Sauceboat’s trainer Miles Henry felt that his soul had died. At forty, he thought racing had taught him everything he’d ever need to know about life. But as he watched Frankie quietly stop the medics from lifting Kathy’s corpse, he wept as Frankie bent and cradled her and held her as he carried her into the back of the ambulance. The medics closed the doors and as the white vehicle trundled away in the gathering dusk, Miles Henry wondered how he would be able to live with what had happened.
He was vaguely aware of the empty stands, the engines of horseboxes, loaded and ready for home. Miles knew he’d be unable to drive. He felt he might do well just to find the strength to uproot his feet from this spot and start to walk. He sensed someone approaching but couldn’t take his eyes from the fading red lights of the ambulance in the distance.
‘Mister Henry?’
He turned. It was Sauceboat’s groom, Harry. Miles looked at the boy. ‘Mister Henry, Pete said I should ask you if you wanted to travel back with us in the van. He said he’ll arrange for your car to get collected tomorrow.’ Miles Henry found himself nodding. He tried to move and couldn’t. He found himself reaching out to Harry, opening his hand. Harry seemed uncertain but slowly he raised his arm and took Miles Henry by the hand. The boy led the man away.
When the horsebox-driver pulled into the yard at Lambourn, he helped the trainer down and took him into the house before returning to unload the horses. When he lowered the ramp, the first thing he saw was the big brown face of Sauceboat. The horse was lathered in sweat and shaking, almost vibrating as though leaning against a pneumatic drill.
Hurrying up the ramp, he saw that the horse was sweating so heavily steady drips fell from the gelding’s belly. He ran down the ramp and across the yard to the office. The vet’s number was pinned on the wall above the phone.
By the time the vet, Peter Culling, reached the yard, Sauceboat was in his stable, still sweat-soaked but heavily rugged to try and calm the shivers.
Culling shook his head and hurried into the box. Sauceboat’s lad, Harry, peeled the rugs off. Miles Henry, more alert now, stood anxiously inside the stable door. ‘What is it, Peter?’ The trainer asked.
‘God knows.’ Culling opened his bag. He was a powerfully built man, standing five-ten. His receding sandy hair looked even thinner under the single strip light.
When the trainer saw Culling’s face, he said, ‘Peter, you look terrible, are you feeling alright?’
The vet looked away from him. ‘It’s been a long week Miles, late nights, early calls; you know the way it gets sometimes.’ He bent to get a thermometer from his bag.
Miles Henry said quietly, ‘You know what happened with this horse at Stratford today?’
The vet nodded. ‘I was there. Terrible. Worst thing I’ve ever seen on a racecourse.’ His voice was shaky. He eased the thermometer into the horse’s rectum.
The trainer sighed and said, ‘Kathy had been training here for months. She’d only married back in May. I thought she was ready, I honestly did. Especially with this horse, who’s so bloody quiet you wouldn’t know he was in the yard.’
Miles Henry was waiting for Culling to make some consoling noises, but as the vet raised his stethoscope he said, ‘Can we drop the subject? I need to concentrate on trying to save the horse.’ He spent almost ten minutes examining Sauceboat before turning to the anxious trainer. ‘It’s got to be something in his gut. He’s in a lot of pain. I want to get him back to my place and put him under, have a proper look.’
‘OK. OK, do that. I’ll ring the owner. Don’t do anything too expensive until I’ve rung the owner.’
‘Well, make it quick, Miles.’ He turned to the lad. ‘Can you help me get him back in the van?’ Harry nodded, seriously worried about ‘his’ horse now.
Peter Culling had converted part of his barn into an equine operating theatre. Harry and the box- driver led the shivering horse into the white-walled semi-padded room as Culling came through an internal door leading from his office. ‘I’ve called my assistants, they’ll be here soon. Thanks for your help. I’ll ring and let you know as soon as there’s some news.’
Harry stroked the horse’s matted neck. ‘I’d like to stay, sir, if you don’t mind. I’ll help.’
‘I’m sorry, that won’t be possible. It’s outside the guidelines, I’m afraid. You’d be best back at the yard. I promise I’ll call you very soon.’ Culling looked exhausted. The boy handed him the headcollar lead and turned slowly away. The box-driver put an arm around the lad’s shoulders as they went out.
When Culling heard the horsebox pull away, he opened his bag again. Taking out a syringe and a small bottle of liquid, he turned and injected Sauceboat just under his windpipe. Within a minute, the violent shivering eased. Soon it stopped completely. Culling led the horse out of the theatre and into a box adjoining part of the barn.
Stooped and almost dragging his feet, he went back to his office and called Miles Henry. The line was engaged. Minutes later the trainer rang him. ‘The owner says do whatever you have to and bugger the cost.’
‘I’ll try, Miles, but we might not save him.’
‘Mister Graham knows that. He’ll stand the bill, don’t worry.’
‘OK, I’ll get to it now. I’ll ring as soon as I come out of theatre.’
Culling went to his drinks cabinet and poured a small measure of cognac. He sipped as he stared at the wall. Returning to his desk, he leafed through a notebook, and picked up the phone. It rang for some time before it was answered. Culling said, ‘Gerry, I’ve got another one for you.’
Back in the silent house, Culling went to the conservatory and sat staring at the darkness. For almost two hours, he barely moved; then he checked his watch and wearily got to his feet. He made his way to the horse’s box. Sauceboat was calm and still and his coat was drying. His eyes looked bright and when Culling swung a full hay net inside the horse began eating immediately. Culling filled his water bucket before returning to his office.
He dialled Miles Henry’s number. Mrs Henry answered and Culling had to wait almost a minute before the trainer came to the phone.
Culling said gravely, ‘Miles, I’m so sorry, we lost him on the operating table.’
At noon the next day, Gerry Monroe stopped the horsebox outside the vet’s place, jumped from the high cab and strode purposefully toward the barn. Peter Culling had warned him that he wouldn’t be at home, but there was a combination lock on the barn door and Culling had given Monroe the numbers. He dialled them in. A few minutes later, he was leading Sauceboat out to the horsebox. The horse was perky, and looked well considering what he’d been through.
Monroe loaded him without trouble, then went back and locked the barn door. The box he drove was an old wooden-sided one that rolled along the lanes of Lambourn, swaying gently and labouring as it climbed out of the valley up the B4001. Just before reaching the crest of the hill, Monroe wrestled the steering wheel round to turn the box along a track which ran parallel with the ridge a hundred yards or so above it.
Caution was needed here as potholes were scattered like craters on a shelled road, and the springs and wooden slats of the box groaned and squeaked each time a wheel dipped.
Approaching the end of the track Monroe saw that the big black gates to Hewitt’s place had been opened as promised. He came off the last easy curve through the gates to find Hewitt waiting. Monroe led Sauceboat round the back of the big three-storey house, aware that Hewitt was watching the horse walk, studying his action, looking at his conformation. This was the tenth horse Monroe had brought since Gleeson, the Irishman, had approached him. The first time he’d met Hewitt, Monroe had been convinced he wasn’t a horseman but he seemed to have been coping well, whatever it was he was doing with these horses.
Monroe put Sauceboat in the end box and turned to see Hewitt walking slowly toward him, smiling, counting out banknotes. Monroe folded the wad and shoved it into the pocket of his jerkin knowing he didn’t need to check it.
�
�Thanks. Six o’clock OK to call back?’
‘That will be fine. And you haven’t forgotten my requirement, Mister Monroe?’
Monroe was sick of hearing this line but tried not to show it. ‘No, Mister Hewitt, I haven’t.’
‘Do what you can.’
‘Count on it.’
‘Good. Come back around six. Just do your usual. You know where he’ll be.’
‘Fine, Mister Hewitt, no problem.’
He returned just after six cursing the driving, swirling rain that swept down the valley from the ridge, drenching him as he hurried to the back of the big house. Sauceboat was in the end box and followed him meekly when he tugged at the head collar, dragging his hooves slightly as they all did when he came back for them.
The bay gelding was more lethargic than most of the others had been and Monroe took some time getting him up the ramp. When he unloaded at the other end, at his place of full-time work, the horse seemed to have picked up slightly.
Monroe led him quietly through the doors into the dimly lit space with the white walls. Only one light burned in the building and that was inside this room. Monroe had to be extra careful; if his employers ever found out he was moonlighting he’d be in trouble.
He was talking to Sauceboat now as he turned the horse to face the door he’d just come through. He let go the halter and slid the door closed, then took up the rope again and steadily wound it in loops around his left wrist. Talking in low tones, he reassured the big horse that everything was going to be fine. With his right hand, he reached slowly behind him without looking, and eased his bolt-action rifle off the hooks on the white wall.
Moving his face closer to Sauceboat’s head he spoke softly, reaching in his pocket for a Polo mint and holding it at waist level. The trusting horse lowered his head to lick the mint from his palm. Monroe swung the rifle dexterously until the muzzle rested in the centre of Sauceboat’s forehead.
The horse stood calmly, crunching the mint, looking straight ahead, listening to the soft tones of this man who’d won his trust. Monroe said, ‘Bye-bye big fella.’
13
The numbness held Frankie together until after the funeral. If he had any feeling at all, it was that this was not happening to him. He was an automaton making arrangements for the burial of a young woman. A few small things were to stir him: seeing their wedding guests return in mourning clothes; picking up his sister Theresa’s tearful message on his phone saying that their mother had locked her in her room to stop her coming to him; finding unused wedding gifts stored in the cupboard under the stairs; and the grief of Kathy’s adoptive parents when they’d come to see him on a dark day in Winterfold Cottage.
But there were no tears from him. Anaesthetized by whatever self-protecting chemical his brain was producing, the only time he felt any strong emotion was when he opened the card from his mother, the message causing him to throw it across the room. He’d received over a hundred cards. The words of sadness and sympathy had begun rolling into one another until he came to his mother’s. It said, ‘I hope she’s burning in hell.’
Just after eleven on Thursday morning, Frankie Houlihan got into the red Subaru estate car that had been a present from Kathy. He drove down the rutted track away from the cottage. Rain fell softly. Every few seconds the wipers swished. Frankie was going racing for the first time since Kathy’s death. Bobby Cranfield had talked him into it during several long phone calls.
Bobby Cranfield was PR Director for the Jockey Club. He had met Kathy when she’d made the initial approach about her plans to ride at Cheltenham. Kathy had introduced Frankie to Bobby, who had sorted out all the arrangements for Kathy - setting things up with Miles Henry, getting her a licence to ride, organising the early training.
As Frankie pulled out onto the main road, he managed a smile as he recalled Kathy’s story of Bobby’s call to tell her they’d got to get her down to Lambourn and let her sit on an old schoolmaster to start with.
Bobby did the Jockey Club job for love. He was a multi-millionaire from selling his international PR agency. He had horses of his own with several trainers, and the weekend after first contacting him, Kathy was in Miles Henry’s yard, one of the top Lambourn stables, being legged up onto a quiet gelding.
And that had been it. The beginning. Over two years ago. And six weeks back had been the end. A fall to start it and one to finish it. Frankie’s skin prickled coldly at the thought as it always did. There was the sick sinking feeling in his gut too. A parishioner had once told him that if there was really a God he must have a bitch of a sense of humour. Frankie had considered it blasphemous but since Kathy’s death, he’d recalled it again and again. Six weeks without her. Long days and nights of trying to make sense of everything. Grief hadn’t yet hit him, not properly, for there was something in him that refused to accept he’d never see her again.
He was heading for Wincanton in Somerset. Passing Stonehenge, Frankie thought how small it looked although it was a good way from the road. He and Kathy had passed it a few times and always promised to stop off on the next trip, but they never had done. It looked ghostly now through the fine, misty rain.
Frankie climbed the grandstand stairs and knocked on the door of box number thirty-two, which had a plaque saying Mr Bobby Cranfield. He went in and was surprised to find only Bobby there and the lunch table set for two. The box could hold at least twenty people and Bobby loved to entertain. He sat in his wheelchair smiling warmly; ‘Come in Frankie. You look wet.’
Frankie shook his hand. A waitress appeared, smiling as she took Frankie’s coat and offered him a drink. Frankie asked for mineral water.
He sat down in the only empty chair. ‘How are you, Bobby? It’s good to see you.’
‘I’m as well as I’ve ever been, and even better now that I’ve got some decent company.’ Cranfield’s eyes shone with pleasure.
Frankie thought that nobody just seeing Bobby’s upper half would know he was disabled. He looked fit and tanned and healthy with his thick, lead-grey hair. He was around fifty and he had a well- equipped gym and a pool at his big house in Oxfordshire, and Frankie had seen him work out in both. His party trick was launching himself into the pool from his chair by arm strength alone; then he’d exercise by keeping himself afloat moving only his upper half as his dead legs dangled.
Kathy had always seen Bobby as a living example of how she feared ending up. Every time they met, Frankie had seen a glint of terror in Kathy’s eyes and when she’d learned that Bobby had been crippled in a fall from a racehorse yet had still gone ahead with her plan to ride at Cheltenham, Frankie thought it one of the most courageous things he’d ever known.
Frankie settled in the chair and silently counted the cutlery to gauge how long a lunch Bobby had planned. He was also wondering what was on the agenda with just the two of them there. He said to Bobby, ‘My Holmesian powers of deduction tell me that the chef, at this moment, is not outside slaughtering a four-hundred pound pig to make sure nobody goes hungry here.’
Cranfield smiled. ‘If you didn’t have that accent I’d still know you were Irish. Who else uses ten words when one will do?’
Now Frankie smiled. Cranfield said, ‘You’re dead right. Nobody else is coming. We have the box to ourselves. Even Caroline,’ at which point the waitress put Frankie’s mineral water on the table, ‘has agreed to leave us alone once she’s served the starter.’
‘So the starter’s joining us too. Who’s gonna get the races off in time?’
‘Very funny. I’m glad to see you’re in good heart.’
‘I’m doing fine,’ Frankie said, wondering when Bobby was going to explain why he’d asked him here.
‘Managing to fill your days?’
Frankie nodded. ‘I read. And walk a bit.’
There was a longish silence as they looked at each other, Cranfield with his kind smile and Frankie with the pain in his eyes still clear despite his affected jauntiness.
‘Are you sleeping OK?’ Cranfield ask
ed.
‘Not really, but self-pity never was the best sedative.’
‘It’s grief, Frankie, not self-pity. Perfectly understandable grieving. Don’t give yourself a tough time over it.’
Frankie averted his eyes, sipped his drink. Cranfield said, ‘Would it help to talk?’
‘If I start I’ll never stop.’
‘That’s what friends are for.’
‘I’ll take you up on it sometime, Bobby, but not now, if you don’t mind.’
Cranfield reached across to grip Frankie’s forearm. ‘Of course not. Of course not! You know where I am when you do want to talk. Just give me a call.’
Frankie nodded. ‘Thanks.’
Cranfield sipped white wine. Caroline brought two smoked salmon terrines then left again. Frankie said, ‘I guess this has kinda messed up your timings, me not wanting to talk.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I mean, there’s a full afternoon’s racing to get through and there’s just me and you. And I’m not talking. And me the best talker too, by far, of the both of us. It has the makings of a peaceful afternoon, does it not?’
Cranfield smiled. ‘Oh, you’ll talk alright, Frankie boy, maybe not about Kathy, but when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll talk!’
Frankie boy. It was the first time anyone but Kathy had called him that and he suddenly felt an unreasonable stab of antagonism toward Bobby for saying it. But it passed in a moment as his curiosity took over. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions Page 5