by Jilly Cooper
The yard had fallen silent, except for the sweet liquid carolling of a single robin and the occasional outraged protest of Tiny who was being held out of the way by a nervous stable lad. Lysander lit another cigarette. The girl grooms grew closer. Arthur’s master was even more adorable than Arthur. Rupert lounged deceptively still against the lichened wall of the tack room. Only Jack, oblivious for once of the tension, was wagging his little tail and raising his ginger ears as he stepped round Taggie’s black-and-white mongrel, Gertrude.
‘Please God, make Arthur sound,’ pleaded Lysander. ‘I promise I’ll get up in the morning and drink less — a lot less.’
Arthur, bored, tried to eat Bunny’s Rolex.
‘I need that to tell the time,’ she cuffed him gently on his green nose. ‘All right, if you’d like to trot him up the yard in a straight line.’
As Arthur set off, Jack streaked after him, and Tiny broke away from her stable lad. Like outriders, they flanked Arthur as he shambled through the snowflakes, first gingerly testing his off-fore, anticipating pain, then putting it down again. No, it really didn’t hurt any more, nor, miraculously, did the other one. Then, joyfully, he was striding out, clattering up the cobbled yard, growing more and more confident, then out on to the gravel path until he reached the beech hedge round the tennis court. Swinging him round, with a Tarzan howl of joy, Lysander trotted him back, running backwards, nearly toppling over an uneven stone as he gazed in ecstasy at Arthur’s great platey feet, shooting out sparks as they flew over the ground.
‘Oh, Rupert, he’s sound, he’s fucking, fucking sound!’
A huge cheer went up from the crowd, which sent all the horses neighing and the dogs barking with excitement.
‘I cannot believe it.’ Lysander wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Just one more time, Arthur.’
Turning, he sprinted back to the beech hedge, and Arthur bounded after him, even putting in a gallumphing buck of delight.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Lysander kissed Bunny, all the grooms, ancient Mrs Bodkin and very nearly Rupert, before flinging his arms round Arthur, and kissing the bits of his great ugly face that weren’t green. Jack yapped excitedly round their feet, until Lysander plonked him on to Arthur’s back, where he balanced still yapping to even louder cheers and screams of laughter, as Lysander trotted him up and down one more time.
‘Arthur has a bilateral coffin joint problem due to poor foot balance,’ explained Bunny, as Rupert opened a bottle of champagne, ‘so he’ll need egg-bar shoes, which are closed up in a circle where the heel ought to be. Then the heel will grow. You’ll gradually be able to cut the toes back and his feet will become a normal shape again.’
Lysander hugged her again. ‘It’s a miracle! I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Could Arthur have a small glass of champagne, Rupert? He really likes it — ouch,’ he yelled as Tiny bit him. ‘And can this bitch have one, too?’
When he and Lysander were back at the house in Rupert’s office, Rupert got out the whisky decanter.
‘Let’s have a proper drink. It’s things like this that make the job worthwhile. I must say Arthur’s a sweet horse.’
‘He’s so clever.’ Lysander admired the sleek, Stubbs horses over the fireplace and hoped, as he smelt Taggie’s boeuf Provençal drifting from the kitchen, that he might be asked to stay for supper. ‘And he’s brilliant at getting himself out of trouble.’
Which is more than can be said for you, thought Rupert, as he reached for the soda syphon. Aloud he said: ‘If you’re on, let’s give him one more crack at the Rutminster.’
Lysander swung round. ‘D’you think there’s time?’
‘Course there is. He’ll need a month on the roads. Then we’ll start cantering and doing a bit of jumping by the end of the second month, then galloping for the last month, slowly building him up. We’ve got till the beginning of April.’ Rupert flipped back the calendar. ’6 April to be exact.’
‘Oh, my goodness.’
Gazing at Rupert’s wonderfully handsome face with the skiing tan heightened by the cold, the sleek blond hair darkened by melting snowflakes and the cornflower-blue eyes for once gentle and without mockery, Lysander felt a wave of adoration. Once again he wanted to kneel down and kiss Rupert’s hand and to win his approval almost as much as Kitty’s love. God, he was turning into a wimp.
‘D’you mind awfully if I ring Kitty?’ he said, reeling euphorically towards the telephone.
‘We’ll have to get the right jockey,’ said Rupert, handing Lysander a glass. ‘Arthur needs cajoling, but not too much.’
In horror, Lysander came reeling back again.
‘But I’m going to ride,’ he protested.
But Rupert was glancing from his diary to the list of horses on the wall and wondering who to send to Lingfield later in the week.
‘If you’re pouring out all this money for training, you might as well have an experienced jockey,’ he said, then added: ‘Christ, what a day. Tabitha, my daughter, is supposed to be going back to school this evening. And she’s buggered off with a ghastly, bearded, animal-rights tractor-driver who thinks trainers are something one wears on one’s extremely dirty feet. And Taggie’s already paid the school fees. Honestly, with children at boarding-school, you’re talking about wrapping a new BMW round a tree every six months and walking away from it.’
Glancing up, he saw Lysander was mouthing desperately, trying to get out the words.
‘Look, basically, Rupert, I think we’re at cross purposes. I honestly didn’t mean to mislead you, but I can’t possibly afford to put Arthur into training.’
It was as though the whisky was sliding right back into the decanter.
‘Basically,’ stammered Lysander, ‘I opened my bank statement this morning. It was surprisingly depressing. I thought I had seventy-five grand, but actually I don’t. Rather the reverse.’
‘So, what do you have in mind?’ said Rupert softly, his long fingers curling round his glass of whisky, eyes narrowed, every trace of friendliness gone from his face. Lysander was suddenly aware of the explosive menace of the man.
‘Arthur’s been staying here ten days,’ went on Rupert, ‘which is almost more expensive than the Hotel Versailles, not to mention that man-eating Shetland. The vet’s bills alone have been astronomical. This isn’t Donkey Rescue,’ he added bitchily.
‘I can see that.’ Lysander put up a placating hand. ‘But I have won point to points, and my uncle Alastair—’
‘That drunken lech.’
Lysander winced. ‘He knew about horses. He said I could ride anything.’
‘And take anyone for a ride.’
Rupert’s cold, dead face and icy, bullying voice reminded Lysander of his father and made him stammer worse than ever.
‘B-b-basically if you give me a job riding your horses at work and in races, I’ll do it for free. I’ll even clean tack although I’m not very g-g-good at it. I always put on too much saddle soap, and if we get Arthur sound, and I win the Rutminster on him, Kitty would realize I wasn’t just a playboy, and I could afford to marry her.’
It took a lot to silence Rupert. The clock ticked, the fax machine squeaked and regurgitated. His secretary rattled away next door. There was a faint whirr from the kitchen as Taggie turned on the mixer. A ginger tom crashed through the cat door. A car drew up outside, and a door banged, before Rupert said: ‘This is the top yard in the country and you expect me to train some clapped-out dinosaur for nothing and pay its entry fees?’
‘I thought you might.’ Lysander stared at his bitten-off toes. ‘A big win would be good for your yard. People will be impressed that you’ve got Arthur. He still gets Christmas Cards and he got a jar of humbugs only last week. I can ride, I promise you.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. There’s no way I’ll let an airhead like you loose on my horses. We’re busy,’ he added with unusual sharpness as Taggie popped her head round the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blushed, ‘but Tab’s hom
e.’
‘Let me get my hands on her.’ Rupert drained his whisky. ‘No, you don’t,’ he howled, as a blue streak topped by ruffled blond curls hurtled past the door.
Catching his daughter as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Rupert dragged her snarling like a Jack Russell into the office.
‘I’m not going back to Bagley Hall,’ screamed Tabitha. ‘I hate you.’
‘How dare you sneak off with that bloody leftie?’
‘If Ashley was the son of a duke you wouldn’t give a stuff,’ yelled back Tabitha. ‘You’re such a snob. When you were young you pulled everything: Dizzy, Podge, Marion, there wasn’t a groom unbonked in the South of England, and what about Perdita? The world must be strewn with your illegits.’
Tabitha had erupted into the room like a Catherine wheel, eyes narrower and bluer than Rupert’s, skin the thick creaminess of elderflowers, blond curls bouncing off the same smooth forehead, her face delicately modelled despite the huge screaming mouth. Lysander had never witnessed such rage, such bristling antagonism, such passion between two people. Any moment, they’d set fire to each other. Jack, allergic to rows, started yapping.
‘You ought to write your autobiography and call it The Stud Book,’ taunted Tabitha.
‘Shut up,’ yelled Rupert, ‘and don’t you start laughing.’ He turned on Lysander. ‘Get out, and shut that fucking dog up.’
As Lysander and Jack slid out into the hall, they found Taggie clutching her head.
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Hi.’ Lysander kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Oh wow, I don’t blame the tractor-driver.’
‘Rupert’s under a lot of pressure,’ said Taggie defensively. ‘He’s worried about the war. Having been in the Army, he feels he ought to be out there, and he’s worried about business; the Saudis and Kuwaitis own a lot of his horses.’
‘Lovely house,’ said Lysander, admiring the yellow flagstones, the tapestries and the huge oil of a rotund black Labrador.
‘When it’s quiet,’ said Taggie.
The screaming was escalating.
‘Don’t you touch me. I’ll ring Esther Rantzen and get you for child battering. I’ve had to live through one lousy newspaper scandal after another. No wonder I’m disturbed. Ashley says I ought to be in therapy.’
‘You ought to be in a chastity belt,’ yelled Rupert. ‘You’ve always had everything you wanted.’
‘So’ve you — mostly women.’
‘Not since Taggie, and you know it.’
‘She doesn’t trust you an inch. That’s why she tags (ha, bloody ha) along to everything. Never lets you out of her sight. I used to see something of you before you married her.’
Putting her hands over her ears, Taggie ran back to the kitchen.
‘Shut up!’ Rupert was shaking Tabitha like a rat. ‘You’ve gone too far this time. You can go and live with your mother. And I’ll sell Frankié, Sorrel and Biscuit.’
This was the red-hot poker on Tabitha’s back.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she sobbed hysterically. ‘I’ll report you to the RSPCA and the NS what’s it. You promised Biscuit could end her days here! You promised!’ She was banging her fists frantically against Rupert’s chest.
‘If you ever see that hairy little wimp again, and you don’t go back to Bagley Hall tonight, Biscuit’ll be in a can, or shipped abroad for horse meat.’
Rupert had always insisted on an office with two doors, so he could escape from importuning women in the old days and now from tiresome owners.
‘Bastard!’ Tabitha ran screaming through the door leading upstairs.
Lysander jumped guiltily and fell into the office as Rupert opened the second door. His face was expressionless, but there was a glint in his eyes.
‘Where were we?’ he said amiably. ‘Oh yes, you wanted to race ride for me.’
Picking up the telephone, he dialled the yard.
‘Dizzy darling, can you tack up Meutrier?’
Lysander could hear Dizzy’s squawk of disapproval down the telephone, but he was too excited about proving himself to notice.
Horses, their blazes and stars gleaming in the dusk, hung out of their boxes whickering in delight as the grooms put scoops of oats and nuts in each manger. Meutrier, a beautiful chestnut, showing a crescent of white below both eyes, came out with a clatter, not amused at having to postpone his supper.
‘Hang on, he’s as quick as lightning,’ muttered Dizzy in defiance of her boss, ‘and his mouth’s gone, and he’s got a horrific stop.’
‘No-one asked your opinion,’ snapped Rupert, as he gave Lysander a leg up.
‘I ride long,’ said Lysander, gathering up his reins.
‘Not on my horses, you don’t.’ Rupert tugged up the stirrups until Lysander’s long thighs were level with Meutrier’s back.
‘Goodbye, world,’ giggled Lysander.
Like a jewelled hairnet he could see the lights of Penscombe tangling with the bare trees.
‘This is a beautiful horse, Rupert,’ he said as he rode off.
‘Why d’you put him on Meutrier?’ asked Dizzy furiously. ‘He’s a sweet boy.’
‘And needs hacking down to size.’
Having bawled her head off in her room, incensed that not even Taggie, whom she really adored, had come up to comfort her, Tabitha stopped crying. She couldn’t go back to Bagley Hall. She’d never see Ashley again and feel the tickle of his beard. She wished he washed more, but he despised deodorants, thinking the skin ought to be allowed to breathe.
Looking out of the window, she saw her father and Dizzy walking towards the all-weather track that ran for a mile and a half over Rupert’s rolling fields. They were following a rider on — Christ, it was Meutrier. No other horse walked with that fluid grace or that innocence. Tab picked up her binoculars. She couldn’t identify who was on his back, but he rode wonderfully. She’d never seen anyone move so naturally with a horse. For Meutrier, it must have been like dancing with Fred Astaire.
In gratitude the big vicious chestnut put in a terrifying buck. The rider grabbed his mane but didn’t shift in the saddle, then he swung the horse towards the floodlit track, and he was off, hurtling towards the first fence. Meutrier’s ears were flat to the head. He was taking off too near. Meutrier was going to stop. Tab gripped her binoculars in horror. The rider would be killed going at that speed. Then amazingly Meutrier put in a terrific cat jump and sailed over.
Kicking his feet out of the stirrups, stretching his legs, the rider was over the next fence, his body folding beautifully, as he disappeared over the brow of the hill.
Down by the finish, Dizzy forgot the cold and the racing snowflakes and gave a cry of relief as Lysander appeared round the corner. Coming up to the last fence, he dropped his reins and folded his arms, laughing as Meutrier hoisted himself upwards and cleared the birch twigs by a foot. As Lysander pulled up, for a second Rupert’s antagonism, overdrafts, unemployment, even the loss of Kitty were forgotten.
‘This is the most wonderful horse I’ve ever ridden. I’m sure he’d stay twice the distance. I’d give anything to ride him at Cheltenham.’
At that moment Taggie came slipping and sliding down the snowy path. She hadn’t even bothered to put on a jacket.
‘Rupert, you didn’t put Lysander on Meutrier? He was going back tomorrow.’
‘Well, he may not now,’ said Rupert.
His rage had subsided, but, not prepared to be conciliatory, he stalked ahead of them back to the house.
Lysander was sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table eating miraculously light cheese-straws hot from the oven when Tabitha slid round the door like a cat, took one incredulous look at him and shot out again. Then, as Taggie handed him a glass of whisky and settled herself on the window-seat opposite, Tabitha’s amazed face reappeared outside the window.
He couldn’t be real, thought Tabitha, he couldn’t. Such thick brown curls, such a wonderful curving mouth pulled upwards by the short upper lip and such big, kind, l
aughing eyes.
‘Oooooooh,’ she wailed.
‘Has anyone seen Horse and Hound?’ she muttered as she slid back round the kitchen door a minute later.
‘Hi, darling,’ said Taggie. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’
‘Thanks.’ Tab reached for a sherry glass and filled it up with Coke so it spilled over and over as she gazed at Lysander.
‘Come and sit down,’ Taggie patted the seat beside her.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Tabitha, sliding in beside her stepmother, and putting her chin on Taggie’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t mean it.’
‘I know you didn’t.’ Taggie hugged her. ‘You two haven’t been introduced, have you?’
‘Not properly,’ said Lysander. ‘You look just like your father. D’you ride as well as he does?’
‘Urn.’ Tab had gone crimson and opened her mouth and shut it, when Rupert marched in, dangling the cordless telephone between finger and thumb.
‘It’s Ashley,’ he said softly.
There was a long, tense pause.
‘Tell him I’m not here,’ stammered Tabitha. ‘That I’ve gone back to school, make up something. Arthur’s fantastic,’ she turned adoringly back to Lysander, all thoughts of tractor-drivers forgotten. ‘Can I do him when I come back at weekends?’
Looking from Tab to Lysander, Rupert gave Taggie the faintest smile.
‘All right, you’re on,’ he told Lysander, after he had dealt with Ashley. ‘Three months’ trial, but if you step out of line just once, you’re fired. You can ride out for me, and if any of the other jockeys don’t want a ride in a race you can have it. You’ll need ten wins or places to qualify for the Rutminster.’
Tabitha got up and hugged her father. ‘I love you, Daddy.’
‘Oh gosh, thank you so much. That’s seriously, seriously kind,’ Lysander was able to stammer out at last.
‘You’ll have to lose a stone — which you can ill afford. So you’ll have to build yourself up at the same time. And remember, no booze.’
Lysander turned green. ‘Surely the odd glass of wine wouldn’t matter?’
‘It would be odd if you stopped at one,’ said Rupert. ‘Not a drop till after the Rutminster.’