Off the Cuff: Odd encounters at the races

Once, I was asked — “What is horse sense?” — and because I appeared befuddled was given the answer straight away: “It’s the intelligence that keeps horses from betting on people.”

Last week at the races I witnessed a man morph, in mere seconds, into a baby – melting like ice cream and weeping copiously into the remnants of his beverage.

I saw a baby in a pram, probably overcome with hunger, take a dim view of its mother who was celebrating a win with the typical heedlessness for others that victory brings. Apparently, she had seen the horse’s initials in the tea leaves two mornings running and decided to put all her faith in such a consistent sighting – which, to give her perspicacity credit, paid rich dividends.

The tea industry, dare I say it, was on to a winner too. At least for another week, or until the leaves at the bottom of the tea cup led her — and her money — astray. Having spent a sizeable part of my life in that region I wondered if the tea she’d been drinking was Darjeeling.

A young man stopped by and asked if I knew how a trifecta might be won. I said if I knew I wouldn’t be working here. He laughed embarrassedly and said, no, he didn’t know how this whole thing worked, how he might place some money on a trifecta, since this was his first day at the races.

I said despite my age and wrongly-assumed air of worldliness it might surprise him to know it was my first day at the races as well, the only horses I’d seen were in the western films of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.

A youngster — no older than twelve — standing by, overhearing the conversation butted in and said why he knew pretty much what should be done, his dad being an avid racing fan and all. Off went the two in search of an official who’d take their bet (and, no doubt, their money.)

I happened upon the trifecta-seeker much later. He gave a resigned shake of the head as if to say, “The horses weren’t exactly running for me, they ran away from me [with the dollars].” His young advisor was nowhere to be seen.

Outside the Members Pavilion, within shouting distance from where I was stationed, sat a little old lady all alone, sipping from a glass. Her carefully groomed hair was topped by a quaint red hat. It had a little gauzy net attached, and a lighter-hued red feather. The hired band that had been playing in the square opposite where she sat continued with their repertoire. At some point it dawned on me that the band was playing a sequence of songs by the group Queen. Tie Your Mother Down, Somebody to Love, You Take My Breath Away, Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.

Handsome amount

“That’s very clever of them,” she said, directing her words at me, after the band had concluded The Millionaire Waltz. “Do you see what they’re doing? Oh, sorry, I don’t even know if you’re listening.”

“I am. I grew up listening to this,” I assured her.

“Then tell me what they’re doing,” she urged.

“Queen,” I said.

“Yes, but…?”

“They’re all Queen songs.”

“Yes, but they’re from one specific album. That’s the clever bit. It’s Queen’s 1976 album A Day At The Races. My husband Johnny, now passed on, won a handsome amount once. We were just married. We bought a house with the winnings. Johnny never bet big thereafter. Just a fiver here or there for the heck of it.”

“Seen you in conversation with Mrs. Jeffries [not her real name],” said the event supervisor later after the crowds had departed.

“Mrs. Jeffries?”

“Yes, the famous writer. Thought you two were talking about your craft and stuff. She’s helped a lot of people out.”

“No, we talked music,” I said, thinking all the while, “Ah well, join the majority that leave a race course with some purpose unfulfilled.”

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney.