Worst of all, poor Jack, unable to contain himself after a long night’s confinement, had crapped extensively in the kitchen doorway.
‘You promised to keep the place taydy.’
‘It wasn’t Jack’s fault. You know how good—’
‘It’s your fault, you aydle lad, for oversleeping.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry. Have a drink, everyone,’
Lysander called over Marigold’s shoulder. ‘No, actually I haven’t got any. Why don’t you all go down to The Pearly Gates and chalk up a stiff one on my account while I get dressed and clean the place up?’
‘No thanks, I’m driving,’ said the man in the dufflecoat. ‘I’ve come to repossess your TV and video machine.’
‘I’m about to watch the 2.30,’ said Lysander furiously. ‘And there’s EastEnders and The Bill this evening. Look, if you’re popping down to The Pearly Gates you can put twenty quid on Hannah’s Uncle,’ he yelled after the camel-faced couple who were belting down the path to their car.
After they’d all departed, Lysander was reduced to listening to the race over the telephone, which cost a bomb because Hannah’s Uncle wouldn’t go into the starting gates for ages, before storming home, five lengths clear at 25-1. Lysander was about to ring up Ladbroke’s and shout at them that he could practically have settled his account if he’d been allowed his bet, when he was distracted by a photograph of Arthur on the mantelpiece.
He’d been so miserable about Kitty that he’d forgotten to ring Rupert to find out how poor dear Arthur and utterly bloody Tiny were getting on.
56
As Lysander drove through Penscombe past grey-blond houses, and a little Norman church where generations of Campbell-Blacks were buried, he noticed a betting shop. Rare in such a tiny village, it was no doubt patronized by all the locals putting their shirts on Rupert’s horses. In the village-store window was a poster advertising a British Legion cheese-and-wine party to raise money for the Gulf. Lysander knew he ought to take an interest. The radio banged on and on about the liberation of Kuwait, but he was only interested in liberating Kitty.
Below Rupert’s beautiful blond house, with its halo of magnificent beech trees, a long lake like mother of pearl in the falling sunshine was freezing at the edges. Across his rolling fields patches of snow lay like the spilt milk over which there was no use crying. All the birds were singing, trying to disguise the dull constant roar high above the clouds of B52s carrying bombs south from RAF Fairford.
Rupert was not surviving the recession and alarming set-backs at Lloyd’s by altruism alone. Although beguiled by Lysander in Monthaut, he had noticed the boy’s effortless extravagance. By smiling at the receptionist at the Hotel Versailles, Rupert had also ascertained that Lysander was picking up the massive bill for the President de Gaulle suite. The reason, therefore, that Rupert had offered to get Arthur sound was because he regarded Lysander as an engaging dolt awash with cash, who could easily be coaxed into buying other much younger horses for Rupert to train.
Rupert loathed droppers-in. Even the richest owners disturbed the horses’ routine. He was not running a Harley Street nursing home. But when Lysander rolled up shivering uncontrollably with Donald Duck glaring out between the lapels of his long, dark blue, dog-fur-matted overcoat, Rupert actually stopped placating Mr Pandopoulos, whose horse hadn’t been placed last week either. Leaving the apoplectic Greek to Dizzy, his extremely glamorous head girl, Rupert bore Lysander off to the yard kitchen for a cup of tea.
‘Put him down,’ said Rupert, as a pack of dogs swarmed round trying to reach a bristling Jack. ‘They’re quite safe, and the two Jack Russells are bitches.’
Enviously Lysander examined the photographs which crowded the walls of Rupert and his daughters, Perdita and Tabitha, winning world championships at show jumping, brandishing polo cups and leading in winners on the flat and over fences.
‘I’m really sorry not to ring first,’ he mumbled, ‘but my telephone’s stopped working.’
‘Hug the Aga,’ said Rupert, putting on the kettle. ‘You look frozen.’
You could tell when a horse was in pain by its eyes; Lysander’s were bright red, but the pupils and the irises were drab and lifeless. He was as pale as the Christmas roses Taggie had arranged in a dark green vase on the table. Jeans, skin-tight when he was skiing, were really baggy now.
‘How’s Arthur?’ asked Lysander.
‘King Arthur of the round belly,’ said Rupert. ‘God, he was cross when I cut down his rations. He ate every blade of straw, so I’ve put him on shredded newspaper. I expect he and Tiny are busily piecing together lurid stories about you and Mrs Rannaldini. How is she?’
‘Oh, Rupert!’ Once more, with all the egotism of heartbreak, Lysander launched into his tale of woe.
‘How can I convince her that I’m serious?’ he pleaded finally, as he dipped a fifth piece of shortbread into his tea before handing it to a slavering Jack. ‘I’d like to get a medal in the Gulf to show her I’m not just a cheap gigolo. The Yanks are paying people a thousand pounds a week just to put up tents.’
‘I thought you were paid ten times as much as that for erections in England,’ said Rupert, who’d been doing the entries for next week’s races and working out who was going to ride out which horse tomorrow morning as he listened. ‘All right, joke, joke,’ he added, as Lysander’s face blackened. ‘Anyway, I’ve got news for you. Bunny, the vet, and I think we’ve sussed Arthur’s problem.’
Rupert half-rose to look out of the window. ‘That’s her now.’
Arthur as usual was lying flat out snoring with his eyes wide open to get attention.
‘I ought to move Penscombe Pride from the next-door box,’ said Rupert as he opened the half-door. ‘He isn’t getting any sleep with that racket going on, but he’s got a bit of a crush on Arthur.’
Arthur lurched to his feet in delight when he heard his master’s voice. Whickering like Vesuvius, he nudged Lysander in the belly, grumbling about the dreadful starvation diet to which he’d been subjected. As usual he looked like nothing on earth, his face, back and quarters smeared with green, his mane and tail strewn with pieces of pink Financial Times like confetti. Having tried to eat Donald Duck, he went sharply into reverse and shook ostentatiously when he saw Bunny the vet.
‘He’s a terrible drip,’ said Lysander apologetically. ‘A programme seller in a white coat has him all of a tremble.’
Rounded, sweet and smiling, with long, soft brown hair and a gentle comforting voice, Bunny reminded Lysander for a fleeting agonizing moment of Kitty.
‘We’ve discounted navicular,’ she told Lysander. ‘It’s easy to make a mistake on an X-ray, but those lesions are actually normal synovial recesses.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Lysander, not knowing if that was good, and hanging tightly on to Arthur’s headcollar as he kept trying to edge away.
‘Will you trot him up now,’ asked Bunny.
Even Arthur’s delight at putting as many yards as possible between himself and Bunny soon disappeared as pain overwhelmed him. Miserably, he stumbled across the yard. Lysander could hardly bear to look. Arthur seemed worse than ever.
‘He’s certainly lame on both front legs,’ said Bunny, when they had both returned. ‘But I think the pain’s coming from his coffin joints. Arthur,’ she added, picking up his near-fore, ‘has abnormally shaped feet with very long toes.’