It was the first Saturday in November as we filed through the gates at Doncaster racecourse. The weather was bright and fresh, but our little group was sombre and dismal. Most unusual for a group of four, normally giggly, teenage girls - but this was not a normal day’s racing. We were there to see out the final day of the British Flat racing season and we were suitably in mourning. It was a point of honour among us that we would not, under any circumstances, enjoy ourselves. Grim-faced, we would show our allegiance and devotion to the Flat to the bitter end.

Our group consisted of Deborah, Vicky, Kim and myself. The other stalwart members of our clique had been too depressed and saddened by the occasion to make the long trip. And so we had walked into the familiar grounds of the racecourse expecting to attend a funeral... and found, instead, a party in full swing. We were horrified and indignant.

‘Hiya girls!’ Pete greeted us from the window of the jockeys’ changing room, with a cheeriness that, under the circumstances, we found offensive. We glared at him with a practised frostiness, reserved for anyone who failed to observe the solemnity of the occasion. Unable to spot the ice through his designer sunglasses, Pete simply blew us a kiss. Stronger females than ourselves had melted under less, but we gallantly stuck to our principles, courageously overcoming the urge to swoon and giggle.

How we would miss the flirtations of Pete. How we would miss everyone. There would be no more racing until the end of March, in four long months time, and we were faced with a bleak, miserable winter. It gave Christmas cold turkey a whole new meaning. What we failed to take into consideration was that the jockeys we would so miss were waving a fond farewell to the past gruelling eight months of solid hard work, starvation and cold British weather. They were all off to the warmer climes of such places as Barbados, India, South Africa, Australia, California and Hong Kong. Where racing took place for just two or three days each week, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a well-deserved holiday on warm, golden sands. With or without our approval, the party was going to continue.

Against such insurmountable odds we were bound to lose our grim battle at some point during the afternoon. Vicky was the first to crack. As we stood outside the weighing room, lamenting the loss of our loved ones - both four-legged and two-legged - Vicky’s particular loved one joined us. Within minutes they were huddled together, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Deborah’s disapproval was beyond measure.

‘And when will you be leaving for the winter, Gerry?’ she asked coldly. It was hard to remember that she was as fond of Gerry as Vicky was. Talk of his departure was guaranteed to reduce them both to tears, and Vicky’s merriment certainly came to an abrupt end. But Gerry dismissively crushed Deborah’s attempt at saving the day. He informed us all - to the delight of some more than others - that he would be remaining on our shores to enjoy a spot of hunting. Until his annual Bajan holiday in January, he would be well within visiting distance.

Vicky was a lost cause, and Kim and I were beginning to get swept away by the atmosphere. Instead of shedding tears over the horses who had retired from racing, never to be seen in the parade ring again, we started to discuss our younger favourites, who would reappear the following season a year older and all the more impressive. Deborah, seeing our pact of gloom and doom fall asunder, began to sulk. It was the final invitation to join the party.

We left Vicky and Gerry to their childish gossip; we left Deborah to wallow in her pity; and we went to look at the runners for the first race, now full of the eager excitement of a day at the races. The ringing of the horses’ hooves was muffled slightly by the sand on the concrete path, sticking in places to freshly applied hoof oil, the smell of which wafted tantalisingly in the wake of each horse. We gulped down the scent of hoof oil, the glorious aroma of leather saddles, and the ever-present smell of the horses themselves, as though the delicious blend was a life-giving drug. Snorts and whinnies mingled with parade ring banter as we subconsciously absorbed overheard remarks and conversations.

Nattering nineteen to the dozen ourselves, we paused only to wave cheerily at familiar faces, note down descriptions of the horses in our racecards, and to respond to the enjoyable teasing of Pete, wandering around with an Italian-designed coat over the top of his silks and breeches; his sunglasses incongruous for November. With reluctance, we had to admit that we were too young to put bets on for him, even if he was prepared to risk losing his jockey’s licence by asking us to do so. We were flattered to be told that we looked older, never dreaming that within so few years we would be insulted by the same observation.

We spotted one of his colleagues chatting up a beautiful young woman and watched with amusement as Pete gave a couple of children, who hovered nearby with autograph books, some ice-cream money in return for a favour. The children skipped across to John and his would-be girlfriend and tugged at his arm.

‘Daddy, Daddy! Mummy says to tell you to hurry up!’

We were surprised when Deborah deigned to join us in time to see the jockeys mount up for the first race. She usually spent all her time standing outside the weighing room, discussing horses and races she never left the weighing room long enough to see. Paul, an occasional member of our clique, was riding in the race and, being particularly tall and gangly, was coming in for a little friendly abuse. Enjoying the jocular ‘last day of school’ atmosphere, we suggested that he use a crane to hoist him up onto his horse. He responded by frantically waving his arms around like a windmill as he stepped up into the saddle.

Deborah was singularly unimpressed by his antics and sank deeper into her sulk. Breaking every known rule of racing etiquette, Paul waved to us from his horse and struck up a brief conversation with us as he was led past. This was just too much for Deborah, who, at fifteen, belonged firmly to the old school of traditionalists. She believed that during working hours jockeys should be seen but not heard. Any rider acknowledging her from the parade ring was committing as deadly a sin as failing to acknowledge her from the weighing room.

The race over, we all returned to the weighing room, to watch the presentation being made for the Lanson Champagne Jockey of the Month. The prize of a crate of Lanson’s finest had been won by poor Jeff, tucked up in bed with ‘flu’ at his home in Berkshire. Pete very kindly offered to take the crate home to Jeff, and no one questioned the fact that Pete himself lived in Suffolk.

Pete disappeared into the jockeys’ changing room, together with the crate of vintage bubbly, and Gerry was quick to follow, hinting that we would do well to linger by the changing room window. Very shortly the window was opened and glasses filled to the brim were handed out to us - a mere drop in the ocean of champagne flowing on the other side of the window.

Ginger, aptly named with his fiery red hair, was sitting on the bench alongside the window and, as we chatted to Gerry, we carelessly watched a valet pulling off Ginger’s riding boots. It was a strenuous task, the ultra-tight boots edging their way down his calves an inch at a time, pulling the breeches down with them. Whenever our attention wavered, Ginger joined in our conversation, always ensuring that our eyes were on him. It was all so casually staged that we were completely unaware of any set-up. But the grand finale left us in no doubt that we’d been had. The breeches crept down to reveal that Ginger was wearing absolutely nothing beneath them. Our squeals were entirely drowned out by the laughter of his colleagues.

Race followed race and drink followed drink. As the final race drew closer we were all - Deborah included - in a merry state; intoxicated by the atmosphere, the camaraderie, the strong sense of belonging. We didn’t need alcohol to raise us to that higher plain.

A lone bugler heralded the final race of the British Flat season, appropriately named the Last Post Handicap. Inside the jockeys’ room, spirits soared to a new high, but outside our mood suddenly reflected the mournful music. It had been our first full season as racegoers and that afternoon we had come to understand just what we would be missing. This time we tried to fight the sorrow, we tried to laugh and joke as we saw out the last of the year’s runners; but our cheeriness was as false as our earlier solemnity had been.

Racing over, officials turning a blind eye to their duties, we entered the hallowed shrine of the weighing room - each one of us sitting on the scales in turn and sending the needle soaring up to previously unreached heights, even without saddles and weight-cloths filled with lead upon our knees. We joined our friends - our family - in the changing room, finishing the final dregs of Jeff’s prize, accepting fruit cake and sandwiches because the height of the needle on the scales meant nothing to us. The party mood became more subdued as each of us in turn said our goodbyes and reflected upon what we would be leaving behind.

One by one we watched our former heroes walking away; just mortals now, dressed in suits and overcoats. But heroes or mortals, they were something more to the four of us. Among them were our self-appointed guardians, big brother figures, and - for those of us who had failed to dodge Cupid’s first shots - our first loves.

We left the racecourse gates as we had entered them, quiet and subdued, our hearts filled with sorrow. But this time we weren’t dragging our feet along the ground; we were floating high above it.