We left the foal and went on down the path past the breeding shed, where the main door was today wide open, showing the floor thickly covered with soft brown crumbly peat. Beyond succinctly explaining what went on there when it was inhabited, Oliver made no comment, and we all walked on without stopping to the heart of the place, to the stallions.
Lenny was there, walking one of the horses round the small yard and plodding with his head down as if he’d been doing it for some time. The horse was dripping with sweat, and from the position of the one open empty box I guessed he would be Rotaboy.
‘He’s just covered a mare,’ Oliver said matter-of-factly. ‘He’s always like that afterwards.’
Judith and Gordon and Pen all looked as if the overt sex of the place was earthier than they’d expected, even without hearing, as I had at one moment, Oliver quietly discussing a vaginal disinfectant process with Nigel. They rallied valiantly however and gazed with proper awe at the head of Sandcastle which swam into view from the inside-box shadows.
He held himself almost imperiously, as if his new role had basically changed his character; and perhaps it had. I had myself seen during my renewed interest in racing how constant success endowed some horses with definite ‘presence’, and Sandcastle, even lost and frightened up on top of the hill, had perceptibly had it; but now, only two months later, there was a new quality one might almost call arrogance, a fresh certainty of his own supremacy.
‘He’s splendid,’ Gordon exclaimed. ‘What a treat to see him again after that great day at Ascot.’
Oliver gave Sandcastle the usual two carrots and a couple of pats, treating the King with familiarity. Neither Judith nor Pen, nor indeed Gordon or myself, tried even to touch the sensitive nose: afraid of getting our fingers bitten off at the wrist, no doubt. It was all right to admire, but distance had virtue.
Lenny put the calming-down Rotaboy back in his box and started mucking out Diarist next door.
‘We have two lads looking after the stallions full time,’ Oliver said. ‘Lenny, here, and another much trusted man, Don. And Nigel feeds them.’
Pen caught the underlying thought behind his words and asked, ‘Do you need much security?’
‘Some,’ he said, nodding. ‘We have the yard wired for sound, so either Nigel or I, when we’re in our houses, can hear if there are any irregular noises.’
‘Like hooves taking a walk?’ Judith suggested.
‘Exactly.’ He smiled at her. ‘We also have smoke alarms and massive extinguishers.’
‘And brick-built boxes and combination locks on these door bolts at night and lockable gates on all the ways out to the roads,’ Ginnie said, chattily. ‘Dad’s really gone to town on security.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Gordon said.
I smiled to myself at the classic example of bolting the stable door after the horse had done likewise, but indeed one could see that Oliver had learned a dire lesson and knew he’d been lucky to be given a second chance.
We began after a while to walk back towards the house, stopping again in the foaling yard to look at the new baby colt, who was now shakily on his feet and searching round for his supper.
Oliver drew me to one side and asked if I would like to see Sandcastle cover a mare, an event apparently scheduled for a short time hence.
‘Yes, I would,’ I said.
‘I can’t ask them all — there isn’t room,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Ginnie to show them the mares and foals in the paddocks and then take them indoors for tea.’
No one demurred at this suggested programme, especially as Oliver didn’t actually mention where he and I were going: Judith, I was sure, would have preferred to join us. Ginnie took them and Squibs off, and I could hear her saying ‘Over there, next door, there’s another yard. We could walk over that way if you like.’
Oliver, eying them amble along the path that Sandcastle had taken at a headlong gallop and I at a sprint, said, ‘The Watcherleys look after any delicate foals or any mares with infections. It’s all worked out most satisfactorily. I rent their place and they work for me, and their expertise with sick animals comes in very useful.’
‘And you were mending their fences for them, I guess, when I came in February.’
‘That’s right.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘Another week and the gates would have been up in the hedge and across their driveway, and Sandcastle would never have got out.’
‘No harm done,’ I said.
‘Thanks to you, no.’
We went slowly back towards the breeding shed. ‘Have you seen a stallion at work before?’ he asked.
‘No, I haven’t.’
After a pause he said, ‘It may seem strong to you. Even violent. But it’s normal to them. Remember that. And he’ll probably bite her neck, but it’s as much to keep himself in position as an expression of passion.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘This mare, the one we’re breeding, is receptive, so there won’t be any trouble. Some mares are shy, some are slow to arouse, some are irritable, just like humans.’ He smiled faintly. ‘This little lady is a born one-nighter.’
It was the first time I’d heard him make anything like a joke about his profession and I was almost startled. As if himself surprised at his own words he said more soberly, ‘We put her to Sandcastle yesterday morning, and all went well.’
‘The mares go more than once then, to the stallion?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘It depends of course on the stud farm, but I’m very anxious as you can guess that all the mares here shall have the best possible chance of conceiving. I bring them all at least twice to the stallion during their heat, then we put them out in the paddocks and wait, and if they come into heat again it means they haven’t conceived, so we repeat the breeding process.’
‘And how long do you go on trying?’
‘Until the end of July. That means the foal won’t be born until well on in June, which is late in the year for racehorses. Puts them at a disadvantage as two-year-olds, racing against March and April foals which have had more growing time.’ He smiled. ‘With any luck Sandcastle won’t have any late June foals. It’s too early to be complacent, but none of the mares he covered three weeks or more ago has come back into use.’
We reached and entered the breeding shed where the mare already stood, held at the head in a loose twitch by one lad and being washed and attended to by another.
‘She can’t wait, sir,’ that lad said, indicating her tail, which she was holding high, and Oliver replied rather repressively, ‘Good.’
Nigel and Lenny came with Sandcastle, who looked eagerly aware of where he was and what for. Nigel closed the door to keep the ritual private; and the mating which followed was swift and sure and utterly primeval. A copulation of thrust and grandeur, of vigour and pleasure, not without tenderness: remarkably touching.
‘They’re not all like that,’ Oliver remarked prosaically, as Sandcastle slid out and backwards and brought his forelegs to earth with a jolt. ‘You’ve seen a good one.’
I thanked him for letting me be there, and in truth I felt I understood more about horses then than I’d ever imagined I would.
We walked back to the house with Oliver telling me that with the four stallions there were currently six, seven or eight matings a day in the breeding shed, Sundays included. The mind stuttered a bit at the thought of all that rampaging fertility, but that, after all, was what the bank’s five million pounds was all about. Rarely, I thought, had anyone seen Ekaterin’s money so fundamentally at work.