Expecting Someone Taller (9 page)

Thanks to the blood of the Giant Ingolf, Malcolm could understand all languages and forms of speech, even the curious noises coming out of the tannoy. The competitors in the main event were being asked to assemble in the collecting ring. With the firm intention of turning himself into a horse-fly and stinging Philip Wilcox's horse at an appropriate moment, Malcolm made his way over to the arcade of horseboxes that formed a temporary mews under the shade of a little copse in the west corner of the Park. He recognised the Wilcox family horsebox, which was drawn up at the end of the row. There was the horse, just standing there.

An idea, sent no doubt by the Lord of the Flies, suddenly came into Malcolm's mind. How would it be if . . .? No-one was watching; the attention of the whole world seemed to be focused on a fat child in jodhpurs and his long-suffering pony. Malcolm made himself invisible, and with extreme apprehension (for he was terrified of horses) he led Philip Wilcox's steed out of its box and into the depths of the tangled copse, where he tied it securely to a tree. Then, with his nails pressed hard into the palms of his hands, he changed himself into an exact copy of the animal
and transported himself back to the horsebox. This would be hard work, but never mind.

 

‘And have you met the new owner?' asked Aunt Marjorie, settling herself comfortably on a straw bale. ‘I never thought I'd live to see the day when a foreigner . . .'

‘Just for a few minutes,' replied Liz Ayres. She had learnt over the years the art of separating the questions from the comments in her aunt's conversation, and slipping in answers to them during pauses for breath and other interruptions.

‘What's he like? The trouble with most Germans . . .'

‘I don't know. He seemed pleasant enough, in a gormless sort of way, but I only said a few words to him.'

‘Well, I suppose we should all be very grateful to him for letting us put a waterjump in the middle of his Park, not that I imagine he minds anyway, or he wouldn't have. Colonel Booth never let us have one, but he was just plain difficult at times. I remember . . .'

‘I don't think he's terribly interested in the Hall, actually. ' Liz wondered if Aunt Marjorie had ever finished a sentence of her own free will in her life. Probably not. ‘I'm told he doesn't
do
anything, just stays indoors all day. Daddy said . . . oh look, there's Joe.'

Elizabeth Ayres' loyalties were sadly divided in the jump-off for the main event, since the two competitors most likely to win it were her brother Joe and her fiancé. Joe was the better rider, but Philip's horse seemed to have found remarkable form just at the right moment. Only last week, Philip had been talking of selling it; perhaps it had been listening (at times, they seem almost human) for today it was sailing over the jumps like a Harrier. Even Aunt Marjorie, who in matters of showjumping was a firm believer in entropy, had admitted that the animal wasn't too bad.

‘My money's on your boyfriend,' said Aunt Marjorie. ‘What's that horse of his called? It's playing a blinder today. Almost as if it
understood
.'

She had a point there. Intelligence, so Philip had always maintained, had never been one of old Mayfair's attributes. Any animal capable of taking a paper bag or a rusting Mini for a pack of wolves and acting accordingly was unlikely ever to win Mastermind, and this lack of mental as opposed to physical agility had prompted one of Philip's brightest sayings. Even if you led Mayfair to water, he would say, it probably wouldn't even occur to him to drink. But today, Mayfair hadn't put a foot wrong, in any sense.

‘Mr Joseph Ayres and Moonbeam,' said the tannoy. A hush fell over the crowd, for it seemed wrong that Joe should be riding the horse instead of the other way round. Joe was obviously the stronger of the two, just as Moonbeam was clearly the more intelligent. Aunt Marjorie, who was, like so many of her class, a sort of refined Centaur, leaned forward and fixed her round, bright eyes on horse and rider. ‘Look at his knees,' she muttered. ‘Just
look
at them.'

Joe did his best, but the consensus of opinion was that his best was not going to be good enough. ‘Twelve faults,' said the tannoy, and Aunt Marjorie shook her head sadly. ‘Why wasn't the idiot using a martingale?' she said. ‘When I was a girl . . .'

‘Excuse me,' said one of the three rather pretty girls who had just made their way to the front. ‘You obviously know all about this sort of thing. Could you tell us what's going on? We're terribly ignorant about horse-racing.'

‘It isn't racing, it's jumping,' said Aunt Marjorie, not looking round.

‘Oh,' said the youngest of the three girls. ‘Oh I
see
.'

‘Haven't you been to a show before?' Liz asked, kindly.

‘No,' chorused the girls, and this was true. There are no shows and very few gymkhanas at the bottom of the River Rhine, where these three girls, the Rhinedaughters Flosshilde, Wellgunde, and Woglinde, had spent the last two thousand years. They have trout races, but that is not quite the same.

‘Well,' said Aunt Marjorie patiently, as if explaining to a Trobriand Islander how to use a fork, ‘the idea is to make the horse jump over all the obstacles.'

‘Why?' asked Flosshilde. Woglinde scowled at her.

‘Because if you don't, you get faults,' said Aunt Marjorie, ‘and if you get more faults than everyone else, you lose.'

‘That explains a great deal,' said Flosshilde, brightly. ‘Thank you.'

‘Mr Philip Wilcox on Mayfair,' said the tannoy.

Aunt Marjorie turned to the Rhinemaidens, who were amusing themselves by making atrocious puns on the word ‘fault'. ‘Watch this,' she urged them. ‘He's very good.'

The Rhinedaughters put on their most serious expressions (which were not very serious, in absolute terms) and paid the strictest attention as Philip Wilcox and his tired but determined horse entered the ring. As the horse went past her, Flosshilde suddenly started forward, but Wellgunde nudged her and she composed herself.

‘You see,' said Aunt Marjorie, ‘he's building up his speed nicely, he's timed it just right, and - oh.'

‘Why's he stopped?' asked Woglinde. ‘I thought you said he was going to jump over that fence thing.'

Aunt Marjorie, raising her voice above the gasps and whispers of the spectators, explained that that was called a refusal.

‘Does he lose marks for that?'

‘Yes,' said Liz, crisply.

‘He's still got points in hand,' said Aunt Marjorie, trying to stay calm in this crisis. ‘I expect he'll go round the other way now. Yes, I thought he would.'

‘He's stopped again,' said Woglinde.

‘So he has,' said Liz. ‘I wonder why?'

‘Is he allowed to hit his horse with that stick?' asked Flosshilde. ‘It must hurt an awful lot.'

‘I think it's cruel,' said Wellgunde.

‘I think he's going to try the gate this time,' said Aunt Marjorie nervously. ‘Oh dear, not
again
. . .'

‘I think it's his fault for hitting the horse with that stick,' said Wellgunde. ‘If I was the horse, I'd throw him off.'

‘Thirty-three faults,' sniggered the tannoy.

‘Is that a lot?' asked Flosshilde. Aunt Marjorie confirmed that it was, rather.

Philip Wilcox was obviously finding it hard to think straight through the buzz of malicious giggling that welled up all around him. About the only jump he hadn't tried yet was the water-jump. He pulled Mayfair's head round, promised him an apple if he made it and the glue factory if he didn't, and pressed with his heels in the approved manner. Mayfair began to move smoothly, rhythmically towards the obstacle.

‘Come on, now,' Aunt Marjorie hissed under her breath, ‘plenty of pace. Go on . . .'

There is nothing, nothing in the world that amuses human beings more than the sight of a fully grown, fully clothed man falling into water, and sooner or later the human race must come to terms with this fact. But, to the Rhinedaughters (who are not human, but were created by a unique and entirely accidental fusion of the life-forces) it
seemed strange that this unfortunate accident should produce such gales of laughter from everyone present, including the tannoy. Even Wellgunde, who thought it served him right for hitting the horse with the stick, was moved to compassion. She looked round to see if she was the only person not laughing, and observed that at least the girl sitting next to the fat woman did not seem to be amused. In fact, she appeared to be perfectly calm, and her face was a picture of tranquillity, like some Renaissance Madonna. Perhaps, thought the Rhinedaughter, she's an immortal too. Or perhaps she's just annoyed.

‘I'm so glad Joe won in the end,' said Liz, getting to her feet. ‘Shall we go and find some tea?'

 

Restored to human shape once more, Malcolm crawled into the house and collapsed into a chair. He was utterly exhausted, his mouth was bruised and swollen, his back and sides were aching, and he had pulled a muscle in his neck when he had stopped so suddenly in front of the water-jump. The whole thing had probably hurt him just as much as it had hurt Philip Wilcox, and he had a terrible feeling that it hadn't been worth it. A minute or so of unbridled malice on his part was probably the worst thing that could happen to the universe, and his original argument, that anything that humiliated Philip Wilcox was bound to be good for the world, seemed rather flimsy in retrospect. He could only hope that the consequences would not be too dire.

With an effort, he rose to his feet and stumbled out into the grounds. The show was, mercifully, drawing to a close and, within an hour or so, all the cars that were hiding his grass from the sun would be winding their way home, probably, since this was Somerset, at fifteen miles an hour
behind a milk tanker. All he had to do now was present the prizes. This would, of course, mean standing up in public and saying something coherent, and for a moment he stopped dead in his tracks. He should be feeling unmitigated terror at the prospect of this ordeal, but he wasn't. He tried to feel frightened, but the expected reaction refused to materialise. He raised his eyebrows and said ‘Well, I'm damned' to himself several times.

As he stood on the platform handing out rosettes, the three Rhinedaughters studied him carefully through their designer sunglasses.

‘No, don't tell me,' whispered Flosshilde, ‘I'll remember in a minute.'

‘Siegfried,' said Wellgunde. ‘It's Siegfried. What a nerve!'

‘Why shouldn't he be Siegfried if he wants to?' whispered Woglinde. ‘I think it suits him.'

‘Oh, well.' Flosshilde shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Here we go again.'

Malcolm was shaking Joe Ayres by the hand and saying ‘Well done'. Joe Ayres winced as he withdrew his hand; he suspected that the German's ferocious grip had dislocated one of his knuckles.

‘It could have been worse,' said Flosshilde, ‘considering . . .' She stopped suddenly, and poked Wellgunde's arm. ‘Look,' she hissed, ‘over there, by the pear tree. Look who it is!'

‘No!' Wellgunde's eyes were sparkling with excitement as she followed Flosshilde's pointing finger, and a pear on the tree ripened prematurely as a result. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘He doesn't look a day older,' said Woglinde, fondly.

The other two made faces at her.

Malcolm recognised Alberich at once. As the Prince of the Nibelungs approached him, Malcolm's heart seemed to collapse. Not that the Nibelung was a terrifying sight; a short, broad, grey-haired man in a dark overcoat, nothing more. There was no point in running away, and Malcolm stood his ground as Alberich approached and extended his hand for a handshake. Malcolm dosed his fist around the Ring and put his hands behind his back.

‘I'm sorry,' said Alberich in German. ‘I thought you were someone else.'

‘Oh, yes?'

‘Someone I used to know in Germany, as a matter of fact. You look very like him, from a distance. But perhaps he was a little bit taller.'

‘I don't think so,' said Malcolm without thinking.

Alberich laughed. ‘How would you know? But you're right, actually. He wasn't.'

‘My name is Manfred Finger,' Malcolm managed to say. ‘I own the Hall.'

‘Hans Albrecht.' Alberich smiled again. ‘I'm afraid I don't know many people in England. But perhaps you know a friend of mine who lives near here.'

‘I'm afraid I don't know many people either,' said Malcolm, forcing himself to smile. ‘I've only been here a short while myself.'

‘Well, this friend of mine is a very remarkable person, so perhaps you do know him. Malcolm Fisher. Familiar?'

‘Any friend of Malcolm's is a friend of mine,' said Malcolm truthfully. ‘But I don't remember him mentioning you.'

‘That's so like him.' Alberich was massaging the fourth finger of his right hand as if it was hurting. ‘Arthritis,' he explained. ‘Anyway, if you see him before I do, you might
remind him that he's got something of mine. A gold ring, and a hat. Both valueless, but I'd like them back.'

‘I'm afraid Malcolm hasn't been quite himself lately,' said Malcolm. ‘But I'll remind him if I see him before you do.'

‘Would you? That's very kind. And do give him my best wishes.' Alberich turned to go, then stopped. ‘Oh, and by the way,' he said in English. ‘Well done. I liked your horse. Goodbye.'

 

As if that wasn't bad enough, Malcolm heard on the late news that two airliners had missed each other by inches over Manchester that afternoon. Had they collided, said the announcer, more than five hundred people would probably have lost their lives. An inquiry was being held, but the probable cause of the incident was human error.