Ticket to Ride (Eventing Trilogy Book 3)

by Caroline Akrill

  “Well, yes,” Nigella said, chewing at the soggy crust, “of course.”

  “When you say interest,” I said carefully, “do you mean an interest as in personal interest? What exactly,” I asked them, “do you mean by interest?”

  “Why, personal interest,” Nigella said, “naturally.”

  “And financial interest,” Henrietta said. “After all, we found the horse in the first place, and I paid for him out of my own pocket.”

  “Now WAIT a minute!” I shouted. The legs of my chair squawked a protest as I started away from the table, confounded by this new piece of treachery. “You may have bought the horse to start with, but I paid you back in full – the horse is now my property!”

  There was silence. Then, “It wasn’t quite as simple as that, Elaine,” Nigella said in an uncomfortable voice, “it was a very complicated arrangement.”

  “It wasn’t complicated at all,” I said heatedly. “You bought Legend for sixteen hundred pounds, you also gave me what you considered to be a totally useless and dangerous horse in lieu of the wages you promised to pay me and never did. I sold the horse for two thousand pounds, and I paid you back the whole amount, including four hundred pounds in interest. Legend is mine. There’s nothing complicated about it at all, it’s perfectly simple.”

  “Ah,” Henrietta said on a little note of triumph, “but you are forgetting an important little consideration known as potential.”

  “Whose potential?” I demanded.

  “We bought an unschooled, untried, green horse, who bucked off everyone who tried him,” Henrietta said. “He was just about worth what we paid for him. But, after we had disciplined him, got him fit, and schooled him up to competition standard, he was worth far more; double the price at least, possibly even treble.” She helped herself to some more gravy from the stew pot, extracted a long hair from the second spoonful, and laid it pointedly beside Nigella’s plate.

  “After you schooled him!” I exploded. “Henrietta, I schooled him, I disciplined him, I got him fit and up to competition standard. You hardly ever placed your foot in his stirrup, apart from one occasion when I had a sprained wrist. Even then,” I added with angry satisfaction, “he bucked you off.”

  “But you must admit that we helped,” Nigella said. “You couldn’t have done it on your own. We helped to raise the funds for his training, we helped to buy the saddlery, we organized the transport, we even helped to get you the scholarship. Do admit, Elaine, that you couldn’t have done any of it without us.”

  I didn’t want to admit it. I stared down at my horrible, untouched dish of casualty mutton stew, and I burned with fury. I had never imagined that the Fanes would claim a financial interest in my horse; an interest they knew I would never be able to repay; an interest which would bind and obligate me to them forever. If it was true, if they were still entitled to a share in Legend, I would never be free to pursue my eventing career, I would never be able to make any decision without consulting them first. I closed my eyes with despair and wondered how I would find the strength to endure it.

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,” Henrietta commented, leaning across the table and spearing a wizened roast potato on her fork. “It isn’t as if we’re actually asking you for the money.” She flipped back a tress of hair that had trailed through her gravy. “It isn’t as if we’re being unreasonable.”

  “We’ve looked in Horse & Hound,” Nigella said, “and you can’t get anything anywhere near Legend’s standard for under fifteen thousand pounds. It’s true, Elaine, honestly.”

  I knew it was true. “But what about me?” I asked bitterly. “I’ve done my part. I’ve kept my side of the bargain. I’ve organized your yard, I’ve increased your business, I’ve looked after your horses, I’ve found you new livery clients. I haven’t been paid for any of it.”

  “Well, that isn’t true,” Henrietta exclaimed in an outraged voice. “We gave you a horse, we bought you Legend, we’ve helped with his training and saddlery, we’ve kept him for nothing, you’ve had free board and lodging yourself, and it seems that now you’re to be paid five pounds a week backdated to last autumn. If you ask me you’ve done jolly well out of us!”

  “But five pounds a week isn’t anywhere near a proper wage for a trained and qualified groom,” I said despairingly. “Even with board and lodging and keep of a horse thrown in, it’s pathetic!”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” Henrietta flared, “we’re not exactly well off ourselves.”

  “And anyway,” Nigella said in a wounded tone, “you’ve been treated just like one of the family.”

  There was nothing I could say to this. I slumped back in my chair, defeated. It was pointless to argue any further. I starred up at the cobwebby iron chandelier above my head. Only two of its lights burned now out of twelve. When I had first arrived there had been six, then five, then four, then three; and now there were only two. After I have gone, I thought, there will be one, and finally none at all. Then perhaps someone will buy new bulbs, and then again, perhaps they won’t. Somehow, and in spite of everything that had gone before, this gave my heart a little twist and I was forced to turn my attention back to the table. I put a piece of cold mutton into my mouth and chewed, and chewed, and chewed. It was not at all pleasant, but it gave me something else to think about.

  2

  No Fond Farewell

  There was all of a sudden a crashing of hooves and, with a lot of flying manes and flapping New Zealand rugs, the Fanes dashed under the clock arch carried along by the horses who had spent the morning turned out in the park.

  With Legend bandaged and boxed and my suitcase already on the front seat of the horsebox, I had steeled myself for this final confrontation. “Henrietta,” I said, “what about my wages?”

  Henrietta, poised to make the descent from the black horse’s wither, set like a knife upon the end of his snaking neck, frowned. She wore an out-at-the-elbow sweatshirt and some ghastly striped purple, black and orange skin-tight trousers, the ensemble finished off with leg-warmers made furry with horsehairs, baseball boots and a filthy scarlet hunt waistcoat. It was not an outfit to inspire confidence within the breast of a prospective livery client, but then, who knew when or if there would ever be more.

  “You must give me something,” I said, “even a few pounds would do.”

  Henrietta might have made a reply to this, had there not been a diversion as the bad-tempered chestnut, noticing that an opportunity had presented itself due to Henrietta’s momentary inattention, nipped the black horse sharply on its flank.

  The black horse shot forward as if propelled from a cannon, and Henrietta, true to a lifetime’s instinct never to loose the reins whatever the contingency, was towed backwards over his rump on the halter ropes of Nelson and the chestnut which were clasped in either hand. She landed on the cobblestones with a thud and a gasp, finally loosing the ropes at the moment of impact with the unexpected shock of it all.

  Any further demands for my wages were cut off at this point and I could do nothing but stand speechless, as Nelson, the halter pulled completely from his threadbare little head, trotted unerringly into his own stable, and the black horse set off at a trot round the yard, snorting like a maddened bull, and lifting up his knees like a hackney. Even so, I still had hopes that the discussion might be resumed after Henrietta had struggled to her feet, looking fit to burst into flames, and I had come to and captured the black horse by his bobbing halter rope. It might have been, were it not for the fact that the bad-tempered chestnut suddenly spotted the grey cob livery.

  The bad-tempered chestnut loathed and detested all of his fellow equines, but for some reason the grey cob was the horse he hated most of all. He bared his long, yellow teeth, flattened his ears, and flew at him with his tail whipping round like a windmill. The grey cob, fearing for his life, reared up against the onslaught and struck out with a front leg, emitting at the same time a shrill squeal of fright. The bay mare next to him, on whom
Nigella had been sitting with a thunderstruck expression on her face, ran backwards in anguish, causing the rope of the chestnut pony on the other side to be snatched out of Nigella’s hand. The pony, displaying true native instinct for self-preservation, immediately bolted off back through the clock arch, splattering the walls with gravel as her flying hooves hit the drive. It was at this point that Nick Forster, who was waiting to drive me to the training centre, set up a constant and impatient toot-tooting upon the horn.

  It seemed futile to ask again for my wages as Henrietta sped off after the chestnut pony with her auburn hair streaming out behind her, and Nigella fought to keep apart the bad-tempered chestnut and the grey cob. Resignedly, I bolted the black horse into his stable and did the same with the bay mare before running for the horsebox.

  “There isn’t much petrol in the tank,” Nigella shouted after me. “I don’t know if I mentioned it!” Bearing in mind that I had failed to collect my wages and had not so much as a ten pence piece in my pocket, this was something of a coup de grȃce on her part.

  “You know, the Fanes have a point,” Nick said, as we negotiated the narrow, banked lane with the petrol gauge arrow pointing ominously to red. “They probably even have a valid case in law. Legend is twice the horse now that he was when they bought him, and you did enter into a sort of unofficial partnership to train him and provide his equipment. If you ask me, Elaine, I think you are possibly being a bit hard on the Fanes.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” I snapped. I was still feeling unnerved by the traumatic results of my last ditch effort to extract some money from Henrietta, and I was also nettled by the way Nick was apparently siding with the Fanes over Legend, when I had confidently expected him to be as outraged as I was. “And I don’t agree with you. After all I’ve done for them, I think it’s crass cheek to claim a share in a horse they have already been paid for with interest, especially as, true to form, they managed to dodge the issue of my wages to the bitter end. Honestly, Nick, I’m hopping mad and the way I feel at the moment I hope I never see the Fanes again as long as I live.”

  “If you don’t, you certainly won’t get your wages.” He glanced across at my angry face and grinned. An unexpected curve in the lane escaped his attention and we swerved slightly.

  “Oh, do take care,” I said crossly. “I don’t want to arrive with a lame horse.”

  “If you speak to me like that,” Nick pointed out sharply, “you’ll be lucky to arrive at all.”

  We drove along in silence for a while. I didn’t want to fall out with Nick, especially as he had taken an afternoon off from his job as first whipper-in to the hunt in order to drive me to the training centre.

  I stared out of the window at the familiar Suffolk landscape. Drilling had already begun in the wide brown acres stretching out to meet the sombre darkness of the pine forests, and beyond, where the soil grew lighter and conifer gave out on to gorse and bracken, seagulls wheeled and mewled over the choppy wastes of the North Sea, and anonymous ships inched their way across the skyline. I had learned to love this county; becoming accustomed to the vastness of its skies, learning to tolerate the persistence of its winds. Now I was leaving and might possibly never see it again. I swallowed hard and turned my eyes to the road ahead.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to say eventually, “I didn’t mean to snap, but I’ve had such guilt feelings during the last few weeks about leaving the Fanes, and I suppose, if I allow myself to admit it, I’ve grown very attached to them in a way. Then, when I found out they had already found a replacement for me, and they were so difficult about Legend and I couldn’t even get them to pay my wages, it was the last straw.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry about paying for the petrol,” Nick said. “I’ll pay, and if you feel you must, you can pay me back when the Fanes pay you.”

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully, “I appreciate it.” He might just as well have said ‘when the cows come home’ or ‘when your boat comes in’ for all the promise it held in store.

  We stopped at a garage for petrol and crossed the borders of Norfolk, Cambridgeshire, and Hertfordshire. By this time my thoughts had turned from the Fanes and the county I had left behind, to what might lie ahead. I began to feel nervous and even faintly sick.

  Nick looked at his watch. “What time are you supposed to be there? Before six? We should just about make it.” He glanced at my face. “Are you OK? You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m nervous,” I told him. “I’ve lived for this moment for months; I’ve thought of nothing else and it’s kept me going all through the winter, but now,” I confessed, putting in to words something I had not previously admitted to myself, “Now that I’m actually on my way, I’m really not looking forward to it at all. I wish I wasn’t going. I’m terrified.”

  Nick grinned.

  “It’s no laughing matter,” I said indignantly. “I’ve actually reached the stage where I’m beginning to doubt my own ability now. Remember, Nick, that I rode an ex-Olympic event horse in the two-day event when the final selection was made for this scholarship course, and all the other candidates were riding relatively inexperienced, home-schooled, novice horses. Anyone could have won on Genesis, even a fool could have won on him; so what if I’ve been deluding myself all this time? What if I turn out to be absolutely hopeless? What then?”

  He tried to look serious. “It wasn’t just the two-day event though, was it?” he said. “There were preliminary rounds before that, and then you were riding Legend. You earned your place on this course, Elaine, you didn’t get it by foul means or by accident. You were chosen; so for you to say you might be hopeless is rubbish, and you know it.”

  I hoped he was right. “But it isn’t only that,” I said. “Suppose all the other scholarship candidates are well-heeled, public-school types and suppose I just don’t fit in and they despise me? And whatever would they think,” I added, struck anew with the ignominy of my situation, “if they found out I hadn’t even got enough money to pay for the petrol to get to the training centre!”

  Nick drove on in silence for a while. “When I first went to work for the hunt,” he said finally, “one of the first things I learned was that, because of my job, I would be loathed by some people and automatically accepted by others. I could never alter that, even if I turned myself inside out trying, so after a while I learned not to try. This course is your big chance, Elaine. It’s your ticket to ride, and it’s too good an opportunity to waste even a minute of it worrying about things you can’t alter, things which aren’t really all that important in the first place – and by the way,” he added, pulling a wry face as the horsebox began to veer across the road, “I think we’ve got a puncture.”

  He steered the box towards the grass verge and I was out of the cab before he had hauled up the handbrake. Sure enough, the left rear wheelrims were resting on the tarmac and the tyre was as flat as a pricked balloon. Nick pulled open the personnel door. “There’s a spare under the bunk; don’t panic, I’ll have it changed in a tick.” A jack and some spanners landed on the lane with a clatter. I looked at my watch, it was a quarter to six. This would happen now, I thought in exasperation.

  A second later Nick appeared beside me, looking thunderous.

  “What’s the matter?” I said anxiously. “Where’s the tyre? Don’t say it isn’t there!” I stared him, appalled.

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to check the bloody spare tyre?” he said angrily. “Because there’s a slit in it I can put my fist through!”

  I thought I might die of shock. The box belonged to livery clients and I remembered the day they had arrived late at a meet because of a blown tyre. “But Nigella was told about that!” I said. “She was supposed to have asked the garage to collect it months ago!”

  “Well she didn’t, did she?” he said furiously. “Or even if she did, the Fanes probably haven’t paid their petrol bill, so why should the garage care?”

  I thought this was very likely true. “But there must be
something we can do,” I said. “Can’t we mend it ourselves? Can’t we blow it up somehow?” I felt desperate enough to try anything, but I knew, even as I said it, that we couldn’t.

  Nick shot me a vengeful glance. “You’d better resign yourself to being late,” he said. “We shall have to find a garage.”

  I looked round hopelessly. We were on a minor road, surrounded by woodland, and miles from any sign of habitation. There was not a telephone box, or even a cottage within sight. “But Nick,” I cried, “how?”

  He shrugged. “I suggest we either start walking or settle down for a nice long wait until another vehicle happens to come along.”

  “But we might walk for miles and not find anywhere, and there might not be another vehicle for hours!” I looked at my watch again in a panic. “It’s already ten minutes to six!”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair and looked at me with exasperation. “Well, what else can we do?”

  I had to do something.

  “Where are we?” I demanded.

  “Berkshire,” he said.

  “I know we’re in Berkshire,” I said impatiently, “but where in Berkshire?”

  I ran for the cab, found the livery clients’ map, and opened it out on the bonnet. “We’re not far from the training centre, Nick! Look, we’re here.” I grabbed his jersey and pulled him closer, stabbing at the patch of woodland with my finger. “It’s about six miles. I have to get there, I’ll have to ride it.”

  “Don’t be silly Elaine,” he said. “You can’t possibly ride it,” he slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Stay here with me and wait. They won’t worry if you’re an hour or so late, and anyway, I won’t see you again for ages…”

  I was in no mood for anything like this. I pushed him away. “I’ll call at a garage and send someone out to you. I can manage my case and Legend can wear his rug, you can drop the rest of his things off later. I can’t be late, Nick, they may lock me out, it is Sunday, after all. They may even refuse to take me if I don’t arrive on time, the chief’s a stickler for discipline!”