The Dark Horse (16 page)

‘Mother Morag!'

‘It is true.' Now the eyes were candid, innocent.

‘We could get an injunction.'

‘I doubt it. I had a letter from the Commissioner of Police this morning.'

‘So you have him in your pocket too.'

She ignored that and went on. ‘In any case, if you succeeded, I doubt if the crowds would let you get Dark Invader to the racecourse. You know what mobs are, particularly Indian ones. Your stables might be invaded. Mr Leventine's beautiful car might be stoned. There could be a riot.'

‘Are you spinning me another tale?'

‘This time not. There has already been an encounter between two of your men, the syces who came with Mr Leventine for Dark Invader, them and our gateman.'

Dil Bahadur had spoken to Sadiq and Ali first through a grating in the gates. ‘What do you want?'

‘We have come to fetch our horse.'

‘
Our
horse,' contradicted Dil Bahadur.

‘Ours!'

Dil Bahadur opened the wicket and came out on to the pavement, closing the door behind him.

They had confronted one another, the two Muslims – Sadiq's upturned moustaches were fierce – and the little brown man in a starched drill tunic and medals, which included the Indian Distinguished Service Medal and three chevrons. A pillbox hat in black velvet cut in patterns sat firmly over one ear and his shaven skull, criss-crossed with the scars and weals of old wounds, gleamed in the evening sun. Dil Bahadur's face, which could be so genial, was wiped clean of all humour. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes like brown stones. ‘You will not enter. No-one will enter. It is the Mother Sahib's orders. I, Dil Bahadur, say so. You see these medals? With this kukri I, Dil Bahadur, cut off the heads of eight Germans.' He made an expressive gesture and held up his fingers, ‘Eight – and, if you do not go away, I will cut off your heads too. It would not be difficult. Go away.' He began to crowd them along the wall. ‘This is a holy place,' said Dil Bahadur.

‘Which is what saved the situation,' said Mother Morag now, ‘but two Muslims and a Gurkha, that's dangerous and you know how inflammable the people are. It only needs a little agitation.'

‘Which you will provide?' John was still angry.

‘We?' The eyebrows lifted. ‘I am doing my best to prevent it. It's not I who can start or stop it.'

‘Then who… ?'

‘Mr Leventine.'

‘And if he won't move?'

‘A little pressure from Bunny… '

John had forgotten Bunny and his power, how he had only to speak or lift a finger. Against Bunny, Mr Leventine would not have a chance, and, ‘You may be a nun,' said John, ‘but you are a devilishly clever woman.'

‘Not devilish, I hope, and certainly not clever, though I grant we are adept in begging. Not an easy thing to learn,' said Mother Morag, ‘especially if you are born proud but, if you believe it gives people the chance… '

‘The chance?'

‘To become Providence, which is of God,' and Mother Morag bent her head. Her hands were on her desk – beautiful hands, Mr Leventine had thought, but John noticed how toil-worn they were – held together now in the attitude of prayer – the same, he suddenly thought, as the Indian greeting of reverence, namaskar. What he did not see was that their tips were tightly pressed together. Then she gave a smile that was tender. ‘Yes, Bunny,' she said. ‘Fortunately His Highness believes in miracles.'

‘So that's what they are beginning to call this!'

‘Yes.'

‘But you?' John was astute.

Mother Morag smiled again. ‘What most people, shall we say in the world, call miracles, are to us perfectly normal. We have a need – in this case, a horse – and, by God's providence, a horse was sent.'

‘Then your God doesn't know much about horses.'

‘His ways are certainly sometimes difficult to understand,' she admitted. ‘He helps us, but we also have to help ourselves. Suppose you bring Mr Leventine to see me again.'

‘He is outside, fuming.'

 

‘This is blackmail,' said Mr Leventine.

‘Isn't it, rather, nemesis?' but that was another word Mr Leventine did not know. ‘For thirty-five years,' said Mother Morag, ‘first as a young Sister, then as Superior, I have helped to organise the collecting by which our old people live – scraps of food, Mr Leventine, scraps of money to rich people like you. Our Sisters go round the offices and most firms are generous, but yours is one of the few where, every time, they get a rebuff. It seems Leventine and Son cannot afford to spare an anna.'

‘Afford!' That affronted Mr Leventine. ‘Madam, we are one of the most successful firms of our size in the city.'

Out of your own mouth, thought John – he was enjoying this.

‘Then perhaps it really would take a miracle to change your heart?'

‘I thought you said this was Providence,' said John.

‘Yes, but maybe something more. Usually one can find an explanation for Providence, but how do you explain, Mr Quillan, when Dark Invader bolted, as I have heard he did, then turned and trotted, when his own stable was such a short way off, that he should suddenly have turned in here? Why?'

‘I don't know,' said John.

‘Nobody knows, but I think we Sisters can guess. Well then?' said Mother Morag.

Mr Leventine looked at her. He knew he was beaten. His heart, that Mother Morag had spoken of, also knew, under his ornate waistcoat, that it had had enough. His bewildered eyes were sharp again as he asked, ‘How much for Dark Invader?'

‘Money?' The eyebrows went up. ‘Not money, Mr Leventine. The people would never understand that. To them, though, one horse is much like another. If you would give us a carriage horse used to harness, strong yet tractable – our driver is not very skilled – a horse not too young but not too old,' her voice faltered, she was thinking of Solomon. ‘One that Captain Mack and Mr Quillan would approve… '

Mr Leventine was affronted again. ‘Madam, I think you will find I am as good if not a better judge of a horse than they.
They
would not have bought Dark Invader.'

 

‘You have twenty-four hours,' John told Mr Leventine. ‘Today is the 22nd and I must have three days to get Dark Invader wound up.' John had not tried to gain time – by now he knew Mother Morag too well – but Mr Leventine had. ‘If I give you my promise.'

‘Promises won't do, Mr Leventine. Think of the people. A horse can go, certainly, but there must be a horse here.'

‘I only hope,' said Captain Mack, ‘that he doesn't think he can get away with rubbish, something that takes the eye. He's probably sure that a nun can't know one end of a horse from another.'

‘Let things take their course,' said John and smiled.

 

That afternoon Mr Leventine was outside the Convent, stamping his foot imperiously on the bell of a smart Cee spring buggy. In the shafts was a good-looking bay horse, well-groomed and, by his appearance, English rather than Australian. Mr Leventine pulled up, got down and waited with every satisfaction for Mother Morag to appear.

‘Certainly rather good looking,' she said, which, by her tone, sounded derogatory, and she seemed, to Mr Leventine's dismay, to take in the whole of the horse with one glance. She walked to its head, rubbed the nose and lifted the upper lip with a deft finger, then, ‘No thank you,' said Mother Morag.

‘No thank you?' Mr Leventine was dazed.

‘How can you, Mr Leventine!' Mother Morag was stern. ‘You are wasting your time – and mine. This horse has been raced. At some time he has sprained a tendon and the injury has calloused. That wouldn't interfere with his work, but I said, “Not too young,” also “not too old.” This horse is twenty.'

‘Madam, you must be mistaken.'

‘Perhaps I am; perhaps he is even older. Look at that corner tooth, Mr Leventine. It will tell you his whole story, so – no thank you.'

Mr Leventine was chagrined, but challenged too. ‘Why not settle for that roan country-bred, Raj Kumar, belonging to the Nawab?' asked John. ‘I actually have him in the stable. No good for racing but broken to carriage work, strong, docile, six years old. Ideal. The Nawab would let you have him for a thousand rupees.'

‘A thousand! Five hundred is the price for a country-bred.'

‘He won't let it go for less,' John shrugged. ‘All right, go your own way, but remember, every hour is precious.'

All the same, Mr Leventine could not resist trying again. This time it was a dapple grey – ‘a colour ladies seem to like' – and a true carriage horse, belonging to a Greek, Mr Petrides, who drove sedately to his office every morning, sedately back every evening, and was now retiring so that his Bimbo was for sale. Bimbo was ten years old, but had been little used – ‘an advantage in a car but not in a horse,' said Mother Morag – and, ‘overfed, underworked and listen, Mr Leventine,' she lifted her arm in a sudden deliberate gesture so that her sleeve flapped, startling Bimbo into the loud grunt that spells a broken wind. This time Mother Morag had no need to speak to Mr Leventine or to say, ‘No thank you.' She simply looked at him in reproach.

Mr Leventine found himself with another curious new feeling. He was torn; half of him filled with chagrin because, for once, he could not make a bargain, half of him filled with admiration for this, to him, revelation of a nun.

‘Cas, why not give in?' said John. ‘Take her the roan.'

‘But the price! A thousand rupees.'

‘I'll pay half,' said John. ‘After all, the whole thing is my fault,' but, for some reason he did not understand, Mr Leventine refused. ‘Have I ever before refused to bargain?' He did not know what was the matter with him – it was like having teeth drawn – but an hour later he and the buggy drove into the Convent again, and this time, between the shafts was a horse, but one with a difference, an upstanding red-roan with the arched neck, corkscrew ears of an Indian country-bred, and a splendid Arab tail. He was strong, vigorous, but obviously tractable with an intelligent but docile eye and, ‘Ah!' said Mother Morag.

She examined him as carefully as she had the others, but this time her voice was warm, her eyes bright. Then, putting the last hoof down and giving the right flank a pat, she said, ‘I should like to try him.'

‘Try him. You mean… '

‘I mean that while a horse may seem suitable, until he is ridden or driven… '

‘I will take you gladly. Let me help you up,' and, as he joined her and Sister Ignatius in the buggy, ‘Now where shall I drive you?'

‘I will drive.' Mother Morag had already gathered up the reins. Mr Leventine had never thought he would be seen being driven round Ballygunj in a buggy by a nun, another sitting up behind, but he soon forgot his embarrassment as he saw how Mother Morag drove, with what skill she coaxed response from the strong roan, how lightly she held him.

‘But how,' he was to ask John when he got back to the office, ‘how does a nun know about horses?'

‘Simple,' said Captain Mack – they were all gathered there – ‘she was born to it. Her father was Dawson – Rattler Dawson – the leading horse dealer in Dublin.'

‘Yes,' said Bunny. ‘That's how I met her. My father used to buy horses from her father. He made a fortune from us because Papa wouldn't have any other colour than chestnut and didn't mind what he paid.'

‘And Mother Morag – Helen Dawson as she was then – used to show off hunters when she was still at school,' said John. ‘I believe that did wonders with the young cavalry officers from the Curragh. Couldn't bear to be bested by a brat in pigtails,' and he said, ‘she knows all right.'

‘She certainly knows,' said Mr Leventine gloomily.

‘That
was
satisfactory,' Mother Morag had said as she jumped down from the buggy. Mr Leventine had been ready to help her, but she jumped down like a girl and he was left to help stiff old Sister Ignatius. ‘How I enjoyed that!' She sounded so elated that he was not prepared for what came next. ‘Of course we still have to try him in the cart.'

‘The… cart?'

‘Yes – it's much more difficult than a beautifully sprung buggy. It's heavy and awkward. Also we must see if Gulab, our driver, can manage Raj Kumar who is not yet as well-trained as Solomon, but you'll see.'

‘You mean… I am to come with you?' This time Mr Leventine really did shrink, but mysteriously found himself seated next to the driver in the cart. ‘This is what she does to you,' Bunny was to tell him, ‘and you don't know how.'

The cart did not run, it trundled; the tyres on its large wheels were so thin that it jarred. Its roof was of canvas so old that obviously it had let in the rain and it stank of mildew. The flooring was of rough planking on which some dozen canisters, as large as dustbins, rattled. The lights were two hand-lanterns that swung from hooks each side of the cart; another was hung inside. There were two small wooden seats for the Sisters while, in front, a wide plank set on battens and covered with a strip of carpet made the driver's seat, and, ‘This is impossible,' said Mr Leventine. He hoped, almost prayed, that nobody he knew would see him perched up beside the old Hindu bundled in his ancient coat. What if Sir Humphrey should pass? Mr Leventine shrank back under the hood but still he felt conspicuous and, ‘Impossible,' he said.

‘It is what we have,' Mother Morag was serene, ‘and has been possible for years. Would you believe it, Mr Leventine, that this old cart has been the means of feeding some hundreds of people every day?' She did not add, ‘with what you throw away!' ‘But sometimes I do not know how Gulab manages it.'

‘Nor do I,' said Mr Leventine.

‘It will be better with Strawberry,' – the Sisters had already abandoned the grand name of Raj Kumar for homely Strawberry, and, ‘Strawberry is more adroit,' said Mother Morag.