I peered over the half door. Stu was tied up facing me. At her far end was Terry, his mouth full of nails.
‘Morning, Terry!’ I shouted.
He made a circular motion in the air with his free hand. Stu, less welcomingly, laid back her ears and bared long yellow teeth at me.
‘Everything okay?’ I bawled.
‘Yup.’ Terry banged home a final nail and turned down the transistor. His large, mauve-tinted spectacles were pushed to the top of his head, so that which Terry himself referred to as his ‘stiggertism’ was on plain view. I wondered what had originally attracted Mrs Billings to her husband and concluded that perhaps the whole thing had been a mistake and he had been looking at someone else.
‘Getting the old girl straight for the gymkhana, then?’ asked Terry.
‘That’s right.’
‘She’s a good old girl, this one,’ he remarked, giving Stu a punch in the flank. ‘Never gives me any bother.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Old donkey down the road the other day kicked me glasses clean off me face,’ confided Terry, lifting the glasses off his head to emphasise the point. ‘ Eighty pound these cost, to correct me stiggertism, and the old bugger booted ’ em right in the air.’
I was impressed. ‘And they weren’t broken?’
He replaced the glasses on his nose. ‘Nope. ’Oof got me on the way down, but the glasses was all right.’
‘What a relief. Did you need stitches?’
His eyes swivelled wildly for a moment, as though I had mentioned trepanning.
‘Nope. Bit of TCP put me right.’
‘Wonderful. Now what do I owe you?’
The last thing Terry said to me was that he would see me at the gymkhana but I did not stop to wonder why, after years of absence, he should suddenly take it into his head to attend.
That evening, with the house and garden orderly in the aftermath of Damon and Declan, and the children absorbed in liquidating aliens on the home computer, I rang the Ghikas number.
Anna Ghikas answered the phone. ‘ Yes?’ Faintly, in the background, I could hear the strains of some exquisite, elaborate violin music.
‘Hallo again, it’s me, Harriet,’ I said boldly and casually. ‘Is Constantine by any chance there now? I’ve got a message for him from the football committee.’
‘Yes, he’s here. I’ll get him.’ She put down the receiver and I heard her call: ‘ Kostaki! For you!’
She picked it up again. ‘He’s coming. ’ Bye-bye, my dear.’
‘Have a good trip.’
There was a pause, fiddles twiddling away like billyo in the background, then footsteps on the wooden floor.
‘Hallo there.’
‘It’s me.’
‘I know.’
‘Look,’ I babbled, all of a dither at the sound of his voice and my own temerity. ‘It’s nothing whatever to do with football. I have to go to a book fair in Fartenwald in Germany the week after next. They’re putting me up in solitary state at the best hotel in town—’
‘Good idea,’ said Constantine. ‘Now when would that be?’
‘I’m going for three nights, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.’
‘I’m sure I could make those …’ he said in the slightly detached voice of a man consulting a diary. He really had missed his vocation. ‘Or at any rate a couple of them. One has to make time for these things.’
‘Fantastic. I really—’
‘I think you’re frightfully efficient.’
‘And still tempting?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can do. It’ll be a pleasure. Cheerio.’
As high as a kite on success and anticipation, I telephoned Bernice and brought her up to date.
‘You jammy devil!’ she said admiringly. ‘I never thought you had it in you.’
‘I never thought he had it in him!’ I said. ‘I mean he really called my bluff. He’s completely shameless!’
‘God,’ sighed Bernice. ‘Here’s me, only very slightly married and let off the lead practically every other night, and what happens? Zilch. Zippo. Zero. And there’s you, with all those kids, and nosy neighbours and—’
‘Okay, okay, don’t start that again.’
‘But it’s true! There’s you with just about every disadvantage known to woman, and you land a single, foreign, shameless doctor! I mean what sort of odds would you be given on that?’
Pretty long, I thought smugly to myself as I poured myself a gin and tonic and put my feet up in front of the Beeb. Pretty damn long!
Chapter Twelve
The Basset Magna gymkhana was an annual event which brought out the worst in man, woman, beast and child. Instigated by Squadron Leader Reg Mather, DFC (rtd) as a festival of equitation for children under fifteen, to foster the joy of participation rather than the vulgar glee of winning, it had deteriorated in the ten years since its inception into a wholly predictable exercise in crude one-upmanship. Fine nuances of breeding, both human and horsy, were there for all to see, and for the cognoscenti to relish. Those entitled, by virtue of their caste, to wear green boots and Harry Hall body-warmers, no longer did so; and those whose children’s ponies had been bought with the tainted money of advertising or estate agency wore them without realising that they gave themselves away. On the other hand it was the ad execs who could afford the really high-class show ponies which their offspring were usually (and quite predictably, sighed the gents) unable to control.
But it went without saying that neither group won anything. No one from the Basset vicinity did. Keen though the locals were to do well, they stood no chance when the semi-professional hoi-poloi from the outlying areas rolled up in gigantic horseboxes a-rustle with rosettes, their shamelessly unhorsy parents opening minibars in the backs of their Jags and Range Rovers, and playing Demis Roussos on their stereos. There was generally a preponderence of boys among these hard-nosed usurpers, scuttling the widely held myth about girls and horses, and contributing to the alternative myth that when the male of the species turns his hand to something he will usually become proficient at it. They rode ponies a shade too small for them, with an elbow and leg-flapping bravura which was chilling to see. The ponies slithered between bending poles and round flags as if made of treacle, and screeched to a halt on the finishing line, nostrils dilated, as their riders vaulted off and won yet another rosette and fifty pence. Despite mutinous mutterings among the locals about ‘pot-hunting’, it was impossible to disregard the expertise of these outsiders who spoke of ‘gymkhanering’ as others might of shopping or weeding, as something they did with take-it-or-leave-it regularity.
The day of this year’s gymkhana dawned fine and hot. Clara left the house early in order to plait Stu’s mane, which gave the latter the look of a surly, equine Boy George. Clara herself wore jodhpurs and Gareth’s school shirt and tie. At least, I reflected, you could not easily categorise my daughter. She herself was so naturally disdainful and aloof, and her mount so obviously plebeian, that they made a piquant twosome. Clara carried with her an Adidas sports bag containing her daily ration of white bread and processed cheese, and those items necessary to transmogrify herself and Stu into the Lion and the Unicorn for the fancy dress that afternoon.
Shortly after his sister’s departure, Gareth left, bound for the same destination and clad in his scout uniform. By ancient usage the 2nd Bassets acted as menials at the gymkhana. Actually, they did most of the work on the day, for the stewards proper were mostly local parents keen to get a vicariously horsy finger in the Philippine pie. None of them wanted to appear a slouch, so while the awful people who had brought the pot-hunters lay about reading tabloids and drinking tequila, the stewards infiltrated the various arenas and collecting rings, wearing responsible expressions and getting underfoot.
The scouts, on the other hand, took up a position perched on the rails in front of the secretary’s tent, and made frequent forays into the main arena to rebu
ild shattered courses, catch erring ponies and carry off injured riders. They had one great mental advantage over all the other locals: they saw riding as a sport indulged in exclusively by girls for obscure and perhaps unmentionable reasons of their own. This prejudice meant that they had only scorn and contempt for the imported wally-woofters who were prepared to stoop to a female sport for their own self-aggrandisement, and they jeered and barracked the pot-hunters in a manner of which BP would have heartily disapproved.
Determined, like Clara, not to be categorised, I arrived at the gymkhana wearing a resolutely unhorsy black sun-dress and sandals which absolutely precluded me being pressed into service as a steward at the last minute. I felt as though my recent activities must be branded across my rump in letters of fire: THE GREEK DOCTOR WAS HERE. But my smug self-obsession was partially dispelled when I observed a mesh of wires swinging from tree to tree around the periphery of the field like lianas in a rain forest, and remembered Damon’s pivotal involvement in the day’s proceedings. Given a three-acre field and sixty-odd adolescents on horseback, only a megaman with the patience of Jove, the wisdom of Solomon and the lungs of King Kong could remain in control without an efficient public address system. And this year it was Damon’s turn to instal the equipment.
I experienced a small twinge of anxiety. If anything went wrong I should have to bear at least part of the responsibility. It was I, after all, who had provided Damon with the wherewithal to purchase his equipment in the first place. The gymkhana clearly represented a dry run for the mobile disco, and I was not sure what Damon might not do to further his expanding business interests.
In the secretary’s tent I spotted Lydia Langley, with Sabina at her side, dispensing tickets for the various events. I felt I owed her an apology.
‘Hallo, Lydia,’ I said, going round her side of the table and automatically beginning to tear tickets off a roll.
‘Good morning, good morning,’ replied Lydia in her bracing, but slightly absent manner. ‘We’ve already seen your daughter. And your son.’
‘Good, good,’ I intoned, catching it from her. ‘Look, Lydia, I’m awfully sorry about the other night. About Clara. She’s not normally like that.’
‘Glory be, who cares?’ said Lydia. She wore a white Aertex shirt, cotton print skirt, ankle socks and sandals. Her daughter Sabina peeped balefully at me from behind a tangled curtain of hair.
‘And incidentally,’ went on Lydia, ‘Clara has been kind enough to offer Stu to Sabina for the trotting and potato.’
‘Oh?’ It only took a split second for me to see what lay behind this. The hiring racket had been shut down by me, and Clara owed Sabina. ‘ Super.’
‘Entre nous,’ said Lydia loudly, ‘I think Clara has other interests today—’ she clapped her hands—‘Will you please stop that and form an orderly line!’
So Lydia had chucked the grenade and run for cover behind her administrative duties. As I emerged from the tent my darkest suspicions were confirmed. Damon was emerging arse-first from beneath the tail-flap of the chief steward’s dormobile. Watching him with close attention was Clara, her arm through Stu’s reins. Not twenty metres away behind them stood the scarred orange Anglia of Terry Billings, with Terry getting out of it. Damon saw me first as he scrambled to his feet.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Okay?’
Clara jumped as if shot. ‘Hallo, Mummy.’
‘Shouldn’t you be participating in something?’ I asked crisply.
‘No, it’s the leading reins first.’
Terry joined us and at once gave Stu a tremendous clout round the ear.
‘Lovely bit of weather for it,’ he remarked.
‘What brings you here, Terry?’ I asked.
‘That’s my future partner,’ said Damon.
‘Who is?’
‘I am,’ said Terry.
‘What?’
‘ ’Is partner.’
I was still digesting this information when Squadron Leader Mather leaned out of the cab of the dormobile and said: ‘All ready down there? Okay if I get the show on the road?’
Damon put his nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger together, signifying the absolute acme of readiness. ‘Fire away, Major.’
I was conscious of almost palpable tension, but in fact the amplification was fine. The squadron leader announced that the first event in the main arena would be the Leading Rein Ride and Run, and we could all hear him without either straining or being deafened.
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘ Well done, Damon. Is this all your equipment?’
He shook his head. ‘Bit of their old rubbish, bit of my stuff.’ He spread his hand and rocked it. ‘Interface is the iffy part, know what I mean?’
I hadn’t the remotest idea what he meant, but I nodded sagely. My first objective was to separate Clara from the ‘other interests’ at which Lydia had hinted so darkly.
‘Why don’t you,’ I said, without the trace of a question in my voice, ‘go and offer Sabina a practice ride on Stu?’
‘Okay.’ She addressed Damon: ‘See you.’
‘Seeya.’
I watched her go, then glanced back at Damon who was back on all fours pointing out something on the underside of the dormobile to Terry. I did not care for the cut of Damon’s jib this morning, especially his air of having confidential business with my daughter.
‘You’re obviously very tied up,’ I said weightily, ‘so I’ll leave you to it.’
The main arena was filling up with mounted pre-pubes and their tight-lipped parental squires. I sat down on a straw bale at the bottom end of the ring, partly to gloat. This end was where the smaller children fell from their ponies with the monotonous regularity of windfall apples, and had to be scooped up and replaced to the accompaniment of ungentle tweakings and recriminations from their parents.
Dilly Chittenden and Lydia Langley’s husband, Barry, were both bottom-end stewards on this occasion. Dilly had been a good company wife when her husband worked for Astec Electronics, and now that he answered to a Higher Authority she kept up the good work. Today she wore white jeans and a matelot shirt, with gleaming white plimsolls. She was a walking invitation for every horse in the place to drop one in her path.
‘Well done, Dilly,’ I said. ‘I chickened out this year.’
‘But Harriet, you do so much,’ said Dilly. ‘And Ricky’ (the rector) ‘tells me you’re the saviour of the Tomahawks too!’
‘Not exactly—but I was able to provide them with a saviour.’
‘Dr Ghikas, yes, I saw him with you at the tournament. He looks absolutely ideal.’
‘Yes, doesn’t he,’ I said.
‘Belt up, you two,’ said Barry. I expect he still held it against me that Clara had kept him up all night. ‘ They’re starting.’
Event after event unfolded before us. Pre-pubes fell, and howled, and were re-seated; parents lodged official complaints with Squadron Leader Mather, or snarls of unofficial protest with rival parents; Barry Langley was barged by a Shetland and had to be replaced; Dilly’s plimsolls took on the appearance of something unsavoury dredged from the mouth of the Thames; around the periphery of the field the beginning of the pre-prandial happy hour was signalled by the chink of glasses underpinning the blare and honk of continental crooners.
It was quite pleasant, sitting with the hot sun in my face and nothing much to do, being goosed by errant stalks from the straw bale and knowing that my children were fully and blamelessly occupied. The Crazy Horse Saloon was in operation again, a lot less noisome in the open air, and I bought myself a hot dog with double fried onions.
I was so relaxed that it only gradually dawned on me that the scouts, Gareth included, had homed in on a target for their insults. This was an especially large and uncouth boy from the pot-hunting contingent, an embryonic Lance Lowe if ever I saw one, sitting abaft a squat, wall-eyed palomino. In the equine pulchritude stakes this animal came even lower down than Stu, but had the low carriage and scuttling gait of the proficient
gymkhana winner.
The boy, whose age, I estimated, lay somewhere between Clara’s and Gareth’s, had an exceptionally low forehead and a shadow on his upper lip. He wore a nylon Star Wars T-shirt, and from the greasy cuffs of his too-small jods there emerged grey woolly socks and trainers. No serious entrant was smartly turned out. He did, however, sport a crash helmet of the most formidable kind, complete with chin strap, as if to warn rivals of his intentions.
The heckling, when I picked it up, had already reached the ‘ Fall off, fatso!’ stage. The squadron leader was stifling these taunts by the simple expedient of leaning out of the sun-roof of the dormobile and striking the relevant miscreant over the head with his walking stick. But it was patently obvious that the 2nd Bassets on the scent and in full cry were not to be so readily put off. Their behaviour had even impinged on the consciousness of the pot-hunting parents, for a woman in salmon velour and orange mules, with a fruit-infested cocktail glass in one hand, came up to the ropes on the left of the arena and began shouting. ‘Thass a good boy, Kirk, you show ’ em! Don’t you let’em get to you, Kirky!’ and other encouraging remarks.
I noticed with trepidation that the next event was the Eleven to Fourteens Potato Race, and that Clara was leading Stu into the ring with Sabina Langley on board. The fat boy was also taking part in the first heat, and in consequence the jeers from the scouts, and retaliatory exhortations from the salmon woman (who had now been joined by a fat, hairy, heavily tanned man in shorts and a necklace), were hotting up. Stu, ever receptive to atmosphere and not, at the best of times, requiring much to get her dander up, laid back her ears and rolled her eye horribly. Clara cuffed her and said something which I was extremely glad I couldn’t hear.
I did wish that it was not Sabina’s turn to ride. I did not doubt her competence, but she lacked my daughter’s cold fire. There she sat, her matted pre-Raphaelite mane drooping from either side of her hard hat like the ears of an Afghan hound, her hands resting limply on Stu’s withers. She did not look like a girl about to imprint her authority on the proceedings. And this with the ever more feverish crossfire of scouts and pot-hunters, the participation of the menacing Kirky and the absence from the ring of Sabina’s father, who was still drinking sweet tea in the St John’s ambulance tent.
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