The Dark Horse (4 page)

A track of tan ran round the square's central lawn which was green and smooth; Mother Morag could guess it was watered every day. There were white-painted benches and chairs under its trees because it was here the owners gathered to watch the evening parade when the horses, groomed to perfection, were exercised round and round. ‘Exercised and scrutinised,' said John. Now his foreman, the Jemadar, attended him and Mother Morag as they went from horse to horse and handed her, as the guest, appropriate tidbits for each, and heads came round and necks strained to catch them. One or two horses laid back their ears, showing the whites of their eyes, but John saw Mother Morag was not afraid. ‘There are always one or two bad seeds,' she said; besides, the groom was always standing by to give a sharp slap of reproof. ‘Ari bap! Shaitan!' John's Matilda did not wait for them to come close, but started whickering at the sound of his footsteps. ‘Give her a banana,' said John. ‘She'll peel it herself.'

‘What a beauty!' Mother Morag patted the satin neck. ‘Mr Quillan, she's outstanding.'

‘Was. I had her in the regiment.' Warmed by her delight, he unguardedly gave that fact away. ‘Not for racing, of course, for polo, but she's fourteen now.' He ran his hand across her neck in a caress and again she saw the signet ring on his little finger, its worn crest. ‘Yes, we could do with some of your quality, couldn't we, old girl?' John said to Matilda. ‘Makes the rest look work-a-day squibs.'

‘Squibs! You have some splendid horses here, but I'm intrigued,' said Mother Morag. ‘Polo, then training racehorses. There's such a difference. How did you come to know… ?' She stopped. ‘I'm sorry. One shouldn't be curious, but horses run away with you in more senses than one.'

John Quillan was one of the few men she had met who could look down on her and now he looked almost with fellowship and, ‘How did I come to know?' he said. ‘I can't remember a time when I didn't. My grandfather, when he retired from the Army, did a little breeding and training at Mulcahy, our home in Ireland.'

Mulcahy! He is one of those Quillans. Of course! I ought to have guessed, thought Mother Morag, and wondered if John had meant to tell her that. ‘My father did the same, only more so, and my brother decided to do it in a big way. Then… ' The easiness went and he said abruptly, ‘Came a time when I had to do something – rather quickly; couldn't – didn't,' he corrected himself, ‘go home. There was a trainer here, an old Englishman called Findlay with a small stable. He was good. As a matter of fact I had a horse with him, just for fun. When it wasn't fun – the old man was past it and needed a manager. He took me on, for a pittance, but I was fond of him. He died the following year and, well, I inherited and built it up more or less.'

‘More or less! Bunny says you have win after win.'

‘Not the big ones.'

‘Why not?'

‘They still won't give me the cream.'

‘Why?' The hazel eyes were so direct that he had to answer.

‘Me, I suppose. So – no golden pots.' He shrugged, but Mother Morag knew how much they meant: the Wellesley Plate: King Emperor's Cup: the Cooch Behar Cup and, crown of the season, the Viceroy's Cup, run on Boxing Day, and she laid her hand on John Quillan's sleeve; it was her left hand and, on its third finger, was her own ring, the plain golden band without crest or insignia, the sign of her wedding to Christ and the Church. ‘No golden pots.'

‘There will be, one day,' said Mother Morag.

 

That evening Mother Morag had seldom felt as tired, perhaps because the visit to the Quillan stables had stirred up old memories, but the containers that night had seemed unusually heavy, greasier than ever, more smelly; also she could not get John Quillan out of her mind. ‘There will be, one day,' she had prophesied.

‘Dear Mother,' he had smiled at her – for a hard sardonic man, John Quillan's smile was extraordinarily sweet. ‘Dear Mother. Always hopeful.'

‘Isn't that the purpose of my calling?' she had asked, and now, at her window, resting her tired arms on the sill, she wondered what was the quality that made someone, human or animal, one in ten thousand, or in a hundred thousand, stand out, not only because they were extraordinarily gifted, others are that, but because they seemed born with something extra, a magnetism that holds the public eye – and the public love. Suddenly she seemed to smell broom in flower, golden broom, wet grass and horses sweating, to hear larks shrilling. Mother Morag was far from Calcutta; she had fallen asleep and what she had said was not, ‘There will be, one day,' but, ‘One day there will be One.'

That smell of broom in flower and wet grass filled the air as Michael Traherne rode with Peter Hay on the Dilbury Downs, and they heard the larks. Peter had spent the night with Michael and Annette and now the two men rode up over the tussocky grass, sparkling where it was brushed with dew in the sunlight.

Work was finished for the morning and, as they came up on to the high rolling uplands, far down the rough track they could see the lads putting the sheets back on the horses ready for the two-mile walk back to the stables in the village down below, whose roofs and church tower could be seen through the trees.

Michael was on his new young mare, a brilliant chestnut and still, each time she went out, as nervous as a dancer on her first night. Peter had settled for the stable cob. ‘I like them better when I'm off than on them,' he had confessed.

They had come by a short cut, over the shoulder of the hill, the cob thumping along at a slow canter, the mare collected to match him until she shied at a rabbit, slewed round until Michael brought her back, held in perfect balance and flexing to the plain snaffle in tribute to his expert hand.

‘Nearly had me off,' Peter complained.

‘You! Off our old dobbin? You couldn't be. Annette says he's a patent safety.'

On the crest of the hill they halted, without speaking; then Michael broke the silence. ‘I think I have an offer for Dark Invader,' he said.

‘Have you so? Who, and how much?'

‘Two thousand. A man called Leventine from Calcutta.'

‘Calcutta! Poor old Darkie.'

‘Not necessarily. Racehorses out there are treated like princes,' but Peter was not listening.

‘Leventine. Middle East, Jewish do you think?'

‘I don't think so, could be anything. His full name is Casimir Alaric Bruce.'

‘Good God! That's not Jewish. What can he be?'

‘Some sort of mixture. Immensely rich.'

‘Certainly seems to have more money than sense,' said Peter. Michael let that pass. ‘What's his trade?'

‘I don't know, but grandfather is said to have made a million.'

‘Jewels? Hides? Tea? I know,' said Peter. ‘His grandfather was the man who first imported umbrellas into India.'

‘In that case Leventine would be a multimillionaire. May be for all I know. He doesn't give anything away. The “Bruce” suggests some Scots in him which probably makes him cautious, yet he's a simple soul – somehow wistful.'

‘
Wistful!
My dear Mike!' but, ‘Yes,' said Michael. ‘I think horses are his dream and he's coming up to be one of the most important owners in India, bar one or two Rajahs or Bombay magnates.'

‘But as a man?'

‘Impossible, but I liked him. He first came over here two years ago, obviously a revelation, as was France.'

‘Can you see him at Longchamps?'

‘I did and again this year. This time he was recognised by the Aga Khan – just.'

‘Strewth!' said Peter. ‘But in Calcutta?'

‘Not even on the fringe of course, but he doesn't seem to mind. Why should he? He's a member of the Turf Club and on the way to becoming a racing personality; be a Steward before he's finished. Mr Leventine knows exactly what he wants.'

‘And now he wants our horse. I wonder why.'

‘I imagine he's after what the people out there call the “classics”,' said Michael. ‘The Open Races of a mile and upwards; is ignoring Darkie's form and going by the way he's bred.'

‘And that, of course, puts him at the top of any class – but what has the brute done?' Peter's tone was suddenly wrathful. That young man's so spoiled he resents being let down by a horse, thought Michael, instead of taking it as the luck of the day. ‘What has he done?' asked Peter. ‘Nothing. Nothing since that win at Lingfield.'

Lingfield. They were both quiet for a moment. Michael was thinking of the big dark two year old, left flat-footed at the start, then taken to the front by his long stride, collared just inside the distance by his better-knit contemporaries, then coming again to win a fighting finish by a neck. ‘Superb riding by Bacon,' said Peter.

‘At least we thought it was superb,' and Michael's puzzlement was shown as he said, ‘It's not as if Darkie had been cut to pieces.'

‘You said he hadn't a mark on him.'

‘Nor he had, but Bacon doesn't need to do that. Remember that second race at Doncaster?'

‘I was away. Ascot.'

‘You would be.' Michael did not say it but went on, ‘Darkie put Bacon over his head and bolted for the stables.'

‘Was Streaky hurt?'

‘Not he. Indestructible, but he didn't like it. Of course, two year olds dump their jockeys on occasions, but this was different, as neat and determined a performance as I have ever seen. Same at Newbury only that time he wouldn't let Streaky even mount. In fact, I'm beginning to agree with Ted,' and Ted's words echoed in Michael's mind. ‘'Tisn't the Invader, sir. There's nothing wrong with the hoss. It's that Streaky. Streaky as they come,' but, ‘Ted!' Peter was contemptuous. ‘That little runt! Still soaking it up?'

‘Actually not,' said Michael. ‘Ted hasn't had a breakout since you bought Dark Invader. When Ted has a purpose… '

‘Some purpose! Mike, you know all Ted's geese are swans.'

‘Ted knows a swan when he sees it,' Michael was steady, ‘and I believe he's right. Streaky can do something to a horse. Darkie wouldn't eat properly for a week after that first race and you know what a glutton he is.'

‘I think you believe,' said Peter, ‘that Darkie has it in for Bacon personally. It wasn't just racecourse nerves?'

‘No doubt about it. It showed again here at home. Streaky came down to try a gallop, and Darkie was all over the place; wouldn't let him get near and we all had the hell of a time with him, sweated for hours afterwards. Ted nearly dropped walking him up and down.'

‘What did Streaky do?'

‘Just laughed.'

‘He would. He doesn't have to worry about a recalcitrant youngster. Just has to “say so” and any ride is his.'

‘All the same, he didn't like it. That laugh wasn't pleasant,' said Michael. ‘I have never had any time for the man since, but what it adds up to is that Darkie reckons if he goes to the front he gets some almighty sort of punishment, physical or mental, so he wisely stays behind.'

‘Which is no good to me,' said Peter. ‘Two thousand is a damned good price for a dog of a horse and that is what I am afraid he is.'

‘We could run him over hurdles,' Michael suggested. ‘That sometimes does the trick. If he responded he might go back to the flat in handicaps or you could have him cut and send him over fences. He's big enough.'

Peter was silent, then, ‘To be frank, Mike, I don't feel like spending any more on him. I was going to tell you that.'

Michael did not answer; instead, ‘Look, here they come,' he said, and he became suddenly silent, his gaze concentrated on his charges. They were coming nearer, all walking well except the fillies Tarantella and Bagatelle, jiggling as usual. Now they were past and there was Dark Invader coming into sight.

Michael turned to Peter. ‘Here's our problem child. Frank says he walks so fast on the way home that he sets all the others jogging, so he has taken to sending him home separately. That only goes for the return journey. Going out you can hardly kick him along.'

‘Idle devil! But he certainly can walk when he wants to. Look at him now.'

All horses can walk – some badly, some well, but to a few is given a gift of movement feline in its grace, a slouching flowing continuous motion that is a joy to watch. Dark Invader, blissfully ignorant that his fate was in the balance, strode in glorious rhythm, his great shoulders rolling, muscles rippling along his flanks under the satin skin, his simple mind concentrated on one single thought – breakfast.

‘Here a minute, Ted.' Ted swung the tall horse off the track and halted.

‘Well, Ted, how's he going?' asked Peter.

‘First class, sir,' Ted said it stiffly.

‘Keen?'

‘Keen enough. Galloped a treat. And such a gentleman with it,' and Ted said defiantly, ‘He's a bloody lovely hoss, sir.'

‘Ted's not far wrong at that, you know, Peter,' said Michael. ‘Just look at him.'

Resigned to the interruption of his journey, Dark Invader was standing quite still, interesting himself in the sights and sounds of the awakening countryside. His ears were a little long for a thoroughbred, and loosely set. They would lop sideways in moments of rest, contentment or embarrassment. Now they were pricked, eager and active, moving to catch the distant sounds and the voices around him and he seemed the portrait of a thoroughbred horse.

‘He certainly fills the eye,' said Peter, and Ted burst out as he had once to Michael, ‘There's nothing wrong with the Invader, sir. It was that Streaky. Streaky as they come. He… '

‘Happens to be one of Britain's top jockeys,' Peter said icily. ‘If he can't manage Dark Invader no-one can.'

Sitting on the big horse, Ted was able to look down on Peter, which he unmistakably did, and if Peter's tone was icy, so was the look on Ted's face, icy and disdainful. Then, ‘Will that be all, sir?' he asked Michael.

‘Thank you, Ted,' and Ted wheeled the Invader round and rode away.

Peter was slightly disconcerted, then quickly recovered himself. ‘The trouble is, Mike, a splendid conformation's no good without guts. We have to face it. Darkie is a great big beautiful washout.'

 

Back in the yard they dismounted, and the horses were led away; all the lads' eyes were on Peter's car, a new black Sunbeam 3 litre, with the cycle-type front wings and slightly backswept radiator of the marque. Peter had already put his suitcase in the back.

‘Well, what do you want me to do?' Michael asked abruptly. ‘I must give Leventine an answer.'

‘I don't think that 'chasing idea is any good,' said Peter, ‘and, as I said, money's a bit tight. Besides I have decided to winter abroad, so… '

‘So?'

‘Sell him, Michael. No good getting married to the brutes.'

‘Very well, I'll do that. How d'you like your new toy?' Peter missed the sarcasm, answering seriously, ‘Goes well enough – but it hasn't the character the old 30/98 had.' He swung his legs over the side of the low open body, ignoring the vestigial door. The car started with a roar then settled to the usual muted bass mutter of a wide exhaust.

‘So long.' Peter raised his hand in salute.

The lane resounded with the crescendo of his going. Michael listened for the last triumphant gear change at the turning into the main road. Then he walked heavily into his office.

 

The voice on the telephone was harsh and imperious, like the quacking of a vast and rather angry duck. Into the little cluttered room with its files of forage bills, tattered copies of the
Calendar
and
Ruffs Guide
,
crumpled entry and declaration forms for race meetings long past, came a breath of world markets, of wide halls where tens of thousands could change hands at a shouted word or the mark of chalk on a blackboard. Yes, Mr Leventine was still a buyer (quack), if the price wasn't right, Mr Leventine would spring another five hundred, but that was his last word. (Quack?) It was a deal? (Quack?) Subject to vet's examination (quack). Some of his new horses were being shipped out soon and there was a box to spare. Michael could expect his veterinary surgeon next day. Mr Leventine's cheque would follow as soon as the certificate was in his hands. Short credits long friendships – laugh – (quack, quack), silence.

 

‘You'll have to tell Ted.'

Breakfast with Annette in the house's warm dining-room was for Michael the best part of the day; cold and hungry after the dawn start and three strenuous hours' work, a plateful of porridge and cream, then bacon and eggs, hot toast and marmalade and his own outsize cup of coffee usually seemed like heaven, but this morning he had left the yard without a glance at the end stall where Dark Invader was craning his neck for attention and for an apple, or a few of the lumps of sugar Michael kept in his pockets. ‘A sale is a sale, all in the day's work,' he told himself, but he seemed to see Darkie's future with a horrible certainty; the horse hated racing; he would be a total failure and would finish flogged to death in the shafts of some ramshackle carriage for hire or even a cart. Michael pushed his plate away.

‘Have some more coffee,' said wise Annette and, when he had the steaming cup, holding it in hands that still seemed to be cold, she said gently, ‘Tell Ted before he hears it from anyone else.'

‘As a matter of fact,' said Michael, ‘Ted's part of the deal. He's to take Darkie out.'

‘Ted! To Calcutta!'

‘If he will. It's one of Leventine's conditions. He seems to have been thorough in his enquiries,' and Michael quoted: ‘As the horse is temperamental, I should be glad if you would allow his own lad to make the voyage with him.'

‘What did Peter say to that?'

‘What do you think? “Who pays?”' Peter, who never had to worry; who always knew where the money to pay the stable bills would come from, yet could not spare the expense of keeping Dark Invader a little longer. ‘No, you're being too dramatic,' Michael told himself but, wintering abroad, a new two thousand quid car – same price as for the horse – Peter, who had said before he had driven off, ‘Spending all that on Ted, Leventine might be good for another few hundred. See if you can sting him, Mike, but don't lose the deal,' and, ‘
Owners!
' Michael was going to say it savagely, but Annette cut across. ‘This Mr Leventine – he will do that for the sake of the horse. I think I like Mr Leventine.'