Blind Beauty (16 page)

“Yes. He insisted. He raised her.”

“Because of her bloodline? He's not stupid, your father. She's got a great bloodline. That's where he gets it from. Not his sire, who was useless.”

“Declan could never afford a decent sire.”

Talking about it calmed her. By the time they had worked on Buffoon and got him dry and comfortable, watered and fed, Tessa was getting back on an even keel. She could see they needed to start for home, and that Buffoon was now, the excitement over, starting to fret for Lucky again, but both Peter and Jimmy knew she had to see her father again, if only to say goodbye.

“I won't be long,” she promised.

But it took her ages to find him, and when she did he was surrounded by his pals and at the singing stage. She stood amongst the noisy, jostling throng in the swaying tent of one of the hard-drinking bars and watched him raising his lovely tenor voice in an obscure Irish folk-song, of which he had a huge repertory. How she remembered that song!

And she knew she couldn't speak to him. It would be too awful, in that company. He would be maudlin and dreadful. She watched him, and the tears of her long devotion to his memory filled her eyes. What a day! She didn't need a Guinness to feel drunk herself, reeling in her roundabout of emotions – up, down, round and round like a circus carousel. The noise and the atmosphere were unbearable. She turned away. If he wanted her, he knew where to find her now.

But she guessed he would never come.

 

They were on a high now it was all over, the horse safe, the worries at rest. They could talk for ever about whether he would have won or not if he had had no setbacks, but for now there was the tidying up to do, the horse to be washed down, the owners to be found.

Jimmy came back to the stables with Tessa. Tessa kept thinking with a delirious joy of Maurice seeing his jockey come off at Bechers. The thought of him losing his fortune was euphoric. Every time she remembered the poor jockey shooting off over the horse's ears she laughed out loud. It was the loveliest thing she had seen for a long time. She would go up to Goldlands and visit, and gloat. Poor old Greevy. He would be sick.

Peter was shaking his head over the Cressingtons.

“They're more upset about the money they lost than excited about the horse's performance. That dreadful daughter – moan, moan, moan. She doesn't even begin to understand how it works. Did I tell them to put all their savings on? I told them to have a modest bet each way. And then I told them about Lucky and the chances slipping away. What more can a man do? The old man wasn't so cut up. He's got more sense. But that woman!”

And when they were on the motorway, purring for home, Peter said, “I saw Tom later and he said something about getting the vet to have a look at Buffy's eyes. He reckons his eyesight is not all it should be. I must say I was quite surprised. We've always thought him clumsy, but Tom reckons there might be a reason. I hope he's mistaken.”

Tessa felt the cold hand close again, as the secret fear that she kept buried in her subconscious was pulled into the light again. She knew all about blind horses. No, Buffoon, not that, she prayed. But she kept her counsel, and changed the subject, saying, “Are there any sandwiches left? I'm starving.”

B
uffoon stood looking out over his door, whinnying every now and then. Something was missing in his life. He felt ill at ease, anxious. He was not used to feeling anxious. He couldn't eat.

“He looks like a scarecrow,” Sarah said.

“He's my beauty.”

Tessa had her arms round his neck. But she wasn't enough. A horse knows his humans, but knows his mates better. They are creatures of habit and Buffoon had had Lucky by his side ever since he was a foal. His dam Shiner had not been a good mother to him, and kicked him away from his suckling early on in his life, and Declan had given him Lucky for a pal. When he went to the sales, Lucky went too, and his lackadaisical early owners had had no problems with taking the pony too. Anything for a quiet life. Buffoon had been fortunate. But the habit of Lucky's companionship was now so deeply ingrained that it was more than just the usual bonding.

“He'll get over it,” Sarah said. “Eventually. Silly old sod.”

Tessa had work to do. She wasn't allowed to spend all day mooning over her horse. Buffoon watched her go, as far as he could see her, which wasn't very far. He was looking through a grey mist, but didn't think it was anything unusual. He fell over things if they were in the way, but mostly there was only a grass way ahead. He never went anywhere else. He had got used to the sudden appearance of large fences, and jumped as big as possible in his surprise. He had a careful nature, and a well-developed sense of self-preservation, learned from his foalhood. It had stood him in good stead so far.

“He ran such a cracking race,” Sarah said. “We were going mad, watching the box.”

“Tom thought he would have won if—”

“We all thought so too.”

He still wouldn't eat, save for desultory picking. He would not eat the bran-mash they made him, nor even a handful of carrots. At least he had stopped box-walking. Or was it because he was tired? Tessa was tired too and her head was reeling. But she could not resist going up to Goldlands to see her mother. And Maurice.

It was late, and when she set off up the valley the stars were out and a bright half-moon lit her path. A slight frost hardened the way, the grass crisp and sharp under her shabby boots. So many thoughts and emotions jumbled in her mind that the walk in the cold air was welcome and she did not hurry. The threat about Buffoon's sight, surfacing again, was something she did not want to think about, and again she tried to sink it under the good memories of the day. If Lucky had not disappeared, would her horse have won? They would never know, but she knew Jimmy thought he would have kept on going. “He stays for ever, that one.” The memory of his great golden galloping legs eating up the ground as he came round past the stands on the first circuit would stay in her mind for ever. And his courage, his generosity, his kindness… she had stayed with him in his box to settle him, as if she were the piebald pony, and he had rubbed his big bonehead against her shoulder affectionately, to tell her he had done his best. What did he know about the Grand National and what it meant to win the biggest race in the world? He only did as he was asked. She could not imagine her life without Buffoon.

As she approached Goldlands she felt a thrill of delight go through her. She could almost find it in her heart to be sorry for Maurice, remembering his poor jockey's frantic effort to stay in the saddle. Tom might have sat it. Maurice would know that. Tessa hoped he wasn't going to take it out on her poor mother.

They were sitting in the lounge, waiting for dinner, drinking. Tessa could feel the wrath even as she opened the door, a heavy air of tension. They were both well into the whisky. Tessa saw that her mother had been preparing herself for Maurice's homecoming and was now in a loony maudlin state, her eyes full of tears. Maurice looked wiped out, his face sunk in, like an old man, Tessa saw. Her reaction was of savage pleasure.

“Greevy not home yet?” She felt she must tread carefully.

“No. What do you want? Come to show your sympathy?” A heavily sarcastic query.

“No. I came to see Mum. And get some dinner, with luck.”

“I shall have words with your boss tomorrow, about getting his hands on my jockey. Very underhand, and Tom broke his contract. I've a mind to complain to the authorities –”

“It was nothing to do with Peter. Tom chose.”

“Tom would have sat that peck. The horse didn't fall, for God's sake! I was robbed of that race. The bloody jockey…”

It was all that Tessa had expected. No word of praise for their horse, no suggestion that he might have handled the situation better, no joy at Lukey's great performance, no sympathy for his jockey… only self-pity and blame. The atmosphere was so bad that she wondered if it was worth staying after all. She had seen what she wanted. But when Maurice went off to the bathroom her mother said desperately, “Do stay for a while. I can't bear it when he's like this! He's lost a fortune and this mood will last for weeks. He can't afford to lose so much money. I told him he was mad, but he was so adamant that he had the winner.”

“Well, he had too, I imagine, if Ferdy had stayed aboard. The horse ran a blinder.”

“And your horse ran so well! You must have been pleased.”

“Yes, he was great. But there's always next year. Neither of the horses got hurt and Lukey's fantastic. What more does he want?”

“It's the money, mainly.”

“Yes, well, he's made his racing like that. He's just stupid if he bets more than he's got. How can he ever enjoy it?”

“Well, that's Maurice, I'm afraid.”

Tessa stayed for the dinner, which was wonderful, roast pork with lots of crackling and gravy and roast potatoes. In the bleak caravan world at Sparrows Wyck such luxuries were impossible. She and Sarah shared a tin of corned beef or made cheese on toast most nights, but tonight she felt her emotionally-battered self needed the goodies Goldlands could supply. Several glasses of Maurice's rare wine also lifted her spirits. If only the company were Peter and Jimmy and Sarah and Wisbey – what an evening they would have! The others had been euphoric at Buffoon's performance, although they all knew he might have won if… they would never stop wondering this. The eternal question.

“I don't know why you're so miserable – you've got a great horse,” she said to Maurice at the end of the meal. “There's always another day. He's only nine.”

“Don't you patronize me, my girl! What do you know about ownership? All you staff, you just take your wages and gossip your time away, it's just a game to you. Don't tell me how I should feel.”

“If your horse got killed, all you'd think about is the insurance,” Tessa said witheringly. “If you were nicer to your staff, they might be happier to work for you. Tom, for instance.”

She thought he was going to hit her, but he was too far gone to get up from his chair.

“Get out of here! You make me sick. You only come up here to see how much you can wheedle out of your mother – I know your tricks.”

“Oh Maurice, don't! I love to see her, she's all I've got!” Tears trickled down Myra's cheeks. Tessa wanted to scream. Her
stupid
mother, to put up with such treatment! She was just like a rag doll, no stuffing at all.

“Yes, you don't think I come to see
you
, do you, you selfish, stupid old git!”

It was now essential to depart. Tessa ran, bursting with the joy of delivering these words. He couldn't touch her now – she was her own person, with her own home, her own wages, and her good friends. She had everything and he had nothing. But her mother! As she leapt over the ha-ha, the problem of her mother brought her up short. Oh God, her mother… would she never see sense? Myra's hopeless tears distressed her. She walked more slowly, turning over the day's doings, but the events were a tired and slightly inebriated jumble now. The moon was floating behind a gauzy cloud, and an aeroplane's lights blinked like moving stars across the downs. Tessa stood still, sniffing the cold air.

And as she stood there, contemplating her life, a small noise penetrated her consciousness. So familiar, it caused a start like an electric shock to fix her rigid. She could feel all the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. A distant whinny… no, not Buffoon's anxious noise, but the answer he had been fretting for: it was Lucky's voice. It came from the old buildings of the Home Farm where she had once made her den. It was unmistakeable. It came again, very faint, but Tessa knew she was not mistaken.

“Lucky!”

She ran. Galvanized, she leapt over the frosty grass towards the dark huddle of buildings on the skyline. All the time – why hadn't she thought of it? She had known all along that it was Maurice's plan, she
knew
it was… the diabolical timing! Her breath was bursting her lungs as the slope steepened to the brow but she ran even faster, choking for air. The swine! The evil bastard!

“Lucky!” she screamed. “Where are you?”

But she knew her way around the yard and where the likely loosebox was, and ran down the row of darkened doorways, peering over the swinging half-doors. A familiar little head suddenly stuck out in front of her, and a now piercing whinny of recognition blasted her ears.

“Oh, my little darling!” She flung her arms round the pony's neck, and dragged open the door.

The loosebox was full of dirty bedding, but there was hay and water; the pony had not been ill-treated. Tessa got hold of his forelock and led him out. She was shaking now with anger.

“You know your way home! Come along! Quickly!”

She dragged him by his mane out through the gate and on to the down and faced him down the long hill home.

“You know the way – off you go! Go and whinny at the gate and they'll come running!”

She gave him a thump on the quarters and he trotted off, letting out a few bucks as he went. Then he broke into a canter, straight down the path for Sparrows Wyck. Tessa watched him, shaking. She knew she should have gone with him, but the compulsion within her was too strong, the hate rising like bile. She was shaking with violence. She turned and ran back across the field to Goldlands. The lights still shone in the room she had just left. The curtains undrawn, she could see Maurice deep into the whisky, moaning away at Myra. She hated him then so much that she stopped, frightened for herself. For a second she knew she must follow Lucky, cool it, go home. But then she knew she couldn't. This had happened before and she knew it led to disaster, but it was beyond her powers to pull back. It was as if she was standing back watching herself, and knowing what was going to happen.

She was ice-cold now, and calm. But trembling like a trapped hare.

She went in through the kitchen door and into the dining-room. The pork joint was cleared away on to the sideboard and the carving knife lay beside it. Tessa picked it and walked over to Maurice. She heard Myra scream and saw, for one glorious moment, the look of abject terror on Maurice's face, and then she stepped forward and thrust the knife with all her power into his chest.

“That's for you, from Lucky. From Buffoon. From all of us. From
me
!”

And then there was blood all over her and Myra screaming, and screaming and screaming.

And Greevy came in.

And she knew she should have gone home with Lucky.