The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  Nobody liked to hear their thoroughbreds were donkeys, but Andrew felt it was better to be straight, rather than give unrealistic expectations. He’d been realistic with Lord Fowler last week when he’d explained that his fillies wouldn’t make winners in Britian. Lord Fowler hadn’t liked it at all.

  Andrew thanked Terry, hopped on the quad and made for the office.

  He parked beside Charles’ Range Rover and opened the heavy wooden door to the converted coach-houses which served as the offices and hospitality suite of the stud. It was all old stone, wood panelling and Turkish carpeting. Charles had even taken a few paintings from the mansion, along with an enormous solid silver galleon, which stood on a mahogany table in the reception area. Andrew gazed at it every morning. Charles was proud to proclaim that his father had liberated it from a continental chateau during World War II. Andrew secretly wondered if the descendants of the former owners knew its whereabouts.

  “Good morning, Susan,” said Andrew to the bespectacled, grey-haired woman who ran the office with military efficiency.

  She looked up from her computer. “Ah! Morning. I’m glad you’re here. You know his Lordship will be here at noon?”

  “Yes. Er…” He noticed the unsettled look on her face. “What’s happened?”

  “Well, nothing really, but Thierry Lefleur just rang. He wants to look at the stallions at twelve-thirty, meet you and Mr. Buckham, discuss mating plans, and book nominations. He’s arriving by helicopter.”

  “Well, that’s not a problem. I’ll tell Charles. Is he busy?” said Andrew, pointing at the door to Charles’ office.

  “On the phone.”

  Andrew knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.

  Charles Buckham was reclining in his leather chair, shouting enthusiastically into a reproduction of a vintage Bakelite telephone. Behind him, mounted on the wall, were a series of group photographs: Charles with his sixth form classmates at Eton; Sandhurst cadets; Life Guards officers; and a group of camouflaged men standing in a desert ravine beside a pair of heavily-laden military Land Rovers. Andrew knew that the same three faces could be found in each photo.

  “Look, Richard, you’re the Chairman. I’m relying on you to keep the British Horseracing Authority on the right path. Whatever you do, don’t warn him off. He spends a lot of money in this country and if he leaves,” Charles bellowed into the receiver. “Well, exactly! I knew I could count on you to see the big picture. You’re the best thing that ever happened to the BHA,” he grinned, then listened for a moment. “Yes. Well, sad as it was, if you ask me that was a blessing in disguise. OK. Chat soon, Richard, bye.” He slammed down the phone and clapped his hands together.

  “It’s so refreshing to deal with a BHA chairman who understands what’s required of him,” he said.

  Andrew shrugged. “I always liked Catherine Fellowes, she was a horsewoman.”

  Charles stiffened. “She was mad as a balloon!”

  “Er, OK.” Andrew shrugged again as he sat and poured a coffee.

  “Anyway. Tony Fowler’s on his way. We’ll have to break it to him how much we got for his fillies.”

  “And exactly how much did we get for them?”

  Charles inspected Andrew with a sneer. “What’s it to you?”

  Andrew blinked. “Well, nothing. Except we should be on the same page, in case Lord Fowler wants to discuss it with me.”

  “Fair enough. I told him I’d get him thirty grand a piece for the four fillies, but I could only get twenty-six. The mares will go to Turkey. Ten grand each. Understand?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “And I’m relying on you to convince him over lunch it was those old mares we’ve flogged to Turkey that were the problem, and not my stallions.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll manage that. It’s the truth, after all. If he’d listened to me in the first place, he’d have sold them pregnant, carrying those awful fillies, two years ago. Oh, and Susan just told me Thierry Lefleur is on his way. We’d better include him in lunch.”

  “I agree. He’s right in there with those new Qataris.”

  “And don’t forget Lefleur and his clients sent us forty-six mares last year. I’d say he deserves the red carpet treatment. Look, I know there’s hardly a decent stallion in France, but Ireland’s full of them and those forty-six mares didn’t go to Irish stud farms – they came here! Largely down to my friendship with Lefleur.”

  Charles let out a long breath. “Looking for a pay rise, are we?” He narrowed his eyes, “You’re not too bad, for a Sandhurst reject.”

  Andrew ignored the dig. It happened regularly, and it was more an issue for Charles than him; as if it made Andrew a lesser man for not making it into the Army officer corps like Charles and his friends. He took a sip of coffee and stared out the window. The last few years seemed to have rushed by.

  Andrew Dixon had grown up in the wealthy comfort of a large tract of land in Buckinghamshire, his father Jacko, a pension fund manager for a high street bank chain. Andrew had attended private schools and always had a string of ponies. His interest in horses came from his mother and her father – an old-fashioned horse dealer, master of foxhounds, and talented cross-country rider. He had been Andrew’s idol as a child, and had imparted all his knowledge of horses, hounds, foxes, and life in general to the boy. His mother, Fenella, was an accomplished three-day-eventer and had competed for Britain at the Olympics in her youth.

  Andrew started riding in point-to-points when he was sixteen, and after his GCSE’s he became a day pupil at Stowe School, so that he could train and ride horses which he bought himself at sales. In his first season, he trained four and rode them to victory in four races each. The next year, at eighteen, he trained fifteen horses for himself, his grandfather, and friends of his parents, and ended the season with thirty-one wins. He rode them all and was crowned champion rider. People were starting to notice that Andrew Dixon was a consummate horseman.

  Despite offers of work from several Lambourn trainers, Andrew said he wanted to join the Army. But after he was rejected by the Regular Commissions Board, he took a year off to travel the world, stopping off in the thoroughbred racing centres of the globe: Kentucky, Ireland, New Zealand, Australia. He returned home with his head clear, and secretly quite glad that he wasn’t engaged in some rather dubious wars. He told his parents that he was going to do a two-year stint as assistant trainer to Sir Greville Thomas in Newmarket before setting himself up as a trainer on the family farm. His mother loved the idea. His father thought he should join him in the City. The thought of a life spent in London investing, juggling and hiding money, made Andrew feel ill.

  2005 was Andrew’s first season as a professional trainer. He trained twenty-five point-to-pointers, three steeplechasers, and one flat horse. His full height of six-foot-one forced him to give up riding after the first two months of the season. The extreme dieting left him too weak to concentrate on training. He finished the year with thirty-three point-to-point winners and two steeplechase victories. Even his flat horse managed to win once, though Andrew freely admitted that it was entirely down to the animal’s ability. Those were the good old days, before disgrace tainted the family.

  “Hello, is there anybody home?” barked Charles.

  “Sorry,” said Andrew. “I was, um…”

  Charles shook his head. “No wonder you failed RCB. Right. Show Tony the stallions, convince him to replace the mares we’ve just sold, then I’ll bring him to the house and fill him with wine and dreams. Meanwhile, you can meet Lefleur and show him the sires. I hear the Qatari Sheik provides him with a chopper. Anyway, we’ll get Tony sewn up and get more mare bookings out of Lefleur. I want more than fifty out of him this year.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Andrew. “Will the Earl be at lunch?”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed. “Jamie? No. Why?”

  “It’ll be purely a horse-talk lunch then?”

  “Of course it will. I wouldn’t want to bore the clients with his ranti
ngs about the world going to hell. Anyway, Jamie’s in London for the next ten days. Oh, and I’ve been through my e-mails. There’s rather a lot of stallion enquiries. Take care of them, will you? You know I’m not good on the computer.”

  That was a new excuse, thought Andrew. “Sure,” he said resignedly. “Forward them on.” He knew all the clients thought Charles was replying in person, but Andrew liked having access to the information. It made him feel trusted and important, even if it was double the workload.

  “By the way,” said Andrew, “did the police ever find out who vandalised your Range Rover?”

  Charles looked momentarily dumbfounded. Then his eyes flickered. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Andrew. Probably just an animal rights lunatic. They don’t like that we sell stock all over the world. They think it’s our duty to sell only to ethical places and buyers. Ha!” he smirked. “If we stopped to question the ethics of every owner in the horse business, we’d have a very short list of clients. You just concern yourself with running the stud.”

  Andrew stared at Charles, his mouth dry.

  The telephone rang. Charles snapped it up. “Yes, Susan? Great, put him through… Rupert! How are you?” Charles flapped his free hand at Andrew, waving him out.

  Andrew crossed the hall to his own office. He scanned through the Racing Post on his desk, absorbing the daily bloodstock news. The front page headline read: Government considering offers for Tote. Andrew grinned. He hoped Charles would be successful. Racing needed a flourishing Tote if it was to survive.

  He turned his attention to the barrage of e-mails from clients, owners, and trainers.

  Chapter 7

  A couple of hours later, a silver Jaguar glided to a halt outside the stallion yard. Andrew put on his most winning smile and opened the passenger door, letting Lord Fowler step out into the brisk air. A poker-thin, sprightly man in his mid-sixties, he owned several breweries and had a sentimental passion for racehorses. He was immaculately dressed in tweed, like someone from another era. His striking daughter, Honor, remained in the driver’s seat. Andrew grinned at her through the windscreen. She pulled a tight smile and turned her eyes to her phone.

  “Good morning, your Lordship,” said Andrew, beaming.

  “Aah, good morning to you, Andrew,” he replied, shaking Andrew’s hand. “Where’s Charles?”

  “Still in the office, tied up on a call, I’m afraid. He’ll join us in a minute.”

  “Haven’t you been able to get him to use a mobile yet?”

  Andrew laughed. “That’ll never happen.” He heard the clack of hooves on tarmac. “Right, your Lordship. Let’s get underway, shall we?”

  “Oh yes, yes.”

  “Good to see you, Tony,” bellowed Charles, making his way across the neatly clipped lawn.

  Lord Fowler turned. “Charlie! How are you?”

  “Excellent, Tony. Good to see you.”

  The men turned their attention to the horse walking in front of them.

  Charles cleared his throat and began his speech. “Ahh, here we have Capital Flight. What a horse. Won the Haydock Sprint Cup as a three-year-old. Serious speed; by a good sire; the real deal. Tony, this guy’s the most exciting young stallion in the country. You made a very smart decision putting your two best mares in foal to him. His first crop foals are crackers. They were well received at the weanling sales last week,” said Charles.

  Fowler grimaced. “Really?” He gave the stallion a good look over. “He’s filled out well since last year. Looks a real man, I’ll give you that. Let’s hope you’re right about his offspring.” Fowler looked at Andrew.

  Andrew opened his mouth, but the sales patter refused to spew from him. He glanced at an expectant Charles, then forced himself to nod at Fowler like a dashboard ornament.

  Charles cut in. “I am Tony. I–”

  “Didn’t you breed him with your chum Bartholomew?” Lord Fowler interrupted. He shot a sideways glance at Charles, who pretended not to notice.

  “That’s right, Tony. I advised on the mating. He’s out of Piers’ best mare and we raced him, together with Rupert Calcott. A dream come true for all of us.” He gave Lord Fowler his warmest smile.

  The other six stallions were paraded, with Charles and Andrew executing well-rehearsed patter.

  Afterwards, Andrew mounted his quad and led the way to the yearling barn. The others followed in the Jaguar.

  Terry greeted Lord Fowler and rushed into the barn to usher out the four fillies.

  Fowler grinned broadly as they were stood up in front of him. “Hello, girls, what a lovely bunch!” he said to the horses. “I’m sorry to lose you.” Fowler turned to Charles, raising an eyebrow. “How much did you get for them?”

  Charles cleared his throat. “Hundred and four thousand.”

  “Each!” Fowler beamed.

  “The lot.”

  Fowler looked aghast, as he ran the numbers. “You told me thirty a piece.”

  “It’s a buyer’s market, Tony,” said Charles. “Times are tough.”

  Andrew swallowed. “I’m afraid the market speaks the truth,” he said. They’re bad horses. That’s why we couldn’t find a buyer for them at the yearling sales, and they wouldn’t have been good enough for the two-year-old ready-to-race Breeze Up sales in the spring.”

  “Where are they off to?” asked Fowler.

  “Georgia,” said Charles.

  “Whaaat?” Fowler spluttered.

  “Emerging markets are the new thing,” said Charles.

  Andrew agreed enthusiastically, but he wondered how much Charles’d really sold them for. The spectre of Billy appeared and made him shudder, turning his nodding into a slight shiver.

  Terry sent the horses back into the barn. Fowler stood in silence, clearly fuming.

  Overhead, a black and gold chopper thumped into view, skimmed the trees and made for the east lawn by the Hall.

  Fowler muttered an obscenity, and looked at his watch. “What about lunch then?”

  “I’ve a couple of bottles of Chateau Palmer breathing,” said Charles.

  Fowler smiled. “Now that’s more like it!”

  “I’ll show Thierry the stallions and join you in a bit. Please excuse me, your Lordship,” said Andrew, jumping on his quad. He smiled at Honor again as he drove past her. She cut him a frosty stare. Andrew chuckled to himself; he knew what Jess would make of Honor.

  Chapter 8

  “Thierry! Welcome.”

  “Andrew! ‘Ow are you,” said Lefleur, in his soft Parisian tones. “Good to see you again, my friend. All the mares I sent you returned home in-foal! Incredible!”

  “Glad to be of service,” said Andrew, shaking the ebullient man’s hand. “Business must be good – arriving by chopper these days?”

  “Oh no, Andrew, it belongs to Sheik Marwan Al Wahal. He likes me to use it when I’m on business. I’ve just come from Newmarket. I’ve signed up Paulie Rockford to ride for the Sheik next season, and I have to be back in Normandy this evening. Not even the tunnel is quick enough for that!”

  “The champion jockey to ride exclusively for Sheik Marwan? I’m impressed,” said Andrew.

  “It was an offer he couldn’t refuse!” Lefleur winked. “Now all we need is fresh talent in the training ranks.”

  Lefleur was tanned, slim, in his mid-forties, and looked like he lived on a boat on the Riviera. Andrew suspected that the smooth, refined image was all part of his slick sales act, to help him blend in with his clients and entice them to part with their money. He ran a successful bloodstock agency based in the trendy seaside resort of Deauville, and his parties there during the August yearling sales were legendary. After last year’s bash, Andrew had woken up on the beach at sunrise, entwined with the daughter of one of France’s wealthiest horse owners.

  “Right, let’s show you the new horse, then we’ll talk bookings as we walk to the house for lunch. Charles is pouring Chateau Palmer especially for you and Lord Fowler.”

  “Oh, you guys rea
lly know how to win a Frenchman’s heart.”

  Royal Planet was paraded once more and Andrew began his speech.

  * * *

  Charles sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Lefleur and Andrew sat to his left, and Fowler and Honor to his right. Andrew held the men rapt with his assessment of last month’s Breeders Cup races in America, which led into a lively discussion about the drug-enhanced state of American racing and the disdain with which other racing nations were beginning to regard US horses.

  Honor couldn’t take her eyes off Lefleur, though she didn’t take part in the conversation. Charles’ mind wandered to the money he had made from Fowler. This business just got better and better. As much as he resented the competition from the big stallion farms in Ireland, he admired the way their shrewdness had helped to change the game from a sport of kings into a business of sharks. It was the ultimate casino, where the rich clients thanked you for helping them spend their money. And if the latest batch of horses failed to win, not to worry, there were plenty more being churned out like cannon fodder.

  Charles looked up at the ceiling and considered the ornate plasterwork. It would need touching up soon. More money into the pit. When he left the SAS and returned to Brockford with his wife Emma and their young son Rufus, they had moved into the east wing and Charles had thrown himself into work. A few years later, Emma surprised Charles by demanding a divorce. Few wives in her position ever abandoned ship. They usually preferred to potter about in stately homes and cold marriages, rather than venture out on their own. Charles had tried to install her in the gate lodge – vacant since his mother’s death on the hunting field – so that he could see his son whenever he wanted. She’d refused and moved back to London.

  Charles’ features softened whenever he thought of Rufus. He was growing into a charming, polite young man, and Charles had to concede that Emma had raised him beautifully. Rufus would finish at Eton next year and would be groomed to take over the estate from the childless Jamie. At least then the old place might have a kind of renaissance – and Charles would see Rufus every day.