by Ann Purser
“I’m not pushing a wheelchair over a hayfield,” said Derek. “In any case, there’ll be special parking for the disabled.”
He was right, and Lois felt a complete fraud. They sat for a while, eating Gran’s picnic. She discovered she was hungry, and set to work on ham sandwiches in new bread with plenty of mustard, homemade sausage rolls and bananas. They shared the big flask of coffee, and then Derek got out and repacked the basket. He opened up the back and assembled the wheelchair, and then put out a hand to help her out. She did her best to look frail, and sat down with a thump in the wheelchair. Derek put a small rug over her knees, and she began to push it off. “More convincing,” he whispered in her ear, and pulled it up again. The grass had been well-flattened by feet beating a path from the ring to the bookies, and they joined the crowd.
Standing in a queue by the row of bookies with unlikely names like Tim Fruit, Joe Winalott, and Reg Champion, Lois saw a tall, slim young chap in cavalry twill trousers and tweed jacket. His field glasses were slung over his shoulder, his tobacco-brown felt hat, a little battered, was pulled forward over his eyes. “Young farmer,” she said to herself.
“What did you say, me duck?” Derek said, leaning over her. She would have to get used to turning her head round so that he could hear. “I said there’s a young farmer. I met one once. They all look the same. Mind you, I fancied him. My dad introduced me.”
“Your dad wasn’t a farmer,” Derek said.
“Oh, never mind,” said Lois. “Will you wheel me along up to the ring? I want to hear what people are saying.”
“I expect there’s a special place reserved for wheelchairs,” Derek said.
“Not for me,” said Lois. “I want to be among the crowd.”
The horses were pacing round the ring, led by an assortment of lads and girls, one of them having difficulty controlling an excitable horse. Lois thought again of how she felt that time with Dad. Here was power—shiny, rippling muscle power—and she had a sudden wish to be up on that dark bay, knees gripping its sides, hands holding reins that controlled the bit in its mouth and kept it steady. Moving up and down with the powerful creature beneath her.
She laughed out loud. Of course, that was what it was all about. Power, the excitement of danger . . . and sex.
“Can you see all right, duckie?” An elderly man, short and bent, with a silver-topped stick, looked down at her. “Is hubby going for a race card? Here, borrow mine while he goes. Over there,” he added to Derek, pointing to a trestle table with cardboard boxes full of booklets.
“Thanks,” Lois said, smiling up at the man. “Is this the first race?”
He nodded. “D’you want a tip from me? I’m a dab hand at this, y’know. Been going to all the races for years. Not much else to do at my time o’ life. Now, let me show you.” He pointed out the lists of horses, showed her the names of owners and trainers and, on the right-hand side, the jockeys. He pointed to the tiny print at the end of each entry. “That’s its form,” he said. “Won ten points at Hunter chase; beat Hot Socks at Fakenham. That’s what the horse has done.”
“Is that good?” Lois asked, twinkling at him. He had very blue eyes, and a kindly face. He reminded her of someone.
“Not bad,” he said. “Hubby’s in a long queue, I’m afraid. Would you like me to put a bet on that one for you?”
“How much?” said Lois.
“Five pounds. Don’t go mad!” said the man, taking her money. He limped away, chuckling.
Derek returned with the race card and handed it her. “I hope you can find your way around it,” he said. “Looks like double Dutch to me.”
Lois smiled a superior smile. “I’ll explain it,” she said. “I’ve got a bet on already. Nice old man has gone to do it. Says the horse is a dead cert.”
“Did you give him money?” said Derek, looking alarmed.
“Yep, a fiver. Kind of him, wasn’t it.”
“You’ll not see that fiver again, even if the horse wins,” Derek said gloomily.
FORTY
BY THE SECOND RACE, DEREK WAS BEGINNING TO FIND HIS way about. He had been wrong about the helpful old man. He had returned with Lois’s winnings—“Got you four to one,” he’d said proudly—and continued to show them around. There were small marquees for ice-creams and strong-smelling burgers, a large marquee where the jockeys went in and out, an enclosure labelled “Owners, Riders and Officials Only,” and a mysterious betting agency that inexplicably announced it did not take bets for point-to-points. “Betting on other races in other places,” explained the old man, adding, “Hey! I’m a poet and don’t know it!”
“My dad used to say that,” said Lois. Funny, she thought, how her dad kept surfacing today. Must be the bang on the head. Derek asked her about every five minutes if she was feeling all right, and of course she said she was fine. But she had to admit to herself she had a strange floating feeling, as if she was a couple of feet above the ground. Well, come to that, she was! Sitting in a wheelchair was exactly that. She settled for this, but knew it wasn’t the whole reason.
“Push me up to the bookies, will you?” she said to Derek. “I want to have a look.”
It was while they were waiting in the queue that she saw them. Joe Horsley and Horace Battersby, in close conversation with the bookie right at the end of the line. Lois peered through people’s legs. She could just see the bookie’s name for a second, in firmly chalked letters: Trusty Clarkham. He was shaking his head and waving them away. They moved on to the next, and this time money changed hands, and they received tickets. Then they walked away, grim-faced.
“Did you see them, Derek?” she said, remembering to turn around to face him.
“See who?”
“Battersby and Horsley,” she said.
“Sounds like a gents’ outfitters,” said Derek with a chuckle. “Oh yeah, I can see them over there now. Standing by the ring, watching the jockeys mount. Miserable-looking pair.”
“Can we keep an eye on them?” Lois said. “Watch to see if they go to collect winnings after the race?”
“Sure,” said Derek. “At your service, Mrs. M.”
Lois wanted desperately to stand up. She couldn’t see much once the race started, except horses’ legs flashing by. She and Derek had both bet on the same horse, Good Start, number four. The old man had said it did well at Cottenham, and had a chance. The odds weren’t very good, and just before the race started, it was favourite to win.
They decided to have a splash, and put on ten pounds each.
For Lois, it was a case of listening to the commentary, which was good, once you got used to it. Good Start seemed to be going well. It cleared the fences ahead of the field, and was coming up to the last jump. Suddenly the crowd chorused “Ahh!” and the commentary told her that Good Start, number four, had fallen. Apparently the rider was not hurt, at least not seriously. He was running clear of the horses, but Good Start was lying still on the ground, and the trailing jockeys were steering their mounts clear of him.
“Sod it!” shouted Lois, causing heads to turn in her direction.
Derek was more philosophical. “Better luck next race,” he said. “Mind you,” he continued, “punters who backed the winner will be pleased—an outsider at twenty to one! Good Start was the favourite.”
“It’s dogs next,” Lois said grumpily. “The dogs are racing, it says here. Look, it says Hound Race, winning owner will receive a purse of four hundred pounds.” She continued to read, and then laughed.
“What’s funny?” Derek said, glad she had cheered up.
“Listen to this: ‘Dolly, five years, dozy old girl, but wakes up in time.’ There’s several like that. Looks like it could be fun.”
Derek could see that a vehicle had arrived next to Good Start, who had not moved. Derek decided not to tell Lois he’d overheard someone say the horse was dead.
After an interval, while Derek went off to buy ice-creams and Lois got into conversation with some children who had a small t
errier just like Jeems, the hounds had come into the ring, kitted out with coats bearing their numbers, and led by the huntsman carrying a hunting horn. Lois held out her hand as they passed by her. One stopped, number three, and sniffed her hand, then moved swiftly on as the huntsman called her name: Snowdrop.
“Derek!” she said loudly.
“I’m watching out for you-know-who!” he yelled back.
She didn’t answer, but reflected he’d not be much good as a discreet Dr. Watson. Finally the hounds left the ring, led by a blast from the horn, and disappeared off to their start, halfway round the course.
Lois decided to try wheeling herself up to the bookies. She was determined to back Snowdrop. The old man materialized out of the crowd, and began to push her. “I can manage!” she said sternly. He was too old to push a heavy wheelchair.
Then Derek turned up with ice-creams and took over. “Very kind of you,” he said.
“Fancy any of the hounds?” the old man said to Lois.
“Number three, Snowdrop,” she said confidently.
“Good choice,” he said, nodding. “She knows what she’s doing. Alert. Good choice,” he repeated.
“I saw those two miseries,” Derek said to Lois. “Collecting a fistful. They saw me, but I don’t suppose it matters.”
“I don’t want them to see me!” said Lois. “Can I borrow your cap?” She pulled it down well over her eyes. “Bit of a headache from the sun,” she said to the old man, when he noticed.
“You look very pretty, even in that old cap,” he said gallantly, then turned to Derek. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m too old to be a danger to Mrs. Meade.”
Finally Snowdrop was declared the winner, after the pack had milled about, lost the scent and gone the wrong way, raising guffaws from the crowd. “Told you, didn’t I ? the old man said. “She knew what she had to do,” he crowed, and disappeared.
After they’d collected their winnings, Lois said she’d like to go home. “But it’s the ladies’ race next,” said Derek. He had looked forward to seeing the girls in their bum-hugging britches.
“I’d rather go now,” Lois said. “I think I’ve done enough.”
Derek agreed instantly, and pushed her over to the van. “In we go,” he said, and when they had gone a mile or so, Lois turned to him.
“Derek, did you tell that old man our name?”
He shook his head. “No, why?” he said.
“Because he said he was too old to be a danger to Mrs. Meade. So how did he know my name?”
* * *
ABOUT FIVE MILES FROM HOME, DEREK SLOWED AND stopped. “What’s up?” Lois said.
“I need a pee,” he said, and got out of the van. He disappeared through a gateway into a field, and Lois idly switched on the radio. She sat back and listened to soothing music, and just as Derek emerged again from the hedge, a familiar four-by-four drove slowly by. It was a narrow road, and the vehicle almost scraped the van. Lois had a good view of the occupants, and saw that the Colonel was driving, by his side was Joe Horsley, and in the back—she gasped—was surely the nice old man? He saw her, too, and a look of horror crossed his face. Then they were gone.
“Derek! Did you see that? Did you see the old man in the back of Battersby’s car?”
He shook his head. “Too busy avoiding the nettles. Are you sure?”
“Dead sure,” said Lois. “Mystery solved. He knew my name from his dodgy friends, Horace and Joe. But why?”
* * *
“WASN’T THAT MEADE’S VAN?” COLONEL BATTERSBY’S question was addressed to Joe, and his voice was sharp.
Joe nodded. “He was just coming out of the field gate, and she was sitting in the passenger seat. Arthur, did you see them?” He turned round to the old man, who shook his head. “Not really,” he said nervously.
“More importantly,” said the Colonel, “did the woman see you?”
“I had my head turned away,” Arthur lied. “She wouldn’t have known it was me.”
“I hope not,” Battersby grunted. “To get to business,” he continued, “what did you find out? Did she mention us at all? Had she seen us?”
Arthur had liked Lois a lot. He’d liked Derek, too. He made a quick decision. In for a penny, in for a pound. “No, don’t think so. Neither of them said anything about either of you. She couldn’t see much, anyway, from that wheelchair. I took them to a bookie up the other end of the line.”
“So what did you find out?” Joe sounded more conciliatory. “Was she badly hurt? Did she mention the accident, or say if she knew who’d done it?”
“She’d lost her memory, or at least couldn’t remember anything about the accident. She’d been told that sometimes it never comes back.” Lying was easy, he found, in these circumstances.
“The boy, then,” the Colonel said to Joe. “He’s the dangerous one now. Didn’t lose conciousness, apparently. He’s dim, but not that dim. So you know what to do.”
FORTY-ONE
“WELL, DAD,” SAID MARGARET, “DID YOU ENJOY THE races? Win anything?”
Arthur shook his head. “Mug’s game,” he said. “Stay well clear of it, Megs.”
“Still, it was a lovely afternoon, beautiful horses, very jolly hounds race, wasn’t it, Arthur?” Joe did his best to put a smile on his father-in-law’s face. “And Horace and me won enough to cover the outing. Now then, have we got the kettle on? Your father and me are desperate for a cup of tea.”
Arthur brightened. “And a piece of that jam sponge we had yesterday,” he said.
“You can take the rest back with you tomorrow, if you like,” Margaret said with a fond smile. “Unless you want to stay a few more days? You’re very welcome.”
“No thanks, Megs dearie,” he said. “Got a big bridge match at the club on Monday, so I have to be back.”
Margaret’s mother had died five years ago, and her father had insisted on staying in the bungalow on his own. Neighbours were kind, and he was in good shape himself, apart from being a little bent over—widower’s hump, he called it. They’d lived in Tresham for years, so he had plenty of friends. He could have stayed a few more days. The bridge match was not, in fact, until Friday. But he couldn’t stand Joe. Never could, not from the day Megs had brought him home to meet them. He didn’t trust him, and with good reason. One or two dodgy racing deals involving the Colonel and Joe had also involved him, though he’d never been told the full details. Just as much as he needed to know to be useful. Why hadn’t he said no? Why? Because of Margaret. He knew she wasn’t one hundred percent happy with Joe, and he didn’t want to make it worse.
If he had known it was something criminal, of course he would have refused. He didn’t ask himself how he would have known. Then there was this thing with the Meades. He knew there had been an accident, and that Mrs. Meade had been hurt. The Colonel had said he wanted Arthur to find out as much as possible from that nice woman, as she was the boss of the cleaning agency that his wife used. They were wondering if the whole business would fold, if the boss was badly hurt, and then Blanche would be desperate for cleaning help.
Arthur thought privately that it would do the woman good to do it herself, instead of swanning about doing good works. Megs was a different matter. She was a farmer’s wife, and was always saying she worked as hard as Joe on the farm. She really needed the help. By the time he’d arrived yesterday, the Nimmo woman had gone, but he’d gathered she’d be coming again. Something had happened, but he didn’t ask what. Megs and Joe had been cool with one another, but that was nothing new. No, he’d be happier back in his own home.
He wondered who the dim boy was. The one they said would be the danger. Danger to what? And what was Joe deputed to do to fix it? He suddenly had a compulsion to be away from the farm, back in Tresham. Away from Joe, really. He loved his daughter deeply, and would do anything to help her. But he’d had enough of all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, with meaningful looks and cryptic conversations. He had no time at all for that Colonel. It must have bee
n hell serving under him.
“I’ll be getting along after tea,” he said firmly. “Got a bit of watering to do in the greenhouse. You won’t mind, Megs?”
He saw from her face that she did mind, but she said, “Of course, Dad, it’s up to you.”
* * *
NEXT DAY, SUNDAY, JOE WENT OFF EARLY, SAYING HE’D be out all day. Fishing, he said, though Margaret noticed he had left most of his fishing gear in the tack room. “Will you be home for supper?” she’d asked, and he had grunted. It could have been yes or no, and she couldn’t be bothered to ask. She decided it would be a good day to visit her aunt over at Waltonby, and, with any luck, bump into Horace and humiliate him in front of his wife. She knew now that she could never undo the hold he had over Joe, but that wouldn’t stop her sticking pins into him as often as possible. She stacked the dishwasher, rang her aunt, and was ready to set off by half past ten. “I’ll be there in time for coffee,” she had said, “and don’t worry about lunch. Dad’s gone home early, and I’ve got stacks of food left. D’you fancy shepherd’s pie and apple crumble?” Her rheumatic old aunt had enthused over this plan, and Margaret drove off down the track feeling cheerful, glad that someone would be pleased to see her.
Auntie Eileen was a nice old lady, not at all the stereotypical bitter spinster who had never managed to catch a man. She lived next door to the school, and claimed she’d known more children than anyone else in the village. Every afternoon, when the children came out of school, now always accompanied by an adult, she stood at her gate with her small Yorkie dog, and greeted them as they danced by, pleased to be released from school. In the old days, of course, the children were unaccompanied, and she’d had a tin of boiled sweets by the gate for those who looked miserable or bullied. Couldn’t do that now, she reflected as she stood waiting for Margaret. I’d probably be arrested.
It wasn’t often her niece remembered her, but her visit was no less exciting for that, and when the car drew up, Eileen opened the gate and walked stiffly out to meet her.