She made a quick, nervous gesture. “Let’s see, he’s been here almost two months now. Of course, we aren’t out of the woods yet. But I do feel that someday before too long I shall phone you to say he is hunting fit and ask you to pick him up.”
Her face beamed. Jack had to admit her smile was attractive. A weight lifted from him; he was happy again after weeks of worry. “It’s a miracle. That’s what it is,” he said.
Instantly her whole expression changed. Her blue eyes became serious, and she answered him sharply. “Not at all. No miracle. Just patience and hard work. Lots of both.” She leaned forward. “But I do feel it’s an achievement for a horse to recover from a bowed tendon and get ready for the toughest steeplechase in this country.”
A most unpleasant bell clanged in another room. “Ah,” she said. “Lunch is ready. My son won’t eat at noon. He’s in training and very strict about his weight. Please come in.”
The dining room had a sideboard with some silver on it; the table was round, large, and shining. In a corner of the room was a kind of hatch, evidently leading to the kitchen. A platter of food was shoved through; then it shut with a decided bang. Mrs. Hunting took the large plate on which stood a dismal-looking dish of shepherd’s pie—minced meat covered with mashed potatoes—and brought it to the table.
“Beer?” He shook his head. “Some wine?” Again he refused.
“Ah, you’re like me. Liquor at noon makes me sleepy by three o’clock.”
Once more the little trap door opened. A harsh voice from the kitchen asked, “I suppose you’ll be having coffee, missis?”
“Yes,” she said, annoyance in her tone.
Jack distracted her. “Tell me now. What did your treatment consist of?”
She became professional again. “First I try hard to do everything myself.” She started eating. “If a stableboy walks the horse or rides him, he may undo all the good I’ve accomplished. So after the inflammation subsided, I exercised him twice a day. Either my son or I took him out regularly. No horse stays in my stable more than forty-two hours without exercise!” She made a decisive gesture with her hand.
Suddenly she turned toward him, earnestly looking him in the eye. “Really, you know, I do envy you. He’s a gorgeous horse.”
This remark gave Jack a lift, because he knew she meant it. Someone in England showed real appreciation of the horse.
Before Jack could answer, the trap snapped up and a tray of coffee appeared. Mrs. Hunting rose and took it. Jack jumped up too. Apparently they had reached the end of the meal. No vegetables, no sweet, nothing fancy. But then, he thought, I didn’t make the trip for the food. He reached for the coffee tray, but with a quick gesture she got it first.
“No, I’ll take it. This is old Lowestoft. Not even my son touches it. Let’s have it in the living room.”
The Airedale, waiting at the doorstep and evidently not permitted in the dining room, rose with some effort and followed along at her heels. Jack took his coffee and sat down.
They drank silently, and then she remarked, “Directly we’ve finished our coffee, we shall go out and let you have a look at him. I do hope you’ll see a difference in his condition.”
In a few minutes she led him out, followed by the Airedale on shaky legs. That wretched dog, falling to pieces, seemed to Jack to typify the whole establishment. Only the owner seemed to be on top of things.
For there was no question she knew her stuff. As she talked rapidly he listened with attention. They crossed a field beyond the barn, and she pointed out a pasture. “See that paddock there? A few weeks ago it was newly ploughed land, soft as peat moss. That’s where I first exercised him, so that the action and reaction of his foot was rather like this.”
She clenched her fist and moved it backward and forward several times. “Do you understand? This motion makes the hoof sink in the ground a little, and this articulates the foot and immediately reacts on the damaged tendon. Then, as the ground in that small paddock dried out, we moved to another field beyond the barn that was also soft and spongy. Before long the horse noticed the difference in his leg, and whenever I went into his stall he lifted up his foreleg for me to work on it. By the fifth week he was all fire and go.”
She kept on talking, but he did not hear. Because there, coming toward him, was Quicksilver with—he suddenly thought—Stanley on his back.
Same age, same vibrant, youthful litheness, same shock of tawny hair, same insolent seat in the saddle, exactly the same as he sat there cantering easily toward them. It was Stanley, yet not quite Stanley either. Jack pulled himself together as the horse heard and recognized him, coming over quickly and nuzzling his head in his owner’s arm.
Stroking that familiar mane, scratching the back of his ears as he always did, Jack realized how acutely he had missed the animal over these long, lonely weeks.
Mrs. Hunting was saying something. “My son, Anthony. Mr. Cobb, who owns Quicksilver.”
The young man leaned down, hand extended. Jack grabbed it. A young, firm, strong hand, a hand used to horses and riding them in competition. Damn it, thought Jack, just like Stan’s hand.
“Mr. Cobb, your horse is superb. It’s a joy to be on him. He’s a bold horse, a National horse. I can tell you, I envy the man who rides him.”
Nine
WHILE IRIS HUNTING left to go and change into riding clothes, the young man dismounted and led Quicksilver into the stable, followed by Jack. As he did so, a drizzle began, darkening the sky even though it was still early afternoon. Inside, the stable came as a surprise. One glance told Jack, a former stable owner himself, where the money had been spent: here, not on the house or the farm. Plain outside, the stable was, in fact, immaculate. Fresh paint glistened; the clean straw gave a bright look to everything. Despite the smell of ammonia in the air, the ventilation appeared excellent. A passageway of yellow brick led along the six boxes, of which four were occupied. Each box had a window divided into two parts, so the horse could observe the courtyard and the surroundings. Everything was at hand: feedboxes, forks, rakes, shovels, water buckets arranged carefully on hooks. Beyond, in the small tack room, the equipment along the walls was expensive and shining. Large No Smoking signs faced the visitor on every side. He wondered whether the owner obeyed them. Most likely not.
Tony Hunting led Quicksilver into his stall. Immediately the horse raised his foreleg, anticipating treatment.
The young man laughed. “See that. You have an intelligent animal. He likes his treatment.” He gave the horse some water and tossed a day rug of wool over him.
Jack, curious, remarked, “Tell me. Who does all this? Who takes care of the horses?”
The young man, leaning over the horse, glanced up with a puzzled look. “Why, we do, Mother and I. She tends the sick or injured animals herself. Often I ride or walk them for her. When I was at Cambridge I used to come back every weekend and work fourteen hours a day. At the time we had Gamage, the farmer below us, who came in a few hours each afternoon. Now, of course, we manage all right alone.”
Jack shook his head slowly. He knew the work even a small stable such as this one demanded. The place showed organization, care, and much attention to detail, besides a concern and feeling for horses.
At this moment Iris Hunting appeared. The Airedale followed at her heels, entered the stall with her, and slumped in a corner, giving an audible grunt. She felt the horse’s tendon, asked her son whether he had picked out his hoof that morning and how long he had been ridden.
“Half an hour? That’s quite enough. I daren’t risk riding him through that wet, heavy ground today. One slip and we’re in trouble.”
With a gesture she held up her hand to Tony, who handed her a tube of embrocation. Slowly at first, then more firmly, she rubbed it on the animal’s tendon. Her son leaned against the wooden stall, arms outstretched, obviously admiring her. Good Lord, thought Jack, she surely knows what she’s doing.
This treatment continued for twenty minutes. Then, leavin
g the stables to her son to muck out, she went outside with Jack, followed by the dog. The rain had turned to snow, the sky darkening further as they returned to the fire in the living room.
“He’s with that horse all the time and won’t let anyone else saddle him or take him into the paddock. He has a passion for him,” she said.
“Isn’t it early for snow in these parts?” he asked.
“Yes, but it’s nearly December, you know.” She walked over to the window and regarded the gloomy countryside stretching into the dimness, a wind howling from the northeast. A tea table was laid, with a large, dark china teapot and bread and butter, beside the fire. She sat down and poured.
He studied her face, almost for the first time. Rather grudgingly he admitted she was quite handsome. He was looking at her in a new way.
“See here, Mr. Cobb, you mustn’t risk the roads tonight. The snow blows terribly in these parts, and the wind is rising. Why not phone up Chester, and tell him you’ll stay the night? Tony will dig you up some pajamas.”
He protested, but not persuasively. In fact, he was relieved not to have to buck the swirling storm on strange roads in the dark. Nor did he look forward to returning to the cheerless room at Mrs. Briggs’s after enjoying the warmth and companionship of these people. The living room was shabby, the big chair had worn patches on the arms, but the atmosphere was friendly and agreeable.
Tony entered stamping his feet. The Airedale in the corner raised his head and thumped his tail twice. When Tony heard Jack was spending the night, he nodded approvingly and declared that a real storm was blowing up fast. After tea, he made several trips outside, returning each time with armfuls of logs for the fire, the only heat visible in the room.
Before long a bed was made up in an empty room upstairs, and Jack and Mrs. Hunting went off to get ready for dinner. He came down to a roaring fire, and soon Mrs. Hunting appeared. Now she was different, looking taller than before, wearing a blue knitted dress that set off her face. He began to realize at this point her considerable charm.
They had a drink and went in to dinner. At the end of the room, the hatch clattered up; the hatch banged down. Plates with food were passed out, plain fare as at luncheon, for which no apologies were made. Roast beef with sprouts, beer, and the inevitable biscuits and cheese. Tony ate well, Jack less so. Returning to the living room, Mrs. Hunting slipped out to the kitchen and returned with a coffee tray containing some weak coffee. They certainly did not spend their money on fancy living. Then Tony excused himself, remarking that the time had come to muck out the stables.
For a few minutes they sat silently facing the fire. Mrs. Hunting seemed uncommunicative. Suddenly she opened up. “That boy of mine. Ever since he’s been riding winners for the Greystone Stable, I can’t seem to do anything with him.”
“Should think you’d be pleased to see him win,” Jack replied.
“Yes, I am. But you see he’s just down from the university, and all he cares about is what horse he’ll be riding at Sandown or Liverpool next month. Another stable picked him up last week, and now he has a regular panel of owners who swear by him and simply won’t trust their horses to anyone else in a race. He even talks of becoming a gentleman jockey.”
She tossed her head, scorn in her voice. “What kind of life is that? I wish so often that his father were alive.” She sighed and shook her head. “You know, Mr. Cobb, he was such a thoughtful, helpful boy, but lately he’s become so difficult I scarcely know what to do.” She hesitated again. When she talked of horses in the stable, the words poured from her. Tonight she was slow and hesitant. The words ceased. There was a long silence.
There, before his eyes, this competent therapist suddenly became a typical mother, unsure and upset by a son coming into maturity. How strange, Jack thought, that he should travel three thousand miles to find a woman with the same problem as his own. The situation is like Stan’s and mine all over. She has a living to earn, a stable to run, and now this boy is bursting off on his own and becoming a man. I wish I could tell her some things about sons at this age.
Suddenly Jack found himself saying, “You know, Mrs. Hunting, it happens I’ve been through much the same thing. As I told you my only son suddenly dropped out of college to work and train for the Maryland Hunt Cup, one of our principal steeplechases. The moment he left college, his Army deferment ended, so naturally he got drafted.”
There was a pause. She rose nervously and poked the fire, which flamed up with a roar. “Yes, I know. Chester told me your story. Perhaps that’s one reason I drove down to see your horse that day. In a queer way, it reminded me of Tony. He’s ridden since he had a pony at eight, adores racing, which he does well. I really believe to ride in the National would be his idea of heaven. I keep telling him what a short life a jockey has, but he imagines he’ll be young forever. Whatever shall I do about him?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Jack. “My boy had his heart set on winning the Maryland Hunt and then bringing Quicksilver over for the National. We had a hell of an argument about it, one of our last talks together.” He became silent. The remembrance of those days was still with him. For just a moment Stanley was sitting across the room, his face stubborn and implacable.
“I know. I admire you. It’s wonderful that you haven’t given up.”
“What my experience tells me,” he said, slowly and very gently, “is that what you want for your son isn’t what he wants for himself.”
She shrank from his words, and he saw the anguish in her face. She’s having a hard time, he thought, and now a stranger is giving her advice.
“Look,” he continued. “You brought your boy up as a horse lover. He loves horses and understands them and wants a life shaped around them. Would he be any happier working in London in the Westminster Bank than down here helping you with Quicksilver’s damaged tendon? Would he?”
He stammered to a stop. She put her hands to her face. Beside the fire the Airedale caught her half sob, raised his head, saw her distress, slowly rose to his feet, and stumbled over to put his head in her lap. With one hand she caressed his shaggy, unkempt hair.
Jack sat without speaking. The woman, so voluble and confident around the stables, was quiet. “There are many worse things than being a top-class rider in England,” he said.
She dropped her hands. “No, it isn’t the riding I mind or even the racing. It’s the terrible risks that he takes. Someday they won’t come off. Of course, this is why owners want him. Bold riders win races—or kill themselves—in the end. It’s such a dangerous profession, Mr. Cobb. I believe that in the past ten years two hundred horses have entered the National and only ten percent have finished.”
There was another long silence. Finally Jack got up, stood before the fire, and remarked, “Yes, there’s a risk. But young riders should take chances to win. That’s the kind of horseman Tony is. I think he’s to be admired.”
The dog at her feet rose, tail wagging. The front door opened and banged shut. Then, shaking snow from his head and his boots, Tony Hunting entered the room.
“Good job you stayed with us, Mr. Cobb. The snow is thickening and starting to drift.” He looked at his watch. “What time is it?” He leaned over and switched on the television. “They’re interviewing Paddy Maguire on BBC 1. Do you mind if we listen?”
“Paddy Maguire? Isn’t he the man who broke his spine some years ago in the National?” Mrs. Hunting’s voice sounded frozen.
Tony nodded. “Bad luck, that,” he remarked with the casualness of youth. Then the clatter and buzz of television broke in, and there before them they watched a thin, pale, tragic little man talking to an exceedingly cheerful interviewer.
“…here’s the ex-champion jockey, Paddy Maguire, as he and his wife look back with John Stone. Despite his accident, Paddy still regards the Grand National as the greatest race in the world.”
The face of the little man lit up. “Ah, but it is, though,” he replied in an Irish accent. “A difficult course, full of traps
and dangers, but it’s a wonderful thing to be riding in the National.”
Jack glanced across the room. The boy sat on a stiff chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, oblivious to everything but the two men on the screen.
“Tell me, do you feel the race should continue in its present location at Liverpool?”
“Indeed and I do,” answered the jockey crisply. “It must be at Aintree. Otherwise it just wouldn’t be the National, now would it?”
At this remark Tony Hunting came out of his trance, sat back, and nodded vigorously.
The man in the wheelchair went on. “You see, it’s the only place in the world you get jumps like those. It’s a thrill even to think about them.”
The announcer picked up on this response. “But surely it hasn’t been much of a thrill lately, has it? You have four sons, don’t you? Would you encourage any of them to become jockeys and ride in the National?”
The little man’s chin came up as he seemed to be thinking over the question. “I tell you very frankly, if they wanted to and were good enough, I’d not stop them. Believe I’d be pleased. Mind you, I’d feel a bit nervous when the race was on, but I think I’d be happy to have one of them a jockey.”
The three sitting there watched the television intently as the camera shifted to a woman beside the wheelchair. She looked worn, weary, her stringy gray hair betraying the strain of the years through which she had lived.
“Now, Mrs. Maguire, as the mother of four boys, how do you feel about their racing?”
“Ah well, when you’re married to a jockey, you pretty well know how things are. But this—” She cast a quick glance at her husband beside her in the wheelchair and stopped.
After a slight pause she went on. “The day of Paddy’s accident I went to Aintree and stood as close to the rails as I could manage. Then a riderless horse went by. It was Number 16, Paddy’s horse. Someone said, ‘Oh, he’s all right, missis.’ But the ambulance passed, and I recognized his boots sticking out….”
Grand National Page 5