A short story about Henry Brown who was one of my very first racehorse owners
One of my first clients was a chap called Henry Brown way back in 1958. Henry was a farmer at The Grange, East Lilling. A tall slim fellow, Henry was a likeable chap but he was as tight as a duck's arse. He wouldn't spend a penny more than he had to, and to be honest he didn't even like to spend that.
I trained a horse called Steal A March for Henry. Steal A March was the first horse to run 50 times for me as a trainer but he had a terrible habit of finishing second.
Henry would come down to the yard every morning to see if Steal A March had eaten up. But the thing I most remember about Henry was his stutter, the likes of which I have never heard before.
Henry would go inspect the horse, then he'd come over to the house and address me in his usual way.
"Mur-mur-mur-mike-ill".
There was always a very pronounced 'ill' on the end of my name.
"Her-her-her-how about a drop of wer-wer-wer-whisky before I ger-ger-ger-go?"
So I'd pour him a small glass of Scotch and he'd have his drink and he'd be on his way. I think in the winter it warmed him up so he didn't need to light his fire at home.
One morning he came in and after his usual "mur-mur-mike-ill" and looked at me all serious.
"Oh bugger", I thought to meself. "What's he after?"
Henry was always after something for nothing and soon after came his request, albeit an unusual one.
"Me per-per-per-pal's died, can I ber-ber-ber-borrow yer ber-ber-blue suit for the fer-fer-fer-funeral?"
In the time he'd managed to spit out the whole sentence they'd probably had time to bur-bur-bury his pal four times over, but I agreed and he bundled up the suit and off he went, after a prolonged "ther-ther-ther-thank you".
Henry returned the suit after the funeral and I thought that was the end of the matter.
About ten days later, during a regular morning visit, a second request was made.
"Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur-mike-ill, can I ber-ber-ber-borrow yer ser-ser-suit again?" stammered Henry.
"It's me pal's ber-ber-ber-birthday and he's asked me round for a ber-ber-bite to er-er-eat and I'd like to look smer-smer-smer-smart".
I knew that the skinflint would be there like a shot if free food was on the cards. Shaking my head in disbelief I reluctantly agreed to the loan and off went Henry with the suit, dutifully returning the garment the following morning.
Three weeks had passed when, after visiting his horse, Henry approached me again. I knew he was after something, you could tell by his manner.
"Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur-mike-ill."
"Oh no, please tell me it's not the suit again", I thought to meself.
"Me per-per-per-pal's died", started Henry, "Can I ber-ber-ber-borrow yer suit again?"
By this time I'd had enough.
"Henry", I snapped at him. "Why don't you keep the blasted suit, don't bother bringing it back this time."
After a couple of minutes of prolonged ther-ther-thank yous off he went on his merry way, clearly delighted at the latest acquisition to his limited wardrobe.
That man had no shame when money, or more to the point not spending it, was involved.
But that was nothing compared to our trip to Pontefract to watch Steal A March run a few weeks later when I decided to get my own back and see just how far the man's meanness would stretch.
I'll tell you what happened at Pontefract and even more amusingly what happened on the journey home in the book and I'll also tell you an entertaining tale about Henry and I when we went to George Black's funeral. I could actually write a whole book just about Henry.
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