Mount! (31 page)

Having ridden her horses round the indoor school, and groomed and fed them, she screwed up courage and knocked on Rupert’s office door, setting off a massive thwacking of tails with Cuthbert’s wriggling rump nearly sending Rupert’s iPad flying.

‘Yes?’ Rupert looked up. He was very fond of Lark and was surprised to see woebegone eyes and no beaming smile. ‘You OK, angel?’

‘Could I have a brief word?’ she said shyly. ‘I love Dave so much, could I possibly go to Australia and get a job looking after him? I don’t want him to be lonely.’

‘Oh Lark,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I can’t lose you. Touchy Filly and Quickly will go into a decline. Dave’s going to Baby Spinosissimo’s yard where he’ll be spoilt absolutely rotten. He’ll be going into quarantine in Newmarket in a couple of days.’

‘Can I go with him? He’s always tried so hard, it’s so sad he’s lost everything.’

‘I know, it’s awful. But he’s so good, he might have a crack at the Melbourne Cup.’

‘That would be very exciting,’ said Lark flatly.

‘Quickly needs you. Without Dave, he’ll have no one to bully.’

‘I know I’ll miss him, I can only give Dave a Polo if Quickly isn’t looking. I’m sorry, I’m just, I’m just …’

Hopelessly hooked on my wayward grandson, thought Rupert.

‘OK, you can go. And if Dave comes back to England, you can come with him. Your job will always be open. I’ll ring Baby. He’s fun, you’ll like him.’

‘Thank you,’ stammered Lark. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Outside, the snow was covering the landscape. It was bitterly cold. Reluctant stallions were being led around, getting fit for the covering season, starting on the day after St Valentine’s next week. An even more reluctant stud hand was lunging Titus in the indoor school, wondering how soon Titus would lunge at him.

Rupert called a meeting of his senior staff, including Cathal, Bobby Walker the lorry driver, Simmy Halliday the Estate Manager, Roving Mike and Walter. All poleaxed with hangovers from last night’s celebration, they staggered in, clutching bottled water and cups of black coffee, trying to find chairs or sofas that weren’t taken by dogs.

Rupert was back to his usual form. ‘Two sheep have strayed on to the gallops,’ he said sharply. In addition, he’d noticed a filly on the horse walker without a rug. ‘No horse must travel without a bridle, and must be checked hourly.

‘Now, OK, this is the state of play. Dave, as I’m sure you know by now, is off to Australia, so he can race as a three-year-old from July one. So, we’ve lost our best horse. Gavin, on the other hand, has always claimed Quickly is the better horse – if we can sort out his head. Unfortunately, the rider who could sort him out, Gav, is off to Palm Beach for five months to work in my son-in-law’s polo yard.’

‘Lucky sod,’ said Roving Mike, ‘escaping this bloody winter.’

‘Which is a disaster for Quickly.’ Rupert glared at Mike. ‘Another setback is Lark, who has just been in here, begging to go into quarantine and to Australia with Dave. So in several words, Quickly, Touchy Filly and Blank Chekov will be without Dave to bully, without their stable girl, Lark, and without Gav to prep them for next April. Quickly, also outlawed for failing his stalls test, will miss all the Guineas trials, and the Guineas is less than four months away.’

The television was turned to
At the Races
at Southwell, where the snow was pouring down, and jockeys, bulked out against the cold, could be seen going down to the start for the first race.

‘I also heard this morning that Lion’s doctors have advised
him not to ride again for six months, if at all. Agents have been jamming the telephone with offers all morning. I know some of you aren’t fans, but my grandson, Eddie Alderton, will be back in a couple of weeks. He’s been winning races in America, and has promised to mend his ways.’

‘For starters, he owes £1,500 in fines for coming in late,’ snorted Walter. ‘If he can’t settle bills, how can he settle a horse?’

‘Who’s going to do Lark’s horses, and ride them?’ asked Roving Mike.

‘The person Gav was keen on joining the yard was Gala,’ replied Rupert, then, looking at the sceptical faces, ‘She’s a beautiful rider and knows how to settle horses, but won’t stand for any nonsense.’

‘Gav’s keen on Gala, full stop. She’s an amateur and too fat,’ grumbled Walter, who’d been turned down too often by Gala, as had Cathal, who agreed.

Simmy Halliday, however, looked up from the
Daily Mail
crossword. ‘I agree with you, Guv. She’s a great rider.’

‘She’s getting restless here,’ said Roving Mike. ‘Louise heard her ringing up her carer agency this morning.’

‘Get another carer who can do mornings,’ suggested Pat Inglis. ‘Free Gala up to ride out. It’d be worth it. Quickly’s such a monkey, he could go to pieces without Gav.’

‘And my father’ll go to pieces without Gala. You’ll never keep him out of the yard. OK. I’ll talk to Taggie.’

Back in the kitchen, shoving a couple of slices of smoked salmon between two pieces of brown bread, Rupert asked Taggie: ‘Can we get another carer to free up Gala to work in the yard?’

‘More than she is already?’ Taggie nearly snapped back, but instead she said, ‘I don’t know what happened last night, but her face is really tear-stained this morning, although she wouldn’t talk about it. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’ve found her a lovely bottle-green polo neck from us, which might cheer her up, and I must ice her cake.’

Next day, it turned blissfully mild, with a blinding low sun returning and melting the snow. Word had got around it was
Gala’s birthday. When she went down to the yard on her break, to thank everyone for signing her card and giving her a beautiful brown scarf decorated with horses, Roving Mike, Cathal and Simmy Halliday gathered her up and chucked her into the icy cold water-trough.

Whereupon Gala flipped, screaming expletives: ‘Fucking bastards! How dare you, you fucking juveniles,’ slapping Cathal and Simmy’s grinning faces, before leaping into her car and storming off. Sobbing her heart out, she drove down to the churchyard. No one was inside the church, the flower arrangers had gone. Shivering violently, Gala slumped over the back of a pew, kneeling on a cross-stitched owl.

‘Oh Ben, oh Ben.’ If he was up there, would he ever forgive her? Was she being punished for her attempted infidelity, by being rejected by Gav whom she’d tried to get off with, so conceitedly imagining he fancied her? Old mare syndrome, mutton dressed as lamb.

‘Oh God, please help me, help me,’ she howled.

Suddenly she felt a warm hand on her neck, which, as she jumped in terror, held her down.

‘Don’t cry.’ It was Rupert.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Came to put flowers on Billy’s grave. What’s the matter? You’re soaking!’

‘They threw me in the water-trough, shouting Happy Birthday. I lost it. I’d just washed my hair. I screamed back at them, behaved like a fishwife.’

‘Fishwives gotta swim.’ Idly Rupert stroked her drenched hair as if she were Cuthbert. ‘It’s a sort of compliment if they do it on birthdays – means they regard you as part of the yard and want you to transfer. I’ve brought you a present. Happy Birthday, Gala.’

As he led her back into the churchyard, she noticed a big bunch of daffodils in a jam jar on Billy’s grave. And when he opened his boot, wriggling frantically on a red carpet rug was a brindle Staffordshire Bull Terrier puppy.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh,’ gasped Gala. ‘How sweet!’ As she gathered
up the puppy, he melted into her arms, frantically licking away her tears. ‘He’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘For you,’ Rupert told her. ‘Look at his disc.’

Glinting in the sunlight, it said:
Milburn, Penscombe Court, Gloucestershire
, with the telephone number.

‘It should also say,
please stay here
.’

‘Oh, I love him …’ Then Gala thrust the puppy back at Rupert. ‘But I wouldn’t be able to take him to my next job.’

‘You’re not going anywhere. I need you, you’re going to work in the yard.’

‘I can’t, I’m too fat – and what about your dad?’

‘Well, for starters, we’ll get in a part-time carer so you can work mornings in the yard, and do ride work on Quickly and Touchy Filly. Eddie’s coming back from Palm Beach and you can work together.’

‘Are you sure?’ The tears were starting again.

Handing her his blue silk handkerchief, Rupert put down the puppy, who charged around the churchyard, knocking over Billy’s daffodils then wriggling back to Gala, wagging and giving little whimpers to be picked up again.

‘He loves you already. I remember you telling me how broken-hearted you were to lose your Staffies,’ said Rupert smugly. ‘And no more talk about getting another job. Quickly needs you.’

Before he left for Palm Beach, Gav left Gala a note:
Sorry about last night. One day I’ll explain
. Gala emailed back:

Fuck Rupert, thought Gav.

Meanwhile, Marketa and Lou-easy were distraught about Lark leaving The Shaggery which they had all shared, and going off
to Australia. Who would clean the place, and cook them supper now?

Lark had finished packing, and was putting labels on her luggage, when Dora came in to say goodbye.

‘I can’t bear it that you’re going. You’re easily the best stable girl in the yard, and the nicest. It’s so sad I won’t have you to gossip to any more. I’ll send you lots of emails. You know Gav’s gone to Palm Beach to stay with Young Eddie’s parents? Once Eddie’s settled Gav in, he’s coming back to Penscombe, so fun and games are here again.’

‘What?’ whispered Lark. ‘Rupert’s letting him back?’

‘I imagine Rupert did a trade-off for Luke and Perdita taking Gav. Gav’ll probably get hooked on polo and stay there – he’s such a brilliant rider.’

Oh my God, thought Lark. I’m going to the end of the world, and Eddie’s coming back. It was too late to ask Rupert if she could stay; the labels were on her suitcase and poor Dave needed her.

‘And have you heard,’ went on Dora, ‘Gala’s going to transfer to the yard. It’s a compliment to you. Rupert doesn’t want Quickers and your other horses to go into a decline without you, so she’s coming in mornings to do them, and ride out. Rupert will leave no stonewall unturned, until he’s cracked Leading Sire and annihilated Cosmo.’

Over at Valhalla, as night fell, an unidentified guest was ushered into Cosmo’s study, and shook hands with him and Isa.

‘No one must know we have spoken,’ said Cosmo. ‘But if the BRA are incapable of annihilating Campbell-Black, we’ll have to do it ourselves.’

‘I have more reason to bring him down than either of you,’ said the stranger, jumping at the gunshot pop of a cork.

‘Granted,’ agreed Cosmo, pouring champagne into three glasses. ‘We’re going to bring him down, destroy his business and break up his marriage.’

‘No marriage is rock solid,’ said Isa. ‘My father took Rupert’s first wife off him.’

‘So it can’t be too difficult to take the second,’ said the stranger.

‘What a divine prospect,’ sighed Cosmo, raising his glass. ‘Vengeance is ours. We will repay.’

Taggie had never been a grumbler. But listening to Gala going on and on about Gropius, the Staffie puppy, that Rupert had given her, and how flattered she was that he wanted her to transfer to the yard, and how she’d misjudged him, and how, underneath, he was a really sweet man … wistfully Taggie was reminded of the time before she was married. Her family had all forgotten her birthday and an enraged Rupert had rolled up and presented her with a Springer Spaniel puppy. This, her father Declan O’Hara had named Claudius, after the King in
Hamlet
whose Queen was called Gertrude, the name of Taggie’s adored little mongrel. Gertrude, who’d died when Cosmo’s evil father Rannaldini had hurled her against a filing cabinet because she’d attempted to defend Rupert’s daughter Tabitha, when Rannaldini tried to rape her.

Learning Rupert was briefly back from Dubai, having notched up a £100,000 victory there, Declan dropped in at Penscombe. Once the BBC’s hottest property, Declan’s interviews of the great and very famous had gone out in prime time and been avidly discussed by the entire nation. Declan, however, had never got above himself because his beautiful, feckless wife Maud had taken no interest in his career, and constantly put him down.

To the huge regret of his millions of fans, Declan had given
up television and, having finally completed a brilliant, glowingly reviewed biography of Yeats, was now wrestling with a big book on Irish literature, which he very much regretted taking on.

The roaring boy was seventy now; his thick black hair had turned completely grey. Worry, work and heavy drinking had dug deeper lines on each side of his mouth and round eyes as dark and sombre as a starless night. Two pairs of spectacles clattered from his neck, and his famous gap-toothed schoolboy grin, because of a dread of dentists, more resembled a Halloween pumpkin – but, tall and huge-shouldered, he was still heroic.

In the stud, the covering season was about to start. The lorry park was once again jammed with swearing foreign drivers trying to unload whinnying mares to be mated with stallions revved up to a height of fitness. Taggie was no doubt putting flowers in their boxes, reflected Declan, stopping to chat to Pat Inglis and admire Blood River, the gleaming new dark-brown stallion from South Africa, who’d fallen in love with Charlie Radcliffe, the vet, and very expensively liked to have him in attendance during every cover. Pat was also sorting out the dark grey Dardanius, a first season sire who, despite numerous goes on Dorothy, the practice mare, kept mounting her from the side.

‘Oh, Lord O’Hara.’ Clover, the youngest stable girl, sidled up. ‘I’ve ordered your book on Yeats for my dad’s birthday. He’s mad about racing and Yeats is his favourite horse – fancy winning four Gold Cups! When it arrives, can I bring it over for you to sign?’