The Lipton's List of Runners

Every nation has a class system whether they admit it or not. Most allow for the concept of meritocracy, but honestly? The lines are pretty firmly drawn. Unless you’re a savant, follow the money.

The upper classes, everywhere, have earned the right to be penniless if that’s the way it goes. They can live in shabby villas with elbow patches on their jackets and tortoises roaming wild in their walled gardens, and no one judges them. This class are often referred to, in fond terms, as eccentric. The most colourful 'blue collars' are less fondly called headbangers, or worse. And yet those two extremes rub along just fine.

The working classes, with the exception of the headbangers, (or worse), are what’s known as the salt of the earth, whatever that means. They drink proper, builder's tea, enjoy themselves when they go out, and spend their wages on holidays to Spain and bingo on Fridays. They are statistically more likely to win the lottery, because the other two social classes don’t play it. OK, that’s a generalisation but we can’t caveat everything. You get the drift. 

The real poopers, everywhere, from the Tierra Del Fuego northwards, are those people who fancy themselves in the middle: the ones with the sharp elbows and the Mulberry bags on the table. The ones with sons called Santiago and daughters called Pandora, who will open the box and flick hope out while they’re at it. They always sit on the school board and have selfish hair which demands a weekly trip to the salon. 

Nowhere is this type more typified, more condensed, than on a Tuesday night in The Royal Swan. Here, they command their own room, (an old store house tastefully restyled in the theme of Camelot), and after much initial braying, someone invariably taps an expensive shoe on the table and calls matters to order. The latest book, which they skim-read on Wiki, is fished out of designer bags and gently set down, with decorative bookmarks and uncreased spines. For insightful commentary, they consult Amazon reviews and focus laser-like on the most prickly critiques. 

They are still working their way through The Oberleutnant’s Wife, (four stars), a process which takes longer than it should on account of all those visits to the salon. Recently they have all lost weight, and they stretch credulity praising Weight Watchers when it’s clear they’re stabbing their stubborn flesh with the Mounjaro injection plan. There are certainly some startling cheekbones emerging in the low light of the Camelot Room. From a certain angle they resemble a Bosch depiction of a spherical Last Supper, but without the restraining hand of Jesus. 

It’s hard to get help on Book Club night. Teenage staff have been known to beg for a Saturday night rather than serve the fortnightly gathering of the hags on a much quieter, and less socially sticky Tuesday. For this reason, the landlord is sublimely delighted that Kate doesn’t seem to mind at all. She is one of those dreamy people who just lets life buffet them this way and that like a weightless branch on the ocean wave.

He glances at her fondly as she carefully arranges the tea bags into small china cups. They had initially demanded a tea pot, but David put his foot down. All British tea pots dribble, everyone knows this, so they have had to settle for a string (an unattractive image), hanging over the lip and attached to a floating, bloating teabag which slowly swells to resemble a dead Emperor Moth in a nuclear puddle. Beneath the window, the one that gives out on the car park, there is an urn containing hot water. This spout also dribbles. 

Every fortnight they want a different tea, and they spend more time deciding which one than ever discussing the merits of the book. This week it’s Gunpowder Green, and it smells bad, like grass that’s fallen foul of a warthog. The tea is a precursor, a social nicety, an Oh! I mustn’t get tipsy! deviancy from the real intent, which is to get bollocksed on Chardonnay. This comes later, and there are few things worse when that moment arrives. A dozen drunk women is an assault on all the senses. The carnage of Waterloo without the victory. But before this begins, during the quieter overture, is when Kate gracefully places tea cups and carefully poised spoons before each woman. No one says thank you, but as she arrives at the eighth person on the tea run, they begin to discuss the Grand National in four days’ time. 

‘I think Shakespeare’s Cod Piece stands a good chance ..’

‘Possibly, but I’ve been told that Robespierre’s Orange is good for an each-way.’

‘I’ve already put money on the Green Marauder.’ 

The Oberleutnant sat, unread and misunderstood on the round table while their voices rose to a splitting pitch. Kate, who has a soft voice, waited for a brief cessation of sound and mentioned, as if to herself, that she’d had a dream about the winner of the National just the night before. ‘I’m never wrong,’ she said intriguingly as she made to leave the room. 

‘Wait!’ said the woman with the tapping shoe. ‘What did you dream?’

Kate turned her head slowly. ‘I’m sorry! Are you talking to me?’

‘Yes! yes!’ said another. ‘What was the name of the horse?’

‘Oh I don’t remember,’ said Kate. ‘It’s so annoying! But I’m sure it was a tea …’

‘Come back!’ A dozen voices shrieked, but Kate did not come back. She returned to the bar. 

The Book Club finished much earlier than usual that night. Once the tea had been drunk, they retired to the public lounge and ordered their Chardonnay in a jostling gaggle which threatened to block the bar. 

‘What was the livery?’

‘I’m sorry, I really can’t remember. Perhaps I saw a flash of green? Not too much green .. just a bit.’

‘Shakespeare’s Cod Piece has green and white diamonds.’

‘But what does that have to do with tea?’

‘Oh yes.' 

‘Green tea! The Green Marauder!’

‘But there’s no green on the jersey.’ 

‘What about the colour of the horse?’

‘Sorry, I just don't remember. All I can think of is tea. Everything else is gone. Perhaps I’ll dream it again tonight.’

‘Are you in tomorrow? Do you take drugs? Would drugs help? Can we get you drugs?'

‘No, and no thanks. I’m not in again until Saturday lunchtime.’

‘The race doesn’t start ’til four ..’

‘Well, if you come early-doors, I’ll see if I’ve remembered anything else,’ said Kate, pouring a Sambuca from the optic. Last orders had been called. She was allowed a couple of snifters at this time of night. 

‘Right, wonderful,’ they collectively murmured before leaving a huge tip on the bar. 

*****

For the next three nights, the members of the Book Club came in at various intervals, furtively and alone. ‘I don’t suppose that girl …’

‘Kate,’ David would say. ‘That girl is called Kate.’

‘Well has she? I mean, have you heard anything?’

‘You see, I’m thinking Resplendent Grey because of the Earl, East India Dock, because of the tea clippers, or Lemon Tree. Lemon Tree has a green hat!’

‘At a push it could be Robespierre’s Orange, as in orange pekoe, but there’s no green on the livery …’

They’re not really talking to David. He has lottery tickets in his back pocket. And to be fair to David, he’s not listening. Different frequencies.

*****

There was some nervousness about the conditions at Aintree on the day. It had rained heavily overnight and well into the morning, so the going was soft. This didn’t suit some of the favourites, (who favoured good to soft), but the Book Club were not concerned by such pedantic equine hoofiness. That girl had had a dream and that girl said she was never wrong. They arrived en masse at one o’clock and followed Kate around as she was going about her waitressing duties. 

‘Any more dreams?’

‘Any more clues?’

‘Was the green on the hat or the jersey?’

In the end, David had to step in and ask them to sit down. They were busy with food orders until the race began. This left them with nothing to do but consult the form again, and see which one most fit the scant pickings of the dream. 

With ten minutes before the starting gun, Kate wandered dreamily over. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, although her face didn’t quite match the regret. ‘I can’t give you anything more. I saw tea, I saw a green flash and a black horse —’

There was a collective intake of breath and twelve voices shouted, ‘Black horse? You never mentioned a black horse …’ 

‘Didn’t I?’ She said. ‘I’m sure I did.’

‘You bloody well did not!’ shouted the shoe-tapper and chairman of the PTA. 

‘Didn’t I?’ Kate said again, pulling her apron off and disappearing into the kitchen. 

With minutes to go, the women wildly scrambled for a black horse, but there were only two: both rank outsiders at 125-1 and neither with names that had anything at all to do with tea. It is true that one of them carried a green lightening bolt on the jersey, but it wasn’t enough to persuade them, so stuck were they on the leafy beverage. 

In the end, at the last minute, they settled, for the most part, on Lemon Tree. The horse was not black, but it was a very dark brown. The mare was also one of the favourites. Some broke ranks and went with other horses which fitted the description, (the Green Marauder did well), and with seconds to spare and all bets placed, the ladies of the Book Club settled down to an anxious watch. 

When Lemon Tree fell at the third jump, several ladies turned queasy. The shoe-tapper had bet the family holiday to Greece on it plus all the spending money for the skiing trip they had planned the following week. Others were equally green. Almost as green as the lightening bolt on Tiny Tim’s livery as he won by a black nose. 

*****

Later, when the pub was quieter and Kate’s shift was finished, she allowed herself to get a little dreamier still with Sambuca. To her right was the landlord, David. To her left was the old squire, he of eccentric habits, a walled garden and a one hundred and sixty year old tortoise called Greystoke. He also had a leak in the attic. 

‘Can’t believe it,’ said David, for the hundredth time. ‘Tiny Tim - all the T’s! You were right all along, Kate. Critical thinking.’ He tapped his nose. 

‘What happens if you have a bad dream?’ asked the squire. 

‘I don’t bet on those,’ she said. 

David had put £5,000 on the black horse, Kate £800, and the impoverished squire £500. The landlord won £630K, the waitress £108K and the squire £63K. As they were getting pleasantly buzzed on alcohol, David realised that the Book Club hadn’t requested their tea choice for the next meeting. 

‘Won’t be lemon tea,’ he said. 

‘Won’t be any tea,’ said Kate. ‘They won’t be back.’

‘How do you know?’ asked the squire. 

‘I had a dream,’ she said.