These Lovers Did Plenty Of Exotic Horseplaying During A Honeymoon

It was the winter of 1966, but like the whirlwind courtship itself, the dialogue was vintage Bogart and Bacall. I recall saying, my upper lip pulled taut over my teeth, "You know, shweetheart, we're sure to get married sometime. Either this month or next." We'd met the previous week. This was our third date.

And Faith said, arching an eyebrow, "What about tonight, big boy?"

Around midnight I felt a final moment of indecision a few miles south of the Delaware Bridge toll booth as we sped toward Maryland and its no-blood-test marriage laws. "You know, maybe we ought to get to know one another just a little better," I said.

"But we're both gamblers, aren't we?" she said, referring to the fact that we'd whiled away many an afternoon playing the ponies. I nodded. "Then we ought to take the chance," she said.

The proposal was in Manhattan, the wedding in Elkton, Md. and the honeymoon in London, Paris and Athens. We had every intention of filling our days in Europe with shopping and sightseeing, but no sooner had we set foot on English soil than we heard about a hunt meeting (races over hurdles and hedges) at Sandown Park, only a half hour's train ride from Victoria Station. So much for Harrod's and the Tower of London.

On the way out to the track, Faith sat opposite a small, stocky man, large-headed, gap-toothed, the sort of chap who plays the loyal corporal in British war movies. His most distinctive features, far more noticeable than the teeth, were two bushy eyebrows raised high over very naughty eyes. "You know, these here jockeys has a way to make the horses fall when they want 'em to," he said to no one in particular as soon as the train began to roll. "I've seen races where they would do anything rather than let their horses come in first. 'Course, they were better at it in the old days; used to slip off themselves rather than tumble the animal, especially if the ground was nice and soft after a deep rain. That way they didn't have to shoot 'em."

Faith laughed as she said, "Shoot who, the rider or the horse?" I looked at her as if she were a stranger, which she practically was.

"Nothing much to lose when you fall off a 1-to-2 shot," he continued, "but if you were to fall off up at Mother Kilpatrick's in Soho, then you've really lost something, haven't you, boys?"

At his tastelessness there was a breathy gasp among the group in the compartment. But Faith giggled. For half an hour more nothing was said. The rustling of newspapers set the tone. At Sandown people got off the train with an air of controlled excitement, and for a moment Faith and I were separated. When I caught her hand again, she said. "Why, that nice little man. He gave me the first two races—No. 9, Hasty Lad, and No. 5, Bromo. Did it because he said we were in love."

"Hah."