All The Nice Girls (16 page)

In the general hubbub in the unsaddling enclosure Speedy Gonzales’s owner so far forgot herself as to rush forward and offer The Bodger assistance in removing his tack.

‘Stand
back
, madam,’ commanded The Bodger sternly. ‘I don’t want to be disqualified after all that trouble!’

Acknowledging congratulations on every side by touching his cap with his whip, The Bodger passed into the Weighing Tent. There, he slapped his whip on the table, sat on the scales and held his saddle on his lap as to the manner born. The Clerk of the Scales gaped at him.

‘What weight?’

The Bodger was non-plussed. ‘Half a minute, let me get my race card out and I’ll tell you.’

A voice spoke in The Bodger’s ear. ‘The Stewards wish to see you at
once
,’

‘I’ve no doubt they do!’ replied The Bodger.

Meanwhile, on the course, the loudspeakers had announced that the Stewards had objected to the winner. The bookmakers were offering as much as 7-1 against Speedy Gonzales keeping the race. Dagwood, who knew The Bodger better than did the bookies, borrowed all the money he could and backed The Bodger heavily with the eager Joe Calvin. After twenty minutes of sensation such as few point-to-point meetings have ever provided, Dagwood had his reward.

‘Objection over-ruled,’ said the loudspeaker, flatly. ‘Weighed in.’

There was, understandably, a considerable crowd waiting for The Bodger when he emerged from the Stewards’ Tent.

‘How’s that jockey who fell off?’ The Bodger asked.

‘I think he’s sprained his wrist,’ said Speedy Gonzales’s owner. ‘May even have broken it. They’ve whisked him away for an X-ray.’

‘Darling, what did the Stewards say?’ Julia could not restrain her impatience a moment longer.

The Bodger looked thoughtful. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s no doubt I should have been disqualified . . .’

‘But why
weren’t
you, darling?’

‘Because there’s nothing in the book of words that covers it! Believe me, they went through the National Hunt Rules and the Appendix with a fine tooth-comb and they couldn’t find anything which actually says you can’t change horses in midstream, so to speak . . .’

‘What about the weight?’ said Speedy Gonzales’s owner.

‘I was only two pounds overweight, even with all that clobber I had. You can’t be disqualified for that. I was wearing an approved pattern of skull cap, the horse completed the proper course. I don’t even have to be a licensed jockey to ride in a point-to-point. The only thing they could get me for was not riding in the proper colours. They could fine me one sovereign for that. Which they did!’

‘But what about Sir Rollo?’ asked Speedy Gonzales’s owner.

‘He couldn’t take part in the enquiry. His horse was second so he was an interested party. It was a straight fight between Admiral MacGregor and some Major General fellow . . .’

Speedy Gonzales’s owner nodded significantly. The crowd pressed closer to listen.

‘ . . . Rob Roy said he thought it was a splendid effort and if he’d been thirty years younger and stood to win thirty pounds he’d have done the same! The Major General knew a bit more about racing and he said he’d never heard anything like it in all his life. He said he was going to report it to the National Hunt Committee . . .’

‘You’ll be warned off,’ said Speedy Gonzales’s owner gloomily.

‘You can’t be warned off for things that happen in a point- to-point,’ said a pundit in the crowd.

‘Can’t you just!’ retorted Speedy Gonzales’s owner, with unladylike heat. ‘A fat lot you know about it!’

The pundit in the crowd stepped back a pace, crushed.

‘Never mind,’ said The Bodger. ‘The main thing is, I can collect me thirty quid. Minus one sovereign for expenses, that’s not a bad reward for half a jump and less than a furlong’s riding! ‘

The Bodger had the crowd behind him. He had done something which almost every man and woman present had longed to do at one time or another, given the necessary nerve. Whatever the National Hunt Committee might say in the future, the crowd dispersed feeling that justice had been done, and been seen to be done. It was perhaps just as well that the Open Race was the last of the day; after The Bodger’s pyrotechnics, anything else would have come as an anti-climax. The general attitude was summed up by a man in a pork-pie hat and H.A.C. tie outside the yeomanry tent. ‘I take off my hat to him,’ said that gentleman. ‘I often wished I had the courage to do something like that myself.’ The final compliment was paid by the jockeys, who offered The Bodger the use of the cold water ablutionary pail in their tent, an offer which The Bodger gladly accepted, feeling that he was washing his hands with demi-gods.

Back at the Land Rover, Dagwood said: ‘Where to now, Hilda?’

‘You’re coming to our house. We’re giving a party.’

‘I can’t come like this. I’ve got to change first.’

Hilda looked at Dagwood’s Wellington boots, corduroys and duffle coat. ‘Perhaps you’d better,’ she said. ‘You go home and change and then come on. I’ll go back with Sarah.’

By the time Dagwood had reached the farm, returned the Land Rover, satisfied Molly’s curiosity with gossip about the point-to-point, bathed and changed, and found the Judworths’ house, the party was in full swing.

It was too dark to see much of the house but Dagwood could tell that it was big. Inside, there was an atmosphere which vaguely disturbed Dagwood. He found it hard to put a name to it. Bogus was too strong a word; contrived was nearer. The Judworths’ house had been built as a country house but it was too like a country house to be believable. The grey stones in the hall fireplace were too accurately cut, the Grand National prints round the walls were too obviously an exact set and the wood panelling too meticulously stained with age. It all looked as though it had been built by a man who had studied photographs of country houses until he had learnt the type by heart and then gone away and built the house from memory.

The party was in progress in a beautifully-proportioned drawing-room (here the architect had recalled the photograph perfectly). Music was provided by a radiogram longer than Dagwood’s car, the carpets had been rolled up and removed, and the lighting depressed to a mellow glow. The whole of the ‘Three Feathers’ set were in attendance and as many more arrived after closing time.

Dagwood circulated assiduously. Sarah Judworth danced as neatly and precisely as a horse progressing through the steps of a dressage championship.

‘I’m surprised you can dance at all after your efforts today,’ Dagwood remarked.

‘I hardly did anything.’ For a girl with such a hard face, Sarah’s voice was unexpectedly soft and feminine. ‘That was the trouble. We only got half way round the first time. I hadn’t time to get tired.’

‘It was jolly misty and we couldn’t see. What did happen to you all?’

‘It was all my fault. I was leading and I fell off. That seemed to upset the other two because they fell as well. Virginia Bristol was furious. She’d backed herself for an awful lot of money.’

‘Serve her right,’ said Dagwood callously. ‘Teach her not to back horses, particularly ones she rides herself.’

Virginia Bristol was a tall girl with hollowed cheeks and shadows under her dark eyes. She had a disconcerting habit of tossing her hair back without warning. She danced jerkily, as though her reflexes were taking time to pass messages from her brain to her legs; Dagwood was terrified that one of her jerks would topple them both on to the floor. Worst of all, Dagwood discovered, too late, that she was a ‘Do you know so-and-so?’ conversationalist of exhaustive acquaintanceship and great endurance.

‘Do you know Paul Vincent?’

‘No,’ said Dagwood.

‘I thought you said you were at Dartmouth.’

‘I was, but I didn’t know anyone called that there. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh nothing, he married a friend of mine in London. Do you know Gavin Doyle?’

‘The name’s familiar,’ said Dagwood, grimly. ‘Why?’

‘He was a submariner. I used to know him in London. Do you know Tim Castlewood?’

When Virginia Bristol looked as though she was about to go through the Navy List from A to Z, Dagwood broke in. ‘I know quite a lot of people in the Navy,’ he said defensively, ‘but I don’t know everybody.’

‘I just thought you might know them. A lot of people do.’

At last a mutual acquaintance was discovered in The Hon. Mrs Julian Dewberry’s nephew George and they discussed him minutely until Dagwood was able to make good his escape.

Hilda Judworth’s hips were round and spongy - Dagwood had the sensation that he could have taken a handful out of her if he had gripped tightly. She danced a simple step, rocking from side to side, the movement of a full back trying to prevent a forward dribbling a hockey ball past her. She danced with the abstracted air of the conscientious hostess, with one eye constantly cocked to see how the other guests were doing.

‘Fiona’s leg doesn’t seem to be holding her back,’ she said to Dagwood.

Fiona’s leg was indeed such a success she might have planned it. The men deserted fully mobile girls, who might have wished to be entertained or to dance, to cluster round Fiona. She had more attention than she would have done had she competed in the open market. Several girls began to wish they had broken their ankles skiing.

Dagwood himself was talking to Fiona when Caroline came in, with Nigel. Dagwood could hear his voice. ‘Sorry we’re late, Hilda. We’ve been having Chinese chow.’ Nigel’s eye roamed the room and rested on Dagwood. ‘Oh good God, there’s that
frightful
underwater butler again! ‘

Dagwood grinned. The epithet had certainly not been intended as a compliment but it had a significance which Nigel could not have appreciated. ‘Underwater butler’ had been one of the nicknames given to the wardroom steward in
Seahorse
. Hearing it again gave Dagwood an unexpected twinge of nostalgia.

‘I don’t think that chap likes me very much,’ he said to Fiona.

‘Who, Nigel? Oh, don’t worry about him! That remark of yours this afternoon was simply splendid. He’ll never live it down. He’s been asking for somebody to say something like that ever since the Guards took him on. Somebody had to say it, and you did!’

Caroline caught Dagwood’s eye, and to his stupefaction, smiled at him. Unable to resist that small thrill of pleasure he felt whenever he saw her, Dagwood got up, said ‘Excuse me’ to Fiona, brushed past Nigel, collected Caroline, and began to dance. If there is a tide in the affairs of men then Dagwood’s was in full spate.

Fiona looked after Dagwood through narrowed eyes. The pricking of her thumbs told her something was up.

‘Well,’ said Dagwood.

‘Well?’ said Caroline.

‘I’m afraid I was very rude to Nigel this afternoon.’

Caroline shrugged. ‘He’s quite capable of looking after himself.’

Her lack of concern for Nigel filled Dagwood with a wild surge of exultation and power. The victory could be his, if he pursued it. He felt like some bearded barbarian, crouched in the hills, gloating over the peaceful valley below, knowing that soon the women would be his to ravish, the cattle his to drive away and the houses his to burn if he wished.

Something of this feeling must have glowed in his eyes, because Caroline said: ‘Do you always leer at girls like that?’

‘Always.’

‘Well I don’t like it!’

‘I’m sorry.’ The top of Caroline’s head was on a level with Dagwood’s eyes. Her hair smelled of fresh grass, and wild thyme, and violets.

‘That’s a nice little bottom over there,’ he said, inconsequentially. He nodded towards a girl in a tight black terylene skirt, who was joggling violently while she danced.

Caroline looked. ‘It’s engaged.’

‘To the chap it’s dancing with?’

‘Yes.’

Just then, Nigel tapped Dagwood on the shoulder.

‘What do you want?’ Dagwood demanded belligerently.

Nigel smirked. ‘I thought I’d let you know, old boy, I’ve decided to make this one a Gentlemen’s “Excuse me”.’

‘Well, you’re excused then,’ said Dagwood coldly.

Caroline stopped dancing and let out a long peal of laughter. Nigel retired, discomfited and muttering. Dagwood bared his teeth in a grin of savage triumph. The bearded barbarians had crept down the hill-side and put the first outposts to the sword.

‘How long are you staying in Oozemouth, Dagwood?’

‘Don’t know. Depends on how long your father and his merry men, with all due respect, take to refit us.’

‘Have you got digs?’

‘No, I’ve got a flat.’

‘Have you?’ Caroline was interested. ‘That’s very enterprising of you.’

‘You must come and have dinner with me and see it.’

‘I’d like very much to.’

‘How about next Wednesday?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry I can’t...’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m going to Switzerland on Monday.’

‘Skiing?’

‘Yes, we’re all going in a party. Nigel and Virginia and a whole lot more.’

‘For how long?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Oh,’ said Dagwood despondently. Three weeks together in Switzerland. He could hardly compete with that. The barbarians were on their way back into the hills, their tails between their legs; the fat plainsmen had summoned reinforcements from an unexpected direction.

‘Who does the cooking in your flat, Dagwood?’

‘I do. Who else?’

‘Are you any good at it?’

‘As I say, you must come and try it. I graduated to roast chicken the other night.’

‘That was very clever of you.’

‘It wasn’t very difficult. I just slapped it in the oven, poured fat over it now and again, kept prodding it and when it went soft I took it out and ate it.’

Dagwood was not minimising his own cooking. That was exactly how he had cooked the chicken. Chubb the moocher, who had supplied the chicken from a source Dagwood did not enquire into, had come round later to see how Dagwood was progressing. He had arrived just as the chicken was being served and he and Dagwood had finished it off between them, together with slices of brown bread and butter and a jar of cider Chubb happened to have with him.

Dagwood was suddenly disappointed with this conversation. It was too polite and commonplace. His blood yearned for more intimate matters. The barbarians had not struggled across the mountain range just to sip afternoon tea and nibble at scones.