DERBY DAY
By J. P. W. MALLALIEU, M.P.
ISHOULD stand at Tattenham Corner, I was told, near the spot where, years ago, a suffragette threw herself under the King's horse and died. The key to the race was there. There I might see a nerveless jockey, going for the inside berth and a lead into the straight, put himself at forty miles an hour through a gap, invisible to everyone except himself, between the rail and the headlong horses on his flank. There I might see the favourite's winning spurt frus- trated by a wall of horses refusing to let him through. So to Tattenham Corner I went.
The rail was. lined with cars which family parties were using as private stands. But I could see the green turf and, perhaps, the jockeys' faces as they came round the bend. far away below, by the grandstand, I could see the horses parade and then swing round to canter to the post. My watch said five minutes to three. I waited, one of millions throughout the country who hoped that, at last, Gordon Richards would win the Derby.
• Suddenly someone shouts that they're off. I can't see them, but I poise one foot on the bumper of a car. Some men on an Army lorry can't see either, but they tell us what's happening just the same. Then comes a ripple of sound growing louder, and all at once the beat of hooves, flashes of colour and they are past. I swing round on the bumper to follow them, see Tudor Minstrel in "the.lead and Gordon Richards hunched about his shoulders. They are into the straight now, with Gordon Richards out in front, white cap and all. He's pulling clean away. We can hear the roar from the crowd a mile away by the finishing post as the favourite is shouted home, and we look at one another, say " Well, he's done it at last," and get down from our perches, at first exhilarated and then content.
It was then I saw him—a citizen lying full length, fast asleep and holding a baby's doll. Horses had just thundered by thirty feet away in the world's greatest race, thirty feet away on Tattenham Corner, the key to the race ; and there he was, asleep, while his children played around him and the breeze blew gently across the downs and through his hair. That's what the Derby was to him— and to nine-tenths of the other people on Epsom Downs.
They had not come for the racing—which is just as well, for they would not see any. If you can afford £4 each, you get into Tats. If you can afford a great deal more, you get into the Club. If you come at the crack of dawn you may be one of the few thousands who pack the rail. Then you will see some racing. But not other- wise. Racing does not bother about ordinary people, so ordinary people don't bother about racing. They just have a day out.
All morning long they came to Epsom by tube, 'bus and on foot, a child in one hand, a packet of sandwiches in the other, churning up the hill in the rain, showing in their faces the tolerant resignation which is born of many day-trips in British weather. But at midday the rain stopped and the sun came out. Off came the mackintoshes, out came the sandwiches—a bad blow, these sandwiches, for specu- lators who were touting slices of bread and cucumber at is. 6d. a . time. Then down to the roundabouts where the children rode on the London, Wigan and York railway or stood outside a boxing booth where the barker promised them " plenty of blood, I assure you " if only they'd come inside. (Barker, did I say? They've
moved with the times. They bark any more. They croon into a mike.)
Back on the hill went the families, taking in the sun, the breeze and the casual brushing of the crowd against their shoulders. They listened good-naturedly to a mission which had a portable organ to accompany the hymns. At first the singing was easy and melodious. But bystanders' heads turned away to look down the hill and, despite themselves, the singers found their heads turning too. Down below the buzz of the crowd was turning into a roar and, for some seconds, only one singer was able to keep steadily on. Then the others re- joined him a little shamefacedly and finished together with a burst on the last line of "Oh, what a wonderful Saviour ! " As a favourite had just won, a bookie behind the singers passed his own comment on this sentiment.
The families filtered about the hill or went down near the rails to squelch in the mixture of mud and fried fish in the hope of seeing a row between bookie and backer or to listen to the tipsters—" Give me a tanner and draw your money with satisfaction. I have the Derby winner here. Draw your money with satisfaction." Another race flashed by, but few saw it, because of the crowds and because the children were squealing for jellied eels. So they left the crowds, the mud and the noise and trailed away along the downs where there was plenty of room to move and air to breathe and from which you could see the semicircled horizon far away and the soft colours that come after rain and where you could rest at ease. Never mind the next race. We shan't see it anyhow. - Let's have a snooze, miss the six seconds'- excitement, the joy at Gordon's " victory," the pang of disappointment when the news comes through that the white cap wasn't Gordon's after all. Lie in the sun, mother, and let the kids look after themselves, then trail our feet through the long grass until we strike a hard road and a 'bus to the station. There's wind and sun and grass, people and colour and show. It's all free. And if there'a some racing too, well good luck to it. It does no harm.
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