Wild Horses

by Dick Francis

  One of O'Hara's chief virtues, in my eyes, was his ability to evaluate facts very fast and come up with quick decisions. So, “Buy them,” he said, and he'd liberated sufficient funds for a bloodstock agency to acquire the fourteen good-looking no-hopers currently eating oats and hay in our yard.

  The actors' unions having agreed we should use real-life stable personnel for the horses, I'd recruited a young assistant trainer from a prestigious Newmarket yard and installed him in charge of our whole horse operation, giving him the title of horsemaster and also the riding but non-speaking role of assistant trainer in the film.

  He was already busy getting lads and horses ready for the morning action when I arrived in the yard at dawn. Moncrieff's crew had laid felt carpeting over the gravel to silence the progress of the rolling camera dolly. He himself had strategically planted his lighting. Ed, he reported, was already in position upstairs.

  The weather was cold and windy with dark scudding clouds. Moncrieff liked the moodiness, humming happily as he arranged for ominous shadows to fall across Nash's stand-in, who looked hopelessly untrainerlike in riding gear. When Nash himself - in character -strode out of the house and yelled bad-tempered instructions to the lads it was as real as any such bona fide moment I'd ever seen.

  There were annoyances with the camera truck - one of its wheels squeaked despite the felt path. Oil and oaths fixed it. Moncrieff and I fretted at the delay because of light values. Nash seemed less irritated than resigned.

  Only two takes were necessary of the assistant trainer giving Nash a leg-up onto his hack; the horse amazingly stood still. Nash wheeled away and sat on his mount in and out of shot while the assistant trainer heaved himself into his own saddle and led the circling string of by now mounted lads out through wide open stable gates onto the Newmarket training grounds beyond. Nash followed last, remembering to look back and up to the bedroom window. When his horse had walked him well out of sight I yelled “Cut”, and the whole string ambled back into the yard, the hooves scrunching on the gravel, the lads joshing each other like kids out of school.

  “How did it go?” I asked Moncrieff. “Cameras OK?”

  “Print, then.” I walked among the horses to speak to their riders. “That was good,” I said. “We'll do it again, now, though. Two snaps are better than one.”

  They nodded. By then they all considered themselves expert film-makers. The second take didn't go as smoothly, but that didn't necessarily matter: we would use the version that looked more natural on film.

  I followed them on foot out of the gate to where Nash and all the lads were circling, awaiting my verdict.

  “Same again tomorrow morning,” I said, patting horses' necks. “Different clothes. Off you all go, then. Remember not to get in the way of any real racehorses. Walk and trot only on the grounds we've been allotted.”

  The string filed off to exercise and Nash returned to the yard, dismounting and handing his reins to the lad left behind for the purpose.

  “Is it still on for tomorrow?” he asked, turning in my direction.

  “Doncaster, do you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course it is,” I said. “The stewards have asked you to their lunch, so you can use their box all afternoon and have as much or as little privacy as you want. They've sent tickets for two, for you to take a companion.”

  “Whoever you like.”

  “You, then.”

  What? I meant a friend, or perhaps Silva?” Silva was the bewitching actress he'd tumbled around with in bed.

  “Not her,” he said vehemently. “You. Why not? And don't say you'll still be doing close shots in the enquiry room. Let's make damned sure they all get completed this afternoon. I want you because you know the drill on a British racecourse, and the racing people know you.”

  Green lights got what they wanted. Moreover, I discovered it was what I wanted also.

  “Fine, then,” I said. “Helicopter at eleven-thirty.”

  Watching his familiar back walk off to his ever-waiting Rolls, I called Bedford Lodge from my mobile phone and by persuasive perseverance got the staff to find Howard Tyler, who was in the bar.

  “Just a word, Howard,” I said.

  “Not more script changes?” He was acidly sarcastic.

  “No. Um... simply a word of warning.”

  “I don't need your words of warning.”

  “Good, then. But ... er ... I just thought I might remind you, knowing how you feel, that you agreed not to bellyache about the film until after its release.”

  “I'll say what I damned well please.”

  “It's your privilege. I don't suppose you care about the penalties in your contract.”

  “What penalties?”

  “Most film contracts include them,” I said. “I'm sure yours does. Film companies routinely seek ways to stop a disgruntled writer from sabotaging the whole film just because he or she dislikes the changes made to the original work. They put in clauses allowing themselves to recover substantial damages.”

  After a lengthy pause Howard said, “I never signed such a contract.”

  “Fine, then, but you might check with your agent.” “You're trying to frighten me!” he complained. “I'm just suggesting you might want to be careful.” Silence. Howard simply put down his receiver. So much for tactful advice!

  True to his intention, Nash did make damned sure that we completed the enquiry-room shots that day, even if not until past eight in the evening. In want of a shower and a reviving drink, I drove back to Bedford Lodge and found waiting for me a long fax from O'Hara, starting with the Daily Cable obituary.

  Rupert Visborough's life was dedicated to serving his country, the neighbourhood and the Sport of Kings.

  Commissioned into the Scots Guards, he retired with the rank of major to enter local politics in his home county of Cambridgeshire. Many committees benefited from his expert chairmanship, including...

  The list was long, virtuous and unexciting.

  A landowner, he was elected a member of the Jockey Club following the death of his father, Sir Ralph Vis-borough, knighted for his patronage of many animal charities.

  Highly respected by all who knew him, Rupert Visborough felt obliged to remove his name from a shortlist of those being considered for selection as parliamentary candidate, a consequence of his having inadvertently been involved in an unexplained death closely touching his family.

  His wife's sister, married to Newmarket trainer Jackson Wells, was found hanged in one of the loose boxes in her husband's stable yard. Exhaustive police enquiries failed to find either a reason for suicide, or any motive or suspect for murder. Jackson Wells maintained his innocence throughout. The Jockey Club, conducting its own private enquiry, concluded there was no justification for withdrawing Wells's licence to train. Rupert Visborough, present at the enquiry, was justifiably bitter at the negative impact of the death on his own expectations.

  Reports that Jackson Wells's wife was entertaining lovers unknown to her husband could not be substantiated. Her sister - Visborough's wife - described the dead woman as 'fey' and 'a day-dreamer'. She said that as she and her sister had not been close she could offer no useful suggestions.

  Who knows what Rupert Visborough might not have achieved in life had these events not happened? Conjecture that he himself knew more of the facts behind the tragedy than he felt willing to disclose clung to his name despite his strongest denials. The death of his sister-in-law is unresolved to this day.

  Visborough died last Wednesday of a cerebral haemorrhage, aged 76, with his great potential sadly unfulfilled.

  He is survived by his wife, and by their son and daughter.

  O'Hara had handwritten across the bottom, “Pious load of shit! No one on the paper knows who wrote it. Their obits often come in from outside.”

  The pages of fax continued, however.

  O'Hara's handwriting stated, “This paragraph appeared in the Cable's irreverent gossip column on the same day as the obi
tuary.”

  Secrets going to grave in the Visborough family? It seems Rupert (76), Jockey Club member, dead on Wednesday of a stroke, never discovered how his sister-in-law hanged twenty-three years ago in whodunnit circs. Bereaved husband, Jackson Wells, now remarried and raising grape near Oxford, had 'no comment' re the Visborough demise. Answers to the 23-year-old mystery must exist. Send us info.

  O'Hara's handwriting: “The Cable got about 6 replies, all no good. End of story as far as they are concerned. But at great expense they searched their microfilmed records and found these accounts, filed and printed at the time of the hanging.”

  The first mention had earned a single minor paragraph: 'Newmarket trainer's wife hanged'.

  For almost two weeks after that there had been daily revelations, many along the lines of 'did she jump or was she pushed?' and equally many about the unfairness - and personal bitterness - of the nipping in the bud effect of Visborough's ambitions for a political career.

  A hanging in the family, it seemed, had discouraged not only racehorse owners; the blight had spread beyond Jackson Wells to canvassers and prospective voters.

  The story had extinguished itself from lack of fuel. The last mention of Jackson Wells's wife announced untruthfully, 'The police expect to make an arrest within a few days.' And after that, silence.

  The basic question remained unanswered - why did she hang?

  I had dinner and went to bed and dreamed about them, Visborough as Gibber, his cuckolding wife as the pretty actress Silva, Nash as Jackson Wells and the fey, hanged woman as a wisp of muslin, a blowing curtain by the window.

  No insight. No inspiration. No solution.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Delays plagued the going-out-to-exercise scene the next morning. One of the horses, feeling fractious, dumped his lad and kicked one of the camera-operating crew. Light bulbs failed in mid-shot. One of the stable lads loudly asked a silly question while the cameras were rolling, and a sound engineer, who should have known better, strolled, smoking, into the next take.

  Nash, emerging from the house, forgot to bring with him the crash helmet he was supposed to put on before he mounted. He flicked his fingers in frustration and retraced his steps.

  By the time we finally achieved a printable result it was no longer dawn or anywhere near it. Moncrieff, cursing, juggled relays of coloured filters to damp down the exuberant sun. I looked at my watch and thought about the helicopter.

  “Once more,” I shouted generally. “And for Christ's sake, get it right. Don't come back, go on out to exercise. Everyone ready?”

  “Cameras rolling,” Moncrieff said.

  I yelled, “Action”, and yet again the lads led their long-suffering charges out of the loose boxes, hauled themselves into the saddle, formed a straggly line and skittered out of the gate. Nash, following them, forgot to look up at the window.

  I yelled, “Cut” and said to Moncrieff, “Print.”

  Nash came back swearing.

  “Never mind,” I said. “We'll cut it in. Would you ride out again and turn and look up after, you're through the gate, as if the other horses had gone out of shot ahead of you? We'll also do a close shot of that look.”

  'Right now?'

  Yes,” I said. “Now, because of having the same light. And how about a touch of exasperation with the wife?”

  The close shot of the exasperation proved well worth the extra time taken in raising a camera high. Even Moncrieff smiled.

  All Nash said was, “I hope the Doncaster stewards wait lunch.”

  He whisked off in the Rolls but when I followed a minute or two later I found him still standing in the hotel lobby reading a newspaper, rigidly concentrated.

  “Nash?” I enquired tentatively.

  He lowered the paper, thrust it into my hands and in explosive fury said, “Shit!” Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving me to discover what had upset him.

  I saw. I read, and felt equally murderous.

  BUMMER OF A FILM ON THE TURF

  First reports of 'Unstable Times', now in front of cameras in Newmarket, speak of rows, discord and screeching nerves.

  Author Howard Tyler's vibrant tale, ten weeks on bestseller lists, is mangled beyond recognition, my sources tell me. Nash Rourke, superstar, rues his involvement: says “Director Thomas Lyon (30), ineffectual, arrogant, insists on disastrous last-minute script changes.”

  Lyon vows to solve a 26-year-old real-life mystery, basis of Tyler's masterpiece. The police failed at the time. Who is Lyon kidding?

  Naturally those closely touched by the tragic unexplained hanging death of a leading Newmarket trainer's wife are distressed to have cold embers fanned to hurtful inaccurate reheat.

  Lyon's version so far has the hanged wife's trainer-husband - Rourke - tumbling her sister, prompting apoplectic revenge from consequently cuckolded top Jockey Club steward, later ga-ga. None of this happened.

  Why do the giants of Hollywood entrust a prestigious film-of-the-book to the incompetent mercies of an over-hyped bully-boy? Why is this ludicrous buffoon still strutting his stuff on the Heath? Who's allowing him to waste millions of dollars on this pathetic travesty of a great work?

  Isn't Master Thomas Lyon ripe for the overdue boot?

  There was a large photograph of Nash, looking grim.

  Blindly angry, I went up to my rooms and found the telephone ringing when I walked in.

  Before I could speak into the receiver, Nash's voice said, “I didn't say that, Thomas.”

  “You wouldn't.”

  “I'll kill that son of a bitch, Tyler.”

  “Leave him to O'Hara.”

  “Are we still going to Doncaster?”

  “We certainly are,” I said. Anywhere but Newmarket, I thought. “Ready in half an hour?”

  “I'll be down in the lobby.”

  I phoned O'Hara's mobile phone and reached only his message service.

  I said, “Read the Daily Drumbeat, page sixteen, feature column headed, "Hot from the Stars". Nash and I are going to the sports. I'll have my mobile. Take Prozak.”

  Howard Tyler's phone rang and rang in his room, unanswered.

  I showered in record time, put on steward-lunching clothes and went down to ask questions of the helpful soul behind the reception desk.

  “Mr Tyler isn't here,” she confirmed. “He left.”

  When did he leave?”

  “Actually,” she said, “he picked up a newspaper from the desk here and went into the dining-room to have breakfast, as he always does. It's so nice to have him here, and Mr Rourke too, we can hardly believe it ... So Mr Tyler hurried out of the dining-room five minutes later - he didn't eat his breakfast - he went upstairs and came down with his suitcase and said he didn't know when he'd come back.” She looked worried. “I didn't ask him for payment. I hope I haven't done wrong, but I understood everything should be charged to the film company.”

  “Don't worry about that,” I reassured her. “Did Mr Tyler say where he was going?”

  He hadn't, of course. He'd been in a great hurry. The receptionist had asked him if he'd felt ill, but he hadn't answered. He'd taken the newspaper with him, but the staff had had another copy. They had all read the column. She'd thought it best to show it to Mr Rourke. Her virtuousness nearly choked her.

  “What will happen, do you think?: Nash asked, ready for the races, listening to a repeat from the receptionist.

  “Short-term, we've got Howard off our backs.”

  We went out to the Rolls and along to where the helicopter waited.

  “I'll sue the bastard,” Nash said furiously, strapping himself in, “saying I rue my involvement!”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Say it.”

  “Shit, Thomas. I said I was sorry not to be staying home with my wife. And that was on day one. I don't in the least regret it now.”

  “She could have come with you.”

  He shrugged. We both knew why his wif
e had stayed at home: her insecurity in a four-months pregnancy with complications. She'd been annoyed with him for agreeing to Newmarket. He'd made too public an apology.

  “As for all that trash I was supposed to say about you personally...”

  “Howard put his own words into your mouth,” I said. “Forget it.”

  The helicopter lifted off from the Newmarket grass and swung round north-west.

  However glibly I might say 'forget it', I had uncomfortable suspicions that the parent movie company, our source of finance, would come thundering down like a posse to lynch me from the nearest crossbeam. Any bad odour clinging to their investment called for dismissals to exorcise it. O'Hara might have to dump me: might even want to.

  Bye-bye career, I thought. It had been great while it lasted. I couldn't believe what was happening.

  Smart move on Howard's part to decamp out of reach of my fists. I could have killed him. I sat quietly in the helicopter looking out at Lincolnshire passing beneath and felt queasy from the turmoil in my gut.

  I accepted that in general the most disliked person in the making of any film was the director. The director required people to do things they considered unnecessary/ridiculous/wrong. Directors (a) demanded too much from actors and (b) ignored their well-thought-out interpretations. Directors were never satisfied, wasted time on detail, worked everyone to death, ignored injured feelings, made no allowance for technical difficulties, expected the impossible, screamed at people.

  I accepted also on the other hand that a director needed an overall vision of the work in progress, even if details got changed en route. A director had to fight to bring that vision to revelatory life. Excessive sympathy and tolerance on the set were unproductive, vacillating decisions wasted money and inconsistency left an enterprise rudderless. A successful movie was a tight ship.