The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘He hit your horse?’ the interviewer echoed in astonishment. ‘We saw some scrimmaging going on out there in the country, certainly, but no-one had any idea he actually hit The Nightingale.’

  ‘It was the best thing he did,’ Josephine suddenly said with a grin. ‘Nightie won’t have a stick near him let alone on him, so when Baker hit him he grabbed him by the leg and pulled him out of his saddle.’

  This revelation was greeted by another tremendous roar by those immediately around the horse, as indeed it was with enormous interest by the television commentary team who were busy studying the action replay in slow motion on screen. The interviewer, who had a small viewing monitor propped up on a camera box near The Nightingale’s head, looked down at the screen and indicated to Josephine to do the same.

  ‘My word,’ he said in awe. ‘You can see it quite clearly on the replay. The Nightingale’s got him like an alligator.’

  ‘All this at full stretch too,’ Josephine said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and weigh in.’

  ‘Just as well the bugger was brought back by an ambulance!’ another Irishman shouted. ‘Because if he hadn’t we’d have made sure that he did!’

  At that moment Mattie appeared through the crowd, back on terra firma and with a mouth and two cheeks covered in a welt of well-wishers’ lipstick.

  ‘Mattie Rosse,’ the interviewer said, grabbing him by the arm. ‘You look as though you’ve made some new friends.’

  ‘I have so,’ Mattie grinned in return, fetching out a handkerchief and beginning to wipe off some of the lipstick. ‘I’ve had quite a few proposals of marriage too. Some of them I might well take up.’

  Which remark elicited a whoop of delight from the Irish contingent.

  ‘Do you want to talk about Jump For Fun?’ the interviewer wondered. ‘You must surely have thought your horse was done for when he lost all that ground at the start.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Jump For Fun,’ Mattie said. ‘The stewards will sort that out. What I want to talk about is the fantastic courage of this horse here—’

  Another huge and prolonged cheer rose from the crowd around them.

  ‘Talk about heart,’ Mattie said. ‘There aren’t a lot of horses who could do what he did.’

  At that the crowd went wild, reducing both the interviewer and Mattie to silence. Finally, when the cheering died down, the interviewer continued.

  ‘I don’t think any of us has ever seen a performance quite like that, Mattie,’ he said. ‘We’ve seen a few here, a few truly great ones, but I don’t want to make any comparisons because what your horse did was unique. No-one has ever done the Derby and the Champion Hurdle double and no-one has ever won the Champion Hurdle against such impossible odds. Did you really think he was going to do it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mattie said happily. ‘There was never a doubt in any of our minds.’

  ‘Even after he’d nearly been run out at the third and left trailing by – what? A dozen lengths or more?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mattie said. ‘This horse doesn’t know the meaning of defeat. Think of what’s happened to him. If he knew defeat he wouldn’t be here today. But before I go off to declare the celebrations open—’ Another round of cheers stopped the flow, but only momentarily. ‘Before we go and drink the horse’s health, first I must say well done and thank you to my stable staff and to the staff at Claremore. This is their doing, you know, they’re the people who got the horse here. And as for my sister Josephine – who made all you racing scribes eat your hats I’m glad to say—’

  ‘Three cheers for Jose Rosse!’ someone called, and the crowd all duly responded.

  ‘I don’t think anyone could have ridden a better or braver race,’ Mattie said. ‘So chauvinists everywhere – enjoy your hat sandwich. Lastly – and certainly not least – I want to thank my mother Cassie Rosse, for believing in me enough to allow me to train him.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ many voices bellowed, led by the still delirious Dubliner who called for ‘One hundred and three cheers for Cassie Rosse!’

  Then, after the rousing cheers had died away, the crowd started calling for Cassie, and they were not to be stopped until Cassie was found and led from the group of her friends surrounding her to face the cameras and the interviewer.

  ‘They say they don’t come back, Cassie,’ the interviewer said. ‘But this old fella certainly did.’

  ‘They come back all right,’ Cassie replied with a smile. ‘You’re just not always sure what as.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ her perplexed questioner said.

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Cassie laughed.

  ‘What I meant was the old saying, you know – like fighters. Horses who have been through what this horse of yours has been through don’t come back.’

  ‘This is no ordinary horse, Derek. You saw what he did today. He was dead and buried not once, not twice, but three times.’

  ‘So what makes him so special?’

  ‘If I knew that—’ Cassie sighed.

  ‘If you knew that,’ the interviewer interrupted with a smile, ‘you’d be breeding dozens more of them. Is it the famous Irish grass, do you think?’

  ‘No.’ Cassie smiled at the man asking the questions. ‘As a matter of fact I really believe that this horse is not something else but someone else.’

  ‘Yes. Right,’ the interviewer nodded solemnly. ‘Like Nijinsky, you mean? You mean,’ he hesitated, ‘like the great Derby winner Nijinsky who was meant to be his namesake, the famous ballet dancer, come back to earth.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So who do you think this great horse of yours might be?’

  ‘Now that really would be telling.’

  ‘Well, whatever the secret of the horse’s greatness, because make no mistake, folks’ – the interviewer turned for a moment to talk directly to the camera – ‘this is probably the greatest racehorse you have ever seen or ever will see – so whatever makes the old boy tick, Cassie – what next?’

  ‘Remember the horse was short of a proper race, so he’ll be an even better horse next time out.’

  ‘And where and when might that be?’ the interviewer finally enquired, with a broad smile also on his face.

  ‘Cheltenham,’ Cassie replied with a nod. ‘Same time next year.’

  Some weeks later, a month or more after she had returned to Claremore, Cassie, Theodore and Wilkie went on a long walk up into the hills behind the house. They walked where Cassie so often walked, in fact they walked the very route she had taken on horseback that fateful day she had lost Tyrone. As always when they walked into the hills Wilkie was in high spirits and insisted Cassie or Theodore throw him the stick he had brought with him at every conceivable opportunity. It was a fine May day, high-clouded and crisp, with the countryside which lay spread out below them beginning to dress in its spring colours.

  As they were going through the field where Tyrone had fallen, Cassie stopped as she always did on the spot where the accident had happened, but this day Wilkie grew impatient after a few moments and jumped up at her, which was unlike his normal behaviour. He jumped up so that his paws landed high on Cassie’s chest and Cassie scolded him and eased the dog down off her, not noticing that as she did so one of his paws had caught her precious gold locket, breaking the chain and causing the locket to drop into the deep grass, almost exactly where it had fallen so fatefully those many years before.

  Then once again as she reached the top of the field Cassie reached to the open neck of her shirt, suddenly realizing that the little gold heart no longer hung there. She stopped where she was, still with her hand to her throat, and looked back down the slope to the corner of the field where she knew it must lie, to the spot where she had lost Tyrone.

  She paused for a moment, with her hand to her neck, and as she did Wilkie sat down at her feet and rested his head against her while above her Theodore leaned on a stile to stare up at the sky.

  Then finally C
assie raised the hand that was to her neck up to her mouth and, pressing it to her lips, let one kiss fly on the spring breeze that blew gently down the hills before, ruffling Wilkie’s head, she set off once more to walk the hills which rose majestically behind her beloved Claremore.

  Postscript

  ‘And what of the loose ends?’ her shock-white-haired interviewer asked her. ‘What of all that criminality? Was the bet paid?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Cassie smiled as they walked on through the gardens of Claremore. ‘There was no way Gold could welsh on that bet.’

  ‘Thus the day was saved.’

  ‘The day was, and with it Claremore, but of course no reparation could ever be finally made for what the wretches did to the horse. No-one could ever give him back his career at stud and I think racing will always feel the loss.’

  ‘And Mr Gold is now dead.’

  ‘Long dead.’

  ‘How did Theodore Pilkington know?’

  ‘Well.’ Cassie smiled as she remembered the moment when Theodore had leaned across to her and told her there was something else she should know about Mr Michael Gold. ‘When Theodore was a young man, qualifying as a doctor, his father used to sit him down on the bench by the fishpond in the village where they lived and get Theodore to diagnose at sight. His father was a doctor, you understand, a general practitioner with a special gift for diagnosis. So there the two of them would sit and let the village stroll innocently by and guess by sight what was wrong with every one of them. Finally Theodore got as good as his father, finding that he too had the knack. So when he met Gold that first day at Ascot, the meeting when Big Wallow was got at, he knew at once by looking at Gold and listening to him what he was suffering from.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Motor neurone disease. The facial tic, the muscular deterioration, the hoarseness of the voice, the difficulty in swallowing, it all seemed to indicate motor neurone, and assuming he was right Theodore said Gold’s expected lifespan would probably be no more than a year, two years at most.’

  ‘This was why you felt perfectly comfortable letting him have the book, rather than handing him over to the authorities and letting the law take its course.’

  ‘Imagine,’ Cassie proposed. ‘Suppose they had finally got him to court and suppose they had actually found him guilty. By the time he got sent down, maybe he would have had six months left to live at most. No-one would have benefited. This seemed a much better form of justice’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘As it happens, he died only five months after the Champion Hurdle. But not before ironically enough he’d been persuaded to set up and finance a trust fund to investigate the incidence of the doping of horses and to find ways not only to safeguard against its happening but also to trace and analyse the state of the art drugs. It’s been very successful too, I’m happy to say.’

  ‘A suitable memorial in the circumstances.’

  ‘Horses happily do not understand irony, J.J. They’ve just benefited from Gold’s apparent philanthropy.’

  ‘And all because of one woman’s jealousy,’ Cassie’s visitor mused. ‘Can you imagine? What a story. Yes, and by the by, what happened to your friend Leonora?’

  ‘She’s still alive and she’s still kicking,’ Cassie replied with a rueful smile. ‘But that, as they say, my old friend, is another story.’

  By now they were headed for the home paddock where a group of horses could be seen grazing peacefully in the cool of the shadows spread by the huge horse chestnuts.

  ‘The lad responsible for doping the horse,’ J. J. Buchanan asked. ‘Phelim O’Connell, right? Whatever became of him?’

  ‘He made a full recovery from his beating, but he wouldn’t come back to Claremore, even though we did everything to try to persuade him,’ Cassie replied. ‘He was too frightened of what his mates might think of him, or even do to him, particularly since although he didn’t actually do the doping of Big Wallow he admitted he had been involved in helping them get at the horse. But then he had what they call extenuating circumstances, so when he wouldn’t come back here to work we set up a trust for his sick sister and finally got her sent over to this place in America. Phelim went over there with her and he’s working somewhere down in Blue Grass country.’

  ‘And his sick sister?’

  ‘She actually got a whole lot better. She won’t ever be totally cured, but she is still considerably better, and needs very little treatment now.’

  Cassie whistled gently and held out her hand for the big black horse who was now making his slow way over to them. ‘Anyway, enough of that,’ she continued. ‘This is who you came to see.’

  ‘I came to see you, Cassie,’ the man beside her replied. ‘Much as I love and admire your horse—’ He stopped and looked out across the beautiful scene of the horses grazing in the shadow of the blue mountains.

  ‘You know, you still haven’t said whether or not you were going to propose to me that night, Joe,’ Cassie said with a smile, slipping her arm through her old friend’s. ‘The night my mother died. Were you?’

  Joe nodded. ‘I sure was,’ he said. ‘You bet.’

  Cassie sighed and looked at her famous horse who was now standing before her, right up by the rail. ‘Just think,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I too often have, Cassie,’ Joe replied. ‘I’ve thought about what might have happened almost every day of my life. Imagine – if you had said yes—’

  ‘Which I would have done.’

  ‘There’d have been no Nightingale. The world would never have known your wonderful horse.’

  And I’d never have known Tyrone, Cassie thought.

  After a moment’s reflection, Cassie turned back to Joe, squeezing his arm which was still linked through her own. ‘Did you marry?’ she asked.

  ‘I did, and I got divorced, and I have three fine children. Talking of which, how are your kids?’

  ‘Mattie as you probably know is doing brilliantly,’ Cassie said. ‘He had his first Group One winner two years after Nightie’s Champion Hurdle when he won the Irish 2000 Guineas with Tree House, and three years later he trained Soft Spot to win the Irish Derby. Jo is married to Gareth Plunkett and I’m now a grandmother twice over, with a grandson and a granddaughter. And Erin’s beloved Padraig has become an actor, which in a way was always on the cards.’

  ‘What about Mr Joel Benson?’

  ‘You’ll meet him tonight. He and his wife Polly are coming over for the weekend with their two children, who are my godchildren, Billie his daughter—’

  ‘Billie?’

  ‘Named after Billie Holliday, I gather. And Red, his son.’

  ‘Named after Red Nichols, I guess.’

  ‘Named after Red Garland, Joel’s favourite jazz pianist. He’s a very happy man, and Polly, contrary to first impressions, in an absolute hoot. Now are you going to make yourself acquainted with Nightie or aren’t you? Because if you are, you’re going to need these.’ She handed him a tube of polo mints and smiled.

  ‘I thought he didn’t like us men?’ Joe wondered.

  ‘He didn’t,’ Cassie replied. ‘But now he’s retired he’s mellowed, and although horses never forget, they do as it happens seem to forgive. Go ahead, he won’t bite you.’

  Joe fed the big horse a stream of peppermints and in between feeds was rewarded with a friendly but thorough buffeting from the great horse’s muzzle.

  ‘He looks magnificent, Cassie,’ Joe said.

  ‘He is magnificent,’ Cassie agreed. ‘He’s the most magnificent creature you will ever meet.’

  ‘That includes your husband?’ J. J. Buchanan asked, poker-faced.

  ‘My husband’s different magnificent,’ Cassie laughed. ‘Talking of which—’ She pointed to the left where an old but absolutely immaculate burgundy Rolls Royce was arriving up the drive. ‘Here he is now,’ she said. ‘Come on, come on and meet him.’ Cassie gave The Nightingale one last mint and a final pull at his ears before turning away, followed by her childhood
sweetheart Joe Harris, now the famous American sportswriter J. J. Buchanan.

  As he fell into step beside her, Joe Buchanan put his hand deep into his jacket pocket to flick open a little ring box which contained a simple little one diamond engagement ring, ran his finger once over the stone, then clicked the box shut for ever more.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Charlotte Bingham comes from a literary family – her father sold a story to H.G. Wells when he was only seventeen – and Charlotte wrote her autobiography, Coronet among the Weeds, at the age of nineteen. Since then she has written comedy and drama series, films and plays for both England and America with her husband, the actor and playwright Terence Brady. Her most recent novels include Goodnight Sweetheart, The Enchanted, The Land of Summer and The Daisy Club.

  Also by Charlotte Bingham:

  CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS

  LUCINDA

  CORONET AMONG THE GRASS

  BELGRAVIA

  COUNTRY LIFE

  AT HOME

  BY INVITATION

  COUNTRY WEDDING

  TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

  THE BUSINESS

  IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

  STARDUST

  NANNY

  CHANGE OF HEART

  DEBUTANTES

  Novels with Terence Brady:

  VICTORIA

  VICTORIA AND COMPANY

  ROSE’S STORY

  YES HONESTLY

  Television Drama Series with Terence Brady:

  TAKE THREE GIRLS

  UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

  THOMAS AND SARAH

  NANNY

  Television Comedy Series with Terence Brady:

  NO HONESTLY

  YES HONESTLY

  PIG IN THE MIDDLE

  OH MADELINE! (USA)

  FATHER MATTHEW’S DAUGHTER

  Television Plays:

  MAKING THE PLAY

  SUCH A SMALL WORD

  ONE OF THE FAMILY

  Films:

  LOVE WITH A PERFECT STRANGER

  MAGIC MOMENTS