We joined the circuit at Malpensa four hours from Gatwick; a smooth, easy trip. Holding the mares’ heads I saw the familiar red and white chequered huts near the edge of the airfield grow bigger and bigger as we descended, then they were suddenly behind us at eye level as Patrick levelled out twenty feet from the ground at about a hundred and ten miles an hour. The bump from the tricycle undercarriage as we touched down with full flaps at a fraction above stalling speed wasn’t enough to rock the mares on their feet. Top of the class, I thought.
The customs man with his two helpers came on board, and Yardman produced the mares’ papers from his briefcase. The checking went on without a hitch, brisk but thorough. The customs man handed the papers back to Yardman with a small bow and signed that the unloading could begin.
Yardman ducked out of any danger of giving a hand with that by saying that he’d better see if the opposite numbers were waiting for him inside the airport. As it was barely half past eleven, it seemed doubtful, but all the same he marched purposefully down the ramp and away across the tarmac, a gaunt black figure with sunshine flashing on his glasses.
The crew got off at the sharp end and followed him, a navy blue trio in peaked caps. A large yellow Shell tanker pulled up in front of the aircraft, and three men in white overalls began the job of refuelling.
We unloaded into the waiting horseboxes in record time, Billy seemingly being as anxious as me to get it done quickly, and within half an hour of landing I had changed my jersey for my jacket and was pushing open the glass doors of the airport. I stood just inside, watching Gabriella. She was selling a native doll, fluffing up the rich dark skirt to show the petticoats underneath, her face solemn and absorbed. The heavy dark club-cut hair swung forward as she leaned across the counter, and her eyes were cool and quiet as she shook her head gently at her customer, the engineer Mike. My chest constricted at the sight of her, and I wondered how I was possibly going to bear leaving again in three hours time. She looked up suddenly as if she felt my gaze, and she saw me and smiled, her soft mouth curving sweet and wide.
Mike looked quite startled at the transformation and turned to see the reason.
‘Henry,’ said Gabriella, with welcome and gaiety shimmering in her voice. ‘Hullo, darling.’
‘Darling?’ exclaimed Mike, the eyebrow doing its stuff.
Gabriella said in French, ‘I’ve doubled my English vocabulary, as you see. I know two words now.’
‘Essential ones, I’m glad to say.’
‘Hey,’ said Mike. ‘If you can talk to her, Henry, ask her about this doll. It’s my elder girl’s birthday tomorrow, and she’s started collecting these things, but I’m damned if I know whether she’ll like this one.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twelve.’
I explained the situation to Gabriella, who promptly produced a different doll, much prettier and more colourful, which she wrapped up for him while he sorted out some lire. Like Patrick’s his wallet was stuffed with several different currencies, and he scattered a day’s pay in deutschmarks over the merchandise before finding what he wanted. Collecting his cash in an untidy handful he thanked her cheerfully in basic French, picked up his parcel and walked off upstairs into the restaurant. There were always lunches provided for us on the planes, tourist class lunches packed in boxes, but both Mike and Bob preferred eating on the ground, copiously and in comfort.
I turned back to Gabriella and tried to satisfy my own sort of hunger by looking at her and touching her hand. And I could see in her face that to her too this was like a bowl of rice to the famine of India.
‘When do you go?’ she said.
‘The horses arrive at two thirty. I have to go then to load them. I might get back for a few minutes afterwards, if my boss dallies over his coffee.’
She sighed, looking at the clock. It was ten past noon. ‘I have an hour off in twenty minutes. I’ll make it two hours...’ She turned away into swift chatter with the girl along on the duty free shop, and came back smiling. ‘I’m doing her last hour today, and she’ll do the gift shop in her lunch hour.’
I bowed my thanks to the girl and she laughed back with a flash of teeth, very white against the gloom of her bottle shop.
‘Do you want to have lunch up there?’ I suggested to Gabriella pointing where Mike and Bob had gone.
She shook her head. ‘Too public. Everyone knows me so well. We’ve time to go in to Milan, if you can do that?’
‘If the horses get here early, they can wait.’
‘Serve them right.’ She nodded approvingly, her lips twitching.
A crowd of outgoing passengers erupted into the hall and swarmed round the gift counter. I retired to the snack bar at the far end to wait out the twenty minutes, and found Yardman sitting alone at one of the small tables. He waved me to join him, which I would just as soon not have done, and told me to order myself a double gin and tonic, like his.
‘I’d really rather have coffee.’
He waved a limp hand permissively. ‘Have whatever you like, my dear boy.’
I looked casually round the big airy place, at the glass, the polished wood, the terrazza. Along one side, next to a stall of sweets and chocolates, stretched the serving counter with coffee and beer rubbing shoulders with milk and gin. And down at the far end, close-grouped round another little table and clutching pint glasses, sat Alf and Billy, and with his back to us, John. Two and a half hours of that, I thought wryly, and we’d have a riotous trip home.
‘Haven’t your people turned up?’ I asked Yardman.
‘Delayed,’ he said resignedly. ‘They’ll be here about one, though.’
‘Good,’ I said, but not for his sake. ‘You won’t forget to ask them about Simon?’
‘Simon?’
‘Searle.’
‘Searle... oh yes. Yes, all right, I’ll remember.’
Patrick walked through the hall from the office department, exchanged a greeting with Gabriella over the heads of her customers and came on to join us.
‘Drink?’ suggested Yardman, indicating his glass. He only meant to be hospitable, but Patrick was shocked.
‘Of course not.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well... I thought you’d know. One isn’t allowed to fly within eight hours of drinking alcohol.’
‘Eight hours,’ repeated Yardman in astonishment.
‘That’s right. Twenty-four hours after a heavy party, and better not for forty-eight if you get paralytic.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Yardman weakly.
‘Air Ministry regulations,’ Patrick explained. ‘I’d like some coffee, though.’
A waitress brought him some, and he unwrapped four sugars and stirred them in. ‘I enjoyed yesterday,’ he said, smiling at me with his yellow eyes. ‘I’ll go again. When do you race next?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That’s out for a start. When else?’
I glanced at Yardman. ‘It depends on the schedules.’
Patrick turned to him in his usual friendly way. ‘I went to Cheltenham yesterday and saw our Henry here come fourth in the Gold Cup. Very interesting.’
‘You know each other well, then?’ Yardman asked. His deep set eyes were invisible behind the glasses, and the slanting sunlight showed up every blemish in his sallow skin. I still had no feeling for him either way, not liking, not disliking. He was easy to work for. He was friendly enough. He was still an enigma.