‘So there may be other foals with deformities... that I haven’t heard about.’
There was a long fraught pause in which the enormity of the position sank coldly into my banking consciousness. Oliver developed sweat on his forehead and a tic beside his mouth, as if sharing his anxiety had doubled it rather than halved.
The telephone rang suddenly, making us both jump.
‘You answer it,’ he said. ‘Please.’
I opened my mouth to protest that it would be only some routine call about anything else on earth, but then merely picked up the receiver.
‘Is that Oliver Knowles?’ a voice said.
‘No... I’m his assistant.’
‘Oh. Then will you give him a message?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Tell him that Patrick O’Marr rang him from Limballow, Ireland. Have you got that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s about a foal we had born here three or four weeks ago. I thought I’d better let Mr Knowles know that we’ve had to put it down, though I’m sorry to give him bad news. Are you listening?’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling hollow.
‘The poor little fellow was born with a sort of curled-in hoof. The vet said it might straighten out in a week or two, but it didn’t, so we had it X-rayed, and the lower pastern bone and the coffin bone were fused and tiny. The vet said there was no chance of them developing properly, and the little colt would never be able to walk, let alone race. A beautiful little fella too, in all other ways. Anyway, I’m telling Mr Knowles because of course he’ll be looking out for Sandcastle’s first crop to win for him, and I’m explaining why this one won’t be there. Pink Roses, that’s the mare’s name. Tell him, will you? Pink Roses. She’s come here to be bred to Dallaton. Nice mare. She’s fine herself, tell Mr Knowles.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘One of those things.’ The cultured Irish accent sounded not too despairing. ‘The owner of Pink Roses is cut up about it, of course, but I believe he’d insured against a dead or deformed foal, so it’s a case of wait another year and better luck next time.’
‘I’ll tell Mr Knowles,’ I said. ‘And thank you for letting us know.’
‘Sorry and all,’ he said. ‘But there it is.’
I put the receiver down slowly and Oliver said dully, ‘Another one? Not another one.’
I nodded and told him what Patrick O’Marr had said.
‘That’s six,’ Oliver said starkly. ‘And Pink Roses... that’s the mare you saw Sandcastle cover, this time last year.’
‘Was it?’ I thought back to that majestic mating, that moment of such promise. Poor little colt, conceived in splendour and born with a club foot.
‘What am I going to do?’ Oliver said.
‘Get out Sandcastle’s insurance policy.’
He looked blank. ‘No, I mean, about the mares. We have all the mares here who’ve come this year to Sandcastle. They’ve all foaled except one and nearly all of them have already been covered. I mean... there’s another crop already growing, and suppose those... suppose all of those...’ He stopped as if he simply couldn’t make his tongue say the words. ‘I was awake all night,’ he said.
‘The first thing,’ I said again, ‘is to look at that policy.’
He went unerringly to a neat row of files in a cupboard and pulled out the needed document, a many-paged affair, partly printed, partly typed. I spread it open and said to Oliver, ‘How about some coffee? This is going to take ages.’
‘Oh. All right.’ He looked around him vaguely. ‘There’ll be some put ready for me for dinner. I’ll go and plug it in.’ He paused. ‘Percolator,’ he explained.
I knew all the symptoms of a mouth saying one thing while the mind was locked on to another. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That would be fine.’ He nodded with the same unmeshed mental gears, and I guessed that when he got to the kitchen he’d have trouble remembering what for.
The insurance policy had been written for the trade and not the customer, a matter of jargon-ridden sentences full of words that made plain sense only to people who used them for a living. I read it very carefully for that reason; slowly and thoroughly from start to finish.
There were many definitions of the word ‘accident’, with stipulations about the number of veterinary surgeons who should be consulted and should give their signed opinions before Sandcastle (hereinafter called the horse) could be humanely destroyed for any reason whatsoever. There were stipulations about fractures, naming those bones which should commonly be held to be repairable, and about common muscle, nerve and tendon troubles which would not be considered grounds for destruction, unless of such severity that the horse couldn’t actually stand up.
Aside from these restrictions the horse was to be considered to be insured against death from any natural causes whatsoever, to be insured against accidental death occurring while the horse was free (such a contingency to be guarded against with diligence, gross negligence being a disqualifying condition) to be insured against death by fire should the stable be consumed, and against death caused maliciously by human hand. He was insured fully against malicious or accidental castration and against such accidental damage being caused by veterinarians acting in good faith to treat the horse. He was insured against infertility on a sliding scale, his full worth being in question only if he proved one hundred per cent infertile (which laboratory tests had shown was not the case).
He was insured against accidental or malicious poisoning and against impotence resulting from non-fatal illness, and against incapacitating or fatal injuries inflicted upon him by any other horse.
He was insured against death caused by the weather (storm, flood, lightning, etc.) and also, surprisingly, against death or incapacity caused by war, riot or civil commotion, causes usually specifically excluded from insurance.
He was insured against objects dropped from the sky and against being driven into by mechanical objects on the ground and against trees falling on him and against hidden wells opening under his feet.
He was insured against every foreseeable disaster except one. He was not insured against being put out of business because of congenital abnormalities among his progeny.
Oliver came back carrying a tray on which sat two kitchen mugs containing tea, not coffee. He put the tray on the desk and looked at my face, which seemed only very slightly to deepen his despair.
‘I’m not insured, am I,’ he said, ‘against possessing a healthy potent stallion to whom no one will send their mares.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes... I see you do.’ He was shaking slightly. ‘When the policy was drawn up about six people, including myself and two vets, besides the insurers themselves, tried to think of every possible contingency, and to guard against it. We threw in everything we could think of.’ He swallowed. ‘No one... no one thought of a whole crop of deformed foals.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘I mean, breeders usually insure their own mares, if they want to, and the foal, to protect the stallion fee, but many don’t because of the premiums being high. And I... I’m paying this enormous premium... and the one thing... the one thing that happens is something we never... no one ever imagined... could happen.’
The policy, I thought, had been too specific. They should have been content with something like ‘any factor resulting in the horse not being considered fit for stud purposes’; but perhaps the insurers themselves couldn’t find underwriters for anything so open to interpretation and opinion. In any case, the damage was done. All-risk policies all too often were not what they said; and insurance companies never paid out if they could avoid it.
My own skin felt clammy. Three million pounds of the bank’s money and two million subscribed by private people were tied up in the horse, and if Oliver couldn’t repay, it was we who would lose.