Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  When Clown followed his stablemate’s performance with a clear round in his class and an unlucky four faults in the jump-off, Franklin was beaming and Peter was over the moon. Darcy confided in Ross that he didn’t really understand the finer details of the game, but he knew his uncle thought Ross was doing a great job.

  While Ross was walking Flo round the collecting ring prior to her first class, he watched Stephen Douglas jump a neat clear on a breedy bay mare who went by the name of China Lily. In spite of her performance, Douglas passed the American looking tense and unhappy. The reason, it transpired, was his second ride in the class, the headstrong chestnut he had ridden at Lea Farm.

  He returned to the practice area on the stallion and Ross watched the ensuing struggle with a large measure of pity. Both horse and rider were confused and frustrated, and up to the time when Ross was called into the ring, Douglas hadn’t managed to get his mount’s attention for long enough to attempt the practice fence once.

  On entering the ring, Ross’ attention switched immediately and completely to the job in hand. He circled the mare, the starting buzzer sounded, and they swept smoothly through the timing beacons and up to the first fence.

  Flo felt fresh and fit. Her brown ears flicked back and forth for signals and Ross obliged by talking quietly to her. ‘Steady girl, steady. Good girl. Steady. Wait. Wait. Good girl!’

  She jumped like a stag, making the course look easy, which to be honest, it was. The course designer had set few traps, aiming to encourage rather than to trick. Ross rode out with a satisfying clear behind him.

  Stephen Douglas was next but one and catapulted into the ring as though the horse had a tiger on its tail. The stallion had his head tied down, as before, until he could hardly see where he was going, and consequently made matchwood of three of the first five fences. Then, with a mammoth effort at the sixth, the leather strap snapped, the stallion got his head up and was away.

  Douglas made a creditable attempt to control the horse, keeping him on line for the next two jumps, which they took at racing speed with a good foot to spare, but thereafter the initiative belonged with the horse. They circled the ring three times, Stephen Douglas red-faced and wholly impotent, before the chestnut slowed enough for his rider to jump off and drag him to an untidy halt.

  The crowd, silenced by impending tragedy, now burst into weak applause, precipitated by relief as much as anything. The voice of the commentator commiserated and announced that Stephen Douglas and Telamon had retired, and the next competitor cantered out into the ring.

  Douglas trudged past Ross just outside the collecting ring, his horse quieter now but dark with sweat and obviously upset.

  ‘Bad luck,’ the American said from force of habit but nevertheless meaning it.

  ‘Piss off!’ Douglas hissed venomously.

  Ross shrugged philosophically.

  ‘Did you expect anything else?’ Danielle rode alongside Ross.

  ‘I guess not,’ he admitted, ruefully. ‘To tell the truth, I’d forgotten.’

  She smiled provocatively at him. ‘You’re just a naturally nice guy.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ he invited.

  ‘I’ll tell you over dinner tonight, if you like.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ross said, feeling mildly so. ‘I’m not staying over. We’re bringing another lot up tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Danielle made a face. ‘A girl’s got to try.’

  Flowergirl won her class, with China Lily a close second, and went on to a third place later in the day. Ross wished the Colonel had made the trip up to see her. He lunched with the Richmond clan in the members’ enclosure and emerged, having repeatedly refused large helpings of strawberries and cream, to find Leo and Danny quarrelling furiously.

  Leo, it appeared, had gone in search of a ‘quick beer’ and hadn’t returned for the best part of three-quarters of an hour. Danny, left with four horses and only one pair of hands, was incensed; especially as Clown, with impeccable timing, had chosen that moment to untie himself from the side of the lorry and go in search of greener pastures. Danny had had to enlist the help of a groom from a neighbouring horsebox to watch the remaining horses while he went in pursuit.

  Leo, in his own defence, swore that he had not been gone more than ten minutes and said that the boy was trying to make trouble.

  Ross gave him a withering look and told him to tack Simone up for the next class, and then spent the next five minutes trying to calm Danny down. He had obviously expected Ross to tear a strip off Leo and in spite of promising to deal with him later, Ross was left with the notion that Danny had joined Lindsay in thinking him a soft touch.

  The truth was that he had no wish to start what could turn into a flaming row, in public and eighty miles from home, with four horses to cope with. He wouldn’t entirely put it past Leo just to down tools and walk. The right time would come but it definitely wasn’t now.

  Simone was in sparkling form, narrowly beaten by Danielle’s experienced gelding in her first class and turning the tables convincingly in the second.

  ‘Ross Wakelin, you’re no gentleman,’ she chided him laughingly as they lined up to receive their rosettes and prize money.

  Ross grinned back, enjoying the flirtation.

  Franklin Richmond and his family were waiting to congratulate him as he left the ring.

  ‘I should say that has successfully laid the ghosts, hasn’t it?’ Franklin asked Ross quietly.

  He nodded. ‘I hope so.’

  Day two of the show was a little less hectic. The lorry was full again, with Woodsmoke, Bishop and Ginger taking their turn. Also travelling with them was Gypsy, although Lindsay herself was making the journey in her boyfriend’s car.

  Without even the distraction of navigating, Ross found the journey tedious in the extreme. Danny had elected to travel with the horses again, mainly, Ross suspected, to avoid Leo’s surly company. Leo, for his part, passed the journey in silence, watching the scenery slide by with a set expression on his thin face.

  Ross wondered what it was that made him so grouchy. Something in his childhood, perhaps, had given him that ‘bite before you are bitten’ mentality. Ross supposed he should pity the man but in all honesty felt only irritated dislike.

  Turning his thoughts away from his companion’s character defects, he began instead to dwell on his other problem. He was uncomfortably aware of Ginger’s presence in the lorry. She had not misbehaved since her outburst of temperament in the school earlier that week and gave him no reason to suppose she would do so again, but the possibility was there. He had awakened in the night, shaking and drenched with sweat after the nightmare had struck again, and this morning felt edgy and tired.

  The showground reached, lorry parked and engine rattling to silence, Ross leaned his head back and closed his eyes, wishing fervently for a couple of hours’ peace and quiet in which to catch up on his lost sleep.

  Voices outside. Lindsay had arrived.

  ‘Hi, Ross. Good journey? Fit and raring to go?’

  ‘Fine,’ he lied. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, it was lovely to be chauffeur-driven for a change,’ she said. ‘James, come and meet Ross Wakelin, the John Whitaker of Wiltshire.’

  The young man who stepped forward as Ross jumped down from the cab was tall, well built, pleasantly good-looking and instantly likeable.

  Ross smiled and held out his hand. ‘So you’re the lucky guy. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ James said. ‘In fact, Lindsay talked of little else the whole way here.’

  It was said completely without rancour but she protested: ‘That’s not true! We talked about a lot of things. The thing is, I feel sort of responsible for Ross’ being here, as it was my idea. And anyway, you asked about him in the first place!’ she finished, returning her attack to James.

  He held his hands up, grinning good-naturedly. ‘Okay, okay! Keep your hair on, girl!’

  ‘Well, I guess that sorted you out, fella,’ Ross
observed.

  ‘Didn’t it just?’ James acknowledged, and departed to explore the showground with Lindsay on his arm.

  The morning started fairly well.

  Ginger completed her first class efficiently but without flair. Bishop had an unlucky pole down in the same class and it was eventually won by a jubilant Stephen Douglas on his useful new ride, China Lily. Ross congratulated him but might as well have addressed the horse for all the response he got.

  Lindsay was placed second in her first class of the day, and when Woody exerted himself and won a topscore competition, the Oakley Manor crew paused for a picnic lunch feeling fairly pleased with themselves.

  The Colonel arrived soon after, with Bill. The stable manager looked unfamiliar in cavalry twills and a tweed jacket, his thinning hair carefully combed and a new cloth cap perched on top. They looked over the horses, collected the latest news and results, and then took themselves off to the grandstand to meet Robbie Fergusson who had once again made time in his hectic schedule to come and see his horses jump.

  Ross wished he hadn’t bothered. The man was never satisfied.

  Bishop was Ross’ first ride after lunch and he mounted up in good time in order to give the horse a chance to settle. He rode round the outside of the main ring a couple of times, giving the horse plenty of rein and allowing him to look around at his leisure. His own thoughts drifted to Lindsay and James Roberts.

  The guy was pleasant enough, with no obvious inclination to flaunt what Ross knew to be his considerable wealth. He seemed to have a conventional sense of humour and respect for the views of others. A paragon, in fact, but married to Lindsay . . . Ross couldn’t see it. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to.

  Idly, he wondered if she had ever slept with James. He supposed that she must have but they didn’t behave like lovers, more like old friends. Ross shrugged mentally. It was none of his business, after all.

  ‘Mr Wakelin! Could I have a word?’ A confident, well-spoken voice, one of many in the British horse world. The speaker was middle-aged, bespectacled and going a little thin on top. It was amazing what you could see from the back of a seventeen-hand horse. The guy probably didn’t even know he was going bald, himself.

  ‘Sure.’ Ross reined in and dismounted.

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ The man flashed his press card. ‘I write a column for the Sportsman and I’m doing a feature on the county showjumping scene. You know, “The testing ground for the international horses and riders of the future” – that sort of thing.’ He smiled at Ross.

  ‘Yes?’ Ross said politely, and waited.

  ‘Well, I’m interested in what you, as a newcomer to the English circuit, think of the standard at these shows.’ He reached into an inside pocket and produced a mini tape-recorder. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, holding it up.

  ‘No, I guess not. But I can’t say I’ve thought much about it at all,’ Ross said, playfully cuffing Bishop’s nose as the horse tried to nip him. ‘I suppose, if anything, there’s a wider range of abilities represented at these shows than at similar events back home. You know, people who obviously keep one horse in their backyard and manage on a shoestring, whereas in the States you have to haul several hundred miles between shows and maybe spend the season on the road. You have to be pretty well heeled to do that. I think it’s good that everybody can have a go.’

  ‘How do the English horses compare with those in America, then?’

  Ross laughed. ‘What is an English horse these days?’ he asked. ‘Thoroughbreds are pretty much the same the world over and a lot of the horses in showjumping nowadays seem to be German- or Dutch-bred. There are good horses on both sides of the Atlantic. It’s just a question of getting the best out of them.’

  ‘You’ve come to England to take over the ride on Colonel Preston’s horses . . .’

  ‘Among others,’ Ross interposed.

  ‘What makes you suppose you can improve on his previous rider’s performance, and where do you see yourself going from here?’

  Bishop was becoming fractious as the riders gathered in the vicinity of the main ring for the start of the afternoon’s bigger classes.

  ‘Well, I can’t guarantee that I will but I’ve had a fair bit of experience with young horses,’ Ross said, fending off a more determined lunge by the black horse and hearing teeth snap within inches of his arm. ‘Look, I really must get on. I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.’

  ‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘Thank you for your time.’ And without further ado, he melted into the crowd.

  Relieved at having got rid of him so easily, Ross vaulted into the saddle and concentrated on regaining Bishop’s attention.

  Lindsay rode alongside. ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to walk the course in a minute. What did old Douglas want? I was surprised to see you two acting so chummy.’

  ‘Douglas? Not Harry Douglas?’ Ross groaned. ‘He said he was a journalist. He didn’t give his name.’

  ‘He is a journalist,’ Lindsay said. ‘He’s commentating here too. Why? What did you say to him?’

  ‘Nothing. At least, nothing important.’ Ross frowned, trying to remember if he’d said anything that could be deliberately misconstrued. ‘He just asked me for my views on showjumping in this country. He seemed okay . . .’

  Lindsay grimaced. ‘The smile of the crocodile! He’s well liked in general and very popular as a commentator on TV. He writes his column under a pseudonym, though, and he’s “anonymously” torn several careers to shreds.’

  ‘Thanks a lot! You’ve really put my mind at rest.’ Feeling decidedly uneasy, Ross rode away to concentrate on Bishop’s preparation for the next class.

  In the event, the black surpassed himself. The track was straightforward but big, and he jumped it like a Grand Prix horse. Ross felt unstoppable and even Harry Douglas, now back behind the microphone, had to admit that the horse had jumped well.

  In the timed jump-off, Ross had the advantage of going last and watched while the standard was set by King’s Defender and his new jockey, Mick Colby. Lindsay’s Gypsy did her best but was not quite fast enough; neither were Douglas Junior and China Lily. Half a dozen others tried and failed before Ross rode in on Bishop.

  As he circled, waiting for the buzzer, Ross rode past the jumps at the far end of the course, mentally rehearsing the line he would take. The crowd hushed expectantly but Ross was not aware of anything but the smooth rhythm of the horse beneath him and the job to be done.

  The buzzer went, the first fence loomed and flashed by well beneath Bishop’s black belly, and the race was on. Everything went to plan. Bishop didn’t put a foot wrong. He was maturing fast and when Ross asked him to jump off an angle, he responded without fluster. Only when the final upright was landed perfectly and Ross steadied the horse after the dash for the timing beacons did he become aware of the roar of applause.

  ‘Well, that was a winning time of thirty-seven-point-oh-four seconds,’ Harry Douglas announced. ‘Thirty-seven-point-oh-four, for Ross Wakelin and Black Bishop. A horse to watch in the future.’

  Lindsay was waiting in the collecting ring when Ross rode out and dismounted. She threw her arms round his neck and hugged him. ‘Oh, Ross, that was brilliant! I always knew you could do it,’ she cried.

  Over her shoulder, he spied James beyond the collecting ring ropes and raised his hands in an expression of helplessness.

  James grinned good-naturedly and mouthed, ‘Congratulations!’

  Several of the other riders, including Mick Colby, slapped Ross on the back and Danielle, not to be outdone, hugged and kissed him soundly. He accepted and enjoyed the success philosophically. Another day it would no doubt be a different story.

  The prize-giving over, Ross handed Bishop to Danny and changed on to Woody, who jumped a moderate round and wasn’t placed.

  ‘Oh, well, you can’t expect to win them all,’ the voice from the loudspeakers observed annoyingly. ‘Ross had a bit of a tumble from this
horse last time out, so it’s not surprising if their confidence is a little shaky.’

  Ross took a deep breath and quelled his rising irritation. He needed all his wits about him to ride Ginger in the last class.

  Leo appeared to take charge of Woody, smiling at the expression on the American’s face. Ross ignored him, too weary to care. ‘Tell Danny to put the dropped noseband on Ginger,’ he said, and went in search of a long, cool drink.

  ‘Buy you one?’ a husky, feminine voice suggested as he headed for the refreshment tent.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ Ross enquired, turning to smile at Danielle.

  ‘Only if you’re old-fashioned. We Europeans are very modern,’ she added archly. ‘Besides, I’d probably have died of thirst waiting for you to ask!’

  ‘But I didn’t even know you were there,’ he protested. ‘Well, I am old-fashioned. What’ll it be?’

  The area around the beer tent and its attendant clutch of umbrella-shaded tables was home to thousands of alcoholic wasps and Ross and Danielle elected to take their drinks on the move.

  ‘Harry has really got his knife into you,’ Danielle commented as they wove their way through the crowds.

  ‘Mmm,’ Ross agreed.

  ‘You don’t sound too worried.’

  ‘It’s only words. Actions speak louder, they say.’

  Danielle looked doubtful. ‘Mr Douglas has a very loud voice.’

  Ross shrugged. ‘I don’t have to listen.’

  ‘No, but others will. He’s a popular man.’

  ‘Well, there’s damn-all I can do about it,’ Ross observed. ‘Maybe he’ll grow tired of bad-mouthing me and pick on someone else.’

  They wandered in comfortable companionship among the trade stands until it was announced that competitors for the last class could now walk the course. This they did together and then Ross thanked Danielle for her company and went in search of Danny and Ginger.

  He headed for the horsebox and met Ginger coming in the opposite direction, but instead of being led by Danny, Lindsay was riding her.

  ‘Hi, I thought you’d be about ready for her.’ Lindsay smiled and swung down, her blonde hair, unconfined by a crash hat, bobbing on her shoulders.