by Dick Francis
He gave up the search with a furious slam of a cupboard door, sat down at the table and stretched for his coffee. His hand was shaking as if he were ninety.
He seemed to see Sophie for the first time. His gaze started at her waist and slowly travelled up to her face.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’
‘Sophie Randolph,’ she said politely.
He squinted at her. ‘Jonah’s bloody popsy.’
He swung round to me, a movement which upset his semi-circular canals and brought on an obvious wave of nausea. I hoped urgently he was not going to vomit, as on other vile occasions in the past.
‘You lecherous bastard,’ he said. ‘All you had to do was ask me to go out. I’d have gone out. You didn’t have to get me drunk.’
The easy tears began to roll down his cheeks. And after the self pity, the promises, I thought. Always the same pattern.
‘You got yourself drunk,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have given me the Scotch,’ he said. ‘It was your bloody fault.’
‘You know damn well I never gave you any Scotch.’
‘You just put it here on the table and left it here for me to find. If that’s not giving it to me, then what is?’
‘You’d convince yourself it grew on a tree in the garden. You went out and bought it.’
‘I tell you I didn’t,’ he said indignantly. ‘I just found it on the table.’
He managed to get the mug to his mouth without spilling the contents.
I considered him. If by some extraordinary chance he was telling the truth, someone wished him very ill. But as far as I knew he had no active enemies, just bored acquaintances who tended to cross the road at his approach and disappear into convenient doorways. On balance I thought it more likely he had bought the bottle somewhere and was trying to shift the blame. The days when I could effortlessly believe what he said were ten years back.
‘As God’s my judge, Jonah, it was here on the table.’ A couple more tears oozed out. ‘You never believe a bloody word I say.’
He drank half the coffee.
‘I’d never buy whiskey,’ he said. ‘Sour bloody stuff.’
Once the craving took him he would drink whatever he could get hold of. I’d known him pass out on creme de menthe.
He worked on the grudge that I didn’t believe him until he was back to full-scale anger. With a sudden half-coordinated swing he hurled his mug of coffee across the room where it shattered against the wall. Brown rivulets trickled downwards on the floor.
He stood up, upsetting his chair, his head lowered aggressively.
‘Give me some bloody money.’
‘Look… Go to bed and sleep it off.’
‘You stupidsod. I need it. You and your goody goody airs. You’ve no bloody idea. You don’t begin to understand. You’ve pinched my whiskey. Just give me some bloody money and go stuff yourself.’
Sophie Randolph cleared her throat.
Crispin swung violently around to her to forestall any adverse suggestion she might make, and that time the sudden movement took his nausea out of control. At least he had enough self-respect left not to sick up in her face: he bolted for the back door and we could hear his troubles out in the yard, which was quite bad enough.
‘He’s my brother,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
She seemed to need no further explanation. She looked around at the debris. ‘Will he clear that up?’
‘No chance,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ll do it later, when he’s asleep. If I do it too soon it enrages him… he would just make a worse mess.’
She shook her head in disapproval.
‘He isn’t like this all the time,’ I said. ‘He goes weeks sometimes without a drink.’
Crispin came back looking greener than ever.
‘Money,’ he said aggressively.
I stood up, went along to the office, and returned with five pounds. Crispin snatched it out of my hands.
‘The pub isn’t open yet,’ I observed.
‘Bugger you.’ Crispin’s gaze swung round to include Sophie. ‘Bugger you both.’
He lurched out of the door and through the window we watched him walk a slightly pompous path to the gate, trying to behave like a country gent and forgetting that he still wore yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s beard.
‘Why did you give him the money?’
‘To save him stealing it.’
‘But…’ She stopped doubtfully.
I explained. ‘When the craving’s on him, he’ll do literally anything to get alcohol. It’s kinder to let him have it with some shred of dignity. He’ll be drunk all today and tonight but maybe by tomorrow it will be over.’
‘But the pub…’
‘They’ll let him in,’ I said. ‘They understand. They’ll sell him a bottle and send him home again when he shows signs of passing out.’
Although to my mind she would have been better off in bed, Sophie insisted that she should be out seeing to her car. She compromised finally to the extent of letting me ring the local garage, where I was known, and arranging the salvage. Then, dressed in jeans and sweater two sizes too big, she spent most of the morning sitting in the squashy leather armchair in the office, listening to me doing business on the telephone.
Kerry Sanders was pleased about River God and didn’t quibble about the price.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said. ‘I never did go for that goddam name Hearse Puller.’
‘Well… I can have him fetched from Devon any time, so where and when would you like him delivered?’
‘I’m visiting with the family this week-end.’ Even now, I noticed, she avoided using their names. ‘I’ll be going down there for lunch and I’d like the horse van to arrive at around four thirty.’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘What address?’
‘Don’t you have it?’
I said I could find it, no doubt.
She came across with the information reluctantly, as if imparting a secret. A village in Gloucestershire, as open as the day.
‘O.K. Four thirty, on the dot,’ I said.
‘Will you be there yourself?’
‘No. I don’t usually.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Well… could you make it?’
‘You wouldn’t need me.’
‘I’d sure like it,’ she said, her voice hovering uncertainly between cajolery and demand, and I realised that for all her assurance she was still unsure about this gift.
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘To perform introductions?’
‘Well. I guess so.’
Nicol Brevett, this is River God. River God, meet Nicol Brevett. Howdy partner, shake a hoof.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll arrive with the norse.’
‘Thanks.’ Again the mixture in her voice. Partly she definitely thought I ought to jump to it when asked, and partly she was genuinely relieved I had agreed. I thought she was crazy to marry into a family which made her nervous, and I wondered why they had that effect on her.
‘Have you heard any more about those two men?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Apart from a sore spot when I brushed my hair, I had forgotten them. Too much seemed to have happened since.
‘I’d like you to find out why they took that horse.’
‘I’d like to know, sure,’ I said. ‘But as to finding out… If you care enough, how about hiring the Radnor Halley Agency? They’d do it.’
‘Private detectives?’
‘Specialists in racing,’ I said.
‘Yes, Well. But… I don’t know…’
It came back every time to the way she reacted to the Brevetts.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, and she was pleased, but I had no confidence at all.
I spoke next to a transport firm in Devon, arranging that they should pick up River God early the following morning, and meet me at three o’clock beyond Stroud. What was the ultimate destination, they asked, and with sudden caution I didn’
t give it. Ten miles beyond our rendezvous, I said, and I would show them the way. I put the receiver down feeling slightly foolish, but the loss of Hearse Puller had been no joke.
I telephoned to the Devon farmer and asked him to send a man with River God to look after him, and also to produce him well groomed with his feet and shoes in good condition. The farmer said he hadn’t the time to be bothered, and I said that if the horse looked too rough he’d get him straight back. He grunted, groused, agreed, and hung up.
‘You sounded very tough on him,’ Sophie said with a smile.
‘Horses straight from small farms sometimes look as if they’ve been pulling a plough….’
She lit a cigarette, the bandaged arm moving stiffly.
‘I’ve got some codeine,’ I said.
She twisted her mouth. ‘Then I’d like some.’
I fetched the pain killers and a glass of water.
‘Are you everyone’s nurse?’ she said.
‘Mostly my own.’
While I had been telephoning, she had taken note of the racing photographs on the walls.
‘These are of you, aren’t they?’ she asked.
‘Most of them.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘I don’t go racing myself, but my aunt has a stud farm, and I suppose I see your name in newspapers and on television.’
‘Not any more. It’s nearly three years since I stopped.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘Stopping?’ I shrugged. ‘Everyone has to, sometime.’ Especially when on the receiving end of six months in a spinal brace and severe warnings from gents in white coats.
She asked if I would drive her along to where she had crashed so that she could see the place in daylight.
‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘And I want to look for the rug my horse got rid of on his travels, though it’s bound to be torn. Pity he lost it, really, as it’s a light fawn… much easier to see in the dark than his own bay coat.’
She stubbed out her cigarette but before we could move the telephone rang.
‘Hi, Jonah,’ said a cheerful American voice. ‘How did the sale go?’
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘Well… I guess the one for Kerry. You know. Kerry Sanders.’
‘Oh sure,’ I agreed. ‘Only I’ve bought two for her. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Uh uh. Only that you were off to Ascot for some nag with a God awful name.’
Pauli Teksa. I pictured him at the other end of the line, a short solidly built man in his early forties, bursting with physical and mental energy and unashamedly out to make money. I had met him only a few times and thought his most outstanding quality was the speed with which he reached decisions. After a session with him one felt as if one had been carried along irresistibly by a strong tide, and it was only afterwards that one wondered if any of his instant assessments ever turned out to be wrong.
He was over in England for the Newmarket Yearling Sales, a bloodstock agent on a large scale in the States keeping tabs on the worldwide scene.
We had had a drink together in a group of others at Newmarket the previous week, and it was because of that and other equally casual meetings that he had, I supposed, given my name to Kerry Sanders.
I told him what had become of Hearse Puller. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sophie listening with her mouth open in incredulity. Pauli Teksa’s astonishment was tempered by greater cynicism about the world we both moved in, but even he was outraged at the use of force.
‘Pressure,’ he said vigorously. ‘Even unfair pressure. Sure But violence…’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.’
‘I’ve been out of town since Tuesday. Just got back from Ireland. Guess she couldn’t reach me.’
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘No great harm done. She made a profit on Hearse Puller and I bought her another horse instead.’
‘Yeah, but you sure ought to raise a hell of a ruckus over what went on back there at Ascot.’
‘I’ll leave it to Mrs Sanders.’
‘It sure makes me feel bad that it was I who got you into this mess.’
‘Never mind,’ I said.
‘But I’m glad you managed to do a deal for her in the end.’ He paused, his voice heavy with meaning.
I smiled wryly at the telephone. ‘You’re saying you want a cut of the commission?’
‘Jonah, fella,’ his voice sounded hurt, ‘did I ask?’
‘I learn,’ I said. ‘I learn.’
‘Two per cent,’ he said. ‘A gesture. Nothing more. Two per cent, Jonah. O.K.?’
‘O.K.,’ I said, sighing. The two percent, which sounded so little, was in fact two fifths of my fee. I should have charged Kerry Sanders more than five per cent, I thought. Silly me. Except that five per cent was fair.
It was no good refusing Pauli. The remaining three per cent was better than nothing, even with a bang on the head thrown in, and there was goodwill involved. Pauli on my side was a good future prospect. Pauli against, a lousy one.
By the time I put the receiver down Sophie had shut her mouth and regained her calm. She raised her eyebrows.
‘Hey ho for a quiet life in the country.’
‘Quiet is internal,’ I said.
Up on the main road the orange MG dangled like a crumpled toy at the rear of the breakdown truck. Sophie watched with regret as it was towed away, and picked up a bent silver hub cap which fell off in the first few feet.
‘I liked that car,’ she said.
The Rover had already gone. All that remained after distance swallowed the breakdown truck were some black brake marks on the road and a pathetic heap of swept up glass.
Sophie threw the hub cap into the ditch, shrugged off her regrets, and said we would now look for my rug.
We found it not very far away and across on the far side of the road, a damp haphazard heap half hidden by bushes. I picked it up expecting a complete ruin, as horses mostly rid themselves of their rugs by standing on one edge and becoming so frightened by the unexpected restraint that they tear the cloth apart in a frenzy to get free. Horses standing quietly in stables almost never shed their rugs, but horses loose among bushes could do it easily.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
I looked up, ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Well, good.’
‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully. Because I didn’t see how any horse could get out of his rug by undoing the three fastening buckles, one across the chest, the others under the stomach; and on this rug, which was totally undamaged, the buckles were quite definitely undone.
5
Sophie was adamant about returning home, the steel in her character showing little spikes when I tried to persuade her to give my number to the people who might call her out on stand-by. She unbent to the extent of grilled chicken for lunch in the still untidy kitchen, and at Gatwick Airport she even allowed me to pay the deposit for her hired car, though this was entirely because she had set out to the dinner party without cheque book or identification and felt less than impressive in my clothes. I said I liked pale blue socks with silver sandals. She said I was a bloody fool. I wished very much that she wasn’t going.
Crispin’s return from the pub coincided with mine from Gatwick. He was maudlin, bleary eyed, expansive, waving his arms around in large gestures and clutching a full bottle of gin. According to him he didn’t know how I put up with him, I was the salt of the earth, the salt of the effing earth, he didn’t care who knew it.
‘Sure,’ I said.
He belched. I wondered if one struck a match whether gin fumes would ignite like gas.
He focused on the remains of chicken and said he wanted some.
‘You won’t eat it,’ I said.
‘I will.’ He squinted at me. ‘You’ll cook for a bloody popsy but not for your own brother.’
I put another piece in the griller. It smelled good, looked good, and he didn’t eat it. He sat at the table, picked it up in his
fingers and took a couple of small bites before pushing the plate away.
‘It’s tough,’ he said.
He lit a cigar. It took six matches, a lot of squinting and a variety of oaths.
We’d been through so many cures. Six weeks in a private nursing home drying out with a psychiatrist listening daily to his woes had resulted in precisely one month’s sobriety. Then, having been scooped by the police from a Park Lane gutter, he woke in a public ward and didn’t like it. I told him I wasn’t riding races just to keep him in trick cyclists. He said I didn’t care about him. The whole hopeless circus had been going on for years.
Sophie telephoned at nine o’clock that evening. Her voice sounded so immediately familiar that it was incredible to think I had known her for less than twenty-four hours.
‘… Just to thank you for everything…’
‘For crashing your car?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said.
‘How’s the arm?’
‘Oh, much better. Look… I don’t have a lot of time. I have to go to work after all… rather a nuisance but it can’t be helped.’
‘Say you don’t feel up to it.’
She paused. ‘No. It wouldn’t really be true. I slept for hours when I got home and honestly I feel fine now.’
I didn’t argue. I already knew it was impossible to persuade her against her will.
She said, ‘How are your knight-in-shining-armour instincts?’
‘Rusty.’
‘I could provide brasso.’
I smiled. ‘What do you want done?’
‘Yes. Mm. Well, when it comes to the point, I don’t know that I’ve got any right to ask.’
‘Will you marry me?’ I said.
‘What did you say?’
‘Er…’ I said. ‘Never mind. What was it you wanted done?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, I will. Marry you.’
I stared across the office, seeing nothing. I hadn’t meant to ask her. Or had I? Anyway, not so soon. I swallowed. Cleared my throat.
‘Then… you’ve a right to ask anything.’
‘Good,’ she said crisply. ‘Button your ears back.’
‘They’re buttoned.’