The others came up to him fast and hard going into the second last fence, and three went ahead before the last: but Clobber jumped it cleanly and attacked the hill with his ears still pricked good temperedly, and he finished fourth out of eight with some good ones still behind him. I was pleased with the result myself, having thoroughly enjoyed the whole race, and so it appeared was Mr Thackery.
‘By damn,’ he said, beaming, ‘that’s the best he’s ever run.’
‘He likes it in front.’
‘So it seems, yes. We’ve not tried that before, I must say.’
A large bunch of congratulating females advanced on him and I rolled the girths round my saddle and escaped to the weighing room to change for the next race. The colours were those of Old Strawberry Leaves, who had commented sourly that it was disgraceful of me to ride in public only three weeks after my father’s death, but had luckily agreed not to remove me from his horse. The truth was that he begrudged paying professionals when he could bully the sons of his friends and acquaintances for nothing. Boathook was his best horse, and for the pleasure of winning on him I could easily put up with the insults I got from losing on the others. On that day, however, there was one too good for him from Ireland, and for being beaten by half a length I got the customary bawling out. Not a good loser by any means, Old Strawberry Leaves.
All in all I’d had a good Cheltenham, I thought, as I changed into street clothes: a winner, a second, an also ran, one harmless fall, and fourth in the Gold Cup. I wouldn’t improve on it very easily.
Patrick and the other two were waiting for me outside, and after we’d watched the last race together, I drove them down to the station to catch the last train to London. They had all made a mint out of the engineer’s tips and were in a fine collective state of euphoria.
‘I can see why you like it,’ Patrick said on the way. ‘It’s a magnificent sport. I’ll come again.’
‘Good,’ I said, stopping at the station to let them out. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
He grinned. ‘Milan first stop.’
‘Arabia again for us,’ said Kyle resignedly, shutting the door.
They waved their thanks and began to walk away into the station. An elderly man tottered slowly across in front of my car, and as I was waiting for him to pass the engineer’s voice floated back to me, clear and unmistakable.
‘It’s f... funny,’ he said, ‘you qu... quite forget he’s a L... Lord.’
I turned my head round to them, startled. Patrick looked over his shoulder and saw that I had heard, and laughed. I grinned sardonically in return, and drove off reflecting that I was much in favour of people like him who could let me forget it too.
Chapter Ten
Fire can’t burn without air. Deprived of an oxygen supply in a sealed space, it goes out. There existed a state of affairs like a smouldering room which had been shuttered and left to cool down in safety. Nothing much would have happened if I hadn’t been trying to find Simon: but when I finally came on a trace of him, it was like throwing wide the door. Fresh air poured in and the whole thing banged into flames.
The fine Cheltenham weather was still in operation on the Friday, the day after the Gold Cup. The met reports in the charter company’s office showed clear skies right across Europe, with an extended high pressure area almost stationary over France. No break up of the system was expected for at least twenty-four hours. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I half turned to find Patrick reading over my shoulder.
‘Trouble free trip,’ he commented with satisfaction. ‘Piece of cake.’
‘We’ve got that old D.C.4 again, I see,’ I said, looking out of the window across to where it stood on the tarmac.
‘Nice reliable old bus.’
‘Bloody uncomfortable old bus.’
Patrick grinned. ‘You’ll be joining a union next.’
‘Workers unite,’ I agreed.
He looked me up and down. ‘Some worker. You remind me of Fanny Cradock.’
‘Of who?’ I said.
‘That woman on television who cooks in a ball gown without marking it.’
‘Oh.’ I looked down at my neat charcoal worsted, my black tie, and the fraction of white showing at the cuffs. Beside me, in the small overnight bag I now carried everywhere, was the high necked black jersey I worked in, and a hanger for my jacket. Tidiness was addictive: one couldn’t kick it, even when it was inappropriate.
‘You’re no slouch yourself,’ I pointed out defensively. He wore his navy gold-braided uniform with the air of authority, his hand-some good natured face radiating confidence. A wonderful bedside manner for nervous passengers, I thought. An inborn conviction that one only had to keep to the rules for everything to be all right. Fatal.
‘Eight each way, today?’ he said.
‘Eight out, four back. All brood mares.’
‘Ready to drop?’
‘Let’s hope not too ready.’
‘Let’s indeed.’ He grinned and turned away to check over his flight plan with one of the office staff. ‘I suppose,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you’d like me to organise an overnight delay at Milan?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
‘You could do it yourself.’
‘How?’
‘Load up all the horses and then “lose” the papers for a front one. Like John Kyle said, by the time they’d unloaded and reloaded, it was too late to take off.’
I laughed. ‘An absolutely brilliant idea. I shall act on it immediately.’
‘That’ll be the day.’ He smiled over his papers, checking the lists.
The door opened briskly and Yardman came in, letting a blast of cold six-thirty air slip past him.
‘All set?’ he said, impressing on us his early hour alertness.
‘The horses haven’t arrived yet,’ I said mildly. ‘They’re late again.’
‘Oh.’ He shut the door behind him and came in, putting down his briefcase and rubbing his thin hands together for warmth. ‘They were due at six.’ He frowned and looked at Patrick. ‘Are you the pilot?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What sort of trip are we going to have?’
‘Easy,’ said Patrick. ‘The weather’s perfect.’
Yardman nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good, good.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down, lifting and opening his brief case. He had brought all the brood mares’ papers with him, and as he seemed content to check them with the airline people himself I leaned lazily against the office wall and thought about Gabriella. The office work went steadily on, regardless of the hour. No nine-to-five about an airline. As usual, some of the flying staff were lying there fast asleep, one on a canvas bed under the counter Patrick was leaning on, another underneath the big table where Yardman sat, and a third on my right, stretched along the top of a row of cupboards. They were all wrapped in blankets, heads and all, and were so motionless that one didn’t notice them at first. They managed to sleep solidly through the comings and goings and telephoning and typing, and even when Yardman inadvertently kicked the one under the table he didn’t stir.
The first of the horseboxes rolled past the window and drove across to the waiting plane. I peeled myself off the wall, temporarily banished Gabriella, and touched Yardman’s arm.
‘They’re here,’ I said.
He looked round and glanced through the window. ‘Ah, yes. Well here you are, my dear boy, here’s the list. You can load the first six, they are all checked. There’s just one more to do... it seems there’s some query of insurance on this one...’ He bent back to his work, riffling through his brief case for more papers.
I took the list and walked across to the plane. I had expected Timmie and Conker to arrive in a horsebox as they lived near the stud one lot of horses had come from, but when I got over there I found it was to be Billy and Alf again. They had come with Yardman, and were already sitting on the stacked box sides in the plane, eating sandwiches. With them sat a third man in jodhpurs and a grubby tweed jacket a size too small. He was wearing an old greenish cap and he didn’t bother to look up.