‘Yes. He just liked to play games, to challenge me, I suppose, in a quiet sort of way. But don’t get me wrong, he thought naturally in that rhyming fashion. It was no sort of effort. It would come out spontaneously. The trouble is that I don’t know if what he said yesterday morning was of desperate importance or only a passing comment. I don’t know if desperate importance would come out in rhyme. Passing comments did often.’
Harve came into the office at that moment and I introduced Nina as the new temporary driver. Harve tried not to look dubious, knowing I preferred younger drivers because of their relative tirelessness and seeing the present substitute as half way to granny-hood.
‘We have to give Pat at least two weeks to recover from this sort of flu,’ I pointed out, having discovered from past experience that too early a return to such a physical job caused further days off in the end. ‘Nina’s very experienced with horses and with driving horseboxes and we’ll give her good help with directions.’
He listened to the firmness in my voice and made the best of it. I asked him to show her the canteen and then how to fill out a temporary log and also to explain to her the refuelling and cleaning routines. She followed him meekly out of the office, a shadow of yesterday’s woman and not half as interesting.
The day’s work began. The two Southwell boxes set off to pick up their loads and the other drivers began arriving, most of them making straight for the tea and toast in the canteen. Dave creaked along on his rusty bicycle. Nigel came running, keeping fit. All of them already knew about Jogger, as did Isobel and Rose, who drove to work in small cars, collecting milk and newspapers on the way.
Out in the yard I had a quick private word with Nina before she set off with Dave to collect her horses for Taunton.
I said, ‘The box you’re driving is one with an empty container stuck on the bottom. You’d better know, though I can’t think it will be used for anything today.’
‘Thanks,’ she said dryly, ‘I’ll keep a look out.’
I watched her start up and drive off. She certainly managed the horsebox competently, manoeuvring through the gates easily and turning economically into the road. Harve, watching her departure with his head on one side, could find nothing to criticise. He gave me a shrug and raised eyebrows, judgement deferred.
Half an hour later, when she returned, pausing outside the gate, Dave jumped down from the cab and with a grin reported to Harve and me that, ‘The old girl can twiddle a horsebox on a penny and the horses are purring all over her. Where did you find her?’
‘She applied for Brett’s job,’ I said. ‘So did four others by phone yesterday. I’ve two coming for interviews this morning. The word’s flown around that we’re short of a driver.’
‘Isn’t this Nina bird staying then?’ Dave asked, disappointed.
‘We’ll see how it goes.’
The second box bound for Taunton rumbled past Nina, hooting, and she set off after it, following in convoy.
‘Could do worse,’ Harve said generously. ‘She seems sensible so far.’
I told Dave that once the paperwork was fixed he would be going to France to collect Jericho Rich’s daughter’s new showjumper. Phil would drive, and they would stay overnight. Dave looked pleased, as he liked such excursions, but when he’d ambled off Harve queried my choice of Phil.
‘Do you mean Phil in his super-six? Just for one showjumper?’
I nodded. ‘He’s experienced. It’s best he goes. It’s a valuable horse and I don’t want anything going wrong with any other journey to do with Jericho Rich. Phil will come back without hitchhikers, dead or alive.’
Harve winced, smiled and agreed.
Back in the office, I urged Isobel to chase the agents for documentation for that trip. We used the services of specialists for overseas paperwork, as they understood the needs, worked fast and seldom made errors.
‘Prompt and perfect,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Croft Raceways motto.’
‘Er... prompt and passable will do.’
I took the day’s newspapers along to my own office and flicked through them. There was never much hard racing news on Mondays. Jogger wasn’t mentioned. The lead story in one paper was about the equine flu plaguing several racing stables in the north, virtually putting whole yards out of action for months. There was speculation that the virus might spread to Newmarket. Trainers, the writer said, were unwilling to share transport with horses from other stables in case of infection.
Hooray for that. I was all for separate journeys. Just as long, of course, as Pixhill itself stayed free. It was bad enough having drivers home sick, but the equine version of flu could hang around much longer, severely depleting the number of runners needing my services.
Equine flu, an infection of the upper respiratory tract, the paper said, had been known in the past as ‘the cough.’ There was no cure but time. So what else was new?
I turned to another paper. This one, still on the gloom and doom trail, discussed the previous summer’s outbreak of debilitating fever and diarrhoea in horses in mainland Europe. No one had satisfactorily identified the cause and trainers feared there might be a recurrence.
Diesel prices might rise again, I read. I hated ‘might’ stories; non-stories. Like ‘Doctors warn,’ I put ‘might’ stories bottom of my list. Anxiety raisers, all of them. Doctors should warn against ‘Doctors warn.’
It was a ‘might’ sort of morning. Sunny Drifter might not run in the next day’s Champion Hurdle. There might be an increase in betting tax in the Budget. Michael Watermead might run the brilliant Irkab Alhawa in a warm-up race before the 2,000 Guineas.
Marigold English, I read open-eyed, reported that she had successfully completed her move to Pixhill, ‘Owing to Freddie Croft’s personal services, the transfer went smoothly in all respects.’ Bully for the old trout, I thought, and phoned her on the spot to thank her.
‘You did a good job,’ she said, pleased.
By nine-thirty the phone was ringing almost continuously as it always did on Mondays, the trainers making transport plans for the week ahead.
Isobel answered everything, coming along to my door at one point and saying, ‘There’s someone enquiring for Brett’s job. He sounds all right. What shall I do?’
‘Ask him if he can come for an interview this morning.’
She went away and returned to say that he would. Ten minutes later we had another applicant, and then another. We would have a line of them round the farmyard if it went on.
I started the interviews at about ten o’clock. Four men had already arrived and a fifth appeared within an hour. All of them had the necessary licences, all had experience, all said they’d worked in racing before. The fifth one said he was also a mechanic.
Most drivers were mechanics to some extent. This one gave me a reference from a Mercedes garage in London.
His name was Aziz Nader. Age, twenty-eight. He had curly black hair, olive skin, shining black eyes. Confident and outgoing in manner, he was looking for a job but not offering subservience. He spoke with a Canadian accent but didn’t look as if he should.
‘Where do you come from?’ I said neutrally.
‘Lebanon.’ He paused a second and amplified his answer. ‘My parents are Lebanese but they went to Canada when the trouble started. I was raised in Quebec mostly and I’m still a Canadian citizen, but we’ve been here eight years now. I’ve a resident’s work permit, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What language do you speak with your parents?’
‘Arabic.’
‘And... um... how about French?’
He smiled with white teeth and spoke to me rapidly in that language. The French I knew was racecourse stuff; he was too fast for me.