‘If any of my mates ever found out I went to the races with an old skinflint like you, I’d never live it down,’ Angie said. ‘Five dollars in your pocket…whoopee doo! Well, I’ll just have to tell you what to back and turn you into a millionaire.’

Thelma and his mother considered all forms of betting a ploy of the devil and could quote scripture passages to prove it. Not that it had ever had any effect on his father. Quite a lot of his meagre income had melted away over the years in gambling. Seymour might not have gone if Angie had told him beforehand where she was planning to take him, although he’d known it would be somewhere special by the way she was dressed. Secret Agent, she called it. Secret Agent was black mesh tights, very high patent-leather sandals, a black dress which clung smoothly to her hips then flared out like an urn, and a little saucer-shaped hat with a dotted veil covering her eyes. Seymour thought she looked magnificent, like someone out of a television series.

‘I didn’t know they had horse racing on week days,’ he said. ‘You’d think everyone would be at work.’ He’d never been to a race meeting before and kept glancing guiltily over his shoulder in case Thelma or his mother might dart suddenly from the crowd and march him ignobly home.

‘Live and learn. It’s a good crowd today, I guess a lot of people are still on holidays, same as us. Only no one would even know you’re on holidays from that face you’ve got on. It’s a real Morris Carpenter face. You can’t play Morris Carpenter at the races, he wouldn’t be seen anywhere where people are enjoying themselves. Come on, let’s go behind the scenes and give the horses the once-over.’

She seemed to know her way around very competently. Seymour had never been closer to a horse than watching the grand parade at a show once, and now hung, mesmerised, gazing over a wire fence at the stalls.

‘That one’s Maharajah, he’s the favourite in Race Three,’ Angie said. ‘And that little grey is Plumestone, I’m going to put some money on him. People reckon he’s had his day, but don’t you believe a word. Once he won me a whole month’s rent when things got tough, and he can do it again, easy, can’t you, fella?’

She chirruped across the rail at the tethered horse and her face was tender, as though she were greeting a much-loved friend. Seymour wasn’t surprised that she knew the names of the beautiful horses; it was part of the magic of Angie that she should know things like that. She also seemed to have many acquaintances there, and was constantly waving or nodding to people passing by.