by Dick Francis
She put down her brush and came to eat, wiping her hands on the seat of her pants.
‘I’ll say one thing for you, Rob. You cook a mean steak,’ she said, after her first mouthful.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ I said, with my mouth full.
We ate every scrap. I finished first, and sat back and watched her. She had a fascinating face, full of strength and character, with straight dark eyebrows and, that night, no lipstick. She had tucked her short wavy hair in a no-nonsense style behind her ears, but on top it still curled forwards on to her forehead in an untidy fringe.
My cousin Joanna was the reason I was still a bachelor, if one can be said to need a reason at twenty-six years of age. She was three months older than I, which had given her an advantage over me all our lives, and this was a pity, since I had been in love with her from the cradle. I had several times asked her to marry me, but she always said no. First cousins, she explained firmly, were too closely related. Besides which, she added, I didn’t stir her blood.
Two other men, however, had done that for her. Both were musicians. And each of them in their turn in a most friendly way had told me how greatly having Joanna for a lover had deepened their appreciation of living, given new impetus to their musical inspiration, opened new vistas, and so on and so on. They were both rather intense brooding men with undeniably handsome faces, and I didn’t like hearing what they had to say. On the first occasion, when I was eighteen, I departed in speed and grief to foreign lands, and somehow had not returned for six years. On the second occasion I went straight to a wild party, got thoroughly drunk for the first and only time in my life, and woke up in Paulina’s bed. Both adventures had turned out to be satisfying and educational. But they had not cured me of Joanna.
She pushed away her empty plate and said, ‘Now, what’s the matter?’
I told her about Art. She listened seriously and when I had finished she said, ‘The poor man. And his poor wife … Why did he do it, do you know?’
‘I think it was because he lost his job,’ I said. ‘Art was such a perfectionist in everything. He was too proud … He would never admit he had done anything wrong in a race … And I think he simply couldn’t face everyone knowing he’d been given the sack. But the odd thing is, Joanna, that he looked as good as ever to me. I know he was thirty-five, but that’s not really old for a jockey, and although it was obvious that he and Corin Kellar, the trainer who retained him, were always having rows when their horses didn’t win, he hadn’t lost any of his style. Someone else would have employed him, even if not one of the top stables like Corin’s.’
‘And there you have it, I should think,’ she said. ‘Death was preferable to decline.’
‘Yes, it looks like it.’
‘I hope that when your time comes to retire you will do it less drastically,’ she said. I smiled, and she added, ‘And just what will you do when you retire?’
‘Retire? I have only just started,’ I said.
‘And in fourteen years’ time you’ll be a second-rate, battered, bitter forty, too old to make anything of your life and with nothing to live on but horsy memories that no one wants to listen to.’ She sounded quite annoyed at the prospect.
‘You, on the other hand,’ I said, ‘will be a fat, middle-aged, contralto’s understudy, scared stiff of losing your looks and aware that those precious vocal cords are growing less flexible every year.’
She laughed. ‘How gloomy. But I see your point. From now on I’ll try not to disapprove of your job because it lacks a future.’
‘But you’ll go on disapproving for other reasons?’
‘Certainly. It’s basically frivolous, unproductive, escapist, and it encourages people to waste time and money on inessentials.’
‘Like music,’ I said.
She glared at me. ‘For that you shall do the washing up,’ she said, getting to her feet and putting the plates together.
While I did my penance for the worst heresy possible in the Finn family she went back to her portrait, but it was nearly dusk, and when I brought in a peace offering of some freshly-made coffee she gave it up for the day.
‘Is your television set working?’ I asked, handing her a cup.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Do you mind if we have it on for a quarter of an hour?’
‘Who’s playing?’ she asked automatically.
I sighed. ‘No one. It’s a racing programme.’
‘Oh, very well. If you must.’ But she smiled.
I switched on, and we saw the end of a variety show. I enjoyed the songs of the last performer, a vivacious blonde, but Joanna, technique-minded, said her breath control creaked. A batch of advertisements followed, and then the fluttering urgent opening bars of ‘The Galloping Major,’ accompanied by speeded-up superimposed views of horses racing, announced the weekly fifteen minutes of ‘Turf Talk.’
The well-known good-looking face of Maurice Kemp-Lore came on the screen, smiling and casual. He began in his easy charming way to introduce his guest of the evening, a prominent bookmaker, and his topic of the evening, the mathematics involved in making a book.
‘But first,’ he said, ‘I would like to pay a tribute to the steeplechase jockey, Art Mathews, who died today by his own hand at Dunstable races. Many of you have watched him ride … I expect nearly all of you have seen televised races in which he has appeared … and you will feel with me a great sense of shock that such a long and successful career should end in a tragedy of this sort. Although never actually champion jockey, Art was acknowledged to be one of the six best steeplechase riders in the country, and his upright incorruptible character has been a splendid example to young jockeys just starting in the game …’
Joanna lifted an eyebrow at me, and Maurice Kemp-Lore, neatly finishing off Art’s glowing obituary, re-introduced the bookmaker, who gave a clear and fascinating demonstration of how to come out on the winning side. His talk, illustrated with films and animated charts, described the minute by minute decisions made daily in a big London starting price office, and was well up to the high standard of all the Kemp-Lore programmes.
Kemp-Lore thanked him and rounded off the quarter of an hour with a review of the following week’s racing, not tipping particular animals to win but giving snippets of information about people and horses on the basis that there would be more interest in the outcome of a race if the public already knew something of the background of the contestants. His anecdotes were always interesting or amusing, and I had heard him called the despair of racing journalists since he so often beat them to a good story.
He said finally, ‘See you all next week at the same time,’ and ‘The Galloping Major’ faded him out.
I switched off the set. Joanna said, ‘Do you watch that every week?’
‘Yes, if I can,’ I said. ‘It’s a racing must. It’s so full of things one ought not to miss, and quite often his guest is someone I’ve met.’
‘Mr Kemp-Lore knows his onions, then?’ she said.
‘He does indeed. He was brought up to it. His father rode a Grand National winner back in the thirties and is now a big noise on the National Hunt Committee; which,’ I went on, seeing her blank look, ‘is the ruling body of steeplechasing.’
‘Oh. And has Mr Kemp-Lore ridden any Grand National winners himself?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he rides much at all. Horses give him asthma, or something like that. I’m not sure … I only know him by sight. He is often at the races but I have never spoken to him.’
Joanna’s interest in racing, never very strong, subsided entirely at this point, and for an hour or so we gossiped amicably and aimlessly about how the world wagged.
The door bell rang. She went to answer it and came back followed by the man whose portrait she was attempting, the second of her two blood stirrers, still stirring away. He put his arm possessively round her waist and kissed her. He nodded to me.
‘How did the concert go?’ she asked. He played a fi
rst violin in the London Symphony Orchestra.
‘So so,’ he said; ‘the Mozart B flat went all right except that some fool in the audience started clapping after the slow movement and ruined the transition to the allegro.’
My cousin made sympathetic noises. I stood up. I did not enjoy seeing them so cosily together.
‘Going?’ asked Joanna, detaching herself.
‘Yes.’
‘Good night, Rob,’ he said, yawning. He took off his black tie and loosened the neck of his shirt.
I said politely, ‘Good night, Brian.’ And may you rot, I thought.
Joanna came with me to the door and opened it, and I stepped out into the dark cobbled mews and turned to say good-bye. She was silhouetted against the warm light in the studio room where Brian, I could see, was sitting down and taking off his shoes.
I said flatly, ‘Thank you for the steak … and the television.’
‘Come again,’ she said.
‘Yes. Well, good night.’
‘Good night,’ she said, and then in an afterthought added, ‘How is Paulina?’
‘She is going to marry,’ I said, ‘Sir Morton Henge.’
I am not sure what I expected in the way of sympathy, but I should have known. Joanna laughed.
Three
Two weeks after Art died I stayed a night in Peter Cloony’s house.
It was the first Cheltenham meeting of the season, and having no car I went down as usual on the race train, carrying some overnight things in a small suitcase. I had been engaged for two races at the meeting, one on each day, and intended to find a back street pub whose charges would make the smallest possible dent in my pocket. But Peter, seeing the case, asked me if I were fixed up for the night, and offered me a bed. It was kind of him, for we were not particularly close friends, and I thanked him and accepted.
From my point of view it was an unexciting day. My one ride, a novice hurdler revoltingly called Neddikins, had no chance of winning. His past form was a sorry record of falls and unfinished races. Tailed-off and pulled-up figured largely. I wondered why on earth the owner bothered with the wretched animal, but at the same time rehearsed in advance some complimentary things to say about it. I had long ago discovered that owners hated to be told their horses were useless and often would not employ again a jockey who spoke too much unpalatable truth. It was wiser not to answer the typical question ‘What do you think we should do with beautiful Neddikins next?’ with an unequivocal ‘Shoot it.’
By working hard from start to finish I managed to wake Neddikins up slightly, so that although we finished plainly last, we were not exactly tailed off. A triumph, I considered it, to have got round at all, and to my surprise this was also the opinion of his trainer, who clapped me on the shoulder and offered me another novice hurdler on the following day.
Neddikins was the first horse I rode for James Axminster, and I knew I had been asked because he had not wanted to risk injury to his usual jockey. A good many of that sort of ride came my way, but I was glad to have them. I reckoned if I could gain enough experience on bad horses when nothing much was expected of me, it would stand me in good stead if ever I found myself on better ones.
At the end of the afternoon I joined Peter and we drove off in his sedate family saloon. He lived in a small village, scarcely more than a hamlet, in a hollow in the Cotswold Hills about twenty miles from Cheltenham. We turned off the main road into a narrow secondary road bordered on each side by thick hedges. It seemed to stretch interminably across bare farm land, but eventually, turning a corner, it came to the edge of the plateau and one could see a whole village spread out in the small valley below.
Peter pointed. ‘That bungalow down there is where I live. The one with the white windows.’
I followed his finger. I had time to see a neatly-fenced little garden round a new looking house before a curve in the road hid it from view. We slid down the hill, rounded several blind corners with a good deal of necessary horn blowing, and at the beginning of the village curled into an even smaller lane and drew up outside Peter’s house. It was modern, brick-built, and freshly attractive, with neatly-edged flower beds and shaven squares of lawn.
Peter’s wife opened the white front door and came down the path to meet us. She was, I saw, very soon to have a child. She herself looked hardly old enough to have left school. She spoke shyly.
‘Do come in,’ she said, shaking my hand. ‘Peter telephoned to say you were coming, and everything is ready.’
I followed her into the bungalow. It was extremely neat and clean and smelled of furniture polish. All the floors were covered with mottled soft blue linoleum with a few terra-cotta rugs scattered about. Peter’s wife, she told me during the evening, had made the rugs herself.
In the sitting-room there was only a sofa, a television set, and a dining-table with four chairs. The bareness of the room was to some extent disguised by one wall being almost completely covered in photographs. They had been framed by Peter himself and were edged in passe-partout in several different bright colours, so that the effect was gay and cheerful. Peter showed them to me while his wife cooked the dinner.
They were clearly devoted to each other. It showed in every glance, every word, every touch. They seemed very well matched; good-natured, quickly moved to sympathy, sensitive, and with not a vestige of a sense of humour between them.
‘How long have you two been married?’ I asked, biting into a wedge of cheese.
Peter said, ‘Nine months,’ and his wife blushed beguilingly.
We cleared away the dishes and washed them, and spent the evening watching television and talking about racing. When we went to bed they apologised for the state of my bedroom.
‘We haven’t furnished it properly yet,’ said Peter’s wife, looking at me with anxious eyes.
‘I’ll be very comfortable indeed,’ I said. ‘You are so kind to have had me at all.’ She smiled happily.
The bedroom contained a bed and a chair only. There was the blue linoleum on the floor, with a terra-cotta rug. A small mirror on the wall, some thin rust-coloured curtains at the window, and a hook and two hangers on the back of the door to serve as a wardrobe. I slept well.
In the morning, after breakfast, Peter did a lot of house-hold jobs while his wife showed me round the small garden. She seemed to know every flower and growing vegetable individually. The plants were cherished as thoroughly as the house.
‘Peter does most of my housework just now,’ she said, looking fondly back to the house. ‘The baby is due in six days. He says I mustn’t strain myself.’
‘He is a most considerate husband,’ I said.
‘The best in the world,’ she said fervently.
It was because Peter insisted at the last minute on driving down to the village shop to fetch a loaf of bread to save his wife the walk that we started out for Cheltenham later than we had intended.
We wound up the twisty hill too fast for prudence, but nothing luckily was on its way down. At least, it seemed to be lucky until we had streaked across the farm land and were slowing down to approach the turn into the main road. That was when we first saw the tank carrier. It was slewed across the road diagonally, completely blocking the way.
Peter’s urgent tooting on the horn produced one soldier, who ambled over to the car and spoke soothingly.
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but we were looking for the road to Timberley’.
‘You turned too soon. It’s the next road on the right,’ said Peter impatiently.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the soldier. ‘We realised we had turned too soon, and my mate tried to back out again, but he made a right mess of it, and we’ve hit the hedge on the other side. As a matter of fact,’ he said casually, ‘we’re ruddy well stuck. My mate’s just hitched a lorry to go and ring up our H.Q. about it.’
We both got out of the car to have a look, but it was true. The great unwieldy articulated tank carrier was solidly jammed across the mouth of the narrow lane, and the driver
had gone.
Pale and grim, Peter climbed back into his seat with me beside him. He had to reverse for a quarter of a mile before we came to a gateway he could turn the car in: then we back-tracked down the long bend-ridden hill, raced through the village and out on to the road on the far side. It led south, away from Cheltenham, and we had to make a long detour to get back to the right direction. Altogether the tank carrier put at least twelve miles on to our journey.
Several times Peter said, ‘I’ll be late,’ in a despairing tone of voice. He was, I knew, due to ride in the first race, and the trainer for whom he rode liked him to report to him in the weighing-room an hour earlier. Trainers had to state the name of the jockey who would be riding their horse at least three-quarters of an hour before the event: if they took a chance and declared a jockey who had not arrived, and then he did not arrive at all, however good the reason, the trainer was in trouble with the stewards. Peter rode for a man who never took this risk. If his jockey was not there an hour before the race, he found a substitute; and since Peter was his jockey, the rule was a good one, because he was by nature a last-minute rusher who left no time margin for things to go wrong.
We reached the racecourse just forty-three minutes before the first race. Peter sprinted from the car-park, but he had some way to go and we both knew that he wouldn’t do it. As I followed him more slowly and walked across the big expanse of tarmac towards the weighing room I heard the click of the loud speakers being turned on, and the announcer began to recite the runners and riders of the first race. P. Cloony was not among them.
I found him in the changing-room, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.
‘He didn’t wait,’ he said miserably. ‘He didn’t wait. I knew he wouldn’t. I knew it. He’s put Ingersoll up instead.’
I looked across the room to where Tick-Tock was pulling his boots up over his nylon stockings. He already wore the scarlet jersey which should have been Peter’s. He caught my eye and grimaced and shook his head in sympathy: but it was not his fault he had been given the ride, and he had no need to be too apologetic.