Ashes In the Wind Page 15

  ‘Billy says I can spend up to fifteen hundred,’ says Mrs Vincent.

  ‘We may not need all of that. There’s no point in buying the finished article. You’ll have a lot more fun watching your horse make progress – provided he does. It’s a chancy business, steeplechasing. A lot can go wrong.’

  ‘I’ll not be put off,’ she says with another smile.

  She shakes Tom’s and John’s hands and goes out of the yard. Tom looks relieved as she leaves.

  ‘Were you trying to put her off altogether? You’re not much of a salesman, I’d say. Vincent’s our biggest owner by a long chalk.’

  ‘At least she has some idea what she’s in for. As long as she doesn’t expect a winner at Cheltenham or Aintree in her first season.’

  He rings Charles at the weekend.

  ‘I’ll talk to the Filgates in County Louth,’ Charles says. ‘They’ve always got something to sell. I hear they have some decent young point-to-pointers in their yard. What sort of money?’

  ‘The right sort of money for a good five-year-old gelding with a bit of jumping form, and sound in wind and limb. Has to be a stayer, needn’t be a thoroughbred.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Charles. ‘And tell your owner in advance that I take five per cent of the sale price. Young Charlie tells me I have to be more businesslike now farm prices have gone to blazes. That apart, things are much more settled here since you went away. You should come over.’

  John doesn’t reply to the suggestion and says goodbye. Went away, he thinks; banished, more like it, run out of my own country by a gunman. The thought of Ireland is unsettling.

  Ten days later he gets a long letter from Charles, which to his relief is only about horses. Charles has taken his horse-coping role seriously.

  I’ve looked at seventeen horses in all, and narrowed it down to two. A seven-year-old chaser, won three times last year, but doesn’t get a yard more than three miles on good ground. Takes a liberty with his fences every now and again, he’s fallen twice in seven starts. Four hundred and fifty pounds plus the cost of getting him to Lambourn from Tipperary. The other is a five-year-old with the Filgates. Three Open wins as a pointer, plus a good bumper and a novice chase. Unbeaten in five starts. I didn’t dare ask the price. He’s got a smidgen of The Archduke in him through Likely Lad, his dam’s sire.

  John talks to Tom, rings Charles again, then calls Sammy Filgate.

  ‘Best horse I’ve had through my hands in twenty years. Bought him out of a field in Galway. I schooled him myself. Brave as a lion, stays for ever, never puts a foot wrong out hunting or over fences. Can’t let him go for less than a thousand pounds.’

  John whistles. ‘Call it nine hundred after the luck-penny and you’re on.’

  ‘Luck-penny? I’m selling horses, not cattle at the Athlone fair. I’ll take nine-fifty as Charles is a friend of the family and that’s it.’

  After a brief conversation with Tom and Billy Vincent, that is it. A fortnight later the horse arrives, none the worse for wear after the long journey by boat and train. Tom and John look with a critical eye at Knocknarea, a seventeen-hands-high iron-grey gelding.

  ‘Bit over at the knee. And he isn’t quite straight – dishes a bit with the near fore.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, John, he’s not for the show ring. Look at his chest, look at those quarters. He looks worth the money, even though we’ve never paid as much for a horse. Mrs Vincent should be pleased.’

  Mrs Vincent arrives the next day to inspect her present.

  ‘He’s very handsome. Looks strong, and I love greys. What shall I call him?’

  ‘He’s named already. Knocknarea, after a Sligo mountain. The Filgates bought him out of a field in the West of Ireland as an unbroken two-year-old,’ says John.

  ‘Can’t I change the name?’

  ‘Terrible unlucky thing to do,’ says Tom. ‘He’s won five times already as Knocknarea. It’s a winner’s name all right.’

  Knocknarea remains Knocknarea. He is given time to recover from his journey, and runs in his first race a month later.

  ‘You take him to Kempton,’ says Tom. ‘You bought him, you’ve schooled him, he’s in your first lot.’

  Knocknarea makes his purchase look a bargain, winning a novice chase at Kempton Park by an easy three lengths.

  ‘He could have gone round again,’ says Michael Molloy as he dismounts. ‘Never put a foot wrong, and he can fiddle a fence when he has to.’

  Mrs Vincent, who has watched the first half of the race through her fingers, clutching John’s arm before each fence, is delighted. She hugs the jockey, hugs John, tips the jockey, tries to tip John, apologizes, hugs everyone again.

  ‘It was so exciting, he did do well,’ she says, running her hand down Knocknarea’s neck, still dark with sweat. ‘Billy will be sorry he isn’t here.’

  ‘He’s got real potential, Mrs Vincent. Here, your hands are covered with him – use this.’

  John produces a large blue handkerchief and Mrs Vincent wipes her hands.

  ‘My name is Chantal,’ says Mrs Vincent, sees the look on John’s face, and says again, ‘Chantal. It’s French, like my mother. I’ll keep this and bring it back clean.’

  ‘No need for that,’ says John, but she pockets the handkerchief anyhow. ‘It’s a lovely name.’

  ‘Terrible unlucky thing to change a name,’ she says, in a good imitation of Tom O’Brien’s accent. ‘What next for Knocknarea?’

  ‘We’ll see how he is in the morning – he looks sound enough now. He’s a star in the making, we don’t want to rush him.’

  Knocknarea eats up when he gets home and trots up sound the next day.

  ‘This is a very good horse,’ says John to Tom in the office. ‘Maybe the best in the yard. He could win at Cheltenham, maybe even at Aintree.’

  ‘Michael agrees, says he’s not sat on a better. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Aintree is best kept on the long finger. He’s still a baby. There’s a race at Chepstow in three weeks might suit him, though he’ll carry seven pounds extra for yesterday’s win. We’ll think about the novice chase at Cheltenham when we see how he does next time out.’

  A week later at Warwick, John is waiting outside the parade ring for the runners in the third race to arrive – he is interested in one of them, a potential rival to Knocknarea if he runs at Cheltenham – when he is greeted warmly by someone from his Irish past.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you? Robert Keen, next door to you in Botany Bay at Trinity,’ says the not-stranger, shaking him warmly by the hand. John does remember him now, a clever historian from County Clare who, unusually at Unionist Trinity, shared John’s view about Home Rule.

  ‘Never knew you were a racing man,’ says John. ‘Where are you now? Still at Trinity?’

  ‘Couldn’t wait to leave Ireland the minute I graduated. I’m a history don at Christ Church. I teach mediaeval history; I’m your man for manorial rolls. But I get to go racing often enough. I see you’re a trainer,’ looking at John’s badge. ‘Any useful runners today?’

  ‘We’ve one in the fifth race, but it’s her first time out. You could do worse than back our novice, Knocknarea, when he next runs.’

  ‘I’ll watch out for him. How do I get hold of you? Come over and have dinner – Lambourn’s pretty close to Oxford.’

  John is glad to see Robert, but wary of any reconnection to Ireland. Nevertheless, when a stiff little card embossed with a cardinal’s red hat arrives at the yard, inviting him to dinner at Christ Church, he accepts by return.

  He meets Robert in his rooms in Peckwater Quad for a drink before dinner. John has never been inside an Oxford College; Christ Church seems almost as large as Trinity.

  ‘They look after the Fellows very well,’ says Robert. ‘Until they get married. Then we’re chucked out to north Oxford squalor and domestic bliss and nappies. It’s an incentive to stay celibate or become queer. I haven’t decided which way to go yet. You’re next to me at dinner, and
you’ll have our Senior Tutor, David Allingham, on your left. He’s a philosopher and deaf, so you’ll have to shout.’

  Christ Church hall is magnificent, candlelit, with portraits of past deans, benefactors and distinguished graduates rank upon rank on the walls. There is a sonorous Latin grace from one of the scholars, followed by the clatter of chairs and benches as three hundred undergraduates and dons sit down to dine.

  This is far removed from John’s world. He has spent the years since he left Ireland thinking only about horses, handicaps, breeding, jockeys, courses and other trainers. The philosopher on his right has scant interest in John’s daily life and switches the subject at once to Irish politics. John is shocked by his own ignorance. He feels he has lived through a revolution without any real understanding of what was going on outside his own narrow, violent experience. Luckily Robert and the Senior Tutor have a lively argument about the Treaty and about Lloyd George, and John can restrict himself to the occasional comment.

  ‘A republic is inevitable,’ says Robert. ‘They’ll simply announce it in a few years’ time and that will be that.’

  ‘They’d be crazy to leave the Commonwealth,’ says the Senior Tutor. ‘Economics always triumphs over ideology.’

  And later in the Senior Common Room over port the Betting Book is called for and ‘Robert Keen bets David Allingham five pounds that Ireland is no longer a member of the Commonwealth in five years’ time’ is solemnly entered and signed.

  ‘Only hope he is still alive for me to collect,’ says Robert as he sees John to his car.

  As John drives the Alvis home late that night he is dismayed by how insulated he has become in the cocoon of the racing world. ‘I’m a bore,’ he says to Bella, stroking her ears as she jumps up to greet him. ‘I know you don’t think so, but I am.’

  The next day he buys a radio, orders The Times and takes out a subscription to the Spectator and the New Statesman.

  ‘Don’t know why you bother with The Times,’ says Tom. ‘It hasn’t tipped a winner for years.’

  ‘I’ve the Sporting Life to keep me straight on racing. I need The Times to keep me straight on the rest of the world.’

  Tom returns with a grunt to the runners and riders at Uttoxeter.

  Knocknarea continues to make progress. Chantal Vincent comes to watch her horse on the gallops early one morning.

  ‘Can we go by car? I’ve not ridden much.’

  ‘Never in this world,’ says John. ‘We’ll put you on Pinky. He’s a patent-safety, seventeen years old, slow, steady as a rock. Only fourteen hands, closer to the ground if you fall off,’ and adds, seeing Chantal’s nervous look, ‘No one’s ever fallen off Pinky. I’ll put him on a leading rein until you’re happy.’

  It’s a cold, bright sunny day on the Downs; steam comes from the horses’ nostrils as they canter up the gallops.

  ‘There’s your husband’s Cheltenham winner,’ he says as two come into view. ‘He’s alongside Bay Tree, new in the yard last week, the one with the star. They’re both moving well.’

  ‘How can you tell them apart?’

  ‘I have only thirty horses to remember, Mrs Vincent, and I see them every day. I look at them up here, check them over in the stables, feel their legs, watch their feed. I can tell the moment they’re out of sorts. I don’t know thirty people anything like as well. Here comes Knocknarea and The Preacher. Look at the lovely stride of your horse.’

  ‘It’s Chantal, Mr Burke. And you don’t know thirty people? That’s a shame.’

  After John’s string have finished their work they trot back to the yard; by now Chantal no longer needs the leading rein.

  ‘Pinky’s just perfect,’ she says, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. ‘It was such a treat to see what goes on between the races, and to see you in your kingdom.’

  John sees her to her car. As she says goodbye she adds, ‘You must come to dinner. We’re this side of Oxford. Knowing more horses than people is something I’m going to put right.’

  John is worried about the etiquette of dining with an owner and consults Tom.

  ‘Of course you must go if she asks you,’ says Tom. ‘The Vincents are our biggest owners by far. She’s taken a shine to you.’

  The invitation does arrive, and John goes out to dinner for the second time in three years; his dinner jacket hasn’t had such use since his rapid exit from the London season. The Vincents live in an Elizabethan manor house deep in the Oxfordshire countryside. Breweries are doing well, thinks John, as he is shown into a large hall with a blazing log fire. He takes a drink from a waiter. Chantal greets him warmly and introduces him to her husband, whom John has met once before at Cheltenham. Billy Vincent is tall, thin, with a fierce profile and a strong handshake. He is distinguished in his dinner jacket and looks ten years older than his wife. He asks John about his horses; John, realizing that Billy isn’t a man for detail, gives him a quick summary. Billy has soon had enough horse talk and Chantal moves John away to meet the other guests.

  ‘This is Robert Keen.’

  ‘We know each other. We were at Trinity together, Trinity College, Dublin,’ says John.

  ‘Good. So I’ve only twenty-nine to go.’

  John looks puzzled for a moment, then laughs. At dinner he is next to Chantal; she is a careful hostess, talks for half the time to the Yeomanry brigadier on her left, while John talks horses and hunting to the MFH’s wife on his other side. Then Chantal turns her direct gaze and her bright smile on John.

  ‘I was so happy on Pinky that morning watching Knocknarea,’ she says. ‘May I come again?’

  ‘Of course. But you picked your day well. It’s different altogether when it’s driving sleet and muddy under foot.’

  ‘Different altogether? You do have an Irish turn of phrase. You’re halfway to Tom O’Brien some of the time. What took you away from Ireland? I asked Robert, but he wasn’t sure.’

  John takes a deep breath, thinks for a moment about a one-sentence, mind-your-own-business reply, and then tells Chantal half his story. He tells her about Eileen, William, Derriquin, Tomas, leaving Kerry. He doesn’t talk about Grania. His voice is steady as he finishes by describing his visit to Tomas in Kilmainham.

  Chantal keeps her eyes on his as he talks, squeezes his hand for a moment at the end and says, ‘I’m sorry I was so inquisitive. I’m glad you told me.’

  After dinner, the men move to the library and talk politics and business. Robert and John have a quiet conversation about the future of Unionists in the Free State.

  ‘There’s not much victor’s magnanimity about,’ says Robert. ‘It’s become a strange, repressed society, dominated by the Catholic Church. Don’t underestimate the power of the hierarchy in the new Ireland. All the politicians are terrified of a bishop or a cardinal. And the boycott of Protestant shopkeepers has had a terrible effect. My family’s gone from Clare, like yours from Kerry. My older brother is listed in Burke’s Irish Landed Gentry as Keen, formerly of Ballykeen House, Keen’s Cross, now PO Box 1221, Nairobi, Kenya. He grows coffee.’

  ‘It’s not surprising there’s a Catholic backlash. It’s their turn after years of repression, years of famine, years of paying tithes to a church they didn’t belong to. We’ve only ourselves to blame.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I don’t have to admire the result. You know there’s an extended Dublin version of the Papal Index, and Ulysses is on it.’

  ‘Ulysses?’

  ‘James Joyce’s Ulysses. The most important novel of the twentieth century. I’ll send you a copy.’

  As the guests leave, Chantal holds John’s hand for a moment. ‘I enjoyed sitting next to you. Can I come over again soon?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ulysses adds another dimension to John’s self-improvement. He finds the book bewildering at first, perseveres and is picked up and carried along on the torrent of Joyce’s language, almost a foreign language, against the background of a Dublin he knew well. And he understands why the Dublin hierarchy banned the b
ook.

  Spurred on by Robert, he becomes more adventurous in his choice of reading. He finds in ‘The Wild Swans at Coole’ the two lines Grania sent him on a postcard from the Gaeltacht: Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still.

  He still has the postcard tucked away in his wallet. The Cliffs of Moher have faded. This is his only tangible reminder of Grania Mannion, other than a dull ache in his right leg when it gets cold and a crooked nose. A faded postcard, an ache and a broken nose seem little enough to have left of such an intensity of feeling. The dreams and the nightmares both have gone.

  Every Friday, two books arrive from Harrods in a cardboard box, in which the two that arrived the week before are returned. Only The Critique of Pure Reason, a suggestion of the Senior Tutor’s, goes back unfinished.

  John spends at least one afternoon a fortnight in Oxford. Robert has become a good friend; they are drawn to each other by the common bonds of literature, racing and Ireland. Robert urges John to drop into Peckwater any evening, and this becomes part of John’s Oxford routine. He spends a lot of time buying books in Blackwell’s, and persuades his way into all the great Oxford libraries, Duke Humfrey’s in the Bodleian, the Radcliffe Camera, the Codrington in All Souls and the Upper Library in the Queen’s College.

  ‘They’re all wonderful,’ he says. ‘But Trinity is even better, and we have the Book of Kells.’

  ‘I wish my pupils were half as dedicated,’ says Robert. ‘We’ll make a scholar of you yet.’

  ‘On the same day that you become a racehorse trainer.’

  They are talking over a drink in the Mitre Hotel.

  ‘I like it here,’ says Robert. ‘No undergraduates, not like the pubs. How’s my horse getting on?’

  In spite of John’s attempts to put him off, Robert has bought a horse and put him into training in the O’Brien yard.

  ‘Picked him out myself – second in a selling hurdle at Stratford. Only paid two hundred pounds for him. The owner didn’t seem to mind seeing the horse go. He should make a chaser, don’t you think?’