‘Of course he wants to race,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s all he knows how to do. He’s just picking up on the atmosphere.’

The jockeys were lining up on the other side of the course now like coloured specks of dust; red, green, yellow, and Wiley Scot’s in dark blue. Nicolas handed me a pair of binoculars and I trained them on the figures with wet hands.

‘They’re off,’ someone called. People were clambering to their feet around me and I jumped up too. The horses were all clumped together at first, but soon they separated out and I picked out Wiley Scot in third place.

Now I saw the elegance in the horses’ movements. Their bodies hardly seemed to move at all; heads and chests thrust forward they cut a streamlined shape through the air as their legs curled and stretched out below, each hoof only touching the ground for a fraction of a second before they were flying again.

‘Come on, Wiley Scot,’ Freddie shouted near me.

He was coming up on the outside of the horse in second place. Now they were closer I could see the sweat darkening his brown coat, and his muscles rippling with each stride, and my throat began to close up with a lump of excitement and fear. I was keenly aware of the ticket between my fingers, the enormity of the money it represented for me. The ground was shaking and the wind that had sprung up blew back the jockeys’ jackets like sails. I tightened my hold on the ticket, half-hoping, half-afraid it would be carried away.

Wiley Scot’s jockey kicked at him and he passed the second horse. He was gaining on the horse in first place now, with less than fifty yards to go. I was clenching my entire body, my teeth pressed together as if that would spur my horse on, when I saw the first horse stumble and fall, the jockey rolling off his back right into the path of Wiley Scot. I heard Sylvie cry out just as Wiley Scot leaped gracefully, gathering up his legs to clear the figure in front of him, and then he was galloping past us in a cloud of red dust, his head bent down as if for a charge. I only realised I’d stopped breathing when he passed the finishing post and I found myself gasping for air.

‘You’re rich, young man,’ Freddie said, clapping me on the back as the grandstand erupted around us.

The outside of the Muthaiga Club was pink pebbledash and white stone, turning red and gold in the setting sunlight. Freddie guided me up its colonnaded walkway and paused for a moment so I could lean against one of the ivy-covered pillars. After my win, and with Freddie’s encouragement, I’d had several more gins, and now the ground seemed dangerously unsteady beneath my feet. Any thought of getting home soon had long since vanished.