather than just of death that created the embarrassment. Somehow taking one’s own life has a greater stigma than even taking someone else’s.

I was beginning to wish I hadn’t left the comfort and security of the scanner but I was a man on a mission — I was looking for Geoff Grubb, the trainer of Scusami, who had a runner in the fourth.

‘Good God, Mark. What are you doing here?’ said a man, grabbing me by the arm as I was walking by. ‘I thought you’d be at Oxted.’

It was my cousin, Brendan Shillingford, the one who trained in my grandfather’s old yard in Newmarket.

‘I’m working with RacingTV. At least, I’m meant to be, but I don’t really know myself what I’m doing here. I just had to get away from the rest of the family.’

Brendan nodded. He knew all about his relations.

‘I spoke to both James and Stephen yesterday at Uncle Joe’s. They said things were pretty awful. What a bloody business.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘A real bugger.’

‘Any news yet on a funeral?’

‘Not as yet,’ I said. ‘The police have to agree. The inquest was only opened and adjourned this morning.’

‘Police?’ Brendan asked. ‘Why are they involved?’

‘Something about all sudden deaths having to be investigated. They released a statement yesterday saying that there were no suspicious circumstances so I don’t suppose we’ll have to wait too long. The coroner may have already said we can go ahead. I just haven’t heard yet.’

‘Do you have any idea why she did it?’ Brendan asked.

‘None at all,’ I said. ‘Clare and I had grown slightly apart these last few months. But I know she’d been seeing someone she didn’t want anyone to find out about. Perhaps that had something to do with it.’

‘Who was it?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea. I’m looking for Geoff Grubb in the hope that he might be able to tell me.’

‘That’ll be a waste of time,’ Brendan said. He forced a smile. ‘Geoff wouldn’t know about anything unless it’s got four legs and a tail.’

‘I think I’ll ask him anyway. Give my love to Gillian.’ I started to move away.

‘Let me know about the funeral,’ Brendan called after me. ‘I need time to organize flights for Mum and Dad from Marbella. And try to avoid Thursday, Friday or Saturday next week. It’s the Cambridgeshire meeting.’

Good point, I thought. I had better make sure that my father or brothers weren’t in the process of fixing a funeral date without first referring to the racing calendar.

I found Geoff Grubb hurrying out of the weighing room with a tiny racing saddle over his arm.

‘Geoff,’ I said. ‘Do you have time for a word?’

He slowed. ‘Only a quick one. I’ve got to go and saddle Planters Inn.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ I said, falling in beside him.

‘I’m really sorry about Clare. Bloody nuisance, too, I can tell you. I’ve had to find different jockeys for all my runners.’

I considered that to be a minor inconvenience, in the circumstances, but I let it pass.

‘Geoff, I know that Clare had been seeing someone recently.’

‘Seeing someone?’ he asked.

Perhaps Brendan had been right about it being a waste of time.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Seeing someone, you know, a boyfriend.’

‘Oh, right,’ Geoff said, nodding.

‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he said seriously.

‘No,’ I agreed. Not even for a nano-second did I imagine that my sister had been having an affair of the heart with Geoff Grubb. He might have been outstanding with his horses, but his people skills were almost non-existent. ‘But do you know who it was?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Did you ever see anyone coming and going from Clare’s place?’ Clare had lived in a cottage attached to Geoff’s training stables.

He shook his head again. ‘Not that I recall.’

‘Was there ever a car parked outside?’

‘That sports car of hers was there,’ he said unhelpfully.

‘Any others?’

‘A few, now and again, but not a regular one,’ he said. ‘Not that I can remember, anyway.’

It wasn’t that his memory was bad. He could have told me in detail about every race run by every horse in his expansive yard, not just this year but throughout their whole lives. He simply didn’t notice anything else going on around him, not unless it impacted on the training of his horses.

‘Do you mind if I come and have a look around her cottage?’

‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘The rent’s paid for the rest of the month. Will you be clearing her things?’

‘Probably. Me or someone else in the family.’

‘There’s a spare key in the yard office.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to be up there sometime this week.’

He hurried off towards the saddling boxes and I watched him go.

Clare had ridden as his number one stable jockey for the past four years and they had made a good team. I wondered if he had been the one that Clare had liked to control. But she hadn’t ridden exclusively for Geoff Grubb. As was the case with all jockeys, she had also been engaged by other trainers when Geoff didn’t have any runners.

And I knew that Bangkok Flyer wasn’t one of Geoff’s.

Back in the scanner, the afternoon was progressing on schedule. There had been no significant delays in the races and Derek was calm, which meant that everyone else was also calm, all of them working smoothly together.

I, in contrast, wasn’t doing anything useful, merely being a spectator. I thought about leaving and going home. But that wouldn’t make me feel any better. At least here I had something to watch, something to take my mind off Clare.

Guilt was a soul-destroying emotion and I had lain awake half the previous night staring into the void, into the emptiness of despair and self-condemnation. Why hadn’t I answered the bloody telephone? How could I have ignored her when she had needed me the most?

‘There’s a dog on the course at Leicester,’ Derek said through the talk-back while looking at the pictures coming down the line. ‘Can we get a close-up?’

Dogs on racecourses, although rare, were always good for ‘atmosphere’ shots, just provided the dogs didn’t actually delay the races and screw-up the schedule. Most racing folk loved their dogs as much as they did their horses and there was nothing like a loose puppy to provide a bit of ‘Aahh’ appeal to a broadcast. It made a welcome change from the crying babies with runny noses that the cameramen usually found amongst the crowd.

The afternoon continued without any significant problems. I watched on the transmission screen as Iain Ferguson interviewed guests in the paddock and talked about the horses, performing the role that I should have had. He was good. Too damned good, I thought. I’d better be careful or he’d have my job permanently, and I certainly didn’t want that.

I loved my work, and I specifically enjoyed the variation that came from splitting my time between presenting for Channel 4 and RacingTV, and also doing the racecourse commentaries. And I had no intention of allowing someone else to take over any of my hot seats. I’d better sort my head out fast and get back to my jobs while I still had them.

The production assistant counted down to an ad break. ‘Two minutes and forty seconds,’ she called, and everyone relaxed as the pre-set sequence was played direct from the RacingTV headquarters building near Oxford. The ads were the only ‘down-time’ during the whole four-hour broadcast and the crew in the scanner used the break to get coffee, to visit the loo, or just to stretch cramped legs.

‘You all right?’ Derek asked, standing up and turning round to me.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Makes a change for me to see you at work rather than just to hear it on the talk-back. It’s very interesting.’

‘Well, don’t get any ideas of taking my job.’ He smiled at me, but he wasn’t exactly making a joke. In times of recession and cuts, everyone, it seemed, was watching their backs, and none more so than in the TV business.

‘Coming out of break in twenty seconds,’ called the production assistant. Everyone sat down again at their places. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’ She fell silent, and the whole juggernaut rolled back smoothly into motion bang on cue.

‘Four minutes to shut-up,’ said the production assistant through the talk-back.

It was now precisely seven minutes to six and all the races were over for the afternoon. Iain was doing the round-up, the last few moments of each race being shown in turn with his voice-over, mostly discussing possible future plans for each of the winners.

‘Two minutes to shut-up,’ said the assistant.

Iain went on talking without a pause as the production assistant’s voice spoke into his ear, not only with the countdown to shut-up but also those to the end of each piece of VT.

‘Iain, coming to you in picture in five seconds,’ said Derek, adding to the chatter.

‘Thirty seconds to shut-up,’ said his assistant at the same time. ‘Four, three, two, one, cue Iain.’

‘Well that’s it for this afternoon,’ said Iain, his smiling face now being broadcast to the viewers. ‘Join us later here on RacingTV for American racing live from Belmont Park in New York.’

‘Twenty seconds.’

‘And tomorrow we’ll be back for live flat racing from Folkestone and also six contests over the sticks from Newton Abbot.’

‘Ten seconds. Nine, eight....’

‘So this is Iain Ferguson here at Windsor wishing you a very good evening.’

‘...two, one, shut-up,’ said the assistant as Iain fell silent and the programme titles and theme music were brought up by the vision mixer.

‘Well done, everybody,’ said Derek. ‘Production meeting tomorrow morning at Folkestone at eleven. And, Iain, can you come to the scanner before you go home?’ Derek flicked off his microphone and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head. He yawned loudly. ‘God, I’m tired.’

So am I, I thought, yawning in sympathy but, unlike him, I hadn’t done a stroke of work all day. In my case it was probably something to do with not having had any proper sleep for the past three nights.

Derek twisted round in his chair to face me. ‘What do you think about tomorrow?’

I was scheduled to present from Folkestone. ‘I’ll be fine if you want me.’

‘I actually think we should stick with Iain for the rest of this week,’ he said. ‘It might be construed as somewhat insensitive on your part to return too soon. But how would you feel about doing a full tribute piece about Clare for broadcast on Saturday from Newmarket?’

‘Channel 4 have already asked me,’ I said. ‘I’m filming it on Thursday and it’ll be shown on the Morning Line on Saturday, and also during the afternoon. I think I’d better check with them before I do another.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Derek. ‘I’ll ask Iain to do ours.’

Iain, it seemed to me, was being asked to do far too much.

‘You could always ask Channel 4 if you can use the same piece.’ Cooperation between the broadcasters was rare but not completely unknown.

‘Maybe. But using Iain will give us a slightly different slant.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound how it did.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘That’s sensible.’

And it was. I’d have done the same thing in his position.

‘Do you think it’ll be OK for me to use the RacingTV database in Oxford for my tribute piece?’ I asked.

‘I’m sure it will,’ said Derek. ‘You know we’ve had that new indexing system installed.’

‘That’s exactly why I want to use it.’

‘It’s really fabulous. Just put in Clare’s name under “jockey” and then click on “winner” and it will list all the races that she’s won, together with the other runners, the prize money, the distances, the prices, everything. Then you just have to click on any entry in the list to play the VT straight back. It’s absolutely brilliant.’

‘Great,’ I said.

‘But you don’t have to go all the way to Oxford, you know. You can access everything just as easily from the scanner. Not now, of course, because the link will be down, but tomorrow from Folkestone. The link will be up by about ten and there’ll be about three hours clear before racing.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But I still think I’ll go to Oxford. Then I’ve got all day.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Derek said rather dismissively. He obviously thought that I could surely find the videos I needed of Clare winning races in a three-hour period, and he was well aware that my home in Edenbridge was a lot closer to Folkestone than it was to Oxford.

That was all true, but I didn’t really want Derek looking over my shoulder all the time I was accessing the video database because I was actually far more interested in searching for races that Clare had purposely lost.