by James Runcie
‘It can’t be the money,’ Barbara Wilkinson continued, ‘as Sylvia Maguire’s as poor as a church mouse. Maybe he’s after her house?’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Sidney, helplessly, ‘he wants to make good the mistakes of his past.’
On Monday 16th September Sidney’s father phoned to discuss an important sporting matter. The Warwickshire cricketer Tom Cartwright had failed a fitness test and pulled out of the England tour with a shoulder injury. The selectors had called up Basil D’Oliveira as a replacement.
‘At last they’ve seen sense. As you know, they should have picked him in the first place.’
‘But won’t the South Africans cancel their invitation?’
‘It’s possible. But they did say, I think, that they would welcome any team that has been selected purely on the grounds of cricketing ability . . .’
‘I like the “purely”.’
‘They didn’t put it exactly like that. But this should not become a political problem. It’s a cricketing matter. Although it’s a curious irony, isn’t it, that a coloured man should have to leave one nation and play for another in order to return to his birthplace?’
Sidney thought about the question of shifting identity, put down the receiver and was just about to return to the paperwork on his desk when he heard Anna call. She wanted tucking in and a bedtime story.
They read Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck in which a collie-dog and two puppies prevented the heroine from being eaten by a fox in disguise. When they had finished, Anna looked serious and told her father what had happened during the day.
‘Mummy lost Byron.’
‘What?’
‘He ran away. I was scared, Daddy. We were calling and calling and he wouldn’t come back.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘By the river. It was all misty and dark. Then it got cold. I didn’t like it. Mummy was scared too but she pretended she wasn’t. We both did. I wish you had been there. Byron knows what to do when you’re there.’
Hildegard appeared in the doorway to explain what had happened. ‘You weren’t home, Sidney, so I had to walk him. I was distracted, I admit. I only had twenty minutes before my teaching. As you know, mein Lieber, Byron doesn’t respond to me as he does to you . . .’
‘Obedience has never been his strong point, I’m afraid.’
‘He wouldn’t come at all, Daddy.’
Hildegard turned to her daughter. ‘Aber letztendlich ist er zu uns zurückgekommen, nicht wahr, meine Kleine?’
She then explained to Sidney that an unworried Byron had ambled back as if nothing had happened some half an hour later. ‘It was not good, Sidney. I didn’t know what to say or how to discipline him. You said you would be home and I was late for the next lesson.’
Anna looked at her father. ‘You won’t run away like Byron did, will you, Daddy?’
‘Of course not, darling; now tuck yourself in.’
‘I didn’t like it when you were in Scotland.’
‘I know.’
‘You won’t go there again, will you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Promise me you won’t.’
‘I promise I won’t go without you. Now snuggle down.’
‘Honestly,’ said Hildegard when husband and wife were alone at last. ‘For Byron to go off like that without any warning. I could have killed him.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘You are fortunate. If you’d been there I might have attacked you instead.’
‘Then I’m relieved to have been absent. Perhaps that’s what Ronnie Maguire was doing; avoiding his wife so often that it became a habit and then he never went back.’
‘Don’t start getting ideas.’
‘Don’t worry, Hildegard. I know I wouldn’t last five minutes without you.’
His wife thought briefly before her response. ‘Five minutes you would manage; five weeks is possible. Five years, never.’
The trip to Newmarket took place on Thursday 17th October. Sidney picked out an old three-piece suit that had been spared by the moths and a brown rabbit-felt trilby that he thought would be just the ticket for a day at the races. Ronnie was dressed up to the nines in a Donegal tweed sports jacket with a mustard-yellow jumper, a Tattersall shirt and dark-green tie that matched his corduroy trousers.
The two men visited the paddock before the first race to have a look at the horses for impressive muscle tone, shiny coats and bright eyes. The going was good. Ronnie told Sidney they had to choose horses that were bred to stay, often keeping that extra reserve in the locker, ready to spark on the day.
Both men bet on Fortune’s Hope at 9–2 in the Chesterton Maiden Stakes, with Ronnie professing inside knowledge. ‘Humphrey Cottrill, who bred and still owns him, thinks the world of this colt.’
‘How do you decide who to back?’ Sidney enquired.
‘I look at the owners, the jockeys and then the horses themselves. Peter O’Sullevan and Jim Joel know their stuff and if Charlie Elliott or Lester Piggott’s riding then I’ll check the form. I do the basics on the two-year plates and gilts and try not to be greedy. You’ve got to cover yourself in case things don’t work out . . .’
‘And does that apply to life in general?’ Sidney asked before detecting a flash of frustration in Ronnie’s response and regretted that he had raised the subject so early in the day.
‘Let’s not go into that now. Sometimes a man is led astray. I don’t suppose you’d know about that.’
‘Officially not . . .’
‘But unofficially?’
‘No one has led an exemplary life, Ronnie. Not even a priest.’
‘I’m not too keen to explain myself, as you can probably imagine. When you sum it all up it doesn’t look too good. But wait, the bell’s gone and the horses are off to the start. Let’s watch.’
They stood at the edge of the stand near the bookmakers so they would be quick to collect their winnings and bet again but, despite being the favourite, Fortune’s Hope wasn’t even placed, outrun by West Partisan, Real Estate and Hickleton.
‘I see you don’t have God on your side,’ Ronnie observed.
‘Neither Fortune nor Hope, it seems.’
‘Let’s have a drink and another look at the horses. We’ve got a good twenty minutes until the next.’
Sidney was still trying to get the hang of the betting but was intrigued that, as in cricket, so much of it was taken up with the question of form. He thought of his father, and how much he would enjoy Newmarket. It would certainly have cheered him up a bit after all his anger and frustration with the cricketing authorities. England’s tour to South Africa had now been cancelled and the aftershock was still being felt as recriminations flew. A day at the races would have taken his mind off it all.
A bookmaker was offering tempting odds on an older horse with a good reputation, saying that he had too much class to be done, but Ronnie wasn’t having any of it, backing a younger, more promising alternative, telling Sidney, ‘Those that burn twice as bright burn half as long.’ Racing, like life, was about taking calculated risks, he said. ‘It’s like the old cliché, Sidney. If you only do what you’ve always done you can only get what you’ve always got.’
‘And is that what makes you a risk-taker?’ Sidney asked.
‘I always thought I could lead a better life,’ Ronnie replied. ‘But I suppose I was wrong.’
‘We can’t ever predict how things will turn out. The important thing is to try and behave decently.’
‘Well, I certainly failed at that.’
‘I know you may not want to talk about it.’
‘We all have to face the music some day. I’m just sorry I didn’t at the time.’
‘You got someone else to do it for you?’
‘Her sister. I asked her to tell Sylvia I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t coming back either. I was a coward.’
‘Perhaps you were frightened of being caught in two minds.’
> ‘Let’s watch the race, Sidney. All in good time.’
Ronnie put a pound on Profit Sharing at 10–1 in the two thirty, while Sidney went for Harry Lauder at 100–8 in honour of his Scottish grandfather, but they had no more luck than they had had before and Sidney was worried about the extent of his losses. How much was he prepared to gamble in a single afternoon? If he lost more than a pound Hildegard would be furious.
The same thing happened in the three o’clock. Sidney put half a crown on Motet at 100–8 in a little musical tribute to his wife, despite Ronnie telling him that betting on a horse just because you liked its name could only lead to disaster. He was tempted to retort that experience didn’t seem to be doing much good either as his friend’s decision to go for Samivel at 100–6 had been equally unfortunate.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘All these horses were well fancied and yet we’ve lost every time.’
‘Don’t worry, Sidney, our luck will change. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Is it always like this? Whatever happened to beginner’s luck?’
‘Let’s go with the nap. Riboccare is 7–2 in the Jockey Club Cup. He’s a neat little colt and he’ll run two stone better with Lester Piggott on him. Put ten shillings on. I’ll pay you back if you lose.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Trust me, Sidney. I’ll put it on for you.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘It’s all right. My treat. You’ll get almost two pounds back. Let me do it now in case they shorten the odds. I won’t be a jiffy.’
Ronnie was as good as his word, and the horse ran in by a comfortable half-length, digging in hard towards the finish, bursting past Fortissimo, the previous year’s winner, a furlong out.
‘It’s not just the winning that matters,’ Ronnie explained. ‘It’s that you suspend your life. When you’re at the races there’s only one thing to think about. The rest of the world disappears and you lose yourself in the sound of the hooves on the track, the flashes of colour, the speed and the movement. You put everything into the horse you’ve chosen.’
Sidney let him talk. He knew that the secret of having a proper conversation with a man was to have it while pretending to do something else. Like watching cricket with his father, flat-racing was a distraction that allowed serious discussion to feel almost incidental.
‘Alice keeps horses,’ Ronnie said out of nowhere. ‘I think that’s why we got on so well. There was so much we didn’t have to explain to each other. We were both brought up on farms.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘I spent the first year of the war with the Cambridgeshire Regiment on defence duties on the Norfolk coast. We were at Stiffkey on the edge of the salt marshes. Everything that first winter froze solid. It was impossible to get warm. That’s when I met her. It was through her brother John. He was in the same battalion. She was only twenty. She had the longest, curliest red hair you ever saw. Green eyes like she belonged to the land, a soft voice and a way of looking that wouldn’t let you go. She worked on a stud farm and exercised the horses every day. Sometimes I caught a glimpse as we were doing our own manoeuvres and I couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. To see her ride was something I can’t describe. John noticed and he teased me rotten. We were on defensive duties, trying to camouflage some double-decker buses.
‘“I don’t know why you’re doing all this,” he said, “you’ve got no defence at all.” As soon as I had some leave Alice took me to one of the last of the races at Fakenham. It was just before they had to stop because of the war. She knew her horses, I’ll tell you that. I remember we made nearly three guineas. Well, you can imagine what happened.’
‘You didn’t say you were already married?’
‘I don’t think she knows to this day.’
‘How on earth did you keep it a secret? You must be a lot older than her. Didn’t she ask?’
‘I don’t know, Sidney. I must have given her some of the old flannel. I didn’t intend to do so but the war changed everything. It was a bit of company while there wasn’t much going on. I thought the Cambridgeshire Regiment was more like the Home Guard. First we were in Norfolk, then Scotland and then Cheshire. But after Japan came in it all went black. We were sent out to Singapore and then up-country to reinforce the 15th Indian Brigade at Batu Pahat. It was a rum time. We lost so many men. In the end we had to surrender and we became Japanese prisoners of war. The one person who helped me survive was Alice’s brother, John. I don’t know how we got through it all but somehow we did, and when we got back to England I knew I wasn’t ready to go home. I didn’t even know what home was any more. I couldn’t imagine it. I just stayed with John in Holt, near Stiffkey, where it all began. Then I saw Alice again and couldn’t leave her. She had a child by then, my child, a little boy. He was called Frank after my brother. Then we had two more very quickly and I could hardly go back to Sylvia after that. I didn’t want a confrontation. It was best to say I was missing, presumed dead.’
‘And you were happy?’
‘For a long time.’
‘Does Alice know you’re in Grantchester now?’
‘I don’t think she cares too much about my whereabouts at the moment.’
‘You left under a cloud?’
‘I made a mess of things, Sidney. Money, really. It wasn’t another woman or anything like that. I suppose I couldn’t settle. But let’s not spoil the day. There’s another race and our luck’s turned. We have to take advantage of fortune when it comes. I can’t tell you everything at once. It’s been too long a life.’
Emboldened by his victory in the previous race, and having just witnessed horse and rider in perfect rhythm, Sidney backed Lester Piggott with an each-way bet on Grey Portal at 100–30. The horse came third with Ronnie triumphing once more with Zarco, at 13–8, winning by six lengths and a short head.
‘I don’t want to tell Sylvia too much about all this,’ said Ronnie. ‘I wouldn’t want her to think any the worse of me. You know how judgemental she can be.’
‘She has much to criticise.’
‘I am aware of that. But she wouldn’t like it. I think she’d rather not know. She likes to be in control of things.’
‘She’s always wanted the first and last word.’
‘And I’m minded to let her have them.’
Ronnie placed a pound on the favourite, Spring Glory, in the Highflyer Stakes at 7–4 (‘He beat Jacobus by five lengths at York. This is a dead cert, I’m telling you’) whereas a sentimental Sidney, mindful of the time of year, put half a crown on Advent at 100–6.
Neither horse was placed and both men ended up down on the day. Despite the revealing and informative nature of the conversation, Sidney could not help but feel that his first day betting at the races was probably going to be his last.
The next week was spent on routine tasks in Ely: the preparations for Christmas, visiting the sick and learning a modern musical accompaniment to the liturgy that was pitched at attracting young pilgrims.
The news from Grantchester was sparse. Dr Robinson had been called in to check on Ronnie Maguire’s wheezing chest, Barbara Wilkinson had written one of her desperate letters (in turquoise ink) to ask if Sidney had done anything about ‘the imposter’ and Malcolm Mitchell telephoned to say that he had been offered the incumbency of St Bride’s Church, Fleet Street. This was the journalists’ church and Malcolm was beside himself with happiness. It could not have been more perfect, he said. He would now be able to live properly with Helena, their weekly commuting could cease and they could begin to think about starting a family. He was sure that this had been the result of Sidney ‘putting in a word’ and wanted to thank him for the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
The gratitude was cheering and Sidney was in a particularly good mood as his wife prepared the first casserole of the autumn. He picked up a spoon, tasted the sauce, and added a little paprika. Hildegard asked him what on earth he was doing
.
‘I am savouring the stew of destiny with the spice of fate.’
‘Leave it alone, Sidney. Nothing is safe when you are near. Not even an innocent Eintopf.’
‘Suspect everything! Leave nothing to chance!’ Sidney joked, wrapping his right arm round her waist.
‘But trust your wife,’ she replied, giving him a little kiss on the lips. ‘That’s the point of marriage. It should be the one part of your life where there is no doubt. You must know that by now.’
Sidney stepped back to open a bottle of wine. ‘But what if my beloved alters her personality before my very eyes?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘People are changed by marriage.’
Hildegard began to make the dumplings. ‘I think we’re supposed to improve each other. That’s what it says in the Church Times.’
‘I didn’t know you read it.’
‘I have a look and try to understand what you are thinking.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll find it helpful. But that doesn’t matter. We may well become different people through marriage but the question is – how much of our original selves remain? Do you still feel German, for example, or have you lived here long enough for that no longer to be an issue?’
‘My nationality will never leave me. It is who I am. That’s why I want to take Anna next summer; to show her that she can feel at home there too.’
‘Do you think you would feel more yourself if you went back?’
‘And we lived there? I don’t know, Sidney. I miss the language, the people and the food. I miss the white Spargel in the spring; the raisin bread and the Christmas markets. I miss the natural world, the forests and the feeling of being at home. But I’m also happy here with you. It is possible to belong to more than one country.’
Sidney laid the table as Byron nosed around him, hoping for random scraps of food.