by James Anson
"We did too!" said Michael. "Took you to Paris with the team. Couldn't have been more romantic."
Robert gave a hollow laugh. "Oh, yeah? I spent all my time rubbing wintergreen on your bad back, listening to the lads and their problems of the heart, and helping with those smelly beasts. All I didn't do was see Paris - except from the back of a horsebox," he added in fairness. "By the way, did you put that clothes-line up for Mrs P.?"
"I did," said Michael, "twice. She changed her mind, twice. Well, are you coming with me - act as my liaison? All expenses paid ..."
"The Irish Government's idea of expenses," said Robert bitterly, "is to save on hotels by having us sleeping in the boxes, or in tents, and leaving us to find our own food. Surprised they don't want us to swim the horses back home to save on the boat fare."
"They wouldn't do that," said Michael. "Too tiring for the horses. Well, are you coming?"
"Might as well," said Robert. "You're not fit to be left on your own, especially when fun-loving Amy's on the prowl again."
Chapter Nine
Robert shivered and pulled the horse-blanket closer round his shoulders. Its owner was performing, he hoped with distinction, in the Hickstead show ring. He glanced out of the horsebox at the rain which was still pouring down. Oh, to be in England, as Mr Browning had said from sunny Italy. Murphy's Law, that's what it was, pouring with rain in flaming June. Now, at the big indoor events in the autumn the sun would be cracking the flagstones outside and the riders passing out with heatstroke in the collecting ring. He scratched his leg idly, then looked with sudden suspicion at the hay bale he was sitting on.
"Fancy a cup of tay, Mr March?" said a cheery Irish voice.
"I would, Brendan," said Robert. "Bloody cold, isn't it?"
Brendan agreed heartily and brought him a steaming cup of tea. Robert began to warm his hands around it.
"So how are the lads doing then?" he inquired.
"Not well, Mr March," said Brendan lugubriously. "You wouldn't credit that Shawney could get twenty-six faults. Sure, it's impossible to get twenty-six faults. Then he fell off the sodding horse. They think it's a broken ankle."
"Not the horse?" said Robert, concerned.
"Ah, no, just Shawney. The Red Cross have him now. Hope they can strap him up - we'll need him for the final. For all the good he is."
"Do better flogging him to the opposition," said Robert. "And if he can't ride who's going to take the horse round?"
"The Commandant was thinking he'd throw a leg over the beast. That's if he can get permission. Class should be nearly over now." He hurried off.
Robert put down his mug and pulled on his green wellies. After another look outside he added his cagoule. He was going to find Michael and have a word with him.
He set off across the boggy ground, working his way through the green-husky-jacketed crowd. How did I ever get in with this lot? he thought.
At that moment his boot become stuck in a very deep, muddy hole. After some tugging it came free with a squelch. The security man at the gate checked his pass and let him through to the stabling area. One of the lads passed him with a bucket of water.
"Suspected strain, Mr March," he said.
"Bugger!" said Robert.
He glanced into a stall and saw a shirtsleeved Michael talking to the show vet; they were both inspecting a very depressed-looking horse.
"If that swelling doesn't go down then there's no way that horse can jump tomorrow, Commandant. You know what to do. I'll see him in the morning."
"Thank you," said Michael gloomily as the vet left. He began to soak the bandage in the water.
"Anything I can do?" asked Robert.
"You can come and hold his head while Pat and I fix this," said Michael. "Poor old fella's feeling very sorry for himself."
They put the bandage on, Michael inspecting it carefully. "There you are, me darlin'," he said finally. "Should feel better now."
"I'll go and find his rug," said Pat. "Some ejit's gone and moved it."
"Anyone checked Shawney at the Red Cross?" asked Robert hurriedly. "Like me to go and do it?"
"At the moment," said Michael, "I don't care if he's been painlessly destroyed. He's left me a rider short - if this fella can go tomorrow."
"You can send Mat round," said Robert. "His horse was eliminated, wasn't it?"
"No," said Michael, "he tripped over a tent-peg last night: black eye, broken wrist. He can't ride. Looks a mess. Great lump."
"They can fly a substitute over from Dublin, surely?" said Robert. "Be here in a couple of hours."
"Not allowed," said Michael. "If Shawney can't go I'm going to take the horse round myself. If he's fit, that is - and I can get permission."
"He's fit!" said Robert. "And what about you? Mike, it's fucking dangerous out there, and you ..."
"Oh, fuck," said Michael. "Now look, so I've a stiffish leg and limited grip in my right hand. There's nothing out there I don't jump out hunting all the time."
"What about that flaming double bank for a start?" said Robert. "The look of it gives me the horrors."
"It's not that bad," said Michael. "You saw young Annette jump it last year and her just a slip of a girl."
"I did," said Robert, "and I know why her Dad's hair turned snow-white."
"Now, look," said Michael, "I'm not pulling my team out when we've got a good chance of a place. You'll just have to keep your eyes shut when I go round. If I do break my neck you'll be sure to hear."
"Mike!" Robert was just revving up when Pat appeared with the missing rug.
"Found it right over in the green horsebox," he remarked as they settled Thady (Connemara Lad) down for the night.
Robert then called at the Red Cross to find that Shawney had been swept off to the local hospital with suspected concussion and a broken ankle. Speculating mildly on how they could diagnose concussion with that one, Robert went over to see how he was.
Shawney turned out to be settling down well, happily surrounded by delightful nurses with whom he was flirting like mad. But it was confirmed that even without his suspected concussion, his broken ankle made him a non-starter in the team.
Robert returned to the show ground and made his report to Michael. Might as well enlist and be done with it, he thought. Then he joined the team, who were busy cleaning their tack and discussing where they could eat that evening.
"Thought we were going to that Indian place with the French team?" said Robert.
"Ah, no, Mr March. We had a slight difference of opinion there."
"Oh," said Robert. He looked at his companions: three pairs of blue eyes and one of brown and black gazed back at him. Robert inspected the shiner with interest.
"Couldn't swear to it, of course, Mat," he said, "but I think that tent-peg you tripped over had knuckles."
"Ah, but you should see the other fella, Mr March," said Mat. "And sure he deserved it. You'd have thumped him too."
Robert sighed and prayed news of the fight would be kept from Michael. He picked up a piece of leather. "Shove the saddle soap over," he commanded.
Next morning, up with the lark, Robert sniffed the comparatively fresh air with appreciation and banged on his bucket. Immediately every stall had an inquiring equine head peering over it.
"The only thing that really interests you lot is food," he said bitterly. "Which side shall I start on, Brendan?"
"Left side, Mr March," said Brendan, working round with a bucket and shovel. They moved down the stalls, dodging as the beasts rushed to get their big heads in the first of the day's rations.
"Nothing like having the water laid on," said Brendan appreciatively. "Wish I had a pound for every bucket I've carried in me time. Conditions for the horses are very good here. Wish they'd do something for us. Well, now, and what do you say to a quick drag and a cup of tay before we start mucking out? While those beasts are filling their stomachs?"
"Good idea," said Robert heartily.
Under Michael's firm regime no-one
was allowed a quick cigarette when he was around, but in the happy absence of Himself and the rest of the team at early Mass, they could indulge themselves in the vice. Robert was not quite sure if Brendan was a backsliding Catholic or an extreme nicotine addict, but the fact was they often found themselves having a furtive smoke together in the early morning.
Brendan inhaled deeply with pleasure. "It may put tar in your lungs, Mr March," he said, "but it surely kills the smell of horse."
Robert, looking up, agreed. "And how's Thady's leg this morning?" he inquired.
"Seems better," said Brendan, "but whether he can go is up to the vet. You know, we are the only team here that does its own mucking out. Even the Brits have help now.Polishing our tack, feeding the beasts, living in those damned tents. Those German riders now, they just do their round and toss the reins to a groom and off they go to London in their Porsches, dancing the night away in those terrible West End nightclubs full of half-naked women." He sighed regretfully.
"Never mind," said Robert bracingly. "Think how much good the fresh air out here is doing you."
"We get too much bloody fresh air, and that's a fact, Mr March! Now, what we really need is ... Mother of God, there's the truck!"
Two cigarettes were hurriedly swilled away, followed by a couple of squirts with the air freshener. Michael strolled in, buttons gleaming. He sniffed the air and raised an eyebrow.
"Vet called yet?"
"No, sir," said Brendan.
Michael nodded. "Mr March," he said, "you'd better go and have your breakfast. I have matters to discuss with the team."
Robert looked at him. Oh God, he's heard, he thought. As he left, Michael snapped out an order in Irish and the team came to ramrod attention.
Robert made his way to the main dining-room, pausing to accept an invitation from the Italian team for a joint party and meal in the evening (all Italian teams are well-known for their enthusiasm for food and jollity). Robert looked at the food displayed at the self-service counter with revulsion and selected the least unwholesome-looking, cheering at the thought of the evening meal. He was just reading a purloined Sunday paper - to avoid having to look at his plate - when Michael joined him.
"Slap and Tickle in Royal Mews, We Uncover Sordid Sex Scandal," read Michael.
"Not your sort of paper, this. What's that on your plate – dog food?"
"Not while I'm trying to eat it, please," said Robert. "And stop telling lies. It isn't that on the front at all. Just some bimbo’s chest, as usual. Wish I could make money showing mine. Finished flaying the lads, have you?"
"Yes," said Michael. "I went easy on them."
Robert looked at him doubtfully.
"Well," Michael went on, "I nearly slugged good old Philippe myself yesterday. Some sod got in touch with The Irish Times, so Dublin were on the line first thing this morning. Think I've calmed them down. Fretting about our image again. I've been on to the hospital - no way Shawney can ride. So I've made an appointment to see the Show Committee to get permission to ride the horse myself. Horse has been cleared by the vet. Think I'll forego breakfast."
"You're not missing much," said Robert, moodily chewing a slice of cotton wadding disguised as toast. "And you know something, Mike, I'm getting fed up with our celibate existence. It isn't natural."
"Trust you to be in the mood when we can't do anything about it," said Michael.
"And stop reading the News of the World - only makes you think about it."
After Michael had departed to see the Committee, Robert placed orders for twelve well-filled batches to be delivered to their quarters for lunch, with a large consignment of Guinness, then walked back to their 'barracks', where everyone was busy burnishing boots, belts and buckles for the main events.
"I've arranged lunch," said Robert as he was handed a length of curb chain. Puts me in mind of bondage, this, he thought as he got busy with the metal polish. He happily visualised his mate fastened to a brass bedstead with lengths of curb chain, regretfully deciding Michael would be most unlikely to go along with the idea. He tended to be very conservative where such matters were concerned. Robert was well along with the polishing when Michael arrived.
"I'm on," he announced. "Going to try for a clear round. Can't promise a fast one, Thady will be carrying extra weight with me. Now, from what we have seen of the course, the main problem is going to be ..."
Robert tuned him out and started working on a story-line as he began another length of chain, his mind still dwelling wistfully on bondage.
The batches and Guinnesses arrived and everyone fell on them like famished wolves, then started discussing tactics again. Robert decided he had heard more than enough about horses and set off to stretch his legs. When he returned Michael was stuck in his tiny office-cum-bedroom writing out forms. Robert squeezed himself into the only place to sit - the bed - and looked about.
"Surprised you haven't come down with galloping claustrophobia in here," he remarked. "It's scandalous what they expect you and the lads to put up with. Have you seen the other teams' vans? Bloody palaces, some of them. Even the horses are bedded down better than you are."
"Should be," said Michael. "They do all the work. Parcel for you. Jess called with it."
Robert brightened on seeing the postmark. "So it's finally off the presses," he said.
"Did you tell Jess you were jumping this afternoon?"
"Yes," said Michael. "Ashley dashed off to phone the village. They'll all be looking in."
"Let's hope it's not to see you being carried off on a stretcher, then," said Robert.
"You smell expensive, by the way. New shaving lotion you're trying out to kill the smell of horse, is it?"
"Pressie from Amy," said Michael. "She looked in to wish me luck with a party from the local Hunt."
"How kind," said Robert with an ominous note in his voice.
"Oh, screw this," said Michael. "I'm going to get some practice in."
"And I'm off to look at my book," said Robert. "See you later."
Michael nodded and left for the stables. Robert climbed into the half-empty main stand. Only the children's classes were on at the moment - incredibly boring, unless you were a fond parent watching little Nigel making a pig's ear of it. Robert settled down to read, only the occasional scream from some thwarted child rider disturbing him.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting looking gloomily at his book, reflecting that the only thing about it which he really liked was the illustration on the dust-wrapper. Then he was joined by Jess, Ashley, a well-scrubbed Miranda and a large picnic basket. He accepted a meat pie and a plastic mug of very indifferent tea gracefully but soon announced that his leg was cramping badly and that he needed to walk a while to stretch it. He was in fact going slowly out of his mind listening to the shrill voices of the two children as they dissected every rider's style, dress and mount.
He climbed down from the stand and went to look for Michael. As he expected, he was putting his horse through its paces in the exercise area. Con was seated on the fence watching and eating a large hot dog, washed down with Coke.
"Fancy a Coke, Mr March?" he inquired, waving a can.
"No, thanks, just had some tea," said Robert. He had long ago worked out why even Michael's iron digestion fell apart at shows - you never had time to eat properly. "Looks good," he said, indicating the horse.
"He's just a little fresh," Con began. "And will you look at that now. He just went up into the sky and stayed there!"
Which was just about what he did. Robert held his breath until the horse stopped his waltzing about on two legs and he could see that it and Michael were still together.
"I hope," said Robert when Michael had matters under control again, "he won't pull that little caper in the ring."
"Funny little ways, this one," said Michael as the beast made an unsuccessful attempt to jam his leg on the corner fence-post. Michael climbed down and accepted a can of Coke.
"Better get my ejit out now," said Con, h
urrying off.
"Hold him a minute, will you?" said Michael.
Robert took the horse and they looked at each other in mutual dislike. Robert noticed that Michael was stretching carefully.
"Anything up?" he inquired.
"Bastard's just given me a stitch, that's all," said Michael. "So how does the book look?"
"Looks fine," said Robert. "It's what's inside that's bothering me. I'm getting bad vibes about this one, Mike."
"Now, listen," said Michael, "it's a good book. Not a cheerful book, I grant you. But it's well-researched, well-written and worth reading - which is more than you can say about most of the crap published today."
"My biggest fan," said Robert with a grin. "Doesn't help that you're prejudiced."
"Not about your work," said Michael as he started to remount. "Robert, give me a leg up, will you?"
Robert did so and watched for a moment in concern, but Michael seemed to be coping so he made his way back to the main show ground. He began to mooch about the stands to pass time before the main event and finally found himself in the WI tent, gazing at the 'Make a Garden in a Saucer' display.
Astonishing what those kids can do, he thought. All I ever grew was carrot tops, and that was for the rabbit. He passed on to the display of pickles and chutneys; Jess appeared at his side.
"You wait till you see the ones I'm entering for the village fête," she said. "Bread and butter pickles - thank you for letting me have all those courgettes to make them with. I've put six jars in your pantry. All the village will be looking in this afternoon. Ashley's that excited. I had to come out and find them some more crisps. Have them coming out of their ears shortly. Are you coming back to sit with us?"
"Er, no," said Robert. "I'd better stay by the monitor. I might be needed. Here, get them some popcorn from me, too."
He saw Jess and the packages back to the stand: the children were still distressingly vocal and so he made his way to the collecting ring. The usual controlled panic was taking place: people pulling on boots, setting caps straight, pulling tunics into order.
Robert, an old hand at this now, checked back views and gave the odd jacket a twitch into place. He looked about for Michael.