The Kundas brothers, second-generation Greeks who loved racing almost as much as ships, could hardly be told apart, with their black hair, swarthy skins and heavy dark eyebrows. It was difficult to guess how old they were, and nobody knew how much they were worth. They probably did not know themselves. Harvey’s final guest, Nick Lloyd of the News of the World, had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host. He had come near to exposing Metcalfe in the mid-’sixties, but another scandal had kept less juicy stories off the front page for several weeks, and by then Harvey had escaped. Lloyd, hunched over the inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion of tonic, watched the motley bunch with interest.
“Telegram for you, sir.”
Harvey ripped it open. He was never neat about anything.
“It’s from my daughter Rosalie. It’s cute of her to remember, but damn it all, I named the horse after her. Come on everybody, let’s eat.”
They all took their seats for lunch—cold vichyssoise, pheasant and strawberries. Harvey was even more loquacious than usual, but his guests took no notice, aware he was nervous before the race and knowing that he would rather be a winner of this trophy than any he could be offered in America. Harvey himself could never understand why he felt that way. Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot which appealed to him so strongly—the combination of lush green grass and gracious surroundings, of elegant crowds and an efficiency of organization which made Ascot the envy of the racing world.
“You must have a better chance this year than ever before, Harvey,” said the senior banker.
“Well, you know, Sir Howard, Lester Piggott is riding the Duke of Devonshire’s horse, Crown Princess, and the Queen’s horse, Highclere, is the joint favorite, so I can’t afford to overestimate my chances. When you’ve been third twice before, and then favorite and not placed, you begin to wonder if one of your horses is going to make it.”
“Another telegram, sir.”
Once again Harvey’s fat little finger ripped it open.
“ ‘All best wishes and good luck for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.’ It’s from the staff of your bank, Sir Howard. Jolly good show.”
Harvey’s Polish-American accent made the English expression sound slightly ridiculous.
“More champagne, everybody.”
Another telegram arrived.
“At this rate, Harvey, you’ll need a special room at the Post Office.” There was laughter all around at Sir Howard’s feeble joke. Once again Harvey read it out aloud:
“ ‘Regret unable to join you Ascot. Heading soonest California. Grateful look out for old friend Professor Rodney Porter, Oxford Nobel Prize Winner. Don’t let English bookies stitch you up. Wiley B., Heathrow Airport.’ It’s from Wiley Barker. He’s the guy who did stitch me up in Monte Carlo. He saved my life. He took out a gallstone the size of that bread roll you’re eating, Dr. Hogan. Now how the hell am I supposed to find this Professor Porter?” Harvey turned to the head waiter. “Find my chauffeur.”
A few seconds later the smartly clad Guy Salmon flunkey appeared.
“There’s a Professor Rodney Porter of Oxford here today. Go find him.”
“What does he look like, sir?”
“How the hell do I know,” said Harvey. “Like a professor.”
The chauffeur regretfully abandoned his plans for an afternoon at the railings and departed, leaving Harvey and his guests to enjoy the strawberries, the champagne and the string of telegrams that were still arriving.
“You know if you win, the cup will be presented by the Queen,” said Nick Lloyd.
“You bet. It’ll be the crowning moment of my life to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes and meet Her Majesty The Queen. If Rosalie wins, I’ll suggest my daughter marries Prince Charles—they’re about the same age.”
“I don’t think even you will be able to fix that, Harvey.”
“What’ll you do with the odd £81,000 prize money, Mr. Metcalfe?” asked Jamie Clark.
“Give it to some charity,” said Harvey, pleased with the impression the remark made on his guests.
“Very generous, Harvey. Typical of your reputation.” Nick Lloyd gave Michael Hogan a knowing look. Even if the others didn’t, they both knew what was typical of his reputation.
The chauffeur returned to report that there was no trace of a solitary professor anywhere in the champagne bar, balcony luncheon room or the paddock buffet, and that he’d been unable to gain access to the Members’ Enclosure.
“Naturally not,” said Harvey rather pompously. “I shall have to find him myself. Drink up and enjoy yourselves.”
Harvey rose and walked to the door with the chauffeur. Once he was out of earshot of his guests, he said: “Get your ass out of here and don’t give me any crap about not being able to find him or you can find something for yourself—another job.”
The chauffeur bolted. Harvey turned to his guests and smiled.
“I’m going to look at the runners and riders for the 2 o’clock.”
“He’s leaving the box now,” said James.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked an authoritative voice he recognized. “Talking to yourself, James?”
James stared at the noble Lord Somerset, 6 ft. 1 in. and still able to stand his full height, an M.C. and a D.S.O. in the First World War. He still exuded enthusiastic energy although the lines on his face suggested that he had passed the age at which the Maker had fulfilled his contract.
“Oh hell. No, sir, I was just…em…coughing.”
“What do you fancy in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes?” asked the peer of the realm.
“Well, I have put £5 each way on Rosalie, sir.”
“He seems to have cut himself off,” said Stephen.
“Well, buzz him again,” said Jean-Pierre.
“What’s that noise, James? Have you taken to a hearing-aid or something?”
“No, sir. It’s…it’s…it’s a transistor radio.”
“Those things ought to be banned. Bloody invasion of privacy.”
“Absolutely right, sir.”
“What’s he playing at, Stephen?”
“I don’t know—I think something must have happened.”
“Oh my god, it’s Harvey heading straight for us. You go into the Members’ Enclosure, Stephen, and I’ll follow you. Take a deep breath and relax. He hasn’t seen us.”
Harvey marched up to the official blocking the entrance to the Members’ Enclosure.
“I’m Harvey Metcalfe, the owner of Rosalie, and this is my badge.”
The official let Harvey through. Thirty years ago, he thought, they would not have let him into the Members’ Enclosure if he’d owned every horse in the race. Then racing at Ascot was only held on four days a year, jolly social occasions. Now it was twenty-four days a year and big business. Times had changed. Jean-Pierre followed closely, showing his pass without speaking to the official.
A photographer broke away from stalking the outrageous hats for which Ascot has such a reputation, and took a picture of Harvey just in case Rosalie won the King George VI Stakes. As soon as his bulb flashed he rushed over to the other entrance, where Linda Lovelace, the star of Deep Throat, the film running to packed houses in New York but banned in England, was trying to enter the Members’ Enclosure. In spite of being introduced to a well-known London banker, Richard Szpiro, just as he was entering the Enclosure, she was not succeeding. She was wearing a top hat and morning suit with nothing under the top coat, and no one was going to bother with Harvey while she was around. When Miss Lovelace was quite certain that every photographer had taken a picture of her attempting to enter the Enclosure she left, swearing at the top of her voice, her publicity stunt completed.
Harvey returned to studying the horses as Stephen moved up to within a few feet of him.
“Here we go again,” said Jean-Pierre in French and went smartly over to Stephen and, standing directly between the two of them, shook Stephen’s ha
nd warmly, declaring in a voice that was intended to carry:
“How are you, Professor Porter? I didn’t know you were interested in racing.”
“I’m not really, but I was on my way back from a seminar in London and thought it a good opportunity to see how…”
“Professor Porter,” cried Harvey. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir, my name is Harvey Metcalfe from Boston, Massachusetts. My good friend, Dr. Wiley Barker, who saved my life, told me you’d be here today on your own, and I’m going to make sure you have a wonderful afternoon.”
Jean-Pierre slipped away unnoticed. He could not believe how easy it had been. The telegram had worked like a charm.
“Her Majesty The Queen; His Royal Highness The Duke of Edinburgh; Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother; and her Royal Highness The Princess Anne are now entering the Royal Box.”
The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards struck up the National Anthem.
“God Save the Queen.”
The crowd of 25,000 rose and sang loyally out of tune.
“We should have someone like that in America,” said Harvey to Stephen, “to take the place of Richard Nixon. We wouldn’t have any Watergate problems then.”
Stephen thought his fellow American was being just a little unfair. Richard Nixon was almost a saint by Harvey Metcalfe’s standards.
“Come and join me in my box, Professor, and meet my other guests. The damned box cost me £750, we may as well fill it. Have you had some lunch?”
“Yes, I’ve had an excellent lunch, thank you,” Stephen lied—something else Harvey had taught him. He had stood by the Members’ Enclosure for an hour, nervous and pensive, unable even to manage a sandwich, and now he was starving.
“Well, come and enjoy the champagne,” roared Harvey.
On an empty stomach, thought Stephen.
“Thank you, Mr. Metcalfe. I am a little lost. This is my first Royal Ascot.”
“This isn’t Royal Ascot, Professor. It’s the last day of Ascot Week, but the Royal Family always comes to see the King George and Elizabeth Stakes, so everybody dresses up.”
“I see,” said Stephen timidly, pleased with his deliberate error.
Harvey collared his find and took him back to the box.
“Everybody, I want you to meet my distinguished friend, Rodney Porter. He’s a Nobel Prize Winner, you know. By the way, what’s your subject, Rod?”
“Biochemistry.”
Stephen was getting the measure of Harvey. As long as he played it straight, the bankers and shippers, and even the journalists, would never doubt that he was the cleverest thing since Einstein. He relaxed a little and even found time to fill himself with smoked salmon sandwiches when the others were not looking.
Lester Piggott won the 2 o’clock on Olympic Casino and the 2:30 on Roussalka, achieving his 3,000th win. Harvey was getting steadily more nervous. He talked incessantly without making much sense. He had sat through the 2:30 without showing any interest in the result and consumed more and more champagne. At 2:50 he called for them all to join him in the Members’ Enclosure to look at his famous filly. Stephen, like the others, trailed behind him in a little pseudo-royal entourage.
Jean-Pierre and James watched the procession from a distance.
“He’s too deep in to climb out now,” said Jean-Pierre.
“He looks relaxed enough to me,” replied James. “Let’s make ourselves scarce. We can only get under his feet.”
They headed into the champagne bar, which was filled with red-faced men who looked as if they spent more time drinking than they did watching the racing.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Professor? Almost as beautiful as my daughter. If she doesn’t win today I don’t think I’m ever going to make it.”
Harvey left his little clique to have a word with the jockey, Pat Eddery, to wish him luck. Peter Walwyn, the trainer, was giving final instructions before the jockey mounted and left the Enclosure. The ten horses were then paraded in front of the stand before the race, a custom only carried out at Ascot for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. The gold, purple and scarlet colors of Her Majesty The Queen’s horse Highclere led the procession, followed by Crown Princess, who was giving Lester Piggott a little trouble. Directly behind her came Rosalie, looking very relaxed, fresh and ready to go. Buoy and Dankaro trotted behind Rosalie, with the outsiders Mesopotamia, Ropey and Minnow bringing up the rear. The crowd rose to cheer the horses and Harvey beamed with pride, as if he owned every horse in the race.
“…and I have with me today the distinguished American owner, Harvey Metcalfe,” said Julian Wilson into the BBC TV outside-broadcast camera. “I’m going to ask him if he’d be kind enough to give me his views on the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, for which he has the joint favorite, Rosalie. Welcome to England, Mr. Metcalfe. How do you feel about the big race?”
“It’s a thrill to be here, just to participate in the race once again. Rosalie’s got a great chance. Still, it’s not winning that matters. It’s taking part.”
Stephen flinched. Baron de Coubertin, who had first made that remark when opening the 1896 Olympics, must have turned in his grave.
“The latest betting shows Rosalie to be the joint favorite with Her Majesty The Queen’s Horse, Highclere. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m just as worried about the Duke of Devonshire’s Crown Princess. Lester Piggott is always hard to beat on a great occasion. He won the first two races and he’ll be all set for this one—Crown Princess is a fine little filly.”
“Is a mile and a half a good distance for Rosalie?”
“Results this season show it’s definitely her best distance.”
“What will you do with the £81,240 prize money?”
“The money is not important, it hasn’t even entered my mind.”
It had certainly entered Stephen’s mind.
“Thank you, Mr. Metcalfe, and the best of luck. And now over for the latest news of the betting.”
Harvey moved back to his group of admirers and suggested that they return to watch the race from the balcony just outside his box.
Stephen was fascinated to observe Harvey at such close quarters. He had become nervous and even more mendacious than usual under pressure—not at all the icy, cool operator they had all feared him to be. This man was human, susceptible and could be beaten.
They all leaned over the rails watching the horses being put into the stalls. Crown Princess was still giving a little trouble while all the others waited. The tension was becoming unbearable.
“They’re off,” boomed the loudspeaker.
As twenty-five thousand people raised glasses to their eyes, Harvey said, “She’s got a good start—she’s well placed,” continuing to give everybody a running commentary until the last mile, when he became silent. The others also waited in silence, intent on the loudspeaker.
“They’re into the straight mile—Minnow leads the field around the bend—with Buoy and Dankaro, looking relaxed, just tucked in behind him—followed by Crown Princess, Rosalie and Highclere…
“As they approach the six-furlong marker—Rosalie and Crown Princess come up on the stand side with Highclere making a bid…
“Five furlongs to go—Minnow still sets the pace, but is beginning to tire as Crown Princess and Buoy make up ground…
“Half a mile to go—Minnow still just ahead of Buoy, who has moved up into second place, perhaps making her move too early…
“Three furlongs from home—they’re quickening up just a little—Minnow sets the pace on the rails—Buoy and Dankaro are now about a length behind—followed by Rosalie, Lester Piggott on Crown Princess and the Queen’s filly Highclere all making ground…
“Inside the two-furlong marker—Highclere and Rosalie move up to challenge Buoy—Crown Princess is right out of it now…
“A furlong to go…”
The commentator’s voice rose in pitch and volume.
“It’s
Joe Mercer riding Highclere who hits the front, just ahead of Pat Eddery on Rosalie—two hundred yards to go—they’re neck and neck—one hundred yards to go—it’s anybody’s race and on the line it’s a photo finish between the gold, purple and scarlet colors of Her Majesty the Queen and the black-and-green check colors of the American owner, Harvey Metcalfe—M. Moussac’s Dankaro was third.”
Harvey stood paralyzed, waiting for the result. Even Stephen felt a little sympathy for him. None of Harvey’s guests dared to speak for fear they might be wrong.
“The result of The King George VI and The Queen Elizabeth Stakes.” Once again the loudspeaker boomed out and silence fell over the whole course:
“The winner is No. 5, Rosalie.”
The rest of the result was lost in the roar of the crowd and the bellow of triumph from Harvey. Pursued by his guests, he raced to the nearest lift, pressed a pound note into the lift-girl’s hand and shouted, “Get this thing moving.” Only half of his guests managed to jump in with him. Stephen was among them. Once they reached the ground floor, the lift gates opened and Harvey came out like a thoroughbred, past the champagne bar, through the rear of the Members’ Enclosure into the Winners’ Enclosure, and flung his arms around the horse’s neck, almost unseating the jockey. A few minutes later he triumphantly led Rosalie to the little white post marked “FIRST.” The crowd thronged around him, offering their congratulations.
The Clerk of the Course, Captain Beaumont, stood by Harvey’s side, briefing him on the procedure that would be followed when he was presented. Lord Abergavenny, the Queen’s Representative at Ascot, accompanied Her Majesty to the Winners’ Enclosure.
“The winner of The King George VI and The Queen Elizabeth Stakes—Mr. Harvey Metcalfe’s Rosalie.”
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