Wobble to Death

CHAPTER 3

There was a pleasant relief that afternoon from the spectacle of exhausted bodies steaming in the chill air. A young woman was escorted through the crowd barrier and across the tracks by Sol Herriott. This was not an easy manoeuvre; her skirt, deep green and velvet with a gathered train, was cut without much emphasis on mobility. In the streets outside, a clinging skirt was not necessarily a handi-cap. Certain cabbies made a point of halting the traffic behind them to allow a pretty woman to cross. But profes-sional runners in competition had no time for courtesies.

A short wait at the edge of the track, with all eyes turned her way, did not alarm Cora Darrell. She had come, the word circulated, to give support to her husband. She was a black-fringed beauty of delicate features, given to cascades of affected laughter. As Herriott steered her safely to the centre his ponderous small-talk was rewarded out of all pro-portion, until even he began to doubt its wit.

But an entrance, an impact, was undeniably made. For the next half-hour the straining heroes on the track might have taken a rest for all the attention they received. With confidence born of the knowledge that the stage was hers, Cora moved from timekeepers to lap-scorers, from trainers to backers, knowing most of them already, and ensuring that she was introduced to the rest. Once or twice as her husband shambled past, Cora blew a genteel kiss in his direction. He did not respond, and she returned to her conversation.

Sam Monk was standing alone outside Darrell’s tent when Cora eventually moved her attention to him.

‘Charles is leading, isn’t he, Sam? You’re pleased with him now, I expect. He’s not suffering, I hope?’

The trainer smirked.

‘If he is, then Lord help him by next Saturday, m’lady, for he’s not coming off this track except at my orders. No, Charlie’s in fine trim. No man in this race is better prepared, I promise you.’

She was smiling.

‘That you don’t have to tell me, Sam. Six weeks is a long time for a man to abandon his wife. And when you return him to me I suppose he will want another six weeks to recover.’

Monk shook his head.

‘Don’t be too sure of that, m’lady. If fancyman Chadwick runs himself out, Charlie should have done enough to win by Friday. We panicked Chadwick, you see. Had the blighter up on his toes for the first time in his life when Charlie got five miles clear.’

Cora paused to watch Chadwick as he cantered past, breathing heavily.

‘The man looks strong to me. He is running at a faster rate than Charles now. I can’t be so confident as you are. Such muscles!’

Monk touched her arm reassuringly.

‘Don’t worry. We know what we’re about, I promise you. I’ve laid a pony on him this time, and I ain’t losing it. Here’-and he moved close to her and spoke confiden-tially-‘ I’ll show you our tent, love. Tell your fortune in there too if you’ve a fancy that way.’

Giggling, she followed Monk to the end of the track where the tents stood, and with a gay wave to her toiling spouse disappeared from view.

Attention returned resignedly to the race. Chadwick’s gallop had by now become a humbler trot. But in the last hour he had regained two miles and was still travelling faster than Darrell. On the outer track several of the early pace-setters had retired from the race. Billy Reid was struggling manfully to keep pace with Williams and O’Flaherty. It was difficult for spectators to tell the state of the race. Some competitors had taken rests and others, patently, would need to retire before long. Yet there was a prolonged cheer-the loudest so far-when Mostyn-Smith, as steadily paced as a metronome, finally overtook another competitor, an old professional who promptly tottered off the track and away to get drunk.

Solomon Herriott slumped into a seat in the judges’ stand and produced a flask of brandy from his jacket. This was the first rest he had allowed his feet since before midnight. They could not have ached more if he had been lapping the track himself. But there was encouragement in the day’s events. These marathon contests were traditionally slow to attract interest from Press and public, yet the duel between Darrell and Chadwick was already drawing spectators, and the news of Chadwick’s dramatic rejection of heel-and-toe would make sensational reading in the sporting Press. He lit a cigar and dreamily followed the movement of the runners- if they could be so described-distorted by the smoke. In a few minutes he replaced the flask in an inner pocket, raised him-self, and strolled over to his manager, Jacobson.

‘I’m leaving now, Walter. I shall rest at the club for an hour and tonight I’m dining at the London Sporting. Don’t send for me unless the building catches fire. If it does, take your time about raising the alarm because we’re magnifi-cently insured.’

Quivering with laughter and enjoying Jacobson’s resent-ment, he sauntered towards the exit.

On the outer track the trio known as the Scythebearer, the Half-breed and the Dublin Stag were lapping together, shuffling gently through the dust lying on the hard-packed surface. They wore silk running costumes of the professional type, zephyrs in brilliant colours, drawers and white tights. Williams had a cap pulled over his forehead as an eye-shade. A firm believer in maintaining the body’s liquid content, he had brought his training to a triumphant peak in the White Hart at Pentonville the evening before, and he was now weathering a hangover.

‘You start by feeling your worst,’ he was telling the oth-ers, ‘and you can only feel better as time goes on. Tomorrow I’ll be in prime shape. You poor coves ’ll be starting to feel your blisters then. ’Ow are your feet, Feargus?’

‘A little warm,’ admitted O’Flaherty, ‘but I’ll have no trouble this time, I promise you. My little room-mate can give me a pick-a-back for a mile or two.’

They were overtaking Mostyn-Smith several times each hour. His presence in the race encouraged them immensely. He was fifty yards ahead of them now, a slight, but upright figure entirely in black, save a flash of white calves where shorts failed to cover sock-tops. His action was an eccentric, loose-limbed performance. The knees were permanently bent and the lower legs enjoyed a mobility of their own, independent of the thighs, the style of an expert in egg-and-spoon racing. As the others overtook him, O’Flaherty slapped his shoulders heartily.

‘Keep going, mate. Only five bloody days and a bit.’

Mostyn-Smith raised a hand in salute, but they were past before he could respond.

‘Give Double-Barrel ’is due,’ Chalk observed. ‘ ’E’s out-lasted some sharp men already. I think ’e might stick it till tomorrow.’

Williams was laughing.

‘Not after a night in O’Flaherty’s ’ut! I wouldn’t even wish that on bloody Chadwick. ’Ow do you sleep now, Feargus? Is there still the trouble with the banshees? Johnny Marsh, the old ’Ackney Clipper, shared a tent with Feargus during Astley’s Wobble last March, ain’t that true, Irish? When Feargus ’ere saw the banshees ’e jumped up, ’it the canvas and brought the bloody lot down! Johnny Marsh wakes up, sees Feargus there, bolt-eyed and naked as a baby, shoutin’ for ’is Maker, and thinks it’s Judgement Day. ’Is ’air went white in an hour, and ’e’s been seeing doctors ever since. Ain’t that so, mate?’

O’Flaherty’s answer was to spit liberally on the track and blaspheme.

Even Williams recognised that the Stag would not be baited any more, and he changed the topic.

‘What happened to Cora Darrell, then? I never saw ’er leave.’

Chalk nodded his head in the direction of Darrell’s tent. ‘Went in there with Monk ten minutes back, like she was doing an inspection.’

‘Inspection! Inspection of what?’ The Half-breed punc-tuated his wit with a belly-laugh that pained his sore head.

‘Cora ain’t the girl to stand by a bed with a bloke and talk about training, now is she?’

‘Seeing as I ain’t been in that position with ’er,’ Chalk retorted, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Now O’Flaherty recovered his humour.

‘Well, you’re in the minority there, matey. I thought every ped in London-Hello, that was quick, though. Look, she’s out again.’

Mrs Darrell swept into view again and glided across the arena with copious pretty waves and smiles, including one to her husband. When she crossed the tracks only a deft rais-ing of her velvet train rescued it from Billy Reid’s pounding boots as he lumbered past so close that his breath disturbed the curls on the nape of her neck. One final pause at the exit, a smile tossed back to nobody in particular, and Cora relin-quished the limelight to the less glamorous entertainers.

Chalk studied Charles Darrell curiously. He continued his steady semi-trot around the inner track, preoccupied with his task. He was still losing yards each lap to Chadwick, who showed no indication of reverting to a walk. Chalk addressed his companions.

‘What about ’im, then? Ain’t ’e bothered if ’is wife takes up with other parties?’

‘Charlie Darrell ain’t like you and me, friend,’ explained Williams. ‘ ’E’s a real pro-a runner, through and through. When ’e goes into trainin’, that’s it. No ale, tobacco or women. Six weeks of bloody saintly living. If Cora wants amusin’ she knows she can’t look to Charlie, not till after ’is race. And ’e don’t seem to stand in ’er way if she goes else-where. Don’t care a tuppenny damn.’

‘Now there, my friends, is dedication to the profession!’ O’Flaherty declared. ‘You have to admire it. Now I don’t compare with Darrell as a six-day man, but I fancy that if I didn’t have to keep my Moira content while I train I could beat the world.’

‘You’d beat Moira and all, mate, when you found out ’ow she’d passed the time,’ observed the Half-breed. ‘Six bloom-ing weeks of self-control! Can’t see Moira ’olding out, can you? No offence, mate, but you ain’t trained ’er that way.’

O’Flaherty’s temper flared.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean is,’ said Williams, as he hastily sought for palliative words, ‘that Cora Darrell ain’t so different from any other woman-any I’ve met, anyhow. But you ain’t no Charlie Darrell. If you went on the wagon for six weeks like ’e does, and then Moira showed ’erself in ’ere, like Cora, while you were chasing your tail round this bloody path, you’d murder ’er, and spread the pieces all over the ’all.’

O’Flaherty grabbed at the Half-breed’s zephyr.

‘Hold your bloody tongue, Williams, or I’ll land one on you. No man insults my wife. If I chose to train away from her for a year, my Moira would keep faithful to me. If she didn’t, I’d belt her from here to Dublin.’

‘Just what ’e said, Irish,’ Chalk blandly pointed out. ‘I ain’t a married man, as you know, but I reckon Darrell’s got an ’eadpiece on him. True, Cora comes up ’ere and parades like a doxy, but Charlie can watch ’er at it, can’t ’e? Now you men leave your women on trust for six days and nights. D’you know where Moira is tonight, Feargus? I ain’t seen ’er ’ere.’

The Irishman jerked an elbow sharply into the Scythe-bearer’s ribs and ran on, privately coping with imagined infi-delities on the part of Moira, who at that moment was at home with the five young O’Flaherty’s in Wapping, darning the Dublin Stag’s socks.

It was at seven-fifteen in the evening that Francis Mostyn-Smith interrupted his third rest-period to seek out Herriott. After some delay he was referred to the race man-ager, Jacobson, who explained that the promoter was away from the Hall.

‘I am not at all satisfied with the management of this race,’ Mostyn-Smith told him, ‘and I should like steps to be taken to rectify certain deficiencies as soon as possible. The sleeping accommodation is most insanitary. Fortunately I do not propose retiring tonight, so I shall not have to suffer these conditions, but frankly, sir, the stench in that area of the Hall will become intolerable in a matter of hours.’

‘If I can explain, Mr Smith-’

‘Mostyn-Smith is my name.’

‘Well, sir, you will appreciate that Mr Herriott would want to discuss this with you himself.’

The complainant braced himself to the level of Jacobson’s chin.

‘If he were here, I should not have raised the matter with you, but since you have been made known to me, and you are the manager of this contest, if not the promoter, I am entitled to some action from you.’

Jacobson was a man for ever doomed to be handed responsibility as things were getting out of hand.

‘If I can explain,’ he repeated, ‘you will know that this Hall was established by the Smithfield Club, and that it is often used for agricultural shows.’

‘I agree that the stench contaminating that end of the Hall emanates from the waste products of animals, if that is what you are implying,’ said Mostyn-Smith. ‘It is evident that the ground there was not washed or swept before the huts were erected. There appears to be no ground drainage. Hygiene, sir, is a matter of importance to me. I shall leave it with you to ensure that the hut which I share with-er, a Mr O’Flaherty, is scrubbed clean and disinfected daily, com-mencing this night. If not, I shall be obliged to call the attention of the Press to the insufferable conditions there.’

Jacobson gaped at the retreating figure of Mostyn-Smith, who returned to the track for his next session of walking without waiting for a reply. Why did that bastard Herriott have to go out to dinner tonight? Resignedly, Jacobson began looking for some idle attendant to carry out Mostyn-Smith’s request. He knew that if he waited to refer the mat-ter to Herriott it would rebound upon him in any case. He was not a man who resorted often to swearing, but the bur-den of his resentment and the peculiar aptness of the situa-tion overwhelmed him. He said aloud: ‘Bullshit.’

Although the atmosphere in the area of the huts was wors-ening, conditions on the track had improved during the day. The gas was now on again, and much of the fog had receded. Officials still stamped their feet and complained of the cold, and the runners were still mostly well-covered in layers of clothes. But the presence of two thousand or more shilling spectators injected some warmth of spirit into the occasion. Knots of enthusiasts roared encouragement and abuse at the contestants, occasionally inspiring or goading one to complete a quicker circuit. Betting was heavy, chiefly on the two ‘inside’ men, and Chadwick was firmly reinstated as favourite. He completed his ninetieth mile shortly after 7 p.m., only twenty minutes behind his rival, Darrell. Three-quarters of an hour later O’Flaherty and Williams followed. Chalk and Reid passed the same point shortly before 8.30 p.m., and seven stragglers followed during the next two hours. Mostyn-Smith strolled serenely on, scheduled to reach this landmark at 1 a.m. on the following morning.

Walter Jacobson paced the area behind the stands. Unlike Sol Herriott, he was not a man who believed in being the centre of public attention when he was in charge. Experience of management in several of Herriott’s sporting enterprises had taught him that it was prudent to move into the shadows when Herriott was away, for that, inevitably, was when problems and complaints would arise. He justified this shunning of the limelight by telling himself that he was ‘making a check.’ Why, somewhere on his rounds he might surprise a workshy member of the Hall staff who could be detailed to clean Mostyn-Smith’s hut.

As he neared the side of the Hall which housed the restaurant and offices, Jacobson decided to check that the evening’s takings had been locked away. In the boardroom where the safe was kept, there was a set of decanters. A glass of madeira would be warming after his tour of the perime-ter. He turned into the staff corridor, and stopped. From the kitchens came shouts and screams of panic. Fearful of what he would find, he ran through the almost empty restaurant, flung open the service door and was enveloped in black smoke.

‘Shut the bloody door!’ someone shrieked. From the ovens flames leapt to the ceiling. Two or three of the kitchen staff were standing in pools of water trying to control the fire with water drawn from the taps.

‘The hydrant!’ Jacobson shouted. ‘In the corridor!’

By an unaccustomed stroke of fortune he had remem-bered that hydrants in various parts of the building were connected with a reservoir containing 5,000 gallons. A hose was played out, and in a minute a jet of water leapt to the source of the fire.

A short while later they stood ankle-deep in a blackened room, surveying the damage, which was worse in appear-ance than in fact. The cause, Jacobson discovered, was care-lessness on the part of an inexperienced girl, using a bowl of fat near a flame. She was unhurt, but shaken.

‘How long are you on duty for?’ he asked.

‘Till six tomorrow, sir.’

‘Do you live near by?’

‘Very close sir, in Parkfield Street.’

‘Get home and rest then, for an hour. We’ll take you out of the kitchen tonight. Give you a chance to recover your-self. When you return see me personally. There’s a job that you can do in another part of the building.’

‘Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Jacobson dutifully admonished the head cook for failing to recognise the danger in allowing the girl to move the fat. Then he left the kitchen staff to restore the room to nor-mality. In the staff wash-room nearby he wrung out his socks and tried to brush the odour of smoke from his clothes and hair. He thought of Herriott dining out in luxury; of Mostyn-Smith’s threat; of the stupid face of the cook; of the prospect of a night with his feet damp and numb; and he swore again, repeating the earlier obscenity, slowly, four times.

The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE FIRST DAY

P. Lucas (78 miles) and J. Martindale (61 miles) retired from the race.