Grand National (5 page)

The proposal seemed ridiculous. “What the hell is physiotherapy on a horse?” Jack Cobb asked scornfully.

Violet Robinson shifted uneasily in her chair beside the fire. The head groom, who had come in for his evening orders, stood there, cap in hand, plainly uncomfortable. Yet Chester Robinson never showed any emotion. This man, he seemed to realize, has lost his only son in a monstrous war, and now he is losing his last contact with the boy.

The voice of the trainer was low and steady as he replied. “I’m not quite sure, myself, really. Massage, exercise, things of that kind. Anyway this sort of injury is her speciality, and she has had good results. If only we could get her down here to see the animal, she might agree to take him and see what she could accomplish.”

Hope rose, sudden and soothing, inside Jack Cobb. After all, he thought quickly, a football player who has a sore arm or leg gets relief from the soreness by means of a whirlpool bath and exercise. “All right. See if you can arrange to have her come down and look at my horse, please.”

Chester Robinson pulled his long frame out of the easy chair and slowly went to his office to phone. The head groom stood silent and waiting. The room remained quiet save for the
click-click
of knitting needles as they flashed in the agile hands of Violet Robinson. After what seemed an age, Chester returned. His face was smiling.

“I explained the situation to her in detail. Mind you, she didn’t say she’d take the horse, but she’s as set against firing him as you are, Mr. Cobb. She’ll be down for lunch on Friday, and perhaps she might be able to bring him round.”

“How can I ever thank you, Mr. Robinson?”

“Don’t try. I’m as interested in that horse as anyone. Let’s wait until Friday, and see how she responds. Her name? Mrs. Hunting. Her husband was killed in the last war.”

J
ACK
C
OBB HAD
seen enough horsey Englishwomen to fear the worst. Usually they were tall and ungainly or short and square. Friday noon, however, he was pleasantly surprised.

An ancient Austin, whose fenders told their own story, rattled noisily into the courtyard. The head groom, standing there and watching the stableboys about their chores, astonished Jack by his attitude. As a rule, he had the reserve of a sergeant major and seldom seemed impressed by anyone. That day he could not have been more deferential to royalty. He opened the car door and stood at attention as a woman stepped from the driver’s seat. She was tall, with graying hair, and wore a tweed skirt and yellow sweater.

Taking one look at Jack, she held out her hand. “Ah, you’ll be the American owner whose horse is in trouble,” she said, shaking hands and looking him over attentively but impersonally.

Then as Chester Robinson, hearing that the car had arrived, stepped from the office and came toward them she greeted him with evident pleasure. Plainly they respected each other, which gave Jack some confidence, although he was determined to reserve judgment. A few banalities followed. Really fine weather this autumn. Most unusual. Yes, roads are crowded these days. Then immediately she shut off conversation and asked to see the horse.

Once in the stall she exclaimed, with an appearance of spontaneity, “My, what a magnificent horse. Criminal to subject him to firing. Here, just let me feel that foreleg.” Jack Cobb felt impressed by the deft way she removed the ace bandage and even more by the gentleness with which her fingers moved up and down the injured leg. Quicksilver edged away uneasily. She patted him a moment and stepped from the box.

“Fire that leg, and the elasticity will be gone forever.”

Jack agreed. “Yes, but what kind of treatment do you recommend for an injury of this sort?”

She turned and looked him in the eyes. “What sort of treatment? How can I tell until I’ve studied the X rays and done some work on him?” She smiled warmly and agreeably. When she smiled, she showed the best set of teeth in all England. And when she talked seriously about horses she half closed her eyes, as though she was thinking over what he had said.

Jack liked her approach and found himself slowly melting. Then he asserted himself. Hold on now, he thought, I’m giving Stan’s horse over to a strange woman in a kind of desperate venture. He glanced at the others: Chester in his business clothes, the head groom in a checked shirt, necktie, and riding breeches. They all were hanging on her words.

“This is a special horse,” he started to say. “You see, Mrs. Hunting, this horse belonged to….”

She broke in. “I know. Chester told me about your horse over the telephone. I’d like to be of use to you, Mr. Cobb, if I can. First thing is to get the horse’s confidence, to show that the treatment he is receiving is doing his leg good. This takes time. Then I start by using compresses to draw out the inflammation. Next I give him a massage on that foreleg—oh, very, very gently at first—probably every two hours.”

“Every two hours!” Cobb exclaimed.

“Exactly, if the X rays show what I think they will. Then I’d walk him half an hour to forty minutes, two or three times daily, at his own pace. Say as far as to that stone wall there. As he grows better and the leg strengthens, perhaps as far as the end of the garden.” She looked around the circle of men, flashing that smile again.

Jack began to relax. Perhaps she can cure Quicksilver, and in time. She quite obviously knows her stuff. And yet… and yet. I’m taking a terrible risk with Stanley’s horse. How long will the cure last? How much will it cost? A dozen fears and doubts flooded his mind. She went on talking.

“Now take your head groom here. Mr. Henderson, how many horses have you? Sometimes ten, sometimes more?”

“Quite right, Mrs. Hunting. Quite right.” He seemed to throw an accusatory glance at the trainer. Or was it Jack’s imagination?

“There! You see. He simply has no time for intensive treatment of the kind I’ve described.”

Undoubtedly a competent woman, thought Jack. Half listening to her talk, he saw Stanley that afternoon at the Maryland Hunt, with the red sash across his silks, at the last hurdle. Also what followed. Does she understand what the horse means to me?

At this point the groom was called away to the stalls, and Chester Robinson led them into his office. The two secretaries had gone to lunch, and they sat down.

Mrs. Hunting turned directly toward Jack. “Mr. Cobb, year before last I had a mare in far worse shape than your horse. Chester here rang up and asked me to have a go at the horse, which was to be thrown on the heap. After four or five months of treatment, she recovered completely, came back, and actually won eighteen races. Was second in the Cheltenham Gold Cup.”

Four or five months would mean that Quicksilver can’t race this spring, thought Cobb. He was in anguish. Could he afford this treatment for the horse?

“One condition,” Mrs. Hunting added. “So long as he’s in my stable, he’s mine to work with and do my best for. He’s my horse. Then, whenever he gets fit and well again, I return him to you.” She hesitated and looked over at Robinson, behind an untidy desk. “That’s how we handle things, right, Chester?”

“Quite correct, Mrs. Hunting. That’s always been our understanding.”

Strange idea, thought Cobb. Shall I permit this woman to take him and try to cure him? Shall I turn him over to her completely as she suggests? He didn’t care for this stipulation at all. But if not, what?

Chester was called outside, and Cobb seized the moment. He heard a strange, dry, subdued voice ask, “But how much shall I owe you at the end of the treatment?”

Her eyebrows raised. She pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one. “Why just the usual boarding fees you pay Mr. Robinson and a fee of fifty pounds for myself. If the treatment is not successful, you pay nothing. As soon as he’s well, back your horse comes to these stables. Since he’s only seven years old, my guess is he’ll respond to treatment fairly soon. Of course, one never knows. But you understand, as soon as he reaches my stable, he’s my horse. I suggest to owners they think it over for a few days. You can talk with Chester and make your decision. Does that sound sensible, Mr. Cobb?”

Again he heard that dry, weak voice agreeing.

Then one of the secretaries entered. “Mrs. Robinson would be glad if you’d care for a glass of sherry before lunch? She’s in the big room.”

They went out together, Jack somewhat mournfully. The decision was one he did not care to make.

Mrs. Hunting, seeing his reserve, kept talking. “You know, he’s a gorgeous animal, that horse. A kind of saucy boy, he is. I’d like to see what could be done for him….”

Jack didn’t smile. He never had heard a seven-year-old horse called a saucy boy before and was not sure he liked the term. Yet, as he reflected, it suited Quicksilver exactly.

T
HE WIND, BRISK
with the feel of winter, whistled off the sea, banging the stable doors and bending the trees far over as the first lot came cantering in from the ride along the Downs. The file swung up the lane, the lads blue with cold, and into the yard.

Jack, standing on the steps beside Chester, was upset and showed how he felt. “No news in the morning post? That’s strange, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s odd not to have some word yet? It’s been ten days or so.”

Chester took exception immediately. “Personally, I find that an excellent sign. Had there been any bad news for yon, we’d most certainly have heard right away. She wouldn’t waste time on a horse that made no progress.”

And yet. Chester had urged him to continue to stay with Mrs. Briggs down the lane during Quicksilver’s absence, because her place was cheaper than a room in the village, and infinitely more so than in any city such as London. Besides, Cobb was a man conditioned to the countryside and horses, to the smell and sound of animals around him. Why should he change?

But the next evening he was discouraged again as he sat alone in his cheerless room lighted by a bulb too small to read by, decorated with a Black and White Whisky calendar and a framed color portrait of the Queen Mother on the wall. Fact is, he reflected, I’m gambling on that woman to rescue Stan’s horse from real trouble. Doubts choked him. He missed the animal. There were moments when he felt he hardly could endure another day without him. Here we are, he thought, both of us alone and adrift in a foreign land, and in the hands of total strangers. Nice people, but strangers. Damn it all, I was weak. I should have stepped in and told Chester I felt the horse wasn’t ready to race. I lost everything through stupidity and indecision.

The realization suddenly came over him that he had become a vastly different person in six months. A year ago he was a prominent broker, president of his own firm. It was: Yes, Mr. Cobb. No, Mr. Cobb. He was John Insley Balir Cobb, a master of the Bexley Hunt, a director of the National Hunts Association. In short, the world was at his feet. Now everything except Quicksilver had vanished: his wife, his son, money, prestige, position.

Well, somehow, I have to hang in there. This is Stan’s horse with which he won the Maryland Hunt Cup. I must know how the horse is reacting. Everything depends on it. This uncertainty is killing.

Days passed. Two more weeks went by without word from Mrs. Hunting. To be sure, Jack enjoyed the work rides and coming back to breakfast with the stable hands, always lively and entertaining. Finally, weeks after Quicksilver had left, he spoke to Chester again.

“Frankly, I’m worried. No news is sometimes bad news. Folks hate to send you bad news.”

“Not that woman,” Chester responded quickly. “She’s busy, very, very busy, you know. She has other horses, and my experience is she seldom has time to communicate.” He hesitated. “As a rule, she waits until an animal is completely cured and fit for racing again before she gets in touch with the owner.”

“Still, I’m anxious about the horse. Do you think I could ring her up?”

“I see no reason why not. Try her after dinner.”

Jack called that evening. The only available telephone was in Chester’s office, and the call had to be made between incoming ones. When he finally reached the number, the voice at the other end asked who was calling.

“Mr. Jack Cobb, staying with Chester Robinson in Sussex.”

“Ah, Mr. Cobb? You’ll be calling about your horse, I expect. I’ll put Mrs. Hunting right on.”

In a minute her strong, resonant tone echoed in his ear. “Hello there, Mr. Cobb. How are you?”

“Very well, Mrs. Hunting. I called to inquire about your horse, Quicksilver.”

After a hesitant second her answer was clear and agreeably pleasant. “Thanks for ringing me up.
I
should have been the one to get in touch with you.”

Yes, correct, thought Jack, relieved and slightly annoyed at the same time. But how
is
the horse? Call it yours, call it mine, call it anything you like, but how is he doing?

“Frankly, Quicksilver didn’t take hold at first. But lately he’s been responding to treatment much as I’d hoped. The inflammation has subsided; in fact, it’s pretty well disappeared. Best of all, the lameness has gone. But I do want you to look at him. Why not borrow one of Chester’s cars and run over. Come for lunch someday.”

His spirits rose. “I’d like that,” he responded quickly. “Today is Tuesday. How about next Friday?”

“Friday would suit me perfectly.”

Jack then asked directions to her place in Somerset. The route sounded complicated. How far was it and how long did she think the trip would take?

She laughed. “With our crowded roads, you’ll need at least three hours for the hundred-odd miles. That is, if you don’t get lost.”

He did. What with the hours spent worrying about the horse and what he would find, about being late for lunch, the trip seemed eternal. At last he reached Shepton Mallet where she lived and stopped at the small post office. There he was told to go on three miles and take the dirt road to the right. Immediately he found himself in rich farming country, with cultivated land on each side, until he came to the end where a farmhouse in front of a large stable appeared. It was very low key and unpretentious. Jack stopped the car, got out, and knocked. A long delay. At last a blowsy female in an apron far from clean came to the door, with a rather hostile expression.