Derby Day, 1960

By KENNETH GREGORY

My determination to keep the horses as much in the background of my Derby Day as possible, did not arise from the fact of My not being able to paint them properly so much as from my desire. that the human beings, should be paramount. Still it was impossible to avoid the steeds and their riders altogether.

W. P. FRITH, RA Wrorqrsonv fell into perspective for me at six minutes after one in the afternoon. I had just returned from a pilgrimage to that vague' spot from which Frith had painted the Derby scene of '1856. Gone were the dark, lan- guorous ladies in carriages and their drooping companions, gone were the acrobat and his hungry little boy. True, there was a child of five or so who cried as his mother dragged him, dripping ice-cream, to a vantage spot where we can see the Queen.' Otherwise I was deafened by the cries of Ern Iles of Bristol (`You can't lose!), by the trombonist of the Happy Wan- derers Band, and the awful silence invoked by a bearded man who wore his shirt outside his trousers and carried a banner which urged me to repent that I may be saved. Still hopeful of contacting some vestige of the past, I wandered back to the Grand Stand; Griffy of Yeovil looked suave beneath a panama, and Harry West thoughtful under his black Homburg, ladies in Eastbourne Corporation buses ate beans off cardboard plates while elderly ladies removed their shoes and gasped. I observed that the nearer I approached the Stand the darker the skins of the women.

Mr. Macmillan arrived wearing his expression that denotes he is about to meet King Edward VII. The Duke of Norfolk was carefully saluted. A Rolls-Royce followed by eight more and a Bentley fell foul of an Austin which stopped dead and wheezed horribly. Then at six minutes past one the Royal Standard was run up on the Grand Stand mast, the National Anthem oozed forth over the loudspeakers and I paused over my ham sandwich. I was about to be moved by the distant cheering when a Tiger Moth held to its course of 185 degrees with a streamer which read 'Booth's Gin Unbeatable.'

1 should perhaps confess that I am not a racing man; indeed the last time I attended a meeting— at Bath—stays in my mind because some ingen- ious person cut the telephone wires, having previously arranged to bet on the winner some distance away. So I took refuge in devious calculations which assured me that the winner of the race would be earning for its owner at the rate of £40 million for a forty-hour week. I pass on this knowledge to the TUC's carthorse.

Gradually the Top People dismounted from their Rolls and moved into position. Whether Derby Day is a busy time for Messrs. Moss Bros. or whether the Top People all own their rig of the day is uncertain; ate any rate the first monocle passed me at 1.43, his escort being a lady in magenta, grey and green whose feet stuttered. A bulging American whose pearl waist- coat seemed out of keeping with his Wagon Train stetson informed me that he didn't under- stand horses: 'I might have been a college professor but I'm in oil.' I commiserated. Another banner asked him a question whose pertinence was not yet apparent: 'How can ye escape the damnation of hell?' By now none of the men in toppers were interested in their surroundings; all peered with glazed eyes into the mid-afternoon.

The Derby scene froze into any musical comedy finale of the Thirties. A woman was so forgetful as to use a shooting-stick on the con- crete floor; I caught her in mid-air. Down below in the plebs arena thousands of ants in red and yellow scuttled to and fro while Haig's clock warned them not to be vague. Two well-scrubbed young men took up their positions one on either side of me.

'Hot,' said one, 'as hot as New Jersey.' The other agreed, and I noted they were both wearing clerical collars. Choosing what I thought was the right approach I asked the taller if he was the personal representative of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'Come again?'

I explained that the previous day the Arch- bishop had made his contribution to the Betting and Gaming Bill debate in the Lords; 'he wanted to know if Lambeth Palace might be used as premises for betting agents.'

`We're Catholics.' I expressed admiration. 'Matter of fact we both arrived from Paris yester- day, didn't we, Joe?' After a moment's silence.

`Tudor Period's our horse. Belongs to the Duke, doesn't he, Joe?'

`The Duke of Norfolk from way down in Sussex. It sure was a pity Sir Winston's horse had to scratch.'

At 3.18 the horses emerged from the paddock for their preliminary canter. Picture Goer (late Russian Poker) side-stepped gently, Marengo seemed to be asking questions of someone on his left, Auroy tried to go in the opposite direc- tion and Mr. Higgins suggested that his spiritual home was the Row on Sunday mornings. St. Paddy frisked amiably.

'I like Tudor Period,' said Joe, easing his collar, only to be corrected by his companion. 'That's Kythnos.' Joe swallowed slightly. 'I like Tudor Period.'

The debs and their mums were now in posi- tion, uttering pretty little shrieks from the heights of the Grand Stand. Dignified matrons adjusted their long gloves over withered flesh, sundry bookies waved their arms chanting: 'Three Cone Boni Bonn, three to one Born Born.' Men in cloth caps proceeded to pat down hoof marks near the winning post. 1 tecalled with certain mis- givings that our Trollope among painters, Frith, had made £3,000 from his version of Derby Day. Joe mentioned that he liked the name of Alcaeus. `Tudor Period belongs to the Duke, the Duke of Norfolk.' The start of the race came across the course like a breath of relieving air in the shim- mering sunlight.

'After a furlong and a half Port St. Anne leads from Tudor Period,' said the loudspeaker.

The two clerics exchanged glances. 'The Duke,' I murmured.

'Tudor Period is now in the lead, Tudor Period ahead of . .

Upstairs the pretty little shrieks assumed Glyndebourne proportions. I fancied that some deb might cast herself down in ecstasy.

`Tudor Period still in the lead, Tudor Period with six and a half furlongs to go, Tudor Period, Port St. Anne, Die Hard . .

Joe had closed his eyes and was praying hard. 'At Tattenham Corner Die Hard . .

Joe opened, his eyes and bore a strained expression. I could see that his faith in the English aristocracy was floundering. 'All to play for,' I said.

I suppose we might have guessed it. A hundred yards or so from the winning post Lester Piggott looked over his shoulder, a cold dispassionate stare at Alcaeus. St. Paddy was going relentlessly in the manner of a horse who finds a mile and a half just long enough to scorn all rivals.

'St. Paddy wins, St. Paddy, with Alcacus second and Kythnos third.'

Perhaps it would have been better if Joe and his friend had remained in Paris or, better still, in New Jersey.

'Five bucks gone.' As I faded away, the pair of them sought solace in their race-cards. Poor Angers had pulled up sharp to be destroyed on the course, and Sir Victor Sassoon had won his fourth Derby in seven years. The Happy Wan- derers had played in vain for my two clerics from New Jersey who were left to find a new secon- dary faith while they remained in England.