Mount! (16 page)

‘Oh well done!’ cried Taggie. ‘Poor you, naughty Forester, it couldn’t matter less. Have an enormous drink.’

Although she was gagging for one, steeling herself not to cry, Gala said: ‘Actually I’m going to watch a bit of television with Eddie, if that’s all right, then I’ll put him to bed. I’m not hungry, honestly. You must have so much to catch up on, so I’ll see you in the morning. Good night,’ and she fled.

Appalled, Taggie turned to Rupert. ‘She must’ve heard everything we said. Oh poor Gala and no supper.’

‘Do her good to lose some weight.’

‘She’s not fat, she’s just cold and wearing a thousand layers.
I’m sure she heard. Please, please, Rupert, go and get her. She lit the fire for us, she’s a widow and lost everything and had such a terrible time.’

‘I don’t care.’ Rupert poured a large whisky and opened a bottle of Sancerre for Taggie. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘Please,
please
, Rupert.’

Upstairs, Gala sat on her bed trying to cry quietly. ‘Oh Ben, oh Ben.’ If only she could feel his arms around her once more.

Next moment, the door opened and Banquo trotted in, jumping on to the bed beside her, licking away her tears as she flung her arms around his kind, solid body. His thick black tail slapped the bed as Rupert joined them, holding out a large vodka and tonic. Seeing Gala’s eyes swollen with crying, he thought once again how plain she was.

‘I’m sorry, I’m bloody short of sleep, I guess. Tag says you’re doing a wonderful job and have been a real help to her. My father’s fast asleep, even Cindy Bolton’s latest DVD can’t keep him awake. Please come down and have some supper. I can’t have you seducing my dog.’

Gala half laughed. ‘You wouldn’t want to dine with a boot!’

‘You’re different,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re the Beef Wellington Boot.’

Apart from the crucifying cold, Gala had been gradually mending and finding happiness at Penscombe. That all changed with Rupert’s return.

After a brief rapprochement on his first evening, not only was she aware that her presence irked him, because he wanted Taggie to himself, but their obvious love and need to touch each other only made her own loss worse.

So Gala kept her distance, having meals in her room or with Old Eddie, not addressing any remarks to Rupert, edging past him with lowered eyes. It was hard to avoid him, however, when the staff speculated about him the whole time, pestering her with questions.

‘Does he ever switch off? He was working in his office at four this morning. What does he talk about? It must be hard not being able to wander round his own house naked, or leave the loo door unlocked.’

Gala, having been overheard describing Rupert as ‘an ungrateful sod’, kept her trap shut, until one day a glamorous but rather raddled blonde dropped in when Rupert and Taggie were out. After greeting Old Eddie with affection, she introduced herself as Janey Lloyd-Foxe, a very old friend of the family, poured herself a large drink and began quizzing Gala, who was ironing in the kitchen.

‘So you’re Eddie’s exciting new carer. Rupert was awful, he
referred to earlier ones as the boots and wished he could use the boot-rack in the hall to scrape them off. He must be thrilled with you.’

Gala said nothing, edging the iron down the blue and green striped sleeves into the cuffs.

‘What’s it like living in the house of the handsomest man in England? You must fancy him rotten.’

‘He’s miles too old for me,’ retorted Gala

‘Rochester was miles older than Jane Eyre,’ teased Janey.

‘Well, in this instance, frankly I much prefer Mrs Rochester.’

‘Ah, the sainted Taggie.’ There was an edge to Janey’s voice. ‘And you’re about to burn that shirt.’

‘Eddie wants the loo,’ yelled Dora from the hall. So hastily Gala switched off the iron, snatched up any ironed shirts and fled. Grabbing her arm, Dora bustled her upstairs.

‘Eddie doesn’t,’ she whispered. ‘I was just rescuing you. Janey Lloyd-Foxe is an absolute bitch and the most dangerous journalist in the universe. She was married to Rupert’s best friend, Billy, a saint, who died. She and Rupert don’t get on and she is always trying to dish the dirt on him. Half my job as his press officer is spent seeing her off. She wanted to come for Christmas but he’s banished her.’

‘She was banging on about him being the handsomest man in England,’ confided Gala, as they reached the landing.

‘Well, he was to die for.’ Dora pointed to a painting on the wall of a naked Rupert, slim and leggy as a yearling, lying asleep in a crimson four-poster. ‘That four-poster boy portrait was painted by my father’s first wife, a complete slag, a million years ago. She and Rupert had a terrific affair, long before he was even married to his first wife Helen. He’s lush now but not as good-looking as my boyfriend Paris. You must come and have spag bol with us when he is back and you get a night off.’

As Christmas and the New Year passed, despite avoiding Rupert, who spent more time in the yard when he was at home, Gala found herself increasingly drawn to the stud. In her break, she was always sloping down to make friends with the stallions and gossiping with Pat Inglis, the Stallion Master. Broad-shouldered,
stocky, red-haired, freckle-faced, with knowing, watchful yellow eyes, despite being happily married with three young children, Pat had an eye for the ladies and a slick line in repartee.

‘That’s the second biggest thing I’ve had in my hand today,’ he told her as he washed down Love Rat’s cock.

An excellent stock man, he also knew if animals were right. Although he adored his charges, he warned Gala: ‘Never turn your back on a stallion, they’re not to be trusted. In the old days, girls were never allowed to do colts.’

Gala hubristically persisted, however, with carrots and Polos, and was enchanted when even the psychopath Titus Andronicus whickered at her approach.

‘How do you control him when you walk him out?’ she asked Pat.

‘With a chain through his mouth, which hurts like hell if you tug it.’

As well as Love Rat, Old Eddie loved going down to the stud to chat up Vanessa, known as Gee Gee which stood for Gentle Giantess because she was six foot, Junoesque and considered strong enough to look after the more biddable stallions. Meerkat, Rupert’s second jockey, who was only five foot two, had a massive crush on her.

Once the covering season began, things became frantically busy with stallions expected to cover up to three times a day and mares who poured in from all over the world to board. An added problem was that they couldn’t be put to their allotted stallion unless they were ovulating, which caused endless logjams, and overcrowding of the car park.

‘I’m fed up with being sworn at by French lorry drivers,’ grumbled Roving Mike.

‘I think they’re lush,’ simpered nympho Celeste. ‘They can overnight in my room at the hostel any time.’

One slightly milder morning, instead of real snow, drifts of snowdrops spread across the lawn and the pale-blue sky reflected in the lake, beside which a group of Rupert’s two-year-old fillies were ecstatically frolicking and guzzling their first grass in weeks.

Seeing Rupert by the covering barn, deep in conversation with Pat and Meerkat, Gala avoided the stud and wheeled Eddie back to the yard, where he loved to ogle the stable lasses. Here they found Fleance, one of Rupert’s most exciting two-year-olds, a pure white, son of Love Rat and just back from the gallops. He had been tied up outside his box by Celeste.

Next minute Roving Mike, who had the hots for Celeste, rolled up and they both dived into Fleance’s box, leaving the colt outside. It was not warm enough. Gala’s lips pursed with disapproval. A second later, she was distracted by Titus Andronicus prowling by on his morning walk, towing along a very nervous stud hand. As keen for a shag as Michael and Celeste, Titus caught sight of the fillies by the lake. Bellowing with excitement, he went up on his hind legs, punching the air. Then, tugging the latch chain out of the lad’s hands, he took off across the fields towards them.

Poor little fillies! Without thought, leaving Eddie in his wheelchair, Gala untied Fleance and, jumping on his back, with only a head collar to guide him, she hurtled out of the yard towards the lake, riding effortlessly in perfect harmony with the colt. She’d never been on anything so fast: joy overwhelmed her.

‘Come on, Fleance! Come on!’

They were gaining on Titus who, endangering his manhood, cleared a fence into the field by the lake. At that moment, hearing her shouting, Rupert, Pat and Meerkat had come out of the covering barn (where for once Love Rat had performed quickly and effortlessly) and saw Gala thundering by.

‘What the fuck?’ yelled Rupert.

‘My God,’ said Pat. ‘Titus has got loose.’

‘Titus, Titus,’ called a panting Gala.

Fortunately, as he reached the lake, Titus was pegged by rushes and she was able to catch up with him. Grabbing him, three tons of gleaming black muscle, just before he reached the fillies, Gala leapt off and set Fleance free. To her relief, Titus was then distracted by a swan flapping its wings on the bank and Gala’s pockets were bulging with chopped carrots with which she just managed to mollify him until Pat, ashen beneath his freckles, pounded up.

‘Thank Christ,’ he panted, grabbing the latch chain, then as Titus reared up again: ‘All right, laddie, calm down … Where in hell did you learn to ride like that?’

‘I used to race a bit in Zim.’

‘Bloody marvellous, well done. You OK?’

‘Fine, I’ll go and get Fleance,’ who had wandered off to chat up the fillies and who was delighted with the rest of Gala’s carrots.

‘Well done!’ cried Meerkat excitedly as Gala cantered Fleance back to them. ‘You ride great, doesn’t she, Rupert?’

But Rupert was looking at Fleance then at his stopwatch.

‘That colt’s trained on bloody well. He’s just been twice up the gallops and now given a lot of weight and a beating to Titus, one of the fastest horses in the world. I know Titus is let down and not fit, but Fleance’s definitely on for the Guineas.’

‘Only if you put Gala up,’ reproved Meerkat, who wasn’t a bit frightened of Rupert. ‘You ought to be more grateful. Gala’s just saved you, your prized fillies and Fleance, and Titus’ bollocks into the bargain.’

‘She did,’ acknowledged Rupert. ‘If you lost a stone or two, you might be able to ride out.’ Then, patting Fleance: ‘This is a serious horse.’

‘Roo-pert!’ reproved Pat and Meerkat in unison, as a furious Gala swung round and cantered Fleance back to his box, outside of which she found Old Eddie ogling Celeste, who had just emerged zipping up her jeans, followed by Roving Mike, tucking in his shirt-tails.

‘Oh, so
there’s
Fleance,’ said Celeste accusingly. ‘What are you doing on him? You should have put on a rug.’

I hate Celeste, I loathe Rupert, thought Gala as she tackled another mountain of ironing that afternoon and miserably ate her way through a packet of chocolate biscuits. Hearing a step, she shoved the biscuit packet under the clothes she’d done and continued to iron one of Rupert’s shirts.

‘Where’s Taggie?’ asked Rupert, as he wandered in, followed by his pack of dogs who greeted Gala with noisy affection.

‘Gone to Cheltenham.’

Rupert had been about to thank her for stopping Titus, but seeing she was ironing his blue and green striped lucky shirt, he snapped: ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t burn it!’

‘Iron it yourself then.’ As she switched off the iron, gathering up the clothes, Banquo, with his Labrador nose, tugged out the three-quarter empty packet of chocolate biscuits which had melted all over Old Eddie’s underpants and Rupert’s dress shirt, which he was supposed to be wearing for a dinner that night.

‘You won’t ride out if you keep guzzling those.’

‘Oh fuck off,’ muttered Gala, stomping off upstairs.

Word, however, had got round about her courage and enterprise earlier.

An hour later, Taggie called up the stairs. ‘Pat’s outside – he wants a word, Gala.’

The ‘words’ were, in fact, a ravishing bunch of spring flowers.
Dear Gala, thank you from everyone at Penscombe Stud for saving Fleance and the fillies from Titus
, said the card.

As Gala started to cry, Pat put his arms around her and hugged her. ‘Don’t let Rupert get to you. We all think you’re fantastic.’

Going back into the kitchen, Gala found that Taggie had bought her a pair of leopardskin wool pyjamas.

‘Pat tells me you’re the heroine of the yard.’

Tugging at a piece of kitchen roll with which to wipe her eyes, Gala noticed the label said
multi-purpose and super-absorbent
, which summed up Taggie.

‘You are the nicest person I’ve ever met,’ said Gala.

Gala, like most carers from Africa, particularly Zimbabwe, was terrified of the dark and went around bolting doors at night. She had been made especially twitchy by a spate of burglaries in the Gloucestershire area, where the thugs had broken in, emptied jewel boxes and particularly concentrated on gold and silver, which could then be melted down and sold abroad. A trainer in the next county had been stripped of every cup and trophy, many of them embarrassingly only lent for a year by the racecourses. Rupert, who in addition had pictures worth millions, had been warned by the police to watch out.

The house was empty one frosty late-February night except for a peacefully snoring Old Eddie. Taggie was staying yet again across the valley, doing a dinner party for her mother Maud. Young Eddie had gone to an all-night rave-up with Trixie. Rupert had been invited to some dinner and wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

The house creaked and groaned, the wind whined down the chimney and rattled uncut-back creepers against the windows. A full moon was hidden by impenetrable ebony clouds. Gala had reached a black hole of despair. Tonight would have been her eighth wedding anniversary. Ben had given her a huge and beautiful emerald brooch for her seventh.

Oh Ben! At least no one would be woken by her bawling her head off. She had made the mistake of watching a film on
saving the white rhino. Six hundred had already been slaughtered in Zim this year. Having taken out the dogs, she had locked up and had a boiling bath before putting on her new leopardskin pyjamas which were rather sexy and gave her back her shape. For what? she thought bitterly, but she pinned on the wedding anniversary emerald. Running downstairs to doublecheck she’d locked the front door, she found it open. She must be losing her mind. Bolting and locking it again, she put a big chair against it.