Crossfire

3

Has Josephine Lost Her Magic?"

The front-page headline of Sunday's Racing Post couldn't have been more blunt. The paper lay on the kitchen table when I went downstairs at eight o'clock to make myself some coffee after a disturbed night.

I wondered if my mother or stepfather had been down to the kitchen yet, and if so, had they seen the headline? Perhaps I should hide it. I looked around for something to casually place over the paper, as I could hear my mother coming down the stairs, but it was too late anyway.

"That bastard Rambler," she was shouting. "He knows sod all."

She swept into the kitchen in a light-blue quilted dressing gown and white slippers. She snatched up the newspaper from the table and studied the front-page article intently.

"It says here that Pharmacist was distressed after the race." My mother was shouting over her shoulder, obviously for the benefit of my stepfather, who had sensibly stayed upstairs. "That's not bloody true. How would Rambler know anyway? He'd have been propping up a bar somewhere. Everyone knows he's a drunk."

I shifted on my feet, my false leg making its familiar metallic clink.

"Oh, hello," said my mother, apparently seeing me for the first time. "Have you read this rubbish?" she demanded.

"No," I said.

"Well, don't," she said, throwing the paper back down on the table. "It's a load of crap."

She turned on her heel and disappeared back upstairs as quickly as she had arrived, shouting obscenities and telling all the world how she would "have Rambler's head on a platter for this."

I leaned down and turned the paper around so I could read it.

"From our senior correspondent Gordon Rambler at Cheltenham" was printed under the headline. I read on: Josephine Kauri was at a loss for words after her eight-year-old Gold Cup prospect, Pharmacist, finished last in the Janes Bank Trophy yesterday at Cheltenham. The horse clearly did not stay the three-mile trip, and finished at a walk and in some distress. The Cheltenham stewards ordered that the horse be routine-tested.

This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Kauris' horses have seemingly run out of puff in big races. Her promising novice chaser Scientific suffered the same fate at Kempton in December, and questions were asked about another Kauri horse Oregon at Newbury last week, when it failed to finish in the first half-dozen when a heavily backed favorite.

Is Josephine losing her magic touch that had won her such respect as well as numerous big prizes? With the Cheltenham Festival now only five weeks away, can we expect a repeat of last year's fantastic feats, or have the Kauri horses simply flattered to deceive?

Gordon Rambler had pulled no punches. He went on to speculate that Mrs. Kauri might be overtraining the horses at home, such that they had passed their peak by the time they reached the racetrack. It would not have been the first time a trainer had inadvertently "lost the race on the gallops," as it was known, although I would be surprised if my mother had, not after so many years of experience. Not unless, as the paper said, she had lost her magic touch.

But she hadn't lost her touch for shouting. I could hear her upstairs in full flow, although I couldn't quite make out the words. No doubt my stepfather was suffering the wrath of her tongue. I almost felt sorry for him. But only almost.

I decided it might be prudent for me to get out of the house for a while, so I went for a wander around the stables.

The block nearest the house, the one over which Ian Norland lived, was just one side of three quadrangles of stables, each containing twenty-four stalls, that stretched away from the house.

When my mother had acquired the place from her first husband there had been far fewer stables, laid out in two lines of wooden huts. But by the time my father had packed up and left nine years later, my mother had built the first of the current redbrick rectangles. The second was added when I'd been about fifteen, and the third more recently in what had once been a lunging paddock. And there was still enough of the paddock remaining to add a fourth, if required.

Even on a Sunday morning, the stables were a hive of activity. The horses needed to be fed and watered seven days a week, although my mother, along with most trainers, still resisted the temptation to treat Sunday as just another day to send strings of horses out on the gallops. But that was probably more to do with having to pay staff double time on Sundays rather than any wish to keep the Sabbath special.

"Good morning," Ian Norland called to me as he came out of one of the stalls. "Still here, then?"

"Yes," I said. Surely, I thought, I hadn't implied anything to him the previous afternoon. "Why wouldn't I still be here?"

"No reason," he said, smiling. "Just…"

"Just what?" I asked with some determination.

"Just that Mrs. Kauri doesn't seem to like guests staying overnight. Most go home after dinner."

"This is my home," I said.

"Oh," he said. "I suppose it is."

He seemed slightly flustered, as if he had already said too much to the son of his employer. He was right. He had.

"And how is Pharmacist this morning?" I asked, half hoping for some more indiscretion.

"Fine," he said rather dismissively.

"How fine?" I persisted.

"He's a bit tired after yesterday," he said. "But otherwise, he's OK."

"No diarrhea?" I asked.

He gave me a look that I took to imply that he wished he hadn't mentioned anything about diarrhea to me yesterday.

"No," he said.

"Does he look well in his eyes?" I asked.

"Like I said, he's just tired." He picked up a bucket and began to fill it under a tap. "Sorry, I have to get on." It was my cue that the conversation was over.

"Yes, of course," I said. I started to walk on, but I stopped and turned around. "Which stall is Pharmacist in?"

"Mrs. Kauri wouldn't want anyone seeing him," Ian said. "Not just now."

"Why on earth not?" I said, sounding aggrieved.

"She just wouldn't," he repeated. "Mrs. Kauri doesn't like anyone snooping round the yard. Won't even allow the owners to see their own horses without her there to escort them."

"Nonsense," I said in my best voice-of-command. "I'm not just anyone, you know. I'm her son."

He wavered, and I thought he was about to tell me when he was saved by the arrival of his employer.

"Morning, Ian," my mother called, striding around the corner towards us. She had swapped the light-blue dressing gown and white slippers for a full-length waxed Barbour coat and green Wellington boots.

"Ah, morning, ma'am," Ian replied with some relief. "I was just talking to your son."

"So I see," she said in a disapproving tone. "Well, don't. You've talked to him too much already."

Ian blushed bright pink, and he stole a glance of displeasure at me.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said.

She nodded firmly at him as if to close the matter. Ian's rebuke may have been short, but I had the distinct impression that his indiscretion would be remembered for much longer. But for now she turned her attention to me. "And what are you doing out here, exactly?" she asked accusingly.

"I was just having a look round," I said as innocently as I could.

I was thirty-two years old and still a serving captain in Her Majesty's British Army. Until recently, I had been commanding a platoon of thirty men fighting and killing Her enemies with zest and gusto, but here I was feeling like a naughty ninth grader caught having a smoke behind the bike sheds by the school principal.

"Well, don't," she said to me in the same tone that she had used towards Ian.

"Why not?" I said belligerently. "Have you something to hide?"

Ian almost choked. It hadn't been the most tactful of comments, and I could see the irritation level rise in my mother's eyes. However, she managed to remain in control of her emotions. There were staff about.

One didn't fight with family in front of staff.

"Of course not," she said with a forced smile. "I just don't want anyone upsetting the horses."

I couldn't actually see how wandering around the stable blocks would upset the horses, but I decided not to say so.

"And how is Pharmacist this morning?" I asked her.

"I was on my way to see him right now," my mother replied, ignoring the implication in my voice. "Come on, Ian," she said, and set off briskly with him in tow.

"Good," I said, walking behind them. "I'll come with you."

My mother said nothing but simply increased her already break-neck pace, with Ian almost running behind her to keep up. Perhaps she thought that with my false foot, I wouldn't be able to. Maybe she was right.

I followed as quickly as I could along the line of stalls and through the corridor into the next stable rectangle. If my mother thought she could go fast enough so that I wouldn't see where she had gone, she was mistaken. I watched as she slid the bolts and went into a stall on the far side, almost pushing Ian through the gap and pulling the door shut behind them. As if that would make them unreachable. Even I knew that stable doors are bolted only from the outside. Perhaps I should lock them in and wait. Now, that would be fun.

Instead, I opened the top half of the door, leaned on the lower portion and looked in.

My mother was bent over, away from me, with her sizeable bottom facing the door. I did not take this as any particular gesture of disapproval, as she was simply running her hands down the backs of Pharmacist's legs, feeling for heat that would imply a soreness of the tendon. Ian was holding the horse's head-collar so that it couldn't move.

"Nothing," my mother said, standing up straight. "Not even a twinge."

"That must be good," I said.

"How would you know?" my mother said caustically.

"Surely it's good if there's no heat in his tendons," I said.

"Not really," she replied. "It means there must be another reason for him finishing so badly yesterday."

That's true, I thought.

"Does he look all right?" I asked.

"No, he's got two heads." My mother's attempts at humor rarely came off. "Of course he looks all right."

"Has he got diarrhea?" I asked.

Ian gave me a pained look.

"And why, pray, would he have diarrhea?" my mother asked haughtily, with strong accusation in her tone.

Ian stood quite still, looking at me. His jaw set as in stone.

"I just wondered," I said, letting him off this particular hook. "I know horses can't vomit, so I just wondered if he had a stomach upset that might show itself as diarrhea."

"Nonsense," my mother said. "Horses only get diarrhea with dirty or moldy feed, and we are very careful to keep our feed clean and fresh. Isn't that right, Ian?"

"Oh yes, ma'am," he said immediately.

I thought, perhaps unfairly, that Ian would have said "Yes, ma'am" to any request at that precise moment, even if she'd asked him to jump off the stable roof.

The inspection of Pharmacist was over, and my mother came out through the door followed by Ian, who slid home the door bolts.

Personally, if it had been my best horse that had inexplicably run so badly, I would have had a vet out here last night drawing blood and giving him the full once-over, testing his heart, his lungs and everything else, for that matter. Strangely, my mother seemed satisfied with a quick look and a cursory feel of his legs.

"How long before the dope-test results are out?" I said, somewhat unwisely.

"What dope test?" my mother asked sharply.

"The one that was ordered by the stewards."

"And how do you know they ordered a dope test?" she demanded.

"It says so in today's Racing Post."

"I told you not to read that paper," she said crossly.

"I don't always do what I'm told," I said.

"No," my mother said. "That's the problem. You never did."

She turned abruptly and strode away, leaving Ian and me standing alone.

"So what do you think?" I asked him.

"Don't involve me," he said. "I'm in enough trouble already."

He turned to walk away.

"But wouldn't you have had a vet in last night?" I said to his retreating back.

"I told you," he said over his shoulder without stopping, "don't involve me. I need this job."

I called after him, "You do realize there won't be a job if someone has been nobbling the horses. There won't be any jobs here. The yard will be closed down."

He stopped and came back.

"Don't you think I know that?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?"

"That's right. Nothing. If I say anything I'll lose my job, and then I'll have no job and no reference. What chance would I have then?"

"Better than having a reputation as a doper," I said.

He stood silently, looking up at me.

"So far the tests have all been negative. Let's hope they stay that way."

"But you think otherwise, don't you?" I said.

"Something strange is going on. That's all I know. Now let me get on with my job, while I still have it."

He strode away purposefully, leaving me alone outside Pharmacist's stall. I opened the top half of the door and took another look at the horse. As yesterday on the television, he looked all right to me.

But, then, I was no vet.

The atmosphere back in the house was frosty, to put it mildly. Positively subzero, and it had nothing to do with Pharmacist or any of the other horses. It had to do with money.

"Josephine, we simply can't afford it."

I could hear my stepfather almost shouting. He and my mother were in the little office off the hallway, while I was sitting very quietly out of sight in the kitchen, eavesdropping. They must have been far too involved in their discussion to have heard me come in from the yard, so I had simply sat down and listened.

Some might have accused me of being somewhat underhanded in secretly listening to their conversation. They would have been right.

"We must be able to afford it," wailed my mother. "I've had the best year ever with the horses."

"Yes, you have, but we've also had other things to contend with, not least the ongoing fallout from your disastrous little scheme." My stepfather's voice was full of incrimination and displeasure.

"Please don't start all that again." Her tone was suddenly more conciliatory and apologetic.

"But it's true," my stepfather went on mercilessly. "Without that, we would've easily been able to buy you a new BMW. As it is… well, let's just hope our old Ford doesn't need too much work done on it. Things are tight at present."

I wondered what disastrous little scheme could have resulted in things being so tight financially that one of the top trainers in the country was unable to upgrade her old Ford to a new BMW. But she had never before seemed to care about what sort of car she drove.

I would have loved to listen to them for a while longer. However, I really didn't want to get caught snooping, so I carefully stood up and silently swiveled back and forth on my good foot from the kitchen table to the back door. It was a technique I had developed to get around my hospital bed at night once I had removed my prosthesis. I was getting quite good at heel-andtoeing, as the physiotherapists had called it.

I could still hear my mother at high volume. "For God's sake, Derek, there must be something we can do."

"What do you suggest?" my stepfather shouted back at her. "We don't even know who it is."

I opened the back door a few inches, then closed it with a bang.

Their conversation stopped.

I walked through from the kitchen to the hall, my right foot making its familiar clink whenever I put it down. My mother came out of the open office door.

"Hello," I said, as genially as I could.

"Hello, darling," she replied, again placing too much emphasis on the "dar." She took a step towards me, and I thought for a fleeting second she was going to give me a kiss, but she didn't. "Tell me," she said, "how much longer are you planning to stay?"

"I've only just arrived," I said, smiling. "I hadn't thought about leaving just yet."

Oh yes, I had.

"It's just that one has to make plans," my mother said. "It's not that I want you to go, of course, it's just I would like to have some idea of when."

"I haven't even worked out where I would go," I said.

"But you would go back to the army." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's not as simple as that. They want to give me time to get over the injuries. And even then, they're not sure they actually want me anymore. They'll decide when I go back after my leave."

"What?" She sounded genuinely shocked. "But they have to have you. You were injured while working for them, so surely they must have an obligation to go on employing you."

"Mum, it's not like any other job," I said. "I would have to be fit and able to fight. That's what soldiers do."

"But there must be something else you could do," she argued. "They must need people to organize things, people to do the paperwork. Surely those don't have to be fit enough to run round and fight?"

My stepfather came to the office door and leaned on the frame.

"Josephine, my dear. I don't think Tom here would be prepared to be in the army simply to push paper round a desk." He looked me in the eyes and, for the first time in twenty-four years, I thought there might be some flicker of understanding between us.

"Derek is so right," I said.

"So for how long have the army sent you home on leave?" my mother asked. "How long before they decide if they want you back or not?"

"Six months."

"Six months! But you can't possibly stay here six months."

That was clearly true. I had arrived only eighteen hours previously, and I had already been there too long for her liking.

"I'll look for somewhere else to go this week," I said.

"Oh, darling, it's not that I want to throw you out, you understand," she said, "but I think it might be for the best."

Best for her, I thought ungenerously. But perhaps it would be the best for us all. A full-scale shouting match couldn't be very far away.

"I could pay you rent," I said, purposely fishing for a reaction.

"Don't be a silly boy," my mother said. "This is your home. You don't pay rent here."

My home, but I can't stay in it. My mother clearly didn't appreciate the irony of her words.

"A contribution towards your food might be welcome," my stepfather interjected.

Things must have been tight. Very tight, indeed.

I lay on my bed for a while, in the middle of the morning, staring at the molded ceiling and wondering what to do.

Life in the hospital had been so structured: time to wake up, have a cup of tea, read the paper, eat breakfast, have a morning physiotherapy session in the rehab center, return to the ward for lunch in the dayroom, have an afternoon physiotherapy session, return to the ward, watch the evening news, read a book or watch more television, have an evening hot drink, lights out, sleep. Every day the same, except there was no physio on Saturday afternoons or all day Sunday. A strict routine, regular as clockwork, with no decisions having to be made by me.

At first I had hated to have such a straitjacket to my existence, but I'd become used to it. I suppose one gets used to anything.

Abruptly, here in Lambourn, I was on my own, free to make my own choice of activity without a hospital regime to do it for me. And all of a sudden I was lost, unable to make up my mind, mostly because I was at a loss to know what to do.

It was a new and alien sensation. Even in the boring times between contacts in Afghanistan I'd had things to do: clean my weapon, fix my kit, train my men, make plans, even write a note home. I had always had something to do. In fact, most of the time I had far too much to do, and not enough time.

Yet try as I might, I couldn't think of a single thing I had to do now.

Maybe I could have written a note of thanks to the staff at the rehab clinic, but both they and I would know I didn't mean it.

I had hated feeling that I was being treated like a child, and I hadn't been slow to say so.

Looking back, even after just one day away from it, I could see that my frustration, and my anger, hadn't helped anyone, least of all myself. But it had been the only way I'd known to express my fury at the hand that fate had dealt me. There had been times when, if I'd still had my sidearm with me, I am sure I would have used it to blow my brains out, such had been the depth of my depression.

Even in recent weeks, I had often thought about suicide. But I could have walked out and thrown myself under the wheels of the London bus right outside the hospital if I'd really wanted to, and I hadn't, so at least I must be on the way up from the nadir.

My life needed targets and objectives.

In the hospital my goal had been simply to be discharged.

Now that I had achieved it, a void had opened up in front of me. A future seemingly devoid of purpose and direction. Only a tentative "we'll see" to give me any hope. Was it enough?

I looked at my watch.

It was twenty to twelve, and I had been lying on my bed doing nothing for nearly three hours, ever since I had walked away from a stormy encounter with my parent out on the driveway.

She had been inspecting her car and I hadn't been able to resist telling her that it was high time she changed her old blue Ford for a new, smarter make.

"Mind your own bloody business," she had hissed at me, thrusting her face towards mine.

"I'm sorry," I'd said, feigning surprise. "I didn't realize the matter touched such a sore nerve."

"It doesn't," she'd replied, back in some sort of control. "And there's nothing wrong with this one."

"But surely a trainer of your standing should have a better car than this. How about a BMW, for example?"

I had really believed she was about to cry again, and quite suddenly, I had been angry with myself. What was I doing? I tried to see myself as she would have, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. So I had turned away and climbed the stairs to my room like a naughty boy.

How long, I wondered, should I remain in my room before I had paid sufficient penance for my misdeeds? An hour? A day? A week? A lifetime?

I sat up on the side of the bed and decided to write to the staff at the rehab center to thank them for their care and to apologize for my consistent lack of good humor.

Maybe then they might just believe that I meant it.