‘May Day.’ Fiction.

From the day when my father first took me, aged twelve, to the local Folkstone racetrack, I have been a confirmed racehorse punter, visiting every British horse-racing course at least once. Not, mind you, in the Tattersalls ring. My available money could never stretch to those prices. No, I was always paid the least to get in so as to give myself more cash for betting.
That is why it took years for me to meet a real-life horse-racing trainer, and even then, it was by chance. His face and name, Jimmy Flowers, I knew from countless mentions in Newspapers and on Television and, I learned later, he kept away from the racetrack bars where he was a constant target of the press-boys and punters hoping to get news of a ‘dead cert’. He much preferred to stop for a quick drink and a bite during the trip home from a meeting. So did I, and on that fateful day, after Ladies Day at Ascot, we chose the same pub.
Jimmy Flowers had trained April Rain, the longest priced winner of the day at 20/1, and as I had put a tenner on the nose of April Rain to win £200, it was only natural for me to offer to buy Jimmy a drink. He, also in a celebratory mood, happily accepted.

‘It must be wonderful to own horses,’ I said, ‘but well outside my pocket. I am just a humble window-cleaner.’
Jimmy Flowers looked at me and weighed up my possible financial situation before saying, ‘What car do you drive?’
‘An old Jag.’ I replied, proudly. ‘Classic mark 10. Cost me an arm and a leg to buy and to run it keeps me poor.’
‘For the price of that car,’ said Jimmy, ‘you could buy a very nice racehorse, and for what it costs to run it for a year, you could buy another!’
I stared at him, wondering if he was pulling my leg, as he continued, ‘And for the price of a new latest model Jag, you could have at least six horses in training.’ He lifted his glass and took a swallow of whiskey.
‘You mean that anybody can buy a racehorse?’ I asked.
‘Certainly can.’ replied Jimmy.
‘Me too?’
‘You too if you’ve got the money, and I’ll train it for you.’
And that is how, a few weeks later, a pretty unraced two-year-old filly with the registered name of May Day, had replaced the Jag as the love of my life. And it had happened with unexpected ease.
Two-year-olds are the babies of horseracing. Nobody knows how good an individual horse might be, so if you know what you’re doing, it is always possible to pick up a bargain. When Jimmy took me to the Newmarket bloodstock sales, he knew what to look for and for what price. May Day was his choice, bid for by me until she was mine.
She was a lovely horse. Gentle and friendly in the stables and a real flyer on the track. ‘May Day is a good’un.’ said Jimmy, ‘with a big heart and plenty of racing in her. She’ll win her share of prize money.’
I had to clean a lot of extra windows to pay for her stabling and training, but it was worth it when, first time out in soft ground at Folkestone, May Day won her race in fine style.
With the prize and bookie money, I bought a four-year-old two-mile handicapper named Bolter. His paperwork showed a long line of decent horses in his pedigree, so Jimmy thought he would be a good investment. This time though, we had problems. A week after Bolter had arrived at the stables, Jimmy told me, ‘He’s a crafty one. Doesn’t much like the track so he won’t do his best; he needs re-schooling. Give me a while and we’ll see.’
Bolter was an expense I can tell you. He had a huge appetite, was lazy, and not at all happy when moving at anything more than a canter. Luckily, May Day kept earning her corn by placing twice and winning once in her next four races. Sadly, all her income went out again keeping the idle Bolter in training.
Then Jimmy had an idea. He tried Bolter over a few fences and found that the horse showed ability and seemed much more interested in taking part. So that was it. Bolter took to jumping the big fences as a duck takes to water, and began to earn back the money we had spent on him. As a five-year-old he won or placed in all of his races, making Jimmy think that, at six, Bolter might progress to being a top National Hunt race contender and we began to put him into ever higher race grades to see how good he really was.
Meanwhile, May Day, as a three-year-old, went from strength to strength, winning an average of one in three of her races. We tried her in the 1000 guineas where she came third, then she took second place in the Oaks before winning a big race in France, making her good breeding material. She was retired from racing and sent to the National stud where her foals commanded good sale prices.
As for Bolter, he went on to win top quality races from two miles to three miles and ended up winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup at ridiculously high odds, giving me enough money to buy several more horses. Sadly, the next year he took a fence much too casually at Sandown, broke his leg and had to be put down. Jimmy and I drowned our sorrows in the local pub that night and the next day buried Bolter on a small hill overlooking Jimmy’s stables.
May Day is still alive. Old now, she is still a lovely natured horse. She and my daughter Barbara are good pals. I love to see Barbara on the back of May Day, with both enjoying their daily workout.
From poor beginnings, I now live with my wife Carole and my two children in a big country house. I have a long string of horses in training. Jimmy Flowers died last year, so my horses are with other trainers - good trainers, successful trainers, but never will I forget that it was Jimmy who made it all possible. He was special. He didn’t just train the horses that he recommended I buy, he schooled me too. Under his stewardship, I learned how to cope with being a rich and respected owner of racehorses. Good old Jimmy. The best friend a man could ever have had, who had led me to May Day, my love at first sight filly.