'I had a bit of time yesterday, when you went off to London, and I reckoned the racecourse couldn't afford another calamity like the stands. A good precaution's never wasted, I thought, so I rigged up this very basic sprinkler. Don't know how long it would work. If ever flames got that high, they could melt the hose.' He laughed. 'Also, I, or someone who knows, has to be around to turn the tap on. I had to stick tape and those labels all over it, saying, "DO NOT TOUCH THIS" in case someone turned it on while all the crowds were inside tucking into their smoked salmon sandwiches.'

'My G.o.d!'

'Roger knows about it and Oliver, and now you.'

'Not the Strattons?'

'Not the Strattons, I don't trust them.'

Keith, definitely, would have soaked the paying customers to ruin their day.

Henry went on, trying to rea.s.sure me. 'But Keith won't actually try to kill you, not after he said in public that he was going to.'

'That wasn't public. That was the Stratton family.'

'But I I heard him, and the waitresses did.' heard him, and the waitresses did.'

'They would pay off the waitresses and swear you misheard.'

'Do you mean it?'

'I'm certain they've done that sort of thing often. Maybe not for murder, but other crimes, certainly.'

'But... what about newspapers?'

'The Strattons are rich,' I said briefly. 'Money will and does buy more than you'd think. Money's for using to get what you want.'

'Well, obviously.'

'The Strattons don't want scandal.'

'But they can't bribe the Press!'

'How about the sources that speak to the Press? How about suddenly blind waitresses with healthy bank balances?'

'Not these days,' he protested. 'Not with our insatiable tabloids.'

'I never thought I'd feel older than you, Henry. The Strattons can outbid the tabloids.'

Henry's mind I knew to be agile, practical, inventive and straight, but of his homelife and background I knew nothing. Henry the giant and I had worked together in harmony over a stretch of years, never intimate, always appreciative; on my part, at least. Henry's junk dealings had found me a whole untouched Adam room once, and dozens of antique fireplaces and door frames. Henry and I did business by telephone 'Can you find me...' or 'I've come across this...' These Stratton Park days were the first I'd spent so much in his company and they would, I thought contentedly, lead to a positive friendship.

We rounded the far end of the big top and watched the runners for the second race walk by on their way out onto the track. I found I was liking more and more to watch them, having given them little thought for most of my life. Imagine the world without them, I thought: history itself would have been totally different. Land transport wouldn't have existed. Mediaeval battles wouldn't have been fought. No six hundred to ride into a valley of death. No Napoleon. The seafarers, Vikings and Greeks, might still rule the world.

Horses, fleet, strong, tamable, had been just the right size. I watched the way their muscles moved under the groomed coats; no architect anywhere could have designed anything as functional, economical, supremely proportioned.

Rebecca rode by, adjusting her stirrup leathers, her attentions inward on the contest ahead. I had never wanted to ride, but at that moment I envied her: envied her skill, her obsession, her absolute commitment to a physical animal partnership with a phenomenal creature.

People could bet; they could own, train, breed, paint, admire, write about thoroughbreds: the primaeval urge to be first, in both runner and rider, was where the whole industry started. Rebecca on horseback became for me the quintessence of racing.

Henry and I stood on the ex-circus stands and watched the race together. The whole field jumped the restored open ditch without faltering. Rebecca finished well back, not taking part in the finish.

Henry said racing didn't grab him like rugger and went away to patrol his defences.

The afternoon pa.s.sed. 'There were the usual disasters,' Roger said, dashing about.

I came across the racecourse doctor taking a breather between casualties. 'Come to see me on Thursday,' he suggested. 'I'll take all those clips out. Save you waiting around in the hospital.'

'Great.'

Oliver, in the office, dealt with enquiries and wrathful trainers and arranged for a Stewards' enquiry into an objection to the winner to take place in the inner office among the computers, copier and coffee machine.

On the whole, the pros whose business was everyone else's pleasure made allowances for the stop-gap provisions, though it was interesting, as the day wore on, that they took the truly remarkable conjured-up arrangements more and more for granted and began to complain about the cramped weighing room and the inadequate view from the improvised stands.

'You give them a man-made miracle,' Roger complained, 'and they want the divine.'

'Human nature.'

'Sod them.'

I spent some of the time with Perdita and Penelope, feeling disjointedly crazy, and some with my sons, thrust back into adulthood and paternity; but no more, thankfully, being told I was for the fairly immediate chop.

I did speak to Marjorie, who stood in for Victoria in the Cup-presenting ceremony, her neat upright little figure being protected through the throng by the solicitous bulks of Conrad and Ivan. Photographs flashed, a hand-held microphone produced fuzzy noises; the winning owners floated, the trainer looked relieved, the jockey prosaic (his tenth pair of cufflinks) and the horse, excited. A regular prizewinning; irregular day.

'Lee,' Marjorie said, beginning to make her way back to the big top but pausing when she saw me nearby. 'A cup of tea?'

I went with her obediently, though the tea idea was quickly abandoned in favour of vintage Pol Roger from Stratton Hays' cellars. Dismissing Conrad and Ivan, she took me alone into the tidied up dining room, where the trusting staff had righted the table and laid it freshly with crustless cuc.u.mber sandwiches and small coffee eclairs.

Marjorie sat on one of the chairs and came straight to the point.

'How much is this all costing?' she peremptorily enquired.

'What is it worth?'

'Sit down, sit down.' She waited while I sat. 'It is worth, as you well know, almost anything your huge friend asks. We have been flooded flooded with compliments all afternoon. People love this tent. The future of the racecourse, no less, has been saved. We may not make a cash profit on the day, but we have banked priceless goodwill.' with compliments all afternoon. People love this tent. The future of the racecourse, no less, has been saved. We may not make a cash profit on the day, but we have banked priceless goodwill.'

I smiled at her business metaphor.

'I have told Conrad,' she said collectedly, 'not to quibble about the bills. Oliver Wells is so busy, I'm giving you this message for him instead. I've called for a family meeting on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. Can you and Oliver and the Colonel draw up a list of costs and expenses for me before then?'

'Probably.'

'Do it,' she said, but more with persuasion than bossiness. 'I've told Conrad to instruct our accountants to present an up-to-date realistic audit of the racecourse as soon as possible and not to wait for the end of its financial year. We need a survey of our present position, and it's imperative we sort out what we intend to do next.' The clear voice paused briefly. 'You have shown us today that we should not rebuild the old stand as it was before. You have shown us that people respond to a fresh and unusual environment. We must build some light-hearted light-hearted stands.' stands.'

I listened in awe. Eighty-four, was she? Eighty-five? A delicate-looking tough-minded old lady with a touch of tyc.o.o.n.

'Will you come to the meeting?' she asked, far from sure.

'I expect so.'

'Will Mrs Faulds?'

I looked at her dryly. 'She said you recognised her.'

'Yes. What did she say to you?'

'Not a great deal. She said chiefly that if the racecourse can be run prosperously, she won't press for the land to be sold.'

'Good.' Marjorie's interior relief surfaced in a subtle loosening of several facial muscles that I hadn't realised were tight.

'I don't think she'll want to come to the meeting,' I added. 'She had read about the family disputes in the newspapers. She just wanted to know how things stood.'

'The newspapers!' Marjorie shook her head in disgust. 'I don't know how they heard of our arguments. Those reports were disgraceful. We cannot afford afford any more discord. What's more, we cannot afford any more discord. What's more, we cannot afford Keith Keith'

'Perhaps,' I said tentatively, 'you should just let him... sink.'

'Oh, no,' she said at once. 'The family name...'

The dilemma remained, age old; unresolvable, from their point of view.

At the end of the day the crowds straggled off, leaving litter in tons. The big top emptied. The caterers packed their tables and chairs and departed. The afternoon sun waned in deep yellow on the horizon, and Henry, Oliver, Roger and I sat on upturned plastic crates in the deserted expanse of the members' bar, drinking beer from cans and holding anti-climactic post-mortems.

The five boys roamed around scavenging, Toby having joined them belatedly. The Strattons had left. Outside, horseboxes were loading the last winner and losers. The urgency was over, and the striving, and the glories. The incredible weekend was folding its wings.

'And for our next act...' I declaimed like a ringmaster, waving an arm.

'We go home to bed,' Roger said.

He drove me and the boys good-naturedly down to the bus, but in fact he himself returned to the buildings and the tents to oversee the clearing up, the locking, and the security arrangements for the night.

The boys ate supper and squabbled over a video. I read Carteret's diaries, yawning. We all phoned Amanda.

Carteret wrote: Lee persuaded me to go to an evening lecture on the effects of bombing on buildings. (The I.R.A. work, more than air-strikes.) Boring, really. Lee said sorry for wasting my time. He's got a thing about tumbledown buildings. I tell him it won't get him bonus points here. He says there's life after college...

'Dad,' Neil said, interrupting.

'Yes?'

'I asked Henry the riddle.'

'What riddle?'

'Do you know a rabbit from a raceway?'

I gazed in awe at my super-retentive small son. 'What did he say?'

'He said who wanted to know. I said you did, and he just laughed. He said if anyone knew the answer, you did.'

I said, smiling, 'It's like the Mad Hatter's riddle in Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland: "What's the difference between a raven and a writing desk?" There's no answer at all.'

'That's a silly riddle.'

'I agree. I always thought so.'

Neil, whose taste for Pinocchio had won the video fight (for perhaps the tenth time) returned his attention to the nose that grew longer with lying. Keith's nose, I reckoned, would in chat line of fantasy make Cyrano de Bergerac a non-starter.

Carteret's diary: The 'great' Wilson Yarrow was there, asking questions to show off his own brilliance. Why the staff think he's so marvellous is a mystery. He sucks up to them all the time. Lee will get himself chucked out for heresy if the staff hear his comments on Gropius. Better stop writing this and get on with my essay on political s.p.a.ce.

Pages and pages followed in a mixture of social events and progress on our courses: no more about Yarrow. I fast-forwarded in time to the partially ripped note-book and read onwards from the exclamation marks about the Epsilon prize. There seemed, for all my searching, to be only one further comment, though it was d.a.m.ning enough in its way.

Carteret wrote: More rumours about Wilson Yarrow. He's being allowed to complete his diploma! They're saying someone else's design was entered in his name for the Epsilon prize by mistake by mistake!! Then old Hammond says a brilliant talent like that shouldn't be extinguished for one little lapse! How's that for giving the game away? Discussed it with Lee. He says choice comes from inside. If someone chooses to cheat once, they'll do it again. What about consequences, I asked? He said Wilson Yarrow hadn't considered consequences because he'd acted on a belief that he would get away with it. No one seems to know or they're not telling how the 'mistake' was spotted. The Epsilon has been declared void for this year. Why didn't they give it to whoever's design it was that won it?

* Just heard a red hot rumour. The design was by Mies!!! Designed in 1925, but never built. Some Some mistake!!! mistake!!!

I read on until my eyes ached over his handwriting but nowhere had Carteret confirmed or squashed the red-hot rumour.

One long ago and disputed bit of cheating might be interesting, but even Marjorie wouldn't consider Carteret's old diaries a sufficient lever, all these years later, especially as no action had been taken at the time. To call Wilson Yarrow a cheat now would sail too close to slander.

I couldn't see any way that a dead ancient scandal, even if it were true, could have been used by Yarrow to persuade or coerce Conrad into giving him, alone, the commission for new stands.

Sighing, I returned the diaries to their carrier bag, watched the last five minutes of Pinocchio Pinocchio and settled my brood for the night. and settled my brood for the night.

On Tuesday morning, with pressing errands of their own to see to, the Gardners took me and the boys with them to Swindon, dumping us outside the launderette and arranging a rendezvous later at a hairdressing salon called Smiths.

While almost our entire stock of clothes circled around washing and drying, we made forays to buy five pairs of trainers (difficult and expensive as, for the boys, the colours and shapes of the decorative flashing had to be right right, though to my eyes the 'Yuk, Dad' shoes looked much the same), and after that (making a brief stop to buy a large bag of apples), I marched them relentlessly towards haircuts.

Their total opposition to this plan vanished like fruit cake the second they stepped over the threshold of Smiths, as the person who greeted us first there was Penelope Faulds. Blonde, tall, young Penelope, slapping hands with my children and deconstructing my every vestige of maturity.

Smiths, which I had expected somehow to be quiet and old fashioned because of its age, proved to have skipped a couple of generations and now presented a unis.e.x front of street cred, blow-dries and rap music. Hair-styles in photographs on the walls looked like topiary. Chrome and multiple mirrors abounded. Young men in pigtails talked like Eastenders. I felt old there, and my children loved it.

Penelope herself cut their hair, consulting with me first about Christopher's instructions to have his head almost shaved, leaving only a bunch of his natural curls falling over his forehead. 'Compromise,' I begged her, 'or his mother will slay me. It's she who normally gets their hair cut.'

She smiled deliciously. I desired her so radically that the pain made a nonsense of falling-in roofs. She cut Christopher's hair short enough to please him, too short to my eyes. It was his hair his hair, he said. Tell that to your mother, I told him.

Toby, interestingly, asked for his cut to be 'ordinary': no statement of rebellion. Vaguely pleased, I watched Penelope fasten a gown round his throat and asked if her mother were anywhere about.

'Upstairs,' she said, pointing. 'Go up. She said she was expecting you.' She smiled. Hop, skip and jump, heart. 'I won't make your kids look freaks,' she promised. 'They've got lovely shaped heads.'

I went upstairs reluctantly to find Perdita, and it was there, out of sight, that the old order persisted: the ladies with their hair in rollers, sitting under driers reading Good Housekeeping Good Housekeeping.

Perdita, vibrant in black trousers, a bright pink shirt and a long rope of pearls, led me past the grandmotherly customers who watched a large man with a walking stick go by as if he'd come from a different species.

'Never mind my old loves,' Penelope teased me, beckoning me into a sheltered be-chintzed sanctum on the far side of the beautification. 'Tanqueray do you?'

I agreed a little faintly that it would, and she pressed into my hand a large gla.s.s holding lavish gin and little tonic with tinkling ice and a thick slice of lemon. Eleven-fifteen on a Tuesday morning. Ah, well.

She closed the door between us and the old loves. 'They have ears like bats for gossip,' she said blithely. 'What do you want to know?'

I said tentatively, 'Forsyth...?'