The sun beat down on Sandown Park, as it always did on the first weekend of July. We couldn’t remember it being anything other than baking heat for the Eclipse Stakes, we veterans of the racing circuit. And at seventeen we were veterans, long ago graduating from the giggly groupies of seasons past. Eclipse day may not have been our seasonal highlight, but it represented the epitome of a day at the races.

It wasn’t only the guaranteed sunshine, that brought with it an array of embroidered canvas pumps, rara skirts and - that curse of the early eighties - the Lady Di Blouse. It was the course itself, and the coming together of the racing clans, that made each Eclipse day more memorable than the last.

We gathered, as always, at our own meeting spot - in front of the weighing room. Every racecourse in the country had one, and we had gathered habitually at each and every one of them. Deborah and Vicky were usually first on the scene; myself and Kim joining them, and whatever gathering had by then assembled.

But this season things were different. We had become ‘items’, paired off in speedy racecourse fashion with young men who had merely been friends in previous years. We had been upgraded in racecourse society, our little clique gaining in elitism. No longer did we depend upon our big brother-cum-guardian jockeys to fetch us in to the racecourse as their non-paying guests. Now we entered as the partners of the up and coming apprentices; the sudden equals of those we had once looked up to. And, more importantly, the sudden equals of their partners.

We had gained access to ‘the summer house’, the little wooden pergola for the auctioneer of selling races, in which gathered the females of the racecourse, to gossip and socialise. We liked to meet there, too; but only ‘off-peak’. If it was vacant it was our own territory, but we always knew that we had to concede to the higher ranking females, when the time came. The pecking order of the racecourse; the law of the jungle.

‘Look! That’s new,’ Vicky declared, after we’d exchanged excited greetings. It never seemed like only a week since we’d last all congregated. We followed her gaze and headed, in a swarm, to a small tent, just between the weighing room and summer house. To our delight it contained jockeys’ equipment. The three young jockeys among us remained unaffected, but we poured over the whips and skull caps and saddlery with a wistful longing.

The Zilco saddle took pride of place and with it all our attention. We saw them on the backs of much-loved horses and below the backsides of much-admired jockeys. Perhaps we saw the possession of one as a way of putting ourselves into that image. Whatever our reasons, we all wanted it. But the row of zeros on the price tag crushed our hopes. At £5.99, the multi-coloured racing whips were more accessible and we began to make our selections, choosing the colours carried by our idols. It was an opportunity to argue the merits of our favourite riders, rather than make any purchase. Boots, Jerry and Kermit joined in heartily. Saddlery meant no more to them than essential tools of the trade, but style and ability were their raison d’etre.

As Deborah and Boots rallied to the defence of Steve Cauthen, Deborah brandishing his blue trademark whip in an ever more threatening fashion, so Pete stepped in. Italian shirt flapping open to display a bronzen chest; sunglasses with a designer logo on each lens as obvious as the zeros on the Zilco price tag.

‘Put those back,’ he told us cheerfully, ‘there are loads of spares floating about in the changing room. I’ll fetch you some out.’

I looked at Kermit. He’d never mentioned the availability of souvenir racing whips. He shrugged, in typical French fashion. The lads in his stable had been particularly unimaginative when dishing out the nicknames. Boots, who had once put in his first day at the stables in a pair of wellingtons two sizes too big, grinned.

‘Choose one, and a rider in the next race will come out a whip short!’ he whispered.

‘Backing anything in the next race?’ Pete inquired.

‘Jerry’s mount,’ we all said with confidence, not that we ever did actually have a bet.

‘Do yourselves a favour and have a few bob extra on it,’ Pete told us with a wink. We understood his request and nodded our assent. He headed back to the weighing room, together with Jerry. Boots and Kermit were without rides and accompanied us to the summer house, albeit reluctantly.

The usual occupants were already gathered, most of whom were a good deal older than ourselves. Conversation appeared to be on the subject of ‘the funniest place you’ve ever had sex’. The husbands and partners currently preparing to enter the parade ring for the first race would have been less eager to do so had they known of the topic in the summer house. Boots and Kermit, crestfallen at the prospect of a session in the lion’s den, quite suddenly brightened up.

The runners entered the parade ring for the first race and we beat a hasty retreat to view them, glad to escape interrogation from our seniors. Settling down on the ringside stools, we took notes and photos in equal measures; our equine friends meaning more to us than their riders we so idolised. And with the horses came the habitual disjointed conversation with the lad leading up. There was rarely time for more than a brief sentence before the pair had passed out of earshot once more, heading off on another circuit of the paddock before resuming the chat. Most racecourse discussions were conducted in this manner.

The jockeys entered and mounted up.

‘No wonder he’s always got a bad back!’ Vicky giggled, remembering the summer house gossip as one of the riders was led past. He knotted his reins, mercifully oblivious to our laughter.

We followed the last of the runners out of the parade ring and down the woodchip path that led out onto the course, taking the opportunity to snap yet more shots, against a backdrop of high brick wall and rhododendrons. The horses cantered away and we found a vacant spot on the lawns, just beyond the winning post, laying back on the grass and basking in the glorious sunshine. Deborah and Boots began to kiss, while the rest of us grimaced at such a public show of slush. Kermit and I preferred to wrap our tongues around the subject of the horses we had just seen.

No one stirred as the race went off, content simply to lie back on the grass and listen to the commentary. The races themselves held the least interest for us. Usually we looked upon them as foregone conclusions, having already formulated the correct finishing order when studying the runners in the parade ring. Attitude, fitness, class and conformation were the be all and end all. We never paid heed to form or to the race itself. Nine times out of ten we had no need to. We had none of us been corrupted by the urge to gamble, our knowledge clouded by the pressure of investment.

Too late, we remembered Pete’s bet. He’d wanted us to back Jerry’s mount for him, but we had better things to do than push through the crowded betting ring. We had the lawns and the sunshine and the heavy vibration of the horses hooves ringing up through the turf, as Jerry won the first race.

We met him as he was led back up the path, as breathless as his mount; broad gestures describing his win. Gentle applause, reminiscent of a cricket match, welcomed him in to the winners’ enclosure and we leant lazily on the wooden rails, listening to his details of the race. Pete joined us, not really expecting good news. His commissions were as much a tease as his flirting. He made an excuse about the lack of spare whips and promised them for next time. The horses left the winners’ enclosure and another set appeared in the paddock, our cue to leave.

Back out to the lawns, in front of the winning post. Deborah and Boots resumed their cuddle. The race was won and lost. The perpetual circle of winners’ enclosure, paddock and sunbathing on the lawn took us through the remainder of the afternoon.

Pete joined us for the last race, as we lay back on the sun-drenched grass and spoke of races long gone, horses long dead. Pete told us that the course was said to be haunted by past champions, and we could well believe him. It was a pleasant, rather than eerie, thought.

The runners came out for the last and began to canter down past us.

‘It’ll be quicker to get off and walk!’ jeered Pete at Kermit, as Kermit took his mount down at a slow hack. They didn’t come back much faster, either.

‘Get off and walk!’ yelled Pete, as Kermit trailed home in last place.

Louder than usual cheers and jeers followed him past from the wags in the stand.

‘Get back on, I was only joking!’ quipped Pete, as an elderly streaker chased after the last of the runners. A policeman caught up with the naked pensioner just in front of us and earned even more laughter by hastily removing his helmet and covering the old man’s face!

We stood up lazily and went across to meet Kermit, following him back to the weighing room for the final time, to say our goodbyes. He and Boots were sharing a flight to Nottingham for the evening racing. Jerry was taking Vicky and Deborah home. I prepared to walk across the course to the station, and Pete offered his services as an escort.

We strolled across the empty racecourse, crossing the home straight at the two furlong marker, where the real action in a race begins. Pete spoke of driving finishes and races snatched from the fire; of tactics and cunning; of style and technique. Already we were crossing the back straight, where those tactics were formulated and riders prepared to put them into action.

A low rumbling sound was felt rather than heard, vibrating up through the turf. The unmistakable drumming of horses’ hooves, rhythmic and glorious, growing ever louder. Horses working out on the course after racing, already upon us.

‘Freeze!’ Pete urged, putting out an arm to prevent me taking another step forward. ‘Freeze, and they’ll go round us.’

But they didn’t go round us.

No horses came at all.

We looked around, slightly stunned and shaken. No horses, no noise. The ghostly hoof beats still vibrated through our minds and we both thought of Pete’s past champions.

‘See you on Monday.’

‘Mind how you go.’

I was still thinking of champions past as the next London train rumbled up to the platform, the rhythmic beat of the wheels on the sleepers suddenly familiar as they shook the ground below my feet. Preferring to ignore my enlightenment, I boarded the train and we rumbled away, parallel with the hedge that separated the train track from the back straight; and carrying with me my ghosts of Sandown Park.