The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

62

Lysander never dreamt it would be so fast. The Light Brigade hurtling into the Valley of Death didn’t have to stop and jump huge fences. His face and colours were instantly caked with mud kicked back from horses in front, but, heeding Rupert’s words, he managed to keep up with the hurtling, barging leaders over the first fence, and then, as they fanned out and rattled over the Rutminster — Cheltenham Road, he and Arthur settled into an easy stride, bowling along in the middle of the field.

Meanwhile little Penscombe Pride, who loathed being overtaken, had set off at a cracking pace, but as he took the lead over the first fence, Fräulein Mahler, The Prince’s stable-mate, who never lasted more than a mile and a half, revved up beside him, forcing Pridie to go even faster, unsettling and muddling him, so he hit the second fence hard.

‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Rupert.

He stood apart from the others in the box, tense as a waiting leopard, cigar between his long first and second fingers, binoculars flattening his dark blond eyelashes. Taggie knew better than to talk until the race was over.

Penscombe Pride was still out in front, but having seen off Fräulein Mahler who had dropped back, the gutsy little bay was now being challenged by The Prince of Darkness, which denied him a breather as he climbed the hill, forcing him to gallop on. Isa Lovell sat absolutely still and let his horse have its head, just the same technique as his father, thought Rupert savagely. The Prince was going really well. Rupert chewed on his cigar. All this would rattle Pridie and wear him out. He winced as that most careful of jumpers hit The Ambush hard; that would shake his confidence even more, and now The Prince was dropping back for a rest, and Fräulein was storming down with the last of her strength to challenge and rattle again. Shit, thought Rupert in outrage, these were just the sort of spoiling tactics with which he’d won races himself.

Lysander hoped Arthur wasn’t going too fast. He seemed to be enjoying himself. It was like a jigsaw. You saw a gap and slotted in when you could. Now the big ditch was racing towards him. He searched his brains. What had Rupert said? Take off about eight feet away. He steadied Arthur, who flew over like a huge white swan. Beside him Blarney Stone only realized there was a ditch when he was on top of the fence, dropping his legs in it and knocking the stuffing out of himself. Rupert was right. Arthur had nearly reached the next fence by the time Blarney Stone had recovered.

‘You’re doing brilliantly, Arthur,’ said Lysander.

Arthur flapped his ears, relishing the cheers of the drenched crowds at each fence.

Coming up to The Ambush, five solid feet of birch and gorse, with a drop on the other side, which had caught out Yummy Yuppy last year and so shaken Pridie first time round, Lysander stood back again, but Camomile Lawn, half a length behind, was encouraged to take off at the same time, hit the fence smack on the way down and slipped on landing, rolling over and over.

‘Bad luck. You OK?’ shouted Lysander.

He was able to give Arthur a breather, as instructed, as they climbed the now hopelessly churned-up hill, so he was able to gallop down like a three year old. They must be lying about fifteenth now, over the road and into the second circuit. But alas, the fog, reluctant to miss such an exciting race, had come down. Lysander couldn’t see more than a fence in front.

‘Better put your fog lamps on, Arthur.’

‘No sign of Lysander,’ said Hermione with her horrid laugh.

She was bored by racing. For seven minutes all the attention was focused on someone else.

Peering through the fog at the riders’ colours bobbing along the rail like a long-tailed Chinese New Year dragon, Kitty strained her eyes to identify Lysander and strained her ears, which were full of water from washing her hair, to hear the commentary. Every so often she glanced fearfully back at the monitor, which was now showing Penscombe Pride and The Prince of Darkness slogging it out about ten fences from home.

‘Oh, Guy, I know he’s fallen,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, look!’ She froze with terror as a loose horse appeared out of the mist and, circumnavigating helicopters and ambulances, hurtled across the centre of the course.

‘There’s Lysander, lying about thirteenth,’ said Guy. ‘Look, he’s going really well. Come on, Lysander.’

‘You wouldn’t recognize him, nor Arthur,’ said Georgie. ‘They’re both covered in mud.’

‘Arthur was always a mudlark,’ said Kitty in a shaky voice. Then, aware of her husband glaring at her, she added meekly, ‘The Prince is going very well, too.’

Isa Lovell had been brought up to detest Rupert Campbell-Black. He couldn’t overtake Penscombe Pride, but he knew the horse was tiring. Bluey had shifted him on to a different leg to wake him up and he wasn’t running totally straight now. They were coming up for the second time to The Ambush, only six fences from home.

Pridie was very tired, unsettled and encased in fog, with rain lashing his face, but he didn’t stop battling. Glancing round, Bluey saw Isa Lovell’s white and mud-spattered face blazing with hatred and almost crossed himself. Pridie was aware of a dark shape stealing up on the rails, sinister as a shadow on the lung. Concentration flickering, he took off too late. Half a ton of horse-flesh hit the massed panel of gorse and birch six inches too low. Penscombe Pride and the punters of Rutshire and Gloucester gave a grunt of pain as he went head over heels for the first time in his life. Next moment, as The Prince overtook them, Yummy Yuppy was in the air. He swivelled to the left to avoid Pridie, landing awkwardly and crashed with a sickening thud. Busty Beauty, Paddywack and the following horses, joined the pile-up a second later. The fog was thickened with swearing, horses’ legs thrashed the air, bits of gorse and birch lay everywhere. Fräulein, exhausted anyway, took one look at the pandemonium on the other side of the fence and decided enough was enough.

As the closed-circuit television picked up the disaster with not very good pictures, Rupert was absolutely stunned.

‘I do not believe this,’ he said, very slowly tearing up his betting slips. Then, turning to a distraught and tearful Freddie Jones, ‘We were fucking robbed. I’m going to object.’

‘Good old boy, clever old Arthur.’ Blithely unaware of this catastrophe, Lysander came trundling through the fog into what indeed looked like the remains of the Light Brigade, with mud-coated horses and riders picking themselves out of the quagmire with varying degrees of success. Holding Arthur steady, standing back once again, Lysander jumped to the right. Seeing a huddled jockey motionless beneath him, Arthur veered to the left in mid-air, like a Zeppelin changing course, and though pecking on landing, was brilliantly picked up by Lysander. As Arthur flatfooted carefully through the chaos, Lysander was aware of a grimy drenched figure running along beside him.

‘Bluey,’ Lysander shouted in horror. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sure. Pridie’s buggered off home. Go get that fucker on The Prince of Darkness.’

We will, thought Lysander, as he cantered Arthur up the hill, waiting for the great roar from the crowd which would tell him that the leaders had emerged from the fog. But it never came. They couldn’t be too far ahead.

‘Sock it to them.’ It was Jimmy Jardine, cadging a cigarette from someone in the crowd as he walked an utterly knackered Blarney Stone back home.

‘Come on, Arthur,’ urged Lysander. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’

The further the old horse galloped the better he seemed to go, like a Volvo that needed a long run. Dying with pride, Lysander was riding like a dream now, sitting very quietly, letting Arthur choose his own pace and the place to jump, his great stride devouring the ground.

Then Lysander gave a strangled whoop of joy as, through the mist, he glimpsed Isa Lovell’s blood-red colours and the sleek black rump of The Prince of Darkness only a fence ahead. Male Nurse was beside him harrying him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Hitting the next fence, The Prince of Darkness veered to the right, went wide round the corner and lost a few yards, as Arthur pounded up on the inside, hugging the rails. Male Nurse was at last in the lead, but, just as Rupert had predicted, he was a young horse, and when he saw this huge yelling mass of faces, waving their arms and making more noise than he’d ever heard, his head came up and his jockey felt him coming back, and both Arthur and The Prince of Darkness passed him.

Arthur loved crowds. Now was the time for a bit of showing off, but The Prince was still three lengths ahead. They were into the home straight with two fences to go.

Lysander could see the hoof marks of earlier runners. He must keep his nerve. Ahead, The Prince, furious at being challenged, was looming over from the right determined to squeeze him out. If he froze for a second, it would cost him the race. For a second, Isa Lovell glanced round, his face torn with hatred.

‘Campbell-Black’s bumboy,’ he hissed.

That did it. Remembering the ride-offs in polo, Lysander asked Arthur to push through. White elephants don’t forget. Not wanting to be bitten again, Arthur put on an incredible burst of speed, just grazing The Prince as they drew alongside, thundering neck and neck to the last fence. Meeting it spot-on, Arthur took a great kangaroo leap.

That must put us two lengths ahead, thought Lysander, but soon The Prince’ll rally and catch up.

‘Oh, go on, Arthur,’ he begged.

And Arthur gallantly slogged on up the hill as fast as his great raking stride would take him. But now there were only the ghosts of previous winners to challenge him because The Prince of Darkness had fallen, brought down by the last fence.

‘May I borrow your binoculars, Kitty?’ asked Hermione. ‘This bit looks rather exciting.’

‘No, you may not,’ said Kitty, snatching them back. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly hold them still. Oblivious of Rannaldini’s howl of rage when The Prince had fallen, she was now screaming her head off with excitement. Arthur cleared the last fence and, with a vigour utterly belying his thirteen years, gallumphed towards the post. Lysander had no need to pick up his whip.

David Hawkley thought his heart would burst with pride and there was never such a roar of amazed delight at Rutminster as Arthur came up the straight, his great feet splaying out, rolling along like the bull terrier at the end of The Incredible Journey, lop ears flapping, to catch every word his young master was saying.

‘My Christ,’ said Rupert, who’d completely recovered his good temper, putting his arm round a joyfully sobbing Taggie. ‘Is that the same old donkey who was always last on the gallops? Come on, Arthur. He’s fucking going to do it.’

‘God, the boy rides like an angel,’ said Ricky France-Lynch in delight.

As if someone had tossed a match into a box of fireworks, the entire Venturer Box erupted in ecstasy.

‘Come on, Arfur, you can fucking do it,’ screamed Kitty, to the amazement of Hermione and the chairman of the New World Phil, and the white-faced, quivering fury of Rannaldini.

‘Come on, Lysander,’ howled Guy and Georgie clutching each other.

Glancing round, Lysander saw Male Nurse ebbing away in the distance. Realizing it was in the bag, and with the post only fifty yards away, he gave a great Tarzan howl of joy that was drowned in the deafening roar of the crowd.

‘We’ve done it, Arthur!’ he yelled and, completely forgetting Rupert’s warning, he punched a fist in the air.

This seemed to startle and unbalance Arthur, who’d always veered to the left when he was tired. Suddenly he stumbled, and to the collective horror of the crowd, he reeled, utterly punch-drunk for a second, then lurched quite out of control towards the rails. Crashing into them, he hurled Lysander over his head within a yard of the finishing post.

For a moment Lysander lay still. Then, dragging himself groggily to his feet, he staggered over to Arthur, collapsing on top of him. Flinging his arms round the horse’s great white motionless body, he pummelled at him with his fists, sobbing his heart out.

The racecourse fell silent. There was hardly a cheer as Male Nurse slid wearily past the post. It was as though the mute button had been pressed on the whole crowd. Utterly appalled, many in tears, they watched the so-recently joyful and youthful conqueror, blood and phlegm pouring from his nose on to his muddy shirt and breeches, as he slumped crying piteously over the huge ugly horse, whose gallant best in the end had not been enough.

The next moment Tabitha had raced up from the stable-lads’ stand and, collapsing, sobbed dementedly beside Lysander.

‘Oh, Arthur, darling Arthur, wake up! I don’t believe it.’

Walking quietly back, leading a shaken but unharmed Prince of Darkness, Isa Lovell dropped a sympathetic hand briefly on her shoulder as he passed.

Before Rannaldini could stop her, Kitty had fled from the box, clattering down the grey stone steps, shoving her way through the boiling cauldron of crowd.

‘What ’appened, me darlin’?’ asked an Irishman.

‘Arfur’s dead, broken his neck,’ sobbed Kitty. It seemed to take hours to battle her way round the paddock, where Arthur had shambled so jauntily only half an hour ago. Barging into the changing room, she pushed past jockeys in various stages of undress and some with just coloured towels round their hips, but all utterly shocked as they looked on helplessly.

Lysander sat huddled in a chair, his head in his hands. Rupert in a mad rage was yelling at him.

‘You fucking bloody idiot goofing off like that. If you’d kept him straight, he’d never have crashed into the rails. Why didn’t you bloody listen to me?’

‘Shut up, Rupert,’ yelled Kitty back. ‘It weren’t Lysander’s fault.’

Lysander looked up. His face was a chaos of tears, blood and mud.

‘Oh, Kitty, I let him down.’

‘No, you didn’t, my lambkin.’ Kitty flung her arms round Lysander’s frantically shuddering body, cradling his head against her breasts. ‘You rode the most wonderful race in the world. They forget winners in a week, but Arfur’ll be remembered for ever. He won really. His great ’eart just gave out.’

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ roared Rupert. ‘He broke his fucking neck.’

‘How d’you know it was that, you great bully?’ screamed Kitty. ‘It might have been his ’eart, or his legs givin’ out, and then he broke his neck fallin’ into the rails. There hasn’t been a post-mortem. It’s all right, pet, it wasn’t your fault.’ She clung to Lysander trying to warm him and still his sobs.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ A chill had entered the room, a waft of Maestro mingled with the stench of sweat and antiseptic. Beneath his icy calm, such was the gale force of Rannaldini’s fury that the jockeys drew back.

‘Do you want to make a complete fool of yourself?’ he hissed at Kitty, then nodding icily at Rupert. ‘Sorry about the horse. It was bad luck to lose like that. Come, Kitty, you are needed in the box. We have guests to entertain.’

Lysander looked up in bewilderment.

‘Don’t go,’ he said, hanging on to Kitty in anguish. ‘Please don’t leave me.’

Clamping Kitty’s arm like a vice, Rannaldini almost dragged her out of the changing room. On the way they passed David Hawkley.

‘Where’s Lysander?’

‘In there. Please look after ’im,’ begged Kitty. ‘He needs you so badly.’

For a second, David took her rough, frozen hands.

‘You OK?’

‘Yes, yes,’ sobbed Kitty. ‘But I should ’ave lighted a candle for Arfur as well.’

Only when they were outside among the crowds did Rannaldini let rip a lethal lava of invective, far worse than any of his screaming tantrums to the London Met. Hypnotized by his frenziedly yelling mouth, his black-maddened flashing eyes, sickened by the smell of frying hamburgers and the animal reek of wet sheepskin coats all round her, Kitty started to sway. Suddenly she crumpled and was sent flying by a fractious crowd, deprived of the result they wanted and pushing through to watch the next race. As she was trampled underfoot she lost consciousness.

Desolately empty of Arthur, Rupert’s lorry rolled back to Penscombe. In respect of such a death, the curtains had been drawn along Penscombe High Street. The streamers, bunting and flags had been put back in their boxes. For once Charlie the bookmaker was heartbroken to make a killing. Everyone had got to know and love Arthur as he’d shambled along the lanes. At The Goat and Boots, where he had stopped for his daily pint, the champagne had gone back to the cellar.

Stony-faced, the stable-lads and girls unloaded the remaining horses. Taggie tried to comfort an inconsolable Tab, who lay on her bed, sobbing, Arthur, Arthur, over and over again.

Sacked by Rupert, Lysander was so deranged with grief he had to be given a shot by the course vet. Now crashed out at Magpie Cottage where he’d been put to bed by his father, he lay curled up with a watchful, worried Jack in his arms. Having tidied up the mess as best he could, David made himself as comfortable as possible in an armchair and waited for his son to wake.

Unable to sleep, Rupert padded down to the yard to check Pridie, who was a bit stiff, but would live to despatch any opposition another day. But he seemed cast down at the loss of his wise old friend. None of the horses would get any sleep with that Shetland keeping up such a din.

Hardly able to bring himself to go into Arthur’s box, Rupert found Tiny crouched in a far corner, the picture of furious hysterical desolation.

‘Come on,’ said Rupert gently, stretching out a hand, then hastily withdrawing it as Tiny let out a squeal of misery and lunged at him.

Bloody minded when unhappy, just like me, thought Rupert.