Dead Reckoning

by Glenis Wilson

  I turned to Pen across the breakfast table. ‘Have to take a rain check on tonight’s bun fight – just realized I’m double-booked. Sorry, Pen. Could we set another date?’

  ‘No worries.’ Pen poured herself more coffee. ‘I know you and Mike are both busy boys.’

  Mike snorted disparagingly. ‘Boys? Pen, my sweet, I think you should toddle off to the opticians for a sight check. Us two haven’t been boys for getting on for … thirty years?’

  ‘Ignore him, Pen. I’m still in my first childhood, even if he isn’t.’ I downed a Bovril drink.

  ‘If you’ve got a bit more time to plan, how about you invite Annabel for drinks? She sounds an interesting lady.’

  ‘Could do. Depends if Sir Jeffrey is home, though.’

  ‘Isn’t he usually?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Perhaps he will be when the baby arrives.’

  I smiled and nodded and managed to hide the emerald-green stab of jealousy that her words engendered.

  ‘You having another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Mike drained the last of his massive mug of tea. ‘I’m done. Think we’d better make tracks. The travel forecast warns there are roadworks on the A1, so we ought to allow a bit of extra time, given you’re riding in the first race.’

  ‘Have fun, my darling.’ Pen lifted her face to receive the kiss Mike gave her.

  ‘Fun, woman? It’s hard labour.’

  ‘Well, it probably is for Harry.’ She was laughing as she looked up into his face, her gaze warm, loving. Their happiness was almost tangible. Mike was a lucky man. But he’d waited years for this type of happiness and he deserved every precious second.

  We arrived at Wetherby with little time in hand. Mike had been right about the roadworks.

  I went straight into the jockeys’ weighing room to dump my racing gear before joining Mike in the bar for a bracing black coffee. I was ready for one. Having let down the passenger seat as far as it would go, left Mike to concentrate on getting us to the racecourse, and with no possibility of being ambushed, I’d enjoyed a deep, refreshing sleep. I couldn’t wait now to swing up into the saddle, try for a winner.

  Black Tartan, my first ride, belonged to Samuel Simpson. He was a good chap; Mike and I played golf with him. We often played a foursome with the three of us plus Victor Maudsley, the retired racehorse trainer, usually down at North Shore golf course near Skegness, a great venue. Victor lived, literally, a few yards from the course. It would be nice if I could come in first. It was probable Samuel would be here today. Whether his lovely daughter, Chloe, would come with him was an unknown. We all shared dramatic history. The fact we were actually here now, still friends, said a lot for Samuel and Chloe’s generosity of spirit.

  Thinking of Victor Maudsley reminded me I’d meant to motor over to the flower shop in Grantham, check if it might have been Victor who had placed the white roses on my mother’s grave. It was a loose end that needed tying. When I found out who had bought the flowers, I would need to follow that by inquiring about the meaning of the message written on the card.

  But for now, I needed to back-burner all other thoughts and concentrate on the first race. The nine fences were stiff but Black Tartan had the advantage of running well on a left-handed track. I’d always liked racing at Wetherby – it was an easy and comparatively short drive up and had a great atmosphere.

  Rejoining the rest of the jockeys inside the changing room, I stripped off my normal clothes, zipped the body protector around my chest and pulled on the purple and green racing silks, Samuel’s colours. On the point of putting on my paper-thin racing boots, Henry Vale, apprentice jockey to one of the up-north trainers, dropped down on the bench beside me. Raising his voice a little to overcome the usual racket of good-natured ribbing and ribaldry, he passed on a message.

  ‘Mousey Brown’s looking for you, Harry. Knows you’re racing today. Said would I tell you to meet him after your second outside the winners’ enclosure.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Dunno. He was half-pissed, as per, but he dropped me a tenner to make sure.’

  ‘I need to get back straight after racing.’

  ‘Aw, come on, if you don’t show he’s not going to believe I told you.’

  I took pity on him. It wasn’t so far back I couldn’t remember a tenner was, on occasion, a lifesaver for a lowly racing employee drawing a meagre pay packet. I’d been there. Ten pounds would feed him for a couple of days.

  ‘OK, I’ll be there. But only briefly, right?’

  He grinned, gave the stable lad’s habitual sniff – that could be read any number of ways – and said, ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Henry was riding in the same race, the first one. I’d done my homework earlier, knew his horse was a no-hoper, but at least he’d get paid the standard riding fee. Thinking about it, he wasn’t that desperate to keep Mousey’s tenner. Still, I’d said I’d meet the man. Why he wanted to see me, I couldn’t imagine. Right now, with jockeys beginning to stream out to the parade ring ready to mount up, I pushed it from my mind, pulled on my second boot and followed them.

  Black Tartan was an odds-on favourite and, barring a disaster, was expected to win. Samuel had arrived while I’d been in the changing room and was now standing with Mike in the parade ring, eagerly anticipating the race. He pumped my hand.

  ‘Bring him in, Harry.’

  ‘Do my best, Samuel.’

  ‘Never known you not to.’ He chuckled. ‘Even on an out-and-out yak.’

  I grinned back. That was the one safe bet in racing: you couldn’t guarantee any horse and even yaks had been known to have their day.

  ‘No Chloe?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, she’s got an appointment with the solicitor this afternoon.’ He worked his lips sideways in grave distaste, ‘The divorce … you know …’

  I knew. ‘Give her my best regards anyway.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  The order to mount interrupted any further conversation and Mike flipped me up into Black Tartan’s saddle. He was on his toes, primed and perfect for the race.

  I had a job holding him on the canter down to the starting tape. The confidence he had in himself, coupled with mine in expecting to win, worked like a charm. It was a copybook race, if there was such a thing, and we saw off the pack and galloped up the couple of hundred yards’ run-in about seven lengths clear.

  I rode him into the winners’ enclosure to the deafening cheers from all the happy people who knew a good thing when they saw it and, after watching him in the parade ring, had had a good punt. They wouldn’t clear much profit at the odds but most likely they’d used him as a banker in accumulators. Whatever, Black Tartan appreciated the fuss being made of him and, with ears pricked, tossed his head up and down enthusiastically.

  Samuel, of course, was delighted and busily slapping Mike on the shoulder. Black Tartan was a fairly newly acquired addition to his string. The win validated his choice of horseflesh and he was wearing a wide grin. He was also the owner of Floribunda, the horse I was due to ride in the next.

  I left them enjoying the high and went to weigh-in.

  I’d ridden Floribunda before. He was an out-and-out stayer, although his jumping was less than reliable. But today my luck was holding. Floribunda gave me a great ride over the first five fences. I was in a good place, only four in front and the rest strung out behind. A gap appeared on the stands side and I squeezed the horse forward as we approached fence number six.

  He took off too soon. I knew immediately he wasn’t going to clear the jump. As Floribunda struggled over, he dropped his back legs and that was it. The drag of the brushwood fetched him down, pitching him forward on the landing side. And I sailed up and over his neck. To be honest, I can’t remember much else after that.

  Mike told me afterwards, I hit the ground head first, rolled and one of the following horses struck my head with a hoof shod with a metal racing plate.
The impact of the blow had split my crash cap like an eggshell.

  When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed attached to a drip and the racecourse was a million miles away. Immediately, a wave of nausea swamped me and I was violently sick. The pretty little nurse, who had been detailed to take care of me, was totally unfazed. She dealt with the cleaning up in a calm, efficient manner and mopped me clean. She explained I had sustained a concussion, only that, miraculously, no bones were broken. My whole body was one big bruise but that would heal itself.

  The good news was that somehow I’d escaped a fracture to my skull. With no further bumps to my head over the next two or three days, the concussion would sort itself out. I knew that – I’d had concussion before. But for the moment I was grounded. That was non-negotiable. Apparently the hospital wasn’t taking any chances on further complications that might show up later. But I felt too groggy to even think of arguing. I was not exactly seeing double – two visions of the pretty nurse wouldn’t be too bad, but the crack on my head had definitely affected my sight. I felt I was not so much lying in bed as in a boat. Closing my eyes against the undulations that were making me feel so sick helped, a little. Losing my stomach contents wasn’t dignified, it was bloody embarrassing. So, I sank back into the seductive darkness that relentlessly drew me down.

  The next time I awoke, Mike was sitting beside my bed. However, the bed had stopped swinging up and down now and my eyesight had steadied. I could see his face was wearing a grim expression.

  ‘You can forget the coffin ordering,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m still in the game.’

  ‘And thank God for that.’ His face cleared. ‘You gave us a bloody scare this time. Have you seen the state of your crash cap?’ Without waiting for my reply, he bent over and lifted it up for me to look at. It was practically hanging in two halves; only the inner webbing held it together.

  ‘Can’t see superglue sticking that. Looks like it’s going to cost me. Have to buy a new one.’

  ‘Buy it out of your percentage winnings from Black Tartan.’

  ‘Ha …’ His words prompted my next ones. ‘Tell me, Floribunda …?’

  ‘Fine. Bit stiff the next day, naturally. I got the vet to give him the once-over. He passed him A OK.’

  I felt the relief lift a potential weight from me. But the relief was fleeting.

  ‘How long have I been here? What day is it?’

  ‘Monday. You’ve been under quite a bit. Well, I think they’ve given you a bit of dope to help you heal.’

  ‘Monday!’ I struggled to sit up. ‘What about Leo? He’ll need feeding—’

  ‘Whoa.’ Mike held up a hand. ‘Just you settle yourself. I’ve been over, checked out the cottage and fed the cat. Leo didn’t need it, the crafty bugger. He’d been pigging out on pilchards.’

  ‘One of his favourites. Who gave them to him?’

  He grinned. ‘Use your head. Oh, sorry … slipped out. It was Annabel, of course. She rang me later to see how you were.’

  ‘She’s a gem.’

  ‘’Course she is. I thanked her on your behalf.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So, no problems. You just get over the head injury, get some rest, nothing’s spoiling.’

  I flopped back gratefully. Right now, Leo probably had more strength in one of his ginger paws than I had in the whole of my body. But then a horrible uneasiness crept into my battered brain. It wasn’t only Leo who needed feeding.

  If today was Monday, Jake Smith had been locked in Nathaniel’s studio for three days – without food!

  EIGHT

  I felt the sweat stand out on my face, run down my neck.

  ‘Harry?’ Mike was staring at me in concern. ‘What is it? You in pain?’

  ‘Nothing spoiling?’ I grimaced, and not just from pain. ‘Try Jake Smith starving.’ I watched the horrified realization dawn on his face.

  ‘Good God, Harry … I forgot all about him! The poor sod …’

  He scraped back the plastic visitor’s chair.

  ‘I’ll get there straight away.’

  ‘Keys, Mike.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Last seen in the dash of my Mazda.’

  ‘Which is now parked up at the stables?’

  I tried to nod – tried.

  Mike dropped a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. ‘Stick with it. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘Watch your back. Jake might try taking a bite out of you.’

  ‘After three days without food, you could be right.’

  I spent the next two days getting my act together before the hospital relented and shipped me off back home.

  ‘But in view of the nature of your … work,’ the doctor said with heavy disapproval, ‘it would be wise – indeed, sensible – to take a few days off.’

  Yes, no doubt it would, but since when has a jump jockey ever done anything sensible? Riding half a ton of straining horseflesh over massive jumps and pushing out for a finish at upwards of thirty-odd miles an hour wasn’t in the least sensible. And the odds on falling off was something best not dwelt on. But I thanked him sincerely for patching up my head and returned home to the cottage with great relief.

  Within five minutes, Leo’s sixth sense had alerted him to my presence and he slid sinuously through the cat flap. Well, as sinuously as eight kilos of huge ginger tom can do. He was very forgiving and didn’t hold it against me that he’d been ditched to take his own chances. He leapt up on to my shoulder with a loud bellow of welcome and bashed his head into my right ear.

  ‘And I’m glad to see you too, mate.’ I stroked his furry body, feeling the reverberating purrs rising up through his ribcage like a road drill on piecework.

  Being in hospital had one advantage: my weight had dropped. Partly due to the size of the helpings and partly to my throwing them back up again. In contrast, Leo had piled it on. Sitting on my shoulder, he weighed a ton. The jury was out on Jake Smith’s weight.

  I’d received a telephone call from Mike to let me know the bird had flown. Presumably, through the smashed up north window. I was going to have to do something about that fairly smartly before the local thieving locusts could descend and strip the place, and in any case before Nathaniel returned from Lucerne.

  However, right now, I cranked up the central heating, brewed a mug of scalding tea and put on a Mozart CD. He was supposed to be good for the brain patterns, wasn’t he? Whatever, all I craved at the moment was to stretch out on the settee with an abundance of squashy cushions packed round my neck to support my aching head and delight in the healing peace of being back at the cottage. Far, far away from the nightmare of frenetic activity and constant racket that constituted the hospital environment. No doubt of it, you had to be strong to survive going in there.

  Leo immediately settled himself on my solar plexus; his rhythmic purring had a soothing, stress-busting effect. Home was security, warmth and peace. I lay back, sipped my mug of tea and counted my blessings.

  I wondered where Jake Smith was going to lay his head tonight. I’d broken my word to him that I would bring him food; forced him to break out and find sustenance himself. When Mike had told me he was no longer in the studio, I’d been very pleased. Starving wasn’t pleasant. As a jockey, I understood this stark fact very well, was prepared to accept this on a day-to-day basis of short rations. But that was my choice because it was relevant to my work. Forcing someone to go without food for days was indefensible.

  I hadn’t expected to fall off and end up in hospital, but it wouldn’t have assuaged my guilt at causing suffering if Jake had still been waiting inside the studio when Mike arrived.

  Outside, it was down to freezing point and falling. Leo and I were cosy, comfortable, but it was very likely that Jake was acutely aware of the cold. In his position, he had little chance of finding a warm billet. But he was an adult, not my responsibility. Still, I hoped he had found a safe shelter for the night. I set down my empty mug and closed my eyes.

&
nbsp; Mozart’s twenty-first played movingly to its climax and my mobile, incongruously, stridently, struck up the theme tune from The Great Escape. It shattered the somnolent atmosphere and brought me sharply to full consciousness.

  ‘Harry, darling? How are you? Where are you …?’

  Just the sound of her voice brought a stupid grin to my face.

  ‘Annabel, great to hear from you. I’m on the mend and back at the cottage.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes to the first, no to the second. Leo’s right here, spread out across my solar plexus, weighing a ton and snoring.’

  ‘Oh, the darling.’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘He’s de-stressing you, Harry. Animals know when you’re ill.’

  ‘Anyway, where are you? Back at the ranch with Jeffrey?’

  ‘No, no, Jeffrey’s down in London on business.’

  ‘He usually is,’ I growled. God, didn’t the man know what a prize she was? Leaving her on her own was a bloody waste. Any man would have been delighted to take his chance and move in on her, especially me. Jeffrey was all kinds of an idiot. ‘So, if you’re not home, where are you?’

  ‘Just about to make my way back from visiting Aunt Rachel and Uncle George.’

  ‘How come?’ I frowned. I knew, since Aunt Rachel had learned of Annabel’s pregnancy, she’d been acting as though the baby was a forthcoming member of the family, conveniently forgetting that Jeffrey was the father, not myself.

  ‘Well, since the early summer we’ve sort of drawn a lot closer. I suppose because they’re the older generation, I look on them a bit like surrogate parents.’ I knew Annabel’s parents were both dead, as were Jeffrey’s. Jeffrey was a lot older than Annabel.

  ‘You’ve been visiting before then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, a couple of times at least. The previous time I was there was just a few weeks ago. We went out to lunch, had a stroll round Lincoln.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was a surprise to me but, thinking of Jeffrey’s habitual absences, I could see Annabel was probably fairly lonely.