by Rumer Godden
‘My wife and children,’ John had said absently. Ted took off the topee John had lent him and bowed, but John did not introduce him; instead, ‘Come and see the horses and our evening grooming.’ He had led Ted to the stable square and Ted blinked again; more than blinked. He had never seen anything like it.
The horses were tethered outside their stalls to rings set in the wall, the syces, two to a horse, ranging themselves one each side. As Dark Invader was so big, Sadiq and the second groom, Ali, stood on upturned food boxes, set far back so that they could throw their weight on their hands, then laid into him with what John told Ted was the classic hand-rubbing – ‘hart molesh’ in Hindi – of Indian horse care. ‘You mean they groom with their hands?’ asked Ted.
‘Every part of their hands, fingers, thumb, the ball of the thumb, the heel of the hand and right up to the forearm. Watch.’
Now and again Sadiq or Ali turned to rinse hands and forearms in a bucket of cold water to wash off the dead hair, then sweating and panting, back again, while Dark Invader grunted with ecstasy and nipped playfully at Sadiq’s plump bottom. ‘Ari! Shaitan!’ Sadiq cursed him happily and Ted saw, with another pang, that already they understood one another perfectly.
At a call from the Jemadar, the Quillan head man, imposing in his maroon-coloured turban, well-cut coat and small cane, the hand rubbing stopped and each man fitted his hands with leather pads, stuffed like boxing gloves, and began using them in a rhythm that resounded round the square: right pad, left pad hard on the horse, then both pads hit together in the air to free dust and sweat; thump, thump – thrump: thump, thump – thrump, over and over again for at least fifteen minutes while Ted stood as if mesmerised, watching. At last the rhythm ended, pads were put away, then came the final polishing with soft brushes and cloths; manes and tails were brushed out, tails bandaged into shape, hooves lifted and cleaned inside and out, then oiled. Finally the men stood by their horses as the Jemadar walked round. Sometimes he stopped, pointed with his cane, criticising sharply; sometimes he gave a nod of satisfaction. When he had made his inspection, he came up to John.
As John approved them, one by one, the horses were led out to walk round and round the track of tan for an hour’s gentle exercise. This was the time when, in the cool of the evening, the owners, and sometimes jockeys and riding boys, gathered to watch, discuss, saunter on the grass or sit under the trees. Meanwhile the undergrooms prepared the feeds, each inspected by the Jemadar, cleaned and filled buckets of water, hung rugs and surcingles ready and made the bedding for the night, carefully edging it with the plait of straw Mother Morag had seen. Then they laid out the bed roll of their particular senior syce on his charpoy – a wooden-framed string bed – set on the verandah: ‘They sleep with their horses?’ asked Ted.
‘They pull their charpoys right across the stall,’ said John. ‘A good groom like Sadiq hardly lets his horse out of his sight all day.’
To Ted it was as if, in more ways than one, he had stepped into a different world. It was not only the, to him, torrid air, the pale glare of the sky – the glare was dimming now as it fell towards evening; not only the strange smells and sounds, the brilliant colours in the garden of the boarding house. He had seen a whole hedge of poinsettias; their garish scarlet and upstanding stamens had startled him – they hardly seemed like flowers; nor did the crimson hibiscus bells, the beds of flaming cannas, and here, in the Quillan garden, the tumbled masses of bougainvillaeas, the gorgeous blue of morning glory, paler blue of plumbago. Ted could not then put a name to any of these flowers, but he could to the parakeets, flying wild in the trees. It was not the shock of Scattergold Hall either, nor of Dahlia and the children, nor the surprise of the stables. Ted felt as though barriers that had penned him all his life had fallen down. After that sleep, when he had come out on the boarding-house verandah, a travelling bearer had been waiting for him – ‘bearer’, he gathered, meant ‘valet’. ‘I look after you, sahib. Save you much trouble. I, Anthony, have many good “chits”’ – which seemed to be references. ‘I look after you.’
The fellow, with his smooth English, was almost in Ted’s room and, ‘I look after meself,’ Ted had said gruffly, but the man had called him ‘sahib’, him, Ted, who, except for a few short seasons and the three years of the war, had always been a ‘lad’. ‘Sahib!’ Though they had only exchanged a few words, Ted felt free and more equal with John Quillan than he had ever done with Michael Traherne, for all their mutual affection and respect. When Michael had been a little boy, Ted had called him Master Michael and he had never sat down in the presence of Annette. Now, feeling happier than he had done since Michael had told him Dark Invader was sold, happier than he had thought he would ever be again, happier and somehow taller – ‘Such a little squirt of a man,’ people usually said of him – Ted stood with John Quillan, watching Sadiq and Ali at work.
Then he watched even more closely. It seemed to his experienced eye that now and again, especially when the strapping approached the Invader’s neck, a muscle twitched and he flinched. At once Sadiq’s hand discarded the leather pad to smooth and gentle the place and Dark Invader grunted with pleasure again but, ‘Might be,’ said Ted as he watched and, as he saw it repeated, ‘Might be – might do the trick.’ He thought he had said it under his breath, but John’s sharp ears had heard.
Next day a big sandy-haired, soft-voiced man in breeches and Newmarket boots appeared with a sheaf of papers. This time John did introduce Ted: ‘Ted Mullins, Captain Mack, our Turf Club Official Vet. He has come, as you have probably guessed, to identify Dark Invader as the horse of that name and breeding entered in the Stud Book.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Ted said primly, but he watched anxiously as Captain Mack examined Dark Invader, checked his colouring and markings, looked at his teeth. Then he completed his notes and closed his book with a snap.
‘What did he make of him, sir?’ Ted asked John when the Captain had gone.
‘Mack doesn’t say much unless he’s making a diagnosis. He said Dark Invader looked very like a horse.’
Ted was visibly disappointed. ‘Was that all, sir?’
‘Yes, Mullins.’
That forbade any more questions but it was not all Captain Mack said. The same night he called round at Scattergold Hall for a drink and, when the bandar-log had got tired of their exuberant welcome and gone to their own occupations and Dahlia was singing the current baby to sleep, the two men sat comfortably drinking their whisky. Dahlia’s slow lullaby punctuated their talk, the ayah’s song that had lulled generations of foreign babies to sleep:
Nini, baba, nini,
Roti, mackan cheeni.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Bread, butter and sugar.
‘How I remember that,’ said Captain Mack. ‘I was out here as a child, you know,’ and his big body relaxed into peace.
Roti, mackan, cheeni …
‘Don’t go to sleep too,’ said John and called to the ‘boy’, as Dahlia persistently called him, but who was, in fact, John’s Ooryah bearer, Danyal, to fill their glasses. It was not until after the fourth of the long pale whiskies, though, that Captain Mack said, ‘Leventine’s new importation – that’s one hell of a horse, John.’
‘So he may be, but he also has one hell of a record.’ John held out a paper. ‘Read this chit Mullins gave me from Michael Traherne.’
Dear John,
I send you in the care of his lad, Ted Mullins, one of the nicest horses I have come across, which is saying a good deal.
From the viewpoint of our profession he is a problem. As you will see from his record, a win first time out in good company, nothing since; in fact the highlight of his three year old season was fifth in a field of washouts at Folkestone.
What the record does not show though is his form on the home gallops; at a mile and a half or upwards he is pretty nearly unbeatable – but not in public.
I had hoped to find the solution, but his owner has lost patience, so… Now he’s all y
ours and good luck to you.
‘What do you make of that?’ asked John.
Captain Mack pondered, then: ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,’ he said. ‘It can’t be a physical thing; if it were, it would be there all the time, home gallops or race. If we could find it we could probably cure it, but… ’
‘You mean,’ said John, ‘a sound horse that won’t try under pressure is usually one that has been whipped at the finish of a race and has learnt his lesson that if he takes the lead he will be punished.’
‘Exactly. “The shadow of remembered pain.”’ Sandy Mack was given to quotation. ‘It’s in the mind, John. Besides, it’s the leadership instinct; you don’t need me to tell you, even in thoroughbreds, it’s a rare and frail thing – crush it and it has gone for ever. No, John. I doubt if this hope of Leventine’s will win any race this side of Doomsday.’
‘Any race! He’s aiming at the Cups.’
Captain Mack laughed. ‘What! The Viceroy’s? I’m not a betting man and I won’t bet with you, but if Dark Invader gets anywhere near that, I’ll eat my hat.’
‘H’mmm,’ was all John said but, next evening, as he and Ted were watching the grooming down, ‘What did you mean, Mullins,’ he asked, ‘when you said this… ’ he gestured at the working grooms, ‘might do the trick?’
‘You heard?’ Ted was amazed.
‘I heard. What did you mean?’ Ted looked up at John. If a hawk or falcon could have blue eyes, thought John, this man’s are like a hawk’s, missing nothing, but Ted was silent. Some inward struggle was going on. John tried to help.
‘Dark Invader was thoroughly vetted before he was bought, by the vet Mr Leventine chose.’
‘He certainly was.’ The day after Michael’s telephone call from Dilbury, a grizzled man in a bowler hat, brown gaiters and black boots had driven into the Traherne yard in a yellow-wheeled dog-cart drawn by a high-stepping hackney. ‘That was Major Woods, sir. He’s well known and you should have seen the going over he gave the Invader. Even had his shoes off. Real old sort, that one,’ said Ted. ‘Did a proper job and time no object. Learned his trade before there were motor cars. He filled in a printed form with a mighty lot of words and told Mr Michael: “A1 at Lloyds and sound as a bell of brass.” He knew a quality hoss when he saw one – meaning no disrespect to Captain Mack, of course.’
‘Well then,’ and John said quietly, ‘in spite of all that, and Captain Mack’s opinion, you still think there’s something wrong. What?’
‘Ar!’ Ted drew a breath of satisfaction. ‘Soon’s I saw you, I knew one day you would be asking me that. I believe it’s his muscles, sir, high on the shoulder.’
‘Yet they didn’t find it?’
‘Couldn’t,’ said Ted. ‘Not looking at him like that. Can’t see nothing, nor feel it. Pass your hand firm and there’s nothing, but with pressure… muscles have two ends, sir, and it’s deep. Did you see when Mr Saddick… ’
‘Sadiq?’
‘Yes. Mr Saddick was strapping; the hoss flinched,’ and Ted burst out, ‘It was that Bacon what began it. Those damned bow legs of his. Nutcrackers,’ said Ted with venom. ‘Squeezing a hoss in a place God never meant a man’s legs to be – he rides so short, see, and the Invader, he were nothing but a great sprawling baby, and it were his first race. But that Captain Hay was set on a win, no matter what.’
‘Which he got,’ said John.
‘Yes.’ Ted’s face was grim. ‘Will you watch, sir? Just watch – when Mr Saddick lays it on hard.’
John watched, standing close. In his presence, Sadiq and Ali doubled their efforts and, on the far side, as Sadiq came up the shoulder, John saw the Invader flinch and, ‘You’re right,’ he told Ted. ‘There is a tender spot. We’ll get Captain Mack to have a look.’
Captain Mack stood, like John had, close beside the horse, but his scepticism showed as he let Ted, as far as Ted could reach, then Sadiq, guide his fingers slowly up the Invader’s shoulder, pressing all the way. Suddenly the horse grew restive. ‘S-steady, Darkie, s-steady,’ hissed Sadiq, but Captain Mack pressed harder – scepticism had given way to intentness – harder, harder – there came a definite flinch and Dark Invader threw up his head, almost jerking Sadiq off his feet. ‘Ar!’ whispered Ted as, ‘Get me something to stand on,’ ordered Captain Mack. ‘You great brute!’ He clapped Dark Invader affectionately on his quarter. ‘You’re tall as a giraffe,’ and, ‘That bench will do,’ he said and, as he got up, ‘Stand still, you,’ he said to Dark Invader as his fingers reached steadily on; a moment later he was looking with interest, not where Ted and Sadiq had shown him the tenderness, but above it, where the hairs of the mane came to an end and, ‘John,’ he said, ‘look here.’
John joined him on the bench. ‘See anything?’ asked the Captain. ‘Look. There’s a scar under those white hairs.’
‘But… it’s minuscule.’
‘On the surface. Mullins, hop up. Ever noticed that before?’
‘Course,’ said Ted. ‘Them’s the only other white hairs he’s got. Had them when he come from Ireland. I reckon when he were a baby running loose he maybe caught a bit of barbed wire, or cut hisself – but that was long before, so it couldn’t be the trouble… or could it?’ Ted had seen Captain Mack’s satisfaction. ‘Could it?’
‘It could. In fact, I think that’s it. Happened when he was a foal, guess you’re right there, but not wire, rolling in the grass more like and met a bit of broken bottle or a sharp stone – anything – and made a small cut that healed on the surface but left damage; maybe a bit of gravel or a chip of glass got in and caused infection deeper down. The muscles lost flexibility – in fact grew fibrous – left a scar in the muscle if you like – nothing to see on the outside but any pressure on that spot would cause pain. When the horse was over-stretched, tired as well – remember how young he was… ’
‘It must have hurt like hell,’ said John, ‘and I can guess that Streaky Bacon’s grip just caught it, which could account for everything. Sandy, you clever old devil.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Ted and Sadiq.’ Captain Mack got down from the bench. ‘But you’re not out of the wood yet. Sadiq’s “hart molesh” is the best possible treatment, but there’s more to this than that. Everything to do with the finish of a race, other horses challenging, the noise, the excitement, tells Darkie, “Stop before it hurts.” That’s it, isn’t it, old fellow,’ he pulled one of the dark ears.
‘So we still have our problem.’
‘You do indeed. You now have to “minister to a mind diseased”,’ and the Captain went on:
‘“Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow
Raze out the written troubles of the brain…”’
‘Macbeth Act Five Scene III,’ said John, ‘so shut up and don’t show off.’
‘Dear me!’ said Captain Mack, ‘and I thinking that cavalry officers were semi-illiterate.’
‘Granted, but I acted in Macbeth at school. First Murderer.’
‘Pity you weren’t the First Witch. You could do with a little magic just now.’
‘Meaning that you think it’s still no go?’
‘Meaning just that. John, face it. You know that a spoiled horse never comes back.’
‘Mullins,’ said John when Captain Mack had gone. ‘Why didn’t you tell Mr Traherne what you thought about the horse?’
Ted hesitated. ‘The Invader was never no trouble with me, sir, and there was nothing I could be sure of. I hoped Mr Michael might see for hisself. Then when the hoss was sold, who was I,’ asked Ted, ‘to set meself up against a veterinary like Major Woods? Besides, if Mr Michael had listened, it would have put him in a spot. Don’t get me wrong, sir, Mr Michael, or his father or his grandfather, come to that, would never have let a hoss be sold out of his stables if he didn’t think it was sound, and Captain Hay… ’ Ted spat, ‘he wouldn’t have waited. If he had known, it would have been any old place for Dark Invader, maybe even the kick.’ Ted unashamedly drew his sleeve across his ey
es and, for a moment, could not go on. ‘Mr Michael couldn’t have stopped that and I thought with Mr Leven… ’
‘Leventine.’
‘Yes. You see, sir, two of them travelling lads would have done to bring out all his hosses to In’ja, but for the Invader he brought me out special so I thought with him… ’
‘Dark Invader might have a chance?’
‘Yes sir, but has he? Couldn’t follow all that talk,’ said Ted, ‘but I guess what the Captain meant was, if the Invader was to meet Streaky again, even now, he would remember.’