by Rumer Godden
‘Ted! My God, what have you been doing?’ Dahlia took him by the shoulders and shook him, trying to make him sit up, but he sank back as if he were made of rag. ‘Ted! John will be veree angry. Wake up, Ted. Please to wake.’ There was no response.
She gathered up the clothes. ‘Take these to the dhobi, the washerman, at once.’ Ahmed took them at arm’s length. Hastily Dahlia searched drawers and put out clean ones. ‘My God, what will John say?’ but John did not come back with the horses, nor did the Jemadar or Sadiq, only Ching and, when Dahlia ran out to him, Ching, unlike his usual courteous self, turned his face away and did not answer. A strange quiet, too, lay over the stables, the men silently going about the morning’s rubbing down, the feeds and grooming.
John did not come in for breakfast and Dahlia grew more worried. This could be nothing to do with Ted and even when she heard the car, John did not come into the house. He went straight to the annex. She heard his hard, angry steps.
Ted was awake now, sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to get the walls of his room in focus, but his eyes were fogged. In his head the drum was beating louder than ever, it hurt and his mouth felt foul and dry; he knew that he stank ‘in and out’. Then he, too, heard John’s steps and gave a small animal whimper.
‘So!’
John was in the doorway, his face dark with rage, his voice grim. ‘So!’ The word cut through the air and Ted was suddenly aware how he must look in one of the old-fashioned nightshirts Ella had made him long ago, his lean sinewy legs white and unsightly, his eyes bleared and his hair on end. He was aware, too, of sunlight, so bright outside the door that it made him blink. Then, suddenly, and brutally, more aware, he asked, ‘Sir, wha’s the time?’
‘Well after ten o’clock.’
‘Ten!’ Ted shot upright. ‘Then, sir – I’m too late… ’
‘Too late!’ and John laughed, not a pleasant laugh. ‘You may like to know that in your absence – or because of your absence’ – the words cut again – ‘down on the course Ching changed jockeys with a character you have met already, Streaky Bacon.’
‘Streaky! Streaky – here in Calcutta?’ Ted was dazed.
‘In Calcutta. English jockeys do come out – unfortunately.’ John’s voice was biting. ‘The horse threw him and bolted, God knows where. Dark Invader has disappeared. Congratulations.’
John went out. If there had been a door he would have slammed it.
‘Nobody knows,’ Mother Morag said often, ‘who will be asked to do what next!’ which tangled sentence was true; but she should have added, ‘Of course, they must have resource and courage.’
At half past seven that morning, a Mr James Dunn paid his bill at the boarding-house in Lower Circular Road where he always stayed on his unwilling visits to Calcutta, a city he detested. It was the same boarding house that had welcomed Ted. James Dunn was a plump middle-aged Scotsman of small importance, being the engineer in charge of the jute presses in the jute mills of McKenzie, McNaught and McKenzie at Narayangunj, that town of jute mills, two hundred miles from Calcutta. James Dunn could have gone back there by an overnight train and short steamer journey but, in India, one river leads to another and Narayangunj was on the Luckia, a tributary of the Bhramaputra which flows into the Bay of Bengal, as does the Hooghly, so that James could travel home by river, a slow meandering that he loved. It took eight days and now he was on his way to the river, where a paddle-steamer waited at Chand Pal Ghat on the Strand. To have had a taxi come to the boarding house would have cost unnecessary money and he set out to catch one at the bottom of the road where it met the racecourse.
Though James Dunn was an undistinguished person, behind him came his bearer, Sohan Lall, carrying his topee – it was too early to wear one – and his coat, and behind Sohan Lall two of the boarding-house coolies carried James’s suitcase and canvas hold-all and a small sausage-like bedding roll, Sohan Lall’s luggage. James himself carried Calcutta’s two daily newspapers, the Statesman and the Englishman.
For Calcutta, it was a fresh sweet morning; sunlight had begun to filter through the mist that still lay on the racecourse and the Maidan. He liked mist; it reminded him faintly of his native Arbroath and Dundee, though there it was a proper smur, damp and cold. True, the crows were making their usual raucous hawking, a man was hosing unmentionable débris into the gutter, but a dove was calling from a casuarina tree and, over garden walls, James could smell the scent of English flowers. He had breakfasted well, he would soon be safe on the steamer where he could spend Christmas – now only four days off – away from the pseudo-gaiety of an Indian city or town, and James began to whistle ‘Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonny Doon’.
There were no taxis at the bottom of the road but, ‘There’ll be plenty in Chowringhee,’ and the little retinue crossed the road to the turf that edged the racecourse and turned right. It was then that they heard the sound of galloping hooves – hooves not on the racecourse, but on the harder ground on which they stood. The sound came steadily nearer; then, out of the mist, mane and tail flying, they saw a great dark horse.
Even to James Dunn’s ignorant eye it was palpably a racehorse, a runaway that had thrown its rider – stirrups and reins were flapping – and it must have jumped the rails. ‘God Almighty! It’s heading towards Chowringhee! The traffic! Trams!’ James Dunn cried it aloud.
Already the rhythmic ta-ta-tump on the hard baked earth was loud, getting louder. The horse was bearing down on them where they stood near an intersecting road. The coolies dropped the luggage and fled. ‘Aie!’ cried Sohan Lall and jumped out of reach and, ‘Ay,’ said James, the same sound but a different meaning, and he stepped forward, arms extended.
A thoroughbred horse travelling true and determined, ears pricked, at some fifteen miles an hour, is an awkward thing to tackle, even for an expert, and ninety-nine men out of a hundred would, like Sohan Lall, have jumped for safety, but James stood his ground, a folded newspaper in each hand held at arm’s length and, ‘Whoa!’ he bellowed. ‘Whoa!’
There was the sound of hooves slipping on the tarmac. For a moment James thought the horse would come down, but it dropped its head, planted its feet and slid to a stop. He had a view at close quarters of large furry ears edged with little beads of moisture from the mist, wide nostrils, delicately made, and lustrous eyes. ‘Stand!’ commanded James but, before he could stretch out a hand to catch at the reins, the horse swerved and went past him to the stretch of turf, stopped, looked with its ears pricked forward, then, instead of dashing on to the perils of Chowringhee, turned and walked back. ‘Yes, walked,’ James Dunn told Sohan Lall; then, as if by intent, crossed the road; for once there were no cars, only a tikka gharry and a rickshaw which it avoided, and began to trot, not fast but purposefully, not far, only a few hundred yards up Lower Circular Road, when it stopped suddenly, turned neatly on its hocks with a grind of steel on stone and cantered in through an open gateway; James, running after it as fast as his plumpness allowed, heard the clatter of its hooves on cobbles.
‘Somebody must have guided it,’ Sister Mary Fanny said. ‘Must have been an angel,’ but James Dunn, as he caught up, saw no-one and never knew he, in a way, was the angel. When he reached the gateway there was nothing but the warm sweet smell of horse sweat – ‘Strange that theirs smells so nice, human’s so dreadful,’ he said to himself. Only the smell and a white scratch on the pavement. There was a gatehouse but no gateman; peering in James could see an old-fashioned cobbled courtyard and an outbuilding in which was a stall and a conical pile of straw; a stable certainly but, even to him, not the sort to house a racehorse. He had thought racehorses lived in state in trainers’ stables; this was a simple single stall, but the horse had seemed to know exactly where it was going; indeed he could hear the sound of munching – food must have been made ready.
There was a bellpull beside the gateway – James Dunn did not notice the little statue set in the niche below, nor the cross above it; he was debating whether to pull the bell or not. H
e looked at his watch; there was the steamer to catch and if he pulled the bell he must wait until somebody came and there must be explanations. The horse was safe – he could still hear the munching – and so, still breathing a little hard, a little warm about the collar, he walked back to join Sohan Lall and his luggage by the road.
‘Shabash!’ said Sohan Lall, which means Bravo! ‘But Sahib,’ he added in Hindustani, ‘You might have been killed.’
‘Rot!’ but, as James Dunn hailed his taxi, he was not whistling ‘Ye Banks and Braes’ but ‘Cock o’ the North’.
Father Joseph, in his purple vestments, had just turned from the altar to give the Sisters his blessing and said the final words, ‘Ite missa est’ – the Mass is ended – and the Sisters had risen in their ranks to give the answer; those old people who had wanted to come had risen too, others in wheelchairs or even beds that had been wheeled to the tribune or balcony above, bowed their heads. ‘Deo Gratias’ – God be thanked – and, ‘It was as we said those words,’ said Sister Mary Fanny, ‘that we heard it – a loud slither at the gates.’
Father Joseph had said a special prayer not, to her disappointment, for the repose of Solomon – ‘I’m sure he had a soul’ – but that the Sisters would be helped in the predicament his death had left. Now, with his small acolyte, a dusky protégé of the nuns, walking in front of him, Father Joseph had started to leave when he stopped, the boy too, while a controlled ripple seemed to run along the rows of nuns as through the chapel windows came the unmistakable sound of horse’s hooves on stone. The sound stopped; the priest left and the disciplined Sisters knelt for the Thanksgiving, Mother Morag with them, but she quickly gave the knock, rose and led them out, each Sister trying still to be reverent and not to jostle. They poured into the courtyard and now there was a real ripple – a gasp.
In Solomon’s stall was a horse; as it heard them it turned round as if to greet them and they saw its size and splendour. The most beautiful horse they had ever seen.
It was only for a moment – Solomon’s feed was not yet quite demolished and then the only sound in the courtyard was a steady munching as the Sisters stood silent in the early sunlight; though some had tears running down their cheeks, their faces were illumined. At last Sister Mary Fanny whispered, ‘It’s a miracle. It is a miracle, Mother, isn’t it?’
‘Not yet.’ The question had jolted Mother Morag into action, and her voice rang clear and firm. ‘Wake Dil Bahadur. Tell him to close the gates and keep them closed,’ said Mother Morag.
In John Quillan’s small office at the stables, Ching faced him and Mr Leventine across the table. John had not asked him to sit down. Babu Ram Sen was at his desk in the corner and, ‘Sen,’ ordered John, ‘take down everything Mr Ah Lee says. I want a typed report.’ Mr Ah Lee! not Ching! Ching had seen John Quillan angry but never like this; he was dark with fury and as hard as if he were made of ice or stone. As for Mr Leventine, he looked like a bewildered baby. ‘But it can’t be,’ he kept saying. ‘A horse can’t vanish.’ The word was piteous. ‘You’re sure you have asked everyone? In the stables… ’
Silence still hung over the stables as if the men were stunned; only the Jemadar walked up and down giving his brief orders; only the horses were normal, each in its stall, except Dark Invader.
‘You have asked everyone?’
‘Yes.’ John was terse.
‘The police?’
‘Yes,’ even terser.
‘I shall see the Inspector myself.’
‘Do.’ John’s patience was getting short.
The baby face grew shrewd. ‘This must be a plot. Someone has something against me.’
‘Before we jump to conclusions, suppose you listen to what Ching says.’ Ah Lee was Ching again, to his relief. ‘Tell Mr Leventine exactly what happened – from the beginning,’ said John.
Ching stood stiffly, trying not to betray his dismay – and his shame: it is part of Chinese manners to appear cheerful in disaster – and, ‘I extremely sorry, sir,’ he told Mr Leventine, ‘I make so unhappy mistake… ’ he tried to laugh – a sound like ‘Hee hee hee’ – ‘but I think not all my fault.’
‘Of course it was your fault.’ John’s temper snapped and Ching’s small black Chinese eyes looked this way and that, trying to escape and, ‘Look at us, man,’ thundered John.
Ching looked and there was such distress behind the façade that John had to be gentle. ‘Try and tell us. Begin at the beginning.’
‘When Ted – Mr Ted – Mr Mullins – didn’t… ’
‘Didn’t appear – and obviously couldn’t.’ John helped because Ching’s voice had faded away from embarrassment. ‘Yes?’
‘Jemadar Sahib and I, we not know what to do except horses must go out.’ John nodded in approval. ‘Then Sadiq tell us your list of orders, sir, orders for morning, was on table by bed – Ted’s – Mr Mullins’s bed. Sadiq, he no want to fetch them, so… ’
‘Who fetched them?’
‘I, Ching,’ and Ching shut his eyes as if to shut out the memory of Ted’s room. ‘Jemadar Sahib not read English, so I read… hoping that was right, sir?’ It was a question and, ‘That was right,’ said John. ‘And we decide I take Mr Ted’s place, first riding boy take mine, etcetera, etcetera… ’ Ching was proud of that word. ‘Jemadar do timing. Was that right, sir?’
‘That was right,’ said John again.
‘I take Dark Invader. Not easy crossing road – so many peoples, but I take Ali with Sadiq, one each side. Then I do what you said: one, two circuits, like Mr Ted. Then… ’ and Ching gulped.
‘Then?’
‘When we came back there was English jockeys, five, six, standing watching. When Darkie come in they all look at him. Me, I feel proud it is I, Ching, am riding him, and one of them say, “Look. That the horse we got to beat for Viceroy Cup on Boxing Day. Never headed this season,” he say. I very proud,’ said Ching. ‘I go back to Jemadar and tell him.
‘Then two jockeys, they come over and I knew one, sir. Him the famous Tom Bacon. I seen his photo… now he going round pretending he no had a ride. “Want any work ridden?” he say. “No?” He laugh. “Very well, I push on,” he say, and, I,’ Ching swallowed, ‘I not understand he pretending… and he come up to me… I… pleased. English jockeys not speak much to us. He ask, “You in charge here?”
‘I say, “This morning, yes.” Then I ask, “Is Mr Bacon?” and say, “I seen your photo.”
‘The other jockey, he laugh. He say, “That’s fame for you, Streaky!” Then Mr Bacon look at Darkie and he say, “Fine horse,” and other man – I think he not like Mr Bacon very much – he say, “Come off it, Streaky. It’s Dark Invader. You’ve ridden him.”
‘Mr Bacon he say, “Yes, I remember. Come to think of it I ride him his first race. Lingfield it was. We won as expected.”
‘“You rode him again.”
‘“Did I?” And Mr Bacon say, “I don’t remember.”
‘“You do! Doncaster,”’ and, ‘Is that right name?’ asked Ching. John nodded. ‘Other jockey, he go on, “Sort of rode him, you mean. By all account he dumped you and ran home,” and Mr Bacon, “Really? I forgotten,” and, “You know, Willie,” – Willie other man’s name – “You must allow for a jerk or two,” – I think he mean a fall,’ said Ching – ‘“in two year old race” and Mr Willie, he say, “Didn’t look like a youngster’s job. I behind you all the way. It look as if that horse he hate your guts.”
‘Then Mr Bacon he get angry.’ Ching’s voice grew dramatic. ‘He say, “I no having that sort of talk. Never been a horse that didn’t take to me.” Then… ’
‘Then?’ asked John.
‘He laugh up at me, so nice like and say, “Want any work ridden?” like to the others, and I told you I no understand he pretending, so I say… ’ Ching choked.
‘Say?’ John prompted him.
‘I say “Would be an honour, sir.” He say, “Very well, I just take him round for you,” so I dismount, sir. He say, “Why you ride so l
ong? That old-fashioned.”’ Ching gave a reproachful look at John. ‘What can I say but “Is orders.” He laugh, say, “Like ruddy mounted policeman,” and he shorten leathers, five holes. Then he take reins and I… I put him up. Mr Willie say, “Streaky, look out,” but Mr Bacon no listening. He tell me, “Thank you, chum.” “Chum”, like we was friend, so… ’
‘You let him go,’ said John.
‘Yes. Hee hee… ’ Ching gave another nervous laugh.
‘Go on,’ John was remorseless.
‘I think Darkie – he taken by surprise. Because Sadiq and me, we holding him, he trust.’ Ching swallowed again.