‘I assure you that I have never laughed at you, either now or at White Turf. But Jerry Dickinson might have done. He was certainly trying to make a quick buck for himself at your expense. Did he also charge you for my services?’
She nods. ‘A hundred quid. He told me he’d add it to my training fees account. He claimed you demanded it from me for looking after my horse after the race.’
What a bastard he is. But I already know that.
‘He charged the same amount to Susi Ashcroft. She told me. But it isn’t true. I never demanded anything from either of you.’
It seems to me that Jerry’s little attempt to swindle her out of a hundred pounds has annoyed her even more than him preventing her horse from winning 400 times that much in the race.
‘Jerry’s always been on the make,’ she says. ‘He’ll charge me extra for almost everything – I’m surprised he doesn’t add a percentage for the air the horses breathe. I know for a fact that he once sent a horse of mine all the way to Scotland to run, not because he thought it would win but just to make a few quid on what he charged me for the transport. And I know that because he did the same to another of his owners who I just happened to meet at a mutual friend’s dinner party. Our horses had gone together on the same damn horsebox but that hadn’t stopped Jerry charging both of us the full whack, as if each of ours had been on its own. I had words with him about that.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He claimed it was an administrative error by one of his staff, but I didn’t believe him for a second. He just got undone by a chance encounter between two of his owners.’
‘But you stuck with him, nevertheless?’
‘Yes, but I told him at the time that he had better not over-charge me again.’
‘And now he has.’
She is silent for some time, and then she sighs deeply.
‘Maybe it’s time for me to get out of this horseracing lark. I’m almost ninety and, if I’m not careful, some of the horses I own now will outlive me. Who in their right mind would take on a dead person’s horse? I hate to think of them going to the knackers before their time because no one wants them, and there’s no one left to pay the training fees.’
She pauses again for a moment and I just wait for her to continue.
‘Racing has cost me a small fortune over the last few years.’ She sighs again. ‘And a whole lot more besides.’
‘A friendship?’ I ask.
She looks across at me sharply as if surprised, then she slowly nods again.
‘Susi and I used to have so much fun together.’ She says it wistfully.
I feel for her. But racing has cost me a lot more than that.
Brenda claps her hands together as if making a decision. ‘Right. From now on I’ll not buy any more horses, and I’ll tell Jerry to gradually start selling those I’ve already got, especially the youngsters. I won’t tell him what’s prompted my change of heart. He can work that out for himself.’
I am pleased. It is more than I could have hoped for.
But my happiness doesn’t last.
I hear the front door being opened.
‘We’re home, Grandma,’ shouts a male voice with a New York accent.
The lions are back.
* * *
I think it is safe to say that Ronnie and Reggie are not pleased to see me in their grandmother’s kitchen.
In their usual ‘act first, think second’ manner they both advance on me, grabbing me by the upper arms.
I grimace as my fractured shoulder blade objects.
‘Steady, boys,’ I say. ‘I’m on your side.’
They relax a fraction but don’t let go of me. Far from it.
‘What do you want?’ the one on my right snarls into my ear.
‘I was talking to your grandmother about White Turf.’
They tighten their grip and I wince once more.
‘Leave him alone,’ Brenda orders. ‘He’s right. He’s on our side.’
They finally let go but they don’t move away, just in case I’m fooling them.
‘In what way, exactly, is he on our side?’ Tweedledum on my left asks his grandmother, the doubt heavy in his voice.
‘He told me why my horse didn’t win at St Moritz.’
‘And why was that?’ Tweedledee asks, grabbing me again by the right arm and making me jump with pain.
‘Will you stop doing that?’ I shout at him and, amazingly, he takes a step back.
‘Tell my boys what you told me,’ says Brenda.
So I do. I tell them everything – the weighted breast girth, the chain-mail boots, Jerry betting heavily on another horse – the lot. I even tell them of Jerry’s attempts to keep me quiet by putting a bag of cement on the Cresta Run as I was coming down.
‘Is that how you hurt your arm?’ Brenda asks.
‘It is indeed. The collision caused my right shoulder to dislocate.’
There is obvious relief in her face that it wasn’t the doing of her grandsons. I decide not to mention that I’d thought it was, and had said so to the Swiss police.
‘So what do we do now, Grandma?’ asked Declan or Justin, I don’t know which. ‘Do we go to the police?’
‘No, we certainly do not,’ Grandma says.
‘Then what?’
‘We do nothing.’
‘Nothing!’
‘This is all our little secret,’ Brenda says forcefully. ‘You will tell no one, do you understand? No one.’
The two boys eventually nod at her but it is abundantly clear from their demeanour that neither of them likes the idea of doing nothing.
‘I think you had better go now,’ Brenda says to me. ‘But thank you for coming.’
She sees me to the front door and even gives me a peck on the cheek as a parting gesture.
Beyond her, still in the kitchen, I can see her grandsons in a close conspiratorial conversation, as if they are planning to sort this out in their own special way.
And that’s what I am banking on.
* * *
But Rachel is cross with me when I tell her of my trip to Lambourn, and my confrontation with Jerry.
‘Why didn’t you tell me your plan yesterday?’ she demands.
We are once more lying naked in bed, side by side on our backs, in our room at the budget hotel near Victoria Station, having indulged in more therapy prior to going out to dinner, but I have just ruined the moment.
‘Because you’d have stopped me going.’
‘You’re bloody right I would. You must go to the police.’
‘Why must I?’ I ask.
‘Because, if this man has tried to kill you once, he may try it again.’
To be fair, the same thought has occurred to me too. That’s why I told Jerry that, in the event of something bad happening to me, all the details would be laid before both the British and Swiss police. That’s also the reason I’m telling Rachel now, so she knows the whole truth, and what to do with it, if such a situation were to occur.
‘Anyway,’ she says, propping herself up on one elbow and looking at me, ‘don’t you want to go to the police? Look how much damage that dreadful man has done to you. Surely you want your revenge?’
Do I?
Part of me does, for sure, but it’s not that simple.
‘Without him causing me mental-health problems, I would never have met you. So perhaps I should be grateful to him.’
She lies back on the pillow with a sigh. ‘You’re mad.’
I laugh. ‘Is that your professional opinion?’
‘What did he say when you told him to retire?’
‘He said he’d think about it.’
‘That’ll be a ‘no’, then,’ Rachel says with certainty.
And I’d thought the same when he’d said it. So I’d given him an ultimatum – announce his retirement within a month or I would go to the Swiss police. But I still reckoned he would need some persuading. That’s why I’d gone to St John’s Wood. ‘He might
be made to see sense.’
‘That’s just wishful thinking.’
‘Wait and see.’
‘Not another half-baked plan.’
I tell her of my visit to see Brenda Fenton, and why I went.
‘I was right. You are mad.’
She turns over onto her side and pushes me away.
‘Careful,’ I say, wincing from a stab of pain from my shoulder.
We lie there in awkward silence for a few minutes.
‘But I have made one other half-baked plan you might be interested in.’
She doesn’t turn back. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m finally going to leave the Isle of Wight and return to the real world.’
‘Alleluia! And about bloody time too.’ She turns back to face me. ‘There’s a limit to how long a girl will wait, you know.’
‘I’m sorry. I just needed space. But now I feel that I’ve been away long enough.’
‘So what’s suddenly brought this on?’
‘Mostly because I feel I’m better. I’m mentally much stronger. And I am no longer terrified of going backwards.’
She strokes my arm.
‘Also, the man that runs the amenities on the beaches on either side of mine has been pestering me for ages to let him take over my pitch and I’ll now let him know he can. And he’s offered to buy all my equipment.’
‘So where will you live?’
‘Wherever you are.’
She says nothing but, when I turn my head towards her, she is smiling and there are tears in her eyes.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks later, I catch a train from Oxford to London.
I have received an unexpected invitation to have lunch at the Ritz Hotel on Piccadilly.
My shoulder is much improved and I have finally dispensed with the sling, at least for most of the time, even though I tend to wear it in the evenings when my arm still gets sore.
However, that is the least of my worries at the moment.
I am barred from entry to the dining room by the maître d’hôtel.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he says. ‘We have a strict dress code at the Ritz, and you need to be wearing a jacket and tie to come in here.’
‘But I’ve been invited to lunch.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he says again. ‘You cannot come in dressed like that.’ He indicates with disdain towards my open-necked shirt and pullover. ‘However, you may borrow a jacket and tie from the cloakroom near the gentleman’s lavatories.’
He points back along the Palm Court and I make my embarrassed way to the cloakroom, where there is a whole rack of different-sized jackets waiting, plus a tray full of ties in various colours.
‘Please remember to hand them back,’ says the attendant with a smile. ‘We had a cabinet minister here last week and he took his borrowed tie away with him.’ He tut-tuts as if it proves that all politicians are untrustworthy.
Now suitably attired, I make my way back to the maître d’, who smiles in satisfaction.
‘Now, sir,’ he says. ‘What name?’
‘I’m joining Mrs Brenda Fenton.’
‘Ah, yes. Her other two guests are here already.’
Other two guests? I had rather hoped the terrible twins wouldn’t be with her. I might not have accepted otherwise. As it is, I’m confused as to why I’ve been invited in the first place – or why I’ve come.
‘This way, sir,’ says the maître d’, setting off with me following behind.
With its sparkling chandeliers, towering marble columns, exotic drapes and soaring floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Green Park, the Ritz Hotel restaurant is rightly considered to be one of the most beautiful dining rooms in the world, and I am led to a square table for four at one end, close to a whole wall of mirrors.
Brenda sees me coming and waves but, to my surprise, it is not her grandsons who are sitting with her, it is Susi Ashcroft plus another tall, slim woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, elegantly dressed in a pink suit with a matching printed pink chiffon scarf draped over one shoulder, drop pearl earrings and a double row of pearls tight around her neck.
‘Hello, Miles,’ Susi says, offering her cheek up for a kiss.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ I reply, much to her amusement.
Now Brenda and the other woman are the ones confused.
‘Well,’ I say, sitting down with my back to the mirrors, opposite the lady in pink, ‘the world today is certainly full of surprises.’
‘What sort of surprises?’ Brenda asks.
‘For me to be invited here in the first place is one huge surprise, and then to find you two ladies,’ I indicate towards Brenda and Susi, ‘sitting here happily together at the same table rather than scratching each other’s eyes out is another.’
The two women briefly look at each other and smile as if there has been some scheming between them.
‘Are you here to act as the referee?’ I ask the third one.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Brenda says. ‘How rude of me. Can I introduce Christine St George? Christine, this is Miles Pussett.’
I stand up and reach across the table to shake her offered hand.
‘Christine has been a friend of both of ours for years,’ Brenda says.
‘That must have been difficult,’ I say, still smiling at her.
She laughs with a loud, high-pitched guffaw. ‘They told me you could be blunt.’
A waiter arrives. ‘Would you also like a Ritz Cocktail, sir?’
I glance around the table and the three ladies already each have a large martini glass in front of them containing a yellow liquid.
‘What’s in it?’ I ask.
‘Cognac, maraschino and orange triple sec liqueurs, plus a little freshly squeezed lemon juice, all topped up with Champagne.’
The combination sounds absolutely delicious, and how lovely they look with neat twists of orange zest resting on the rims.
‘Just sparkling water for me, please,’ I say. ‘I’m driving.’ Even though I’m not.
I may be getting better, but I’m not yet that well.
‘So why am I here?’ I ask.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Brenda says.
‘For what?’
‘For opening my eyes to what’s important in life.’
I wonder if, in fact, I should be thanking her for opening mine to the same thing.
If her horse, Cliveden Proposal, hadn’t run at White Turf, if Susi’s horse hadn’t won that race, and if Jerry hadn’t been trying to cheat the system, I would never have worked out that my own sense of inadequacy and failure, so debilitating over so many years, wasn’t as a consequence of my own ability, or the lack of it.
Since my return from St Moritz, I’ve felt free. Free of the burden I have carried like a millstone for so long. I feel alive once more, no longer suffering from self-doubt and overwhelming guilt. Not forever looking inward at my shortcomings but outward towards a happy future I can enjoy with Rachel. Indeed, we have already moved into a rented flat together in Oxford and we have hopes of soon finding a place to buy.
The deal with my neighbour on the Isle of Wight is done and I have his money in the bank, and half a farm to look forward to… maybe all of it.
I haven’t yet worked out what I will do for a living, but even that isn’t causing me any anxiety. I’ve decided that, first, I’ll spend some time completing my education, getting some qualifications, maybe even going on to university.
I feel the world is now my oyster, with Rachel as its pearl.
Brenda puts her hand on my arm.
‘With Christine’s help,’ she says, smiling at her friend, ‘Susi and I have been talking. She is now fully aware of everything that you told me three weeks ago about White Turf. We have decided that, in future, our horses, both hers and mine, shall be owned by us both jointly. So that we can enjoy their success, or otherwise, together, as friends.’
‘Yes,’ says Susi, ‘and we also told Jerry Dickinson last week that we are sending them all to
another trainer.’
‘Which one?’
‘David Maitland-Butler.’
The colonel. The bully.
I laugh. Do they really expect to be treated any differently by him? Probably not, but it’s their money, and it is not for me to say anything. Not now.
‘Have you seen this?’ Brenda asks.
‘What is it?’
‘A cutting from last Friday’s Racing Post.’
I haven’t. I don’t buy that publication any more.
She hands it over.
‘DICKINSON TO RETIRE,’ states the headline. ‘Top trainer Jerry Dickinson made a surprise announcement last night that he will retire from all racing activity at the end of the current jump season in April. Dickinson, 62, who has won almost every major steeplechase honour in the sport, together with many on the flat, told reporters that he had fulfilled all his ambitions and it was now time to take life a little easier and spend more time with his wife. It is our opinion that he will have no difficulty whatsoever in finding someone to take over his highly successful Lambourn training operation.’
I hand it back.
‘And that’s not all,’ Brenda says.
She hands me another cutting, this time from this morning’s Daily Mail.
‘RACEHORSE TRAINER ASSAULTED AGAIN,’ reads this headline. ‘Jerry Dickinson, who announced only last week that he is retiring from the sport of horseracing, was assaulted in Lambourn late last evening, and for the second time in a month after being previously mugged in Switzerland in mid-February. This time he was attacked by two as-yet unidentified assailants as he walked along the path between his stable yard and his home, in what appears to have been an attempt to steal his mobile phone. In the end, nothing was taken, but Dickinson was badly bruised and he had his right shoulder dislocated during the incident.’
So Jerry had been attacked even after he had announced his retirement.
I smile at Brenda and hand back the cutting.
‘Thank you.’
A dislocated shoulder!
Revenge is sweet.
My recovery is now complete, or at least as complete as it ever will be.
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