Lowaicue
英語在香港
Lady Van de Meer's Win
Two red taxis sped along the Tolo highway and two taxi drivers who knew that all westerners were crazy asked two ladies each to remove their somewhat exaggerated headgear which blocked completely their rear windows.
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked the girls to remove their titfers.’ It was Bunny Badgewick who had interpreted for he, alone of all the ex-pats on the Dragon's Back, had successfully completed the Cantonese course that they had all joined in childish enthusiasm all those years ago.
‘I'll be damned if I’ll remove mine,’ said Cecilia Van de Meer, the daughter of a comparatively minor baronet who was sometimes chided with the title, Your Ladyship.
Bunny, whose firm had coughed up a debenture of several million several years previously had handed out the membership badges, small, numbered cards on string, when they met in the bar of the Riverside Hotel and, upon arrival at the grand, red carpeted, Jockey Club entrance, dealt the remaining dozen to those who had made their own way to the track.
The gentlemen in their tropical suits and the ladies, some glistening in the thirty four degree heat, entered the stadium, under the keen eyes of a hundred security men, and made for the capacious lifts that would rocket them away from the boiling hoi polloi to the comfort the company box on the sixth floor.
The half dozen tables, each laid to perfection had, in their centres, crystal glass dispensers of race cards. One male attendant and one female hung on every word from Bunny and within seconds bottles of Vee-Click were popping all over the place. The screens, one mounted on each wall so no one should suffer a cricked neck, were already showing the runners and riders of the one forty five Owners Cup.
There followed something of a panic as betting cards were completed and taken hurriedly to one of the dozens of betting desks.
Algernon Twygge who sat at one of the front tables returned from placing his bet hoping that someone would enquire as to the weight of his 'investment' but no one did and he was forced to make endeavours to introduce it into the conversation apropos of nothing in particular.
The horses were off and everyone filed, Vee-Click in hand, out onto the baking terrace. Despite his vocal encouragement Algernon lost.
‘Lose, Toothy?’ Asked a fellow follower of the small white pill.
‘A bit,’ replied Toothy Twygge, but was disinclined to say more.
Cecilia Van de Meer had lost too and was 200 dollars down.
All betting in Hong Kong is through the Hong Kong Jockey Club. There are no bookmakers just the tote. Enough to keep a majority of Hong Kong men amused twice a week throughout the season.
Bunny Badgewick put down his pen, picked up his completed card and made his way through soft, red carpeted corridors to the desks.
By the three o'clock the relationship between Mrs. Attila Clanfield, her husband and Vee-Click had developed into something of a ménage a trois and Attila was, wisely I thought, keeping his distance outside on the terrace. There is not much a chap can do in such circumstances and he was well advised to seek the company of other males. Cecilia had continued losing all afternoon and was now several thousand dollars in the red. She also had been somewhat seduced by alcohol and was becoming decidedly unsteady on her four inch high heels. On perusing the runners of the sixth of seven races her eye alighted on Sissy's Lad at ridiculously long odds of one hundred to one. Cecilia staggered to the tote and slammed her two remaining goldfish on the counter. She took the ticket and made her way back to the box. The horses ran but Cecelia was sitting at her table with her head thrown back and her mouth wide open snoring like an express train. Bunny shook her shoulders. ‘Come on old girl,’ he said, ‘come on Lady Cecilia.’
An eye flickered. ‘Who won?’ She slurred.
‘Horse called Sissy's Lad. No one had it - outsider.’
'What? what? What was it called?’
‘Sissy's Lad.’
Cecilia Van de Meer rose to her feet and left the room.
By the time the last horse in the last race had stumbled over the line and the light was beginning to fade Mrs Attila Clanfield was firmly wedded to the Vee-Click and consummation had occurred. Her straw hair hung across her face and what remained of the latest application of lipstick hung precariously to the lips for which it was designed. Her head lay on the once pristine tablecloth, which now bore the signs of much of the menu, and periodically rose sufficiently to hurl abuse at the hapless Attila.
Bunny suggested that Attila might care to take his wife home in a taxi but the task became Bunny's upon the refusal and disappearance of the said Clanfield.
Toothy Twigge had, by now, lost far too much and had, perforce, remained horribly and boringly sober all afternoon.
Lady Cecilia Van de Meer was missing.
And so it was that bloated with the best food money could buy several of the party retired to the Riverside Hotel, some went home, Bunny played the knight and took the unfortunate Mrs Attila Clanfield home.
Attila walked into his office the following morning as if nothing had happened but dressed for the races.
Lady Cecilia Van de Meer awoke in the lonely opulence of room number eight on the eighth floor of the Peninsular Hotel. She took a long, rose petalled bath, ate a lightly cooked omelette and called her husband to say she might come home later that day or later that week or never and replaced the phone in its cradle. Life with nearly two hundred thousand of her own hard won dollars was going to be sweet for a couple of days at least and the kindly concierge had procured two tickets for her and Mrs Attila Clanfield to see the Hong Kong repertory theatre’s production of ‘Lady Windermere’s Fan’.
Two red taxis sped along the Tolo highway and two taxi drivers who knew that all westerners were crazy asked two ladies each to remove their somewhat exaggerated headgear which blocked completely their rear windows.
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked the girls to remove their titfers.’ It was Bunny Badgewick who had interpreted for he, alone of all the ex-pats on the Dragon's Back, had successfully completed the Cantonese course that they had all joined in childish enthusiasm all those years ago.
‘I'll be damned if I’ll remove mine,’ said Cecilia Van de Meer, the daughter of a comparatively minor baronet who was sometimes chided with the title, Your Ladyship.
Bunny, whose firm had coughed up a debenture of several million several years previously had handed out the membership badges, small, numbered cards on string, when they met in the bar of the Riverside Hotel and, upon arrival at the grand, red carpeted, Jockey Club entrance, dealt the remaining dozen to those who had made their own way to the track.
The gentlemen in their tropical suits and the ladies, some glistening in the thirty four degree heat, entered the stadium, under the keen eyes of a hundred security men, and made for the capacious lifts that would rocket them away from the boiling hoi polloi to the comfort the company box on the sixth floor.
The half dozen tables, each laid to perfection had, in their centres, crystal glass dispensers of race cards. One male attendant and one female hung on every word from Bunny and within seconds bottles of Vee-Click were popping all over the place. The screens, one mounted on each wall so no one should suffer a cricked neck, were already showing the runners and riders of the one forty five Owners Cup.
There followed something of a panic as betting cards were completed and taken hurriedly to one of the dozens of betting desks.
Algernon Twygge who sat at one of the front tables returned from placing his bet hoping that someone would enquire as to the weight of his 'investment' but no one did and he was forced to make endeavours to introduce it into the conversation apropos of nothing in particular.
The horses were off and everyone filed, Vee-Click in hand, out onto the baking terrace. Despite his vocal encouragement Algernon lost.
‘Lose, Toothy?’ Asked a fellow follower of the small white pill.
‘A bit,’ replied Toothy Twygge, but was disinclined to say more.
Cecilia Van de Meer had lost too and was 200 dollars down.
All betting in Hong Kong is through the Hong Kong Jockey Club. There are no bookmakers just the tote. Enough to keep a majority of Hong Kong men amused twice a week throughout the season.
Bunny Badgewick put down his pen, picked up his completed card and made his way through soft, red carpeted corridors to the desks.
By the three o'clock the relationship between Mrs. Attila Clanfield, her husband and Vee-Click had developed into something of a ménage a trois and Attila was, wisely I thought, keeping his distance outside on the terrace. There is not much a chap can do in such circumstances and he was well advised to seek the company of other males. Cecilia had continued losing all afternoon and was now several thousand dollars in the red. She also had been somewhat seduced by alcohol and was becoming decidedly unsteady on her four inch high heels. On perusing the runners of the sixth of seven races her eye alighted on Sissy's Lad at ridiculously long odds of one hundred to one. Cecilia staggered to the tote and slammed her two remaining goldfish on the counter. She took the ticket and made her way back to the box. The horses ran but Cecelia was sitting at her table with her head thrown back and her mouth wide open snoring like an express train. Bunny shook her shoulders. ‘Come on old girl,’ he said, ‘come on Lady Cecilia.’
An eye flickered. ‘Who won?’ She slurred.
‘Horse called Sissy's Lad. No one had it - outsider.’
'What? what? What was it called?’
‘Sissy's Lad.’
Cecilia Van de Meer rose to her feet and left the room.
By the time the last horse in the last race had stumbled over the line and the light was beginning to fade Mrs Attila Clanfield was firmly wedded to the Vee-Click and consummation had occurred. Her straw hair hung across her face and what remained of the latest application of lipstick hung precariously to the lips for which it was designed. Her head lay on the once pristine tablecloth, which now bore the signs of much of the menu, and periodically rose sufficiently to hurl abuse at the hapless Attila.
Bunny suggested that Attila might care to take his wife home in a taxi but the task became Bunny's upon the refusal and disappearance of the said Clanfield.
Toothy Twigge had, by now, lost far too much and had, perforce, remained horribly and boringly sober all afternoon.
Lady Cecilia Van de Meer was missing.
And so it was that bloated with the best food money could buy several of the party retired to the Riverside Hotel, some went home, Bunny played the knight and took the unfortunate Mrs Attila Clanfield home.
Attila walked into his office the following morning as if nothing had happened but dressed for the races.
Lady Cecilia Van de Meer awoke in the lonely opulence of room number eight on the eighth floor of the Peninsular Hotel. She took a long, rose petalled bath, ate a lightly cooked omelette and called her husband to say she might come home later that day or later that week or never and replaced the phone in its cradle. Life with nearly two hundred thousand of her own hard won dollars was going to be sweet for a couple of days at least and the kindly concierge had procured two tickets for her and Mrs Attila Clanfield to see the Hong Kong repertory theatre’s production of ‘Lady Windermere’s Fan’.
