‘Sort of like us, I suppose,’ Rory offered somewhat hopelessly.
‘Is that the right example, I wonder? With the greatest respect, I’d hardly take us for yardsticks, Mr Rawlins. Besides, horses have a completely different way of ingesting things and who knows what the chemicals do to them, the poor creatures. We only ever bed ours on straw we’ve grown or that we know hasn’t been sprayed.’
‘I was thinking of putting him on shavings,’ Rory said out of the silence that had fallen. ‘I was thinking of p-putting all the horses on shavings. But with my father in hospital …’
‘Sure I know,’ Kathleen consoled him. ‘Isn’t it one of those things you can do tomorrow? So now let’s see how else he is.’
Kathleen entered the stable. After she had given the horse several long strokes down his neck, put a hand on his muzzle and pulled his ears, she gave him a thorough physical, paying particular attention to the area at the top of his neck and the bottom of his jaw.
‘I’d say that the reason Boyo’s been coughing, Mr Rawlins,’ she said, coming back out of the stable, ‘is because the glands in his neck are up. Not desperately so, but they’re definitely larger than they should be.’
‘So he has got an infection, then,’ Rory said, as if that would close the door on it.
‘It could just be a reaction, on the other hand,’ Kathleen replied, looking at him sideways on. ‘To something that’s disagreed with him.’
‘The point is, surely – whatever the reason – the point is if he does have an in-in-in-fection he’s going to have to have an antibiotic, which in turn means even if it’s a short course we won’t get him on a racecourse for at least a month. He can’t run, as you know – well, of course you do. He can’t run with antibiotics in his system.’
‘You could perhaps try something other than antibiotics.’
‘Aspirin, perhaps? Have him gargle with TCP?’ Rory enquired facetiously, immediately regretting his tone. ‘Sorry. What else is there? For horses, that is.’
‘If you want your horse racing, I’d try some bryonia,’ Kathleen replied. ‘I might put him on some ignatia as well, in case he still hasn’t quite settled – and I’d certainly take all the straw out of his box and fumigate the whole stable. And before I forget it, his teeth need a rasp as well.’
Silence fell. For a moment Rory just stared at the ground, hating having what he considered to be his incompetence discovered, as well as not knowing what to say regarding Kathleen’s suggestion that they try the horse on homoeopathic medicines for whatever infection he might or might not be suffering from. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and continued to stare at the ground while he tried to work out how to deal with what was being suggested – whether to allow Noel to shoot the horse up with antibiotic, which was the standard and most practical procedure, or to fly in the face of veterinary advice and expect a dilution of some weird herb or other to do the trick.
‘If I may say so, one of the main reasons he’s not eating up is because his teeth need seeing to.’ Kathleen broke the silence. ‘Has he been quidding? You know, dropping food at feed times?’
Rory nodded, remembering this was something he had indeed noticed but not paid much attention to, thinking the horse’s carelessness at the manger was simply the result of sloppy eating habits. He coloured slightly at the illustration of yet another instance of his apparent equine mismanagement.
‘The dentist’s due in sometime this week,’ he lied. ‘He’s been on holiday.’
In another ensuing silence he continued privately to berate himself for imagining he could simply take over and run the yard with as little experience as he’d had so far in training and managing thoroughbred racehorses. It had been easy enough when his father was around, particularly since Anthony always made it look quite straightforward. Consequently he had thought all he had to do when his father was taken ill was follow the daily routine. He realised now that he had never known for one minute what the full and proper protocol really was.
‘Suppose I did – suppose we did try what you’re saying we should try,’ he suddenly asked. ‘What would I say to Noel? To my vet? Who is probably going to appear in the drive any moment now.’
‘You must only do what you think best, Mr Rawlins,’ Kathleen replied. ‘But if he does suddenly appear and you still don’t know what to do, just give us a broom and an old cap and I’ll say you’re not here. That you had to go back to see your dad maybe, that the horse has stopped coughing and that you want to take a bit of a pull until you see if maybe the old infection will clear itself up.’
Rory took another long look at her, and realised that if this absurdly beautiful young woman with the bright green eyes told him to go and jump off a cliff because it was good for him he’d do it, willingly.
‘OK, yes,’ he muttered, frowning deeply and staring down at the ground again. ‘But if we did – if we were to do this, you know. Where do we get this whatever it is – this homoeopathic stuff, whatever it is.’
‘You have a big town near here?’
‘We have a city. Salisbury. About half an hour away.’
‘Then there’s bound to be homoeopathic chemists. And if you’re still anxious, let me tell you about the horse of Tim Milligan’s that won at Cheltenham this year. He was said to have had the virus but they wouldn’t treat him with antibiotics. Tim Milligan said if you do that you might as well put the horse away for the rest of the season. That horse won the Mildmay without going near the antibiotics.’
Rory listened and nodded. He knew what she was saying was perfectly right, not necessarily about homoeopathy, about which he knew less than nothing, but certainly about the effects of a course of antibiotics on a horse. He remembered one of his father’s owners who happened to be a doctor saying that antibiotics remained in a horse’s system for much longer than people believed or indeed than it showed on blood tests, which was why whenever one of his horses was treated that way he insisted they came out of training for at least three months.
Besides that, what was influencing Rory was the fact that he was starting to feel that he might actually have the sort of horse that, while not exactly projecting the stables into the big time, might well be capable of winning enough races to kick-start Fulford Racing Ltd back into proper business. The little horse that he had initially considered useless, first when his father had decided to buy it and particularly when it had arrived in the yard looking like something on its way to an equine rehabilitation centre, had now caught his fancy, not necessarily because of the little bit of faster work that he had seen but because of the animal’s aura. There was not only something businesslike about the animal, but something almost mystical. By now Rory knew the characters, foibles and idiosyncrasies of all the horses in the yard and while he was fond of all of them, including the bad-tempered and dispiriting Trojan Jack, none of them had the presence that The Enchanted seemed to have. And although he was an artist and so blessed with an imagination, Rory knew that his instinct about the little Irish horse had nothing to do with imagination. He was like a star performer, in fact, he had It. Your heart raced a little faster when you saw him work.
Of course if the little horse did come up trumps the stable fortunes would take a turn for the better. A winning horse always catches owners’ eyes, and since his father always maintained that there was nothing more a certain type of owner liked than to stable-hop in the hope that a new and winning trainer could turn their goose into a swan, every stable winner brought the chance of new owners.
And there was nothing that Fulford Racing Ltd needed more than new owners, unless it were a new owner. So the sooner Rory could get the little horse fit and ready to race, the better their chance for survival, and the only way to do that was to take a chance that Kathleen was right. QED.
‘You’ve been away a long time,’ Kathleen remarked, as Rory came back to earth.
‘Things to think about,’ he replied. ‘Now you write down what I’ve got to get from this homoeopathic chemis
t place and I’ll go and get it, because at the same time I can pop in and see my father – and you can do as you suggested, when the vet arrives.’
‘OK,’ Kathleen replied, with another toss of her dark hair. ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘Guaranteed?’
‘Absolutely.’
But as they turned away from each other, both of them knew nothing was absolute, other than real belief.
Chapter Twelve
Fast Work
‘I’m moving to the country,’ Alice said, closing her eyes and waiting for the explosion on the other end of the telephone line.
‘I can’t have heard right, Mum,’ Georgina said after an ominous silence. ‘Did you say you were moving to the country?’
‘I think that’s what I said, Georgie. Yes.’
‘You’re a townie, Mum.’ Georgina sighed. ‘You wouldn’t work in the country.’
‘Oh, I think I might.’
‘Come on – you’d be bored stiff in a minute. There’s nothing to do in the country. Not at your age.’
Alice was on the point of telling her about the horse but managed to button her lip in time, knowing that if Georgina got hold of that piece of information the fun would go out of it all, and it would lead to yet another litany of questions and accusations, such as:
What on earth did she think she was doing?
Had she completely lost it?
Did she ever think of anyone else but herself?
Like, did she never think of her family?
And much as she loved Georgina, which she did with all her heart, Alice couldn’t face it.
It had obviously been a mistake to tell her and Joe that she was moving to the country. She should of course have waited until she had actually gone, because that way nobody would get the chance to spoil it, but unable as always to keep herself to herself she had proceeded to spill the beans.
‘What about your grandchildren?’ Georgina was now wondering. ‘When are you going to see them, and them you – stuck miles away somewhere in the country? I suppose we’ll be expected to hump all the way down there at weekends, just when the traffic is really at its loveliest.’
‘Rather than me “humping” all the way up to you when I’m down in the country enjoying myself.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning exactly that, Georgina. You’ll all be more than welcome to come and stay once I’m settled in.’
‘Joe’s allergic to the country. It brings him out in depressions.’
‘That’s just too bad. The point is I’ve bought the cottage and I’m moving in next week.’
‘Is this some sort of very late mid-life crisis?’
‘No,’ Alice replied as evenly as she could. ‘It’s just something I want to do.’
‘You won’t last a minute down there. Really, Mum, you’re out of your mind. You really won’t be able to hack it.’
‘So you keep telling me.’ Alice stroked the dog on her knee and then eased him to the floor, deciding it was time to end this conversation, in line with one of her new resolutions, rather than let her daughter hang up first, which she always somehow managed to do. ‘I have to go now, Georgie dear – Sammy needs a walk. Goodbye, darling. Love to the children.’
Alice was sure she heard her daughter giving a slight gasp just before she put down the receiver, but that was just too bad. She was back to being herself. She’d found her voice again, young Alice’s voice, the voice of the woman who had stood up to her parents and everyone else who had tried to stop her marrying the love of her life.
Lynne was also on the move, heading out west ahead in her recently acquired second-hand silver Mercedes SL sports car. All she had awaiting her in her new apartment in Brook House was one single bed and an armchair purchased and dispatched from Peter Jones, but as far as Lynne was concerned that was more than enough. What mattered was that she was making a brand-new start in a brand-new home, and for once she was not going to be rushed and bullied into buying not what she wanted but what someone else did.
Fortunately the newly appointed apartment came already fitted with an expensive kitchen and bathroom and the latest and most efficient form of central heating, as well as something Lynne considered the very height of luxury: a central vacuuming system. She would buy everything else she needed at her leisure, taking as much time as she liked to find exactly what she wanted. She didn’t care how long it took her, because after all she only had herself to worry about.
‘Blow you, Gerry Fortune!’ she said to herself as she moved out into the fast lane. ‘Who needs ya, baby?’
Brook House was a very large Georgian house that had once apparently been the country seat of some local earl or other, Lynne had gathered when being shown round the conversion. Then it had become a hotel, and then a girls’ public school of doubtful repute, finally being purchased by a developer and turned into what was described as the ultimate concept in modern country living. At the end of the day, Lynne decided after her tour of inspection, what this meant was living in a nice new and very spacious apartment overlooking parkland instead of trying to hack it in a cramped two-bedroom flat overlooking some noisy and generally gridlocked road feeding central London, and for considerably less money. The ultimate concept in modern country living was fine by her. They could call it what they liked – to Lynne it couldn’t matter less. What mattered was that it was hers and hers alone, and that she was free.
On her second visit Lynne had met a couple of people who’d already moved in, and since they seemed about the same age as her, the one fear she had nursed, that she might be moving into some sort of upmarket retirement home, had been quickly dispersed. In fact judging from some of the expensive machinery parked at the front of the large stone-built mansion the very opposite was possibly true.
Singing happily to herself she locked up her Mercedes and gave it an admiring glance, relieved that she had obviously bought the right sort of motor to go with her new home. Then she took the lift to the apartment on the second floor, which as the brochure had put it enjoyed fine and uninterrupted views over some of the most unspoilt land in west Hampshire.
‘I’m home,’ she said to herself as she put a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the fridge to chill. ‘I have finally come home.’
Chapter Thirteen
Blaze
Returning to the yard after his trip to Salisbury, where he had managed to find the homoeopathic chemist as well as look in on his father, Rory presented Kathleen with the chemist’s bag.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What the Alchemist had to say. Seems every horse he can name has been miraculously cured by one of these m-magic potions.’
‘Might your second name be Thomas, Mr Rawlins? You’re a born doubter.’
‘I prefer to think of myself, if I think of myself at all, as a bit of a realist actually, Miss Flanagan.’
‘And where did realism ever get anybody? Into the alcoholic ward, that’s where. And I really don’t mind if you call me Kathleen.’
‘If you call me R-Rory.’
‘Thanks, but how could I do that when I’m working for you? How was your father?’
‘No better, I’m afraid. But then he’s no worse either, and his doctor says that’s a big plus.’
‘Tell him he’s in my prayers,’ Kathleen said, preparing the first dose of bryonia. ‘And everyone back home. Make sure to tell him now.’
‘I will,’ Rory agreed, touched. ‘Thank you.’
‘OK now,’ she said, showing him the medicine. ‘We’ll go and shoot this into Boyo’s mouth, all right? We have to give him a dose every four hours. Without fail.’
‘We as in?’ Rory enquired, scratching the side of his head and wishing that he could stop feeling like a schoolboy every time he talked to this lovely girl.
‘Every four hours, mind,’ Kathleen repeated, looking sideways at him. ‘From this little syringe, see?’
Rory followed her out across the yard, thinking that now she was back in his life the last thing
he wanted was for her to disappear again. But he really didn’t know how he could persuade her to stay. There was no money to pay for another pair of hands, and even though she had arrived uninvited he could hardly expect her to stay and work for nothing, particularly since his powers of eloquent persuasion seemed to have deserted him.
‘What is it?’ she asked out of the blue, after she had given the horse his medicine. ‘You’ve gone all silent again.’
‘No. It’s nothing. Nothing, Kathleen. No, I was just thinking.’
‘No harm in that, I suppose.’
‘No, actually I was wondering … it doesn’t matter.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t go doing that.’ Kathleen sighed. ‘Don’t go starting something and then not bother to finish. That really is – it drives me mad.’
‘You were really passing through, as you called it, were you?’ Rory asked, picking up a bit of baling twine from the ground and starting to make it into a cat’s cradle. ‘You know – when you said – when you arrived that is, this time. You said you were passing through, but that isn’t or rather wasn’t what you were doing at all. Was it?’
‘Does it matter, Mr Rawlins?’ Kathleen asked, looking him right in the eyes. ‘It’s neither here nor there now, is it? What matters is getting Boyo here right, and if my being here helps, then let’s just call it providential, OK?’
‘Fine by me.’ Rory offered her the cat’s cradle. ‘Know how to do this?’
‘Know how to do it?’ Kathleen laughed. ‘I’m the Cronagh open champion.’
Expertly and deftly she took the cradle of string from him, turned it into the next complex and handed it back to Rory, who almost as quickly played on and handed it back to her. She smiled.
‘Misspent youth, Mr Rawlins?’
‘Too much time on my own,’ he replied, getting stuck on the next move now that he had it back. ‘No good. Can’t do it.’
He held up the cradle as far as they had got it and raised his eyebrows at Kathleen, who shook her head at him, took the cradle and quickly polished it off.
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