The Irish Tales

Second Life (8)
　
　
Of all the things I enjoyed in my First Life, what I miss most is a small, anonymous, Greek restaurant on Marylebone High Street. I’ve just tried to write about it, but gave up when I realised I can’t better what I wrote some 25 years ago. Here it is………….


All Engagements, Dead
　
One miserable Friday lunchtime when the weather has zapped all the racing, I am sitting idly in the Hellenic, sipping a gentle ouzo and flicking through The Sporting Life, when my eye alights upon the scratchings column.
There is only one item and it reads as follows : All Engagements (Dead) : Twotimer.
Well, well, I muse, so the old boy finally gets to meet the Great Handicapper in the Sky. How and where does this go down, I wonder ?
For it seems to me that old Twotimer has paid for many a meal at the Hellenic before now and his passing is something to sigh about.
Now I guess I must sink into something of a reverie or maybe even a brown study or whatever, for when I snap out of it, I see I am not alone.
In fact, I see there is a horse sitting opposite me, sipping at my ouzo, and what is more, this horse is somewhat familiar.
"Hullo," says the horse, cool as you like.
"Hullo yourself," I say back and then I crack it. "Why, you are none other than old Twotimer," I exclaim
"None other," he agrees and smirks a little.
"How is it you are sitting here, large as life," I ask, "when the Life itself insists you are brown bread ?"
"I should like to tell you about this," replies Twotimer.
"I should like to hear about this," I say back and so he speaks as follows.
"First off, I have to say it is not my fault. In five years I fall only once and that is in my novice year, so I know what I’m about. I am your proverbial safe conveyance, you fall off me and it’s your bad luck or more likely bad riding and believe me, I’ve had some of that over the seasons.
"Now, if this makes me seem a little swollen-headed, a little smart-assed, then bear with me. I only say as I find, which is that there are many dumb jocks and many smart nags, only it does not often seem that way. In fact, it often seems the other way completely, but then I do not see Brough Scott pointing the mike at a nag after a race and asking him what happened at the water and the nag saying back, "Why Brough, it was this stupid jock asking me for an extra stride when I already had it sorted, but not to worry, we are schooling him over hurdles next week and he will be jumping out of his silks for the Hennessy."
"No, you do not see Brough doing a lot of this and you do not hear the nags replying as they may wish, but it is a moot point as to who is the dumber out of some partnerships.
"So I repeat, it is not my fault what goes down that day and if you wish to know who is to blame, I shall tell you. It is the bookie, Marks.
"Now, you may well feel this is something of a weasel and not too likely either, but the truth is, I part company with my jock at the fourth last because Marks thinks it is a good idea if I do not finish in this race, for if I do, it is almost certain that I will finish before all the others and lighten his satchel down in the ring.
"So an arrangement is reached with certain parties, namely my trainer and my jock, that the latter will kiss the turf when it is opportune and the former will not be too hard on him in private, in fact he will be fairly generous about it, although in public he must smack him around a little and whine to the press somewhat.
"Now this is all well and good and no too rare a thing, but just as there are good jocks and bad jocks, so there are turf-kissers who are artists and those who are mere hams.
"An artist is one who can slide out of the side door with nobody any the wiser, even if he does it right in front of the stewards, in fact especially if he does it right in front of the stewards. Such a jock will be full of righteous indignation if anyone will even hint that he does not try very hard to stay on board and he will often blame himself most ruefully and not the horse,, who, he will say, is a fine jumper even if he has a tendency to over-reach on occasions.
"However, I do not get such an artist.. I get a never-has-been who wishes to be in no danger of winning this race and so as we come to the last open ditch, he switches me inside for a gap that does not really exist and what is more, he tells me to take off fully three strides too soon.
"Well, naturally, I am at sixes and sevens and I do not so much jump this ditch as eat it and whilst my jock slides neatly out of the plate, I have the misfortune to land somewhat awkwardly and there is a sound like a branch snapping and when I get to my feet again I seem to be missing one and that one is hanging loose and causing me more pain than I ever know.
"So, pretty soon the vet comes along with my trainer and they are looking at me and shaking their heads and my jock is holding my head and stroking it and this strikes me as odd since the pain is in my leg and then something else strikes me and the next thing I know I am reading my own obit in the Life, where it says I make a bad blunder at the fourth last and am put down and all I can say is this, that life can be a bitch at times and an unfair one at that. Would there be any more of this excellent ouzo, d’you think ?"
Now after hearing this sad tale, I feel the least I can do for my old friend is to buy him a bucket or two of the stuff, so I call out to Yanni to bring some more and then I turn back to Twotimer with a headful of questions, but to my surprise I find he is no longer there.
I rub my eyes very carefully and look again, but still there is no horse and this gives me cause for some deep thought. So when Yanni appears with the ouzo, I say to him very offhand, "Yanni, do you see what happens to the guy I am talking to a moment ago?"
"You mean the horse who drinks all your ouzo?" says Yanni back, and my old heart misses a beat.
"Why, yes," I reply. "What becomes of him?"
"He beats it while your back is turned," says Yanni. "And what is more, he leaves without paying his bill."