Ashes In the Wind Page 16

  The horse is a flashy chestnut with little else to recommend him beyond his colour.

  ‘He’ll need a fair bit of schooling,’ says John.

  ‘Just like you.’

  John laughs. ‘Fair enough. But he isn’t going to win a Gold Cup.’

  Christmas in the yard is merry; half the lads can’t or won’t afford the fare back to Ireland, Scotland or the North, and the owners’ contribution to the staff fund is spent on a mammoth lunch that begins at noon and ends well after midnight when the last lad lurches into the dormitory.

  ‘We’ve three runners tomorrow,’ says Tom. ‘Actually, it’s now today. You roust out the lads and get the horses ready. I’ll take Sandown, you take Huntingdon.’

  Robert’s horse is having his first run over fences at Huntingdon. It is a modest novice chase with only seven runners. In spite of taking diabolical liberties with four of the twelve fences, the O’Brien apprentice sits tight and finishes third. Robert is delighted.

  ‘First time out and in the frame. I’ll get my money back in no time.’

  ‘Twenty pounds for third place. And you ought to give a fiver to Liam. Not many jockeys would have stayed in the saddle after the way your fellow uprooted the last fence.’

  ‘He’d have won if he’d jumped better – only ten lengths off the winner.’

  Robert parts willingly with the fiver for Liam and spends the rest of the prize money on dinner with John at the Randolph in Oxford.

  ‘I wish all owners were as realistic and as easy to please,’ John says to Tom the next morning.

  ‘So do I. We’ve lost eight horses in the last month, owners either taking them to cheaper stables or else selling out altogether. The slump is beginning to hit racing, all right. Let’s hope Billy Vincent’s brewery holds up. Mrs V. telephoned to say she’d like to come over to see Knocknarea Saturday.’

  Saturday is cold, overcast, with driving rain that now and again turns into sleet.

  ‘It’s the devil of a day,’ says John to Chantal Vincent. ‘You’d be better off with a cup of coffee in front of the office fire, and I can report back.’

  ‘You’ll do no reporting back, thank you very much. I’ve not got up at five-thirty and driven twenty miles for a cup of your rotten coffee. If Pinky can cope, so can I.’

  Up on the downs there is no escaping the wind and the almost horizontal rain. There is barely a dawn, and it is hard to distinguish the horses as they come up the gallops out of the murk. They both dismount and stand in the lee of their horses. Chantal is soon wet and shivering; John puts a wing of his large poncho around her over her useless, elegant mackintosh.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ she says, holding out her hands, and he rubs them together between his own. Her head comes just below his chin. He is conscious of the softness of her shoulder and the smell of her hair.

  As the last two come by, John says, ‘That’s Knocknarea, three lengths clear of a good seven-year-old, both giving it their all. He’ll be ready for Chepstow in ten days.’

  Soaked through, they canter back to the yard and go into the office. There is a good fire. Chantal takes off her coat, jacket and sweater as John gives her a cup of coffee.

  ‘It’ll take me half an hour to dry out. I’ve a skirt and shirt in my bag, but everything else is damp. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. You’ll have the office to yourself; Tom’s out with the second string. I’ll go and see Knocknarea rubbed down, talk to his lad. You can lock the door so you won’t be disturbed.’

  Knocknarea, dried off and rugged up, is looking a good deal more comfortable than his owner.

  ‘He was hardly blowing at all at the top of the gallops,’ says his lad. ‘And the going was heavy.’

  ‘Give him some bran with his oats,’ says John, and goes out to check on the other horses.

  After twenty minutes he goes back to the office, knocks twice, hears nothing and goes in. Chantal is by the fire in a cream slip that stops just above her knees; she turns her back to the door, but not before John sees the darkness of her nipples and pubic hair.

  ‘I’m nearly decent,’ she says, putting on her shirt and a wraparound skirt with her back to John. She turns around, smiling. ‘I’m dry enough now for the drive home and a hot bath. How was the horse?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I did knock. Knocknarea worked well up the hill, the lad says. He’s ready for Chepstow, but that’ll be a real test against some good novices.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ and she goes past John, who is still standing by the door, pats him on the cheek and says, ‘Thank you for looking after me.’

  21

  JOHN IS CONFUSED and excited by holding Chantal’s hands on the gallops, the picture of her in her slip in front of the office fire never far from his mind. He talks to Robert when they meet in the week.

  ‘I’m hardly the man to ask,’ he says. ‘I’m a celibate history don. But there are two clear alternatives. Either she thinks of you as a son...’

  ‘Hold on, she’s not old enough to be my mother.’

  ‘All right, then as a friend. Or she’s attracted to you, and was very happy for you to see her naked in front of the fire.’

  ‘She wasn’t naked.’

  ‘She might as well have been in view of the effect it’s had on you. Anyhow, there’s only one way to find out. What’s the worst that can happen? “Mr Burke, I’m a respectable married woman.”’ This last in a high-pitched indignant voice as he slaps his own cheek.

  John laughs. ‘Thank you for the rigorous analysis. You’re like the tipster in a two-horse race that tells me either of them can win.’

  ‘Here’s to the spirit of discovery,’ says Robert, and they clink glasses.

  The big race at Chepstow takes place the following Friday. John travels down in the horsebox with George, unwilling to risk the Alvis on such a long journey. It is a cold clear day, and there has been a sharp frost, though not enough to call off the day’s racing. He meets Chantal in the owners’ and trainers’ bar, crowded and fuggy with cigarette smoke and damp tweed overcoats, the Welsh voices reminding John that he has crossed the Severn.

  ‘Anything to eat?’ he asks.

  ‘A brandy might calm my nerves.’

  John produces the brandy.

  ‘Have you ever watched by a fence?’ he asks. ‘You get a completely different impression close up.’

  ‘Never. This is only the fourth race meeting I’ve been to.’

  They watch the next race beside the big open ditch. The noise of fifteen horses thundering into the fence, the shouts of two or three jockeys at their mounts or their rivals, the long arc of the horses that stand back and jump big, the noise as some of them go through the top foot of the fence, leaves Chantal wide-eyed.

  ‘You were right, it is completely different from up there,’ she says, pointing to the stands. ‘Much more dangerous than I’d realized, much more exciting.’

  In the parade ring, Chantal listens as John talks to Michael Molloy.

  ‘The going is good, slippery in places. The pace will be hot, so you can’t afford to lie out of your ground. He’s up against two good horses. We’d like to win.’

  Michael Molloy nods, touches his cap to Chantal, is jumped up into the saddle by John and trots off with the other runners out of the parade ring.

  ‘Knocknarea looks wonderful. It must be that gallop in the rain. Oh, I do hope he wins.’

  ‘He’s ready all right, and we’ll see how good he is. I saw Maltese Cross win at Warwick. He’s a decent horse, and he’s got a good jockey aboard.’

  They watch from the top of the stand. Chantal grabs John’s hand in hers and holds it tightly through the race. Knocknarea jumps well, barring a slight slip on landing four out, when Chantal buries her face in John’s shoulder for a moment. Three horses come together at the last. Michael Molloy sees a stride and asks Knocknarea to stand back. He lands level with Maltese Cross as the horse between them hits the top of the fence hard and loses two lengths. Knocknarea and Malte
se Cross drive together for the line; Michael Molloy has the whip out, and at the finishing post it is Knocknarea by a head.

  ‘He did win, didn’t he?’ says Chantal, who has been shouting her horse home from the last fence.

  ‘A near thing, but I think he got up,’ and when the announcer confirms Knocknarea as the winner John is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. He doesn’t try to hide his own pleasure and relief.

  Knocknarea returns to the winner’s enclosure, flanks heaving, nostrils flaring red, the marks of Michael’s whip visible on his quarters.

  ‘He looks exhausted,’ says Chantal.

  ‘George, go you and get him a bucket of water. I’ll walk him around. He’s had a real race, you can see that. But he won, and beat a couple of good ones. We’ll see how he is tomorrow morning.’

  ‘His jumping was perfect again,’ says Michael Molloy, face spattered with mud. He looks only a little less exhausted than Knocknarea. ‘I’ve not ridden many better.’

  Chantal collects the winner’s silver cup and says to John, ‘We’re going to celebrate. I’ll give you a lift and we’ll have dinner on the way, if George’ll be all right taking the horse back on his own?’

  ‘George’ll be fine if he leaves now – it’s starting to snow.’

  A few flakes have fallen and settled on the ground; the sky to the north is a level iron-grey.

  ‘I’ll put Knocknarea into the horsebox and meet you at the entrance.’

  John sees the horse off; when Chantal pulls up outside the entrance to the racecourse she gets out of the car, tosses the keys to John and says, ‘Would you mind driving? I’m still too excited to concentrate. We’ll have an early dinner at the Rose Revived at Barton and beat the snow home.’

  On the journey Chantal relives the race several times over. ‘Wasn’t that a fantastic jump at the last fence? He’s a strong jockey, Michael.’

  ‘It had to be if he was going to win – Maltese Cross matched him in the air. Knocknarea’s a Cheltenham prospect if he’s sound in the morning.’

  As they park outside the Rose Revived, it has started to snow in earnest.

  ‘We’ll need to be quick over dinner; the snow’s definitely settling.’

  ‘Don’t be an old woman. I’m not going to let the weather spoil our celebration.’

  She doesn’t; they share half a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Burgundy.

  ‘Do you mind if I order the wine? I’ve eaten here before. And I’m half French.’

  John doesn’t mind. Dinner with an older married woman, but not old enough to be his mother, he reminds himself and Robert, is a new experience.

  Chantal picks John’s hand up off the table, turns it over and traces the lines in his palm with her index finger. Her nail varnish is pink.

  ‘What do I see?’ she looks thoughtful and lets go of John’s hand. ‘A winner at Chepstow.’

  ‘I saw that too,’ says John, taking a gulp of red wine. ‘Tell me how you’re half French.’

  ‘My mother was the daughter of an admiral. The French navy is very grand, you know, they’ve long forgotten Trafalgar, and blame the Spanish for that anyway. She met and married, beneath her, my grandmother thought; she wanted a duc. Daddy was in the British Embassy in Paris, a career diplomat. They’re both in Berlin now. I went to school here, did some courses at the Sorbonne but didn’t graduate. My mother believed in educating women.’

  ‘So did mine,’ says John. ‘How did you meet Mr Vincent?’ He doesn’t feel on Billy terms with Mr Vincent.

  ‘At a London dance. I did the season, and he was this older, confident man, quite different from the rest of my weedy dancing partners. And he decided to marry me, and eventually he did. He doesn’t give up easily. He’s a good husband. Shall we finish with a brandy?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Look outside at the snow. We need to leave now if we’re going to get back tonight.’

  Two or three inches of snow have settled, and it continues to fall in big, heavy flakes. They set off, John driving with the caution that a strange car, a heavy snowfall and several glasses of wine deserve. The snow whirls in the car’s headlights; there is almost no traffic on the road. The snow has already blotted out the tracks of any cars in front of them.

  ‘I hope Knocknarea has got home safely,’ says John. ‘He did have a three-hour start on us. But I’m glad we celebrated. It’s not often you get as good a win as that.’

  ‘Or in as good company, you were about to say.’

  ‘I was too nervous to say that.’

  There is a long silence, and John wonders if he has been too bold. The snow is falling in thick flakes. As they pass the pub at the bottom of the steep hill that rises to the top of the Cotswold escarpment, John says, ‘I’m not sure we’ll make this. Look ahead. Everything’s white.’

  ‘We’d better try.’

  ‘It’s your car – I’d hate to damage it.’

  John drives slowly and carefully up the beginning of the hill; the windscreen wipers are barely keeping pace with the snow. As the hill steepens, the wheels begin to lose traction and spin and John has difficulty keeping the car straight. Up ahead he sees a lorry that has skidded diagonally across the road on its way down, its lights still blazing.

  ‘Glad we didn’t meet that. We’ll not get past him tonight. Best if I back slowly down to the Crown and see if they’ve got rooms.’

  ‘Well, you did try. And it’s my fault for lingering over dinner.’

  ‘It takes two to linger.’

  They make it in reverse back to the Crown’s car park. Inside, they shake off the snow in the little lobby and go into the bar. The bar is already crowded with refugees from the snow. Steaming bodies and plenty to drink have created a cheerful atmosphere.

  John asks the landlord if he has two rooms for the night.

  ‘Only the one left,’ he says. ‘It’s at the back at the top of the stairs. Thirty pounds, cash in advance, if you don’t mind.’

  John pays and tells Chantal, ‘I’ll find a chair in the bar.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Look around you. Standing room only. Let’s get in the queue for the phone box and then inspect the room. It may have twin beds or a sofa.’

  The room has a small double bed and an armchair. There is a gas fire, unlit, coin-operated. John uses his last half-crown to get it going, and immediately the room is transformed by the reddish-orange light and the comforting hiss of the fire.

  ‘You’ll need a supply of half-crowns. I’ll go down to the bar and get some change.’

  ‘Plenty of cash tonight,’ says the landlord. ‘You get about an hour for two and sixpence.’

  John takes twenty to be on the safe side, and then orders two glasses of brandy.

  ‘Tumblers OK? We’re out of brandy glasses.’

  The coins clink in John’s pocket as he goes back up the stairs, feeling suddenly brave. Chantal is sitting on the side of the bed, wearing only her slip.

  ‘Here’s the brandy we missed,’ John says. ‘Here’s to Knocknarea.’

  ‘Here’s to the snow,’ says Chantal.

  They both take a long swallow. John leans across and kisses her warm, soft mouth, tasting of brandy. She reaches over, turns off the light, pulls John to his feet and helps him out of his clothes. When he is naked, she sits down on the bed, unclips and unrolls her stockings and shrugs herself out of her suspender belt and underclothes.

  ‘It would be a waste if you spent the night in that armchair. You wouldn’t get much sleep.’

  It would have been a terrible waste, John thinks the next morning, although I might have got more sleep. He looks at Chantal’s head on the pillow next to him, kisses her gently on the cheek. She wakes up, stretches herself, smiles and says, ‘I suppose I hope the snow has gone.’

  John goes to the window. It has stopped snowing, but the road is still white and unmarked. No cars have been brave enough to leave the car park.

  ‘We’ll not leave for a while,’ says John. ‘The snowploughs and
the grit haven’t reached this part of the country yet. I’ll go and see if there’s any breakfast about.’

  ‘Not yet you won’t,’ and Chantal pulls him back into bed. ‘The only sensible thing to do,’ she says, and then she stops talking as John does the only sensible thing.

  It begins to thaw at eleven, and by noon it has started to rain. John and Chantal leave at two, without breakfast or lunch, as the pub has run out of food. Braver drivers have left clear tracks on the still snowy road, the hill has been gritted and last night’s stranded lorry has gone. The road is still treacherous and John has to concentrate to keep the car on the road. They are both thoughtful about what has happened between them, and hardly talk. After a while, Chantal’s head tilts sideways onto John’s shoulder and she falls asleep.

  She wakes up not long before they reach the yard.

  ‘We’d better tell the same story, I suppose,’ says Chantal. ‘I don’t plan to make a full confession to Billy.’

  ‘Well, they already know we were stranded and spent the night in the same pub. The sleeping arrangements...’

  ‘...are nobody’s business but yours and mine.’

  They pull up outside the yard. John hands over the car keys to Chantal and tries to kiss her.

  ‘That’s not a good idea, especially here,’ says Chantal, pushing him away.

  John looks disappointed. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve got some thinking to do.’

  John goes into the yard. Was that it, he wonders, a single accidental night, thanks to the snow and a stranded lorry? In the office Tom jumps up and shakes his hand.

  ‘A great win, a great win. George has taken me through it fence by fence. Knocknarea has trotted up sound this morning and eaten everything he’s been shown. You must have had the devil of a journey. How was the pub?’

  ‘Uncomfortable. Mrs Vincent got the last room,’ says John, truthfully enough. ‘The roads were pretty bad.’

  ‘What do you think about Cheltenham?’

  ‘He’ll have a good chance. Same distance, stiffer test up that hill. Maltese Cross’s connections are sure to let him run.’