There is an annual cycle of events that’s peculiarly British. I’m thinking of the Birthday Parade (don’t call it Trooping the Colour), the Grand National, Wimbledon, the Chelsea Flower Show; events that the nation takes to its heart. One such tradition ceased in 2010.
I’m referring to the annual Dick Francis novel. Dead Cert was published in 1962 and was an immediate success. He had already won his way into the nation’s heart by riding the Queen Mother’s horse, Devon Loch, when it unexpectedly fell in the 1956 Grand National. It was a magnificent failure in the best British tradition stretching from Captain Scott back to the Battle of Hastings. He went on to be a journalist, writing for The Sunday Express, and then turned novelist. A good publisher, Michael Joseph, a loyal, royal reader, HM the Queen Mother, and an undemanding style assured success. Under every Christmas tree would be at least one Dick Francis; some people even read them, I believe.
But it’s time to prick this balloon. His novels were all the same and written in a style subsequently made even more famous by Jeffrey Archer. They are devoid of humour with formulaic plots and cardboard characters, yet they were exceedingly popular and made him a rich man. Now I’d like to draw your attention to two racing novels that are completely different but both give me immense pleasure.
First, Daughters of Mulberry, by Roger Longrigg, published in 1961 by Faber. It is the best and funniest and saddest racing novel ever written – and that’s the end of the matter. Well not quite, any racing novel that can have ducks and clockwork mice racing must surely be worth a glance. (The distance for the mice, fully wound, is ten yards.)
My second choice is, appropriately, titled A Turf Mystery, published in 1935 by Philip Allan. I think I’d better make a new sentence for its authors: J Fairfax-Blakeborough and Rupert St Cloud. I have done the heavy lifting for you, by which I mean checking out the authors on Google. J F-B has a wiki entry as a racing man but A Turf Mystery is not mentioned. I have not been able to track down Rupe St C. This novel is very much in the vein of John Buchan and is of that pre-war ilk. My picture of the Contents may give you a clue as to why I feel an especial affection for it and the titles of the chapters will give you a clue as to the sort of story it tells. It’s one of those “they don’t write them like that anymore” books.
And now for something completely different. Bop around to this before there’s a tax on it.