‘She must have come before Friday because that was the day she wanted to go with Nigel to Newmarket and he wouldn’t take her.’ Isobel frowned. ‘Tessa’s often in and out. I think she gets bored. She wants me to teach her how to do this job... do you mind if I show her?’
‘Not as long as she’s not a nuisance to you, or wastes your time.’
‘She does a bit,’ Isobel said frankly. ‘I asked her why she didn’t go to a secretarial college and learn properly and she said she’d think about it.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘how about Mr Rich?’
‘Friday. While you were doing the shuttle.’
‘Any other day?’
‘Um... yes, of course, he came in on the Tuesday, fussing about his transfer. I told you, do you remember?’
‘Yes, vaguely.’
‘I told him you’d arranged it for three consecutive days. I went through it all with him.’
‘Mm. How about Lorna Lipton, Mrs Watermead’s sister?’
‘She walks her dog past here. Well, you know that. She... er... drops in to see you, now and then. She came in on that Friday when you were doing the shuttle.’
‘What about earlier in the week?’
Isobel said doubtfully, ‘I can’t remember which days.’
‘Um,’ I said, ‘do you remember if anyone asked for Dave the day before he went to Newmarket?’
‘What?’
I repeated the question. ‘Did anyone want to speak to him?’
Her forehead wrinkled. ‘I don’t remember anyone asking, but I couldn’t swear. I mean... oh yes! Mr Rich wanted to know if Dave was going to Newmarket with his first lot of horses but I said no, we were short of drivers because of the flu and he’d have to take some runners to Folkestone. It was Folkestone wasn’t it?’ She looked despairingly at the computer, feeling lost without its memory but doing not too badly with her own. ‘I expect I did tell him Dave would be going with the nine two-year-olds on the Thursday, though.’
I thanked her with a stroke down her arm and went on out into the yard, Nina following.
‘It’s a maze,’ she said. ‘How do you keep it all in your head?’
‘I can’t. I keep losing bits.’ And I still kept wanting to go to sleep, which didn’t help.
The fleet was steadily leaving, the farmyard looking empty with most of its herd of monsters out on the trail. Only three boxes remained in separated slots, quiet, clean, gleaming in the sunshine and in their way, majestic.
‘You’re proud of them,’ Nina exclaimed, watching my face.
‘I’d better not be, or something will happen to them. I loved my Jag... oh, well, never mind.’
Isobel came to the office door and looked relieved to see me still there. She had Benjy Usher’s secretary on the phone, she said: could we please send another box immediately as Mr Usher had forgotten he was running a pair in the second division of the novice hurdle at Lingfield, the last race of the day?
‘She says he clean forgot they were declared,’ Isobel reported. ‘Then just now he let out a yell and said they must be sent off at once. She says the blacksmith’s there now, putting racing plates on them and swearing blue murder. What shall I tell her? She’s waiting to know. Mr Usher’s yelling at her elbow. I can hear him. Lewis has left there with the first two and Mr Usher says there’s no time for him to go back. What do you think?’
‘Say we’ll send another box at once.’
‘But... will you drive it yourself? Everyone else has gone.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Nina said.
‘Oh yes. Sorry... yes, of course.’ Isobel hurried inside and presently came out again to confirm the journey, pleasurably saying ‘Mr Usher’s frantically trying to reach his second jockey.’
‘Find a good map for Nina, will you?’ I asked her. ‘Mark the racecourse.’ To Nina I said, ‘I’ll lead you to Benjy’s stable. Can you manage from there?’
‘Sure. Which horsebox?’
We looked at the remnants. ‘Pat’s,’ I said, pointing at a four-box, ‘the one you drove the first day. There’s a lone ranger under it, don’t forget, though I can’t see that mattering.’
‘I’ll keep a look out anyway,’ she smiled. ‘What an incredible trainer, forgetting his runners!’
‘Not so incredible, really. Trainers make shattering mistakes, declaring the wrong horse sometimes, even in big races, and forgetting others altogether. Benjy’s eccentric, but he’s not the only last-minute merchant we deal with. Many trainers change their minds violently, some when the clock’s begun striking. Makes life more interesting.’
‘As long as you’re happy.’
I checked the map with her, marking the road clearly, made sure she had the right paperwork and then drove ahead of her to Benjy’s yard, not the easiest of places to find.
He was leaning out of his upstairs window when we arrived, issuing a stream of invective and instructions to his luckless lads and greeting me personally with, ‘Don’t let your driver go without the jockeys’ colours.’
Nina helped the lads load the two young upset hurdlers who were reacting with trembles and rolling eyes to the general scramble. Nina, I saw, had a calming effect as powerful and natural as Dave’s, so that in the end the nervous creatures walked docilely up the ramp without needing blindfolds or brute force. Benjy stopped complaining, Nina and the head lad closed the ramp, the jockeys’ colours were put on board, a couple of scurrying lads climbed into the passenger seats to accompany their charges and the circus was ready to roll.
Nina gave me a laugh through the window. ‘They say there’s a new head travelling lad in Lewis’s box ahead of us, and he doesn’t know these other two horses are coming. He has to declare them, and saddle them. What a to-do.’
‘Phone Isobel and ask her to tell Lewis,’ I said.
‘Yes, boss.’
She went on her way in good humour and I found myself regretting her stay would be temporary. Highly competent and good company, Nina Young.
Benjy withdrew and closed his window like one of the characters exiting in Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. I half expected him to reappear on his doorstep but when he didn’t I drifted off in the Fourtrak to go home.
A short way along the road I slowed before passing a man leading a horse, hardly an unusual sight in Pixhill. The horse was swinging from side to side with his attendant yanking down again and again on the leading rein in a sharp manner guaranteed to produce more skittering, not less. I passed the pair with caution, stopped ahead, and walked back to meet them.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
‘No, you can’t.’ He was brusque, if not downright rude. Young, belligerent, surly.
I realised with minor shock that the badly behaved horse was my old friend Peterman, his name plain on his headcollar.
‘Would you like me to lead him?’ I asked. ‘I know him.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. It’s none of your effing business.’
I shrugged, went back to the Fourtrak and sat watching the erratic and potentially dangerous progress along the road. When he passed me, the groom raised two fingers in my direction with a jerk.
A fool, I thought him. I watched him turn right a good way ahead, taking the road towards Marigold English’s yard. I followed slowly to the turning, stopping on the main road but watching until horse and man turned off the side road and in through Marigold’s gates. At least, I thought, old Peterman had reached his new home safely, and I would check with Marigold to make sure he was all right.
Outside my own house, when I reached it, there seemed to have sprouted a well-filled car park. Clustered around the Jaguar and the Robinson 22 were cars in all directions with their drivers in chatting groups. These, on my arrival, attempted to introduce themselves all at once.