I took a further bite of the wholemeal sandwich and waited, aware of tension in her voice.
She placed the newspaper on the table. It had been opened and folded to a particular page. ‘He thinks it could be worth following up. It would certainly fill in the time factor until you’ve finished with all the hospital physio treatment.’
‘You mean, until I know for sure what the final verdict is.’
‘Well, yes.’ Her eyes, always expressive, were troubled.
‘Annabel, don’t sweat,’ were also her words to me in hospital. ‘What the result turns out to be has to be accepted.’
‘I know.’
‘You really flew over from Malta to see if the healing would work the oracle, didn’t you?’ I said gently.
‘I … I hoped it might.’
My heart swelled with love for her. Despite all her personal feelings of antipathy regarding my work and the fact that it had driven a crow bar between us, she had still hoped she might repair me so I could get back on a horse again, with all the attendant risks. ‘You’re a woman in a million, Annabel.’ I laid my hand on top of hers. ‘God, I just hope Jeffrey realizes it, whilst you’re with him.’
‘I intend to stay with him, Harry. He’s a good man.’
‘Yes, I didn’t mean that quite how it came out. I meant I hope he appreciates what a fantastic person you are.’
A scratching of claws on glass drew our attention. The atmosphere lightened immediately. Leo was standing on his hind legs outside the conservatory giving faint, faraway miaows at a volume we didn’t appreciate until Annabel had jumped up and let him in.
‘Darling Leo.’ She bent and scooped him up, cuddling him close and soft-talking him.
I knew I was in a bad way right then because I wasn’t just jealous of Sir Jeffrey, I was even jealous of the bloody cat.
Annabel bore him away to the kitchen to sample ‘something fishy and very smelly’ and I reached across the table for the Racing Post. I don’t know what I was expecting but what I saw didn’t figure in my imagination. Amongst all the newsy items was an article. Mike had drawn red lines top and bottom to catch my attention.
It set out the intention of one of jump racing’s top lady trainers, Elspeth Maudsley, to retire from racing after forty-five years under the headline ‘Right Time to Retire’.
Originally she had been assistant trainer to her then husband, Victor Maudsley. It had proved a paying partnership. Their stable had produced a gratifying number of runners over the years. After an acrimonious divorce that made headlines in most newspapers at the time, Elspeth had taken out a trainer’s licence in her own name and had carried on the business. Her strike rate of winners was again impressive.
‘In everyone’s life there is a right time to do certain things,’ she was quoted, ‘and it’s time for me to say goodbye to training.’ She went on to emphasize that her interest in horse racing was undimmed and she looked forward to seeing her own horses racing, albeit in the hands of another trainer. She’d quipped at the end of the interview, ‘A much younger one than myself.’ It didn’t actually give her age, a lady’s privilege to keep schtum, but she must have been mid-to-late seventies.
I’d ridden for her loads of times in the last twenty years. She was a fair-minded, tough lady who expected – and received – respect.
I’d been drawn in and read the article with interest, exactly the reaction the journalist who had written it had been after. But interest apart, why had Mike wanted me to read it? Why send it via Annabel and tell her it was urgent? I could work out the first question easily – Annabel equalled the surety of my reading the intended article – but why the need for urgency? I was pondering on the second when the girl herself, angling a loaded tray, came through the glass doors into the conservatory, preceded, predictably, by a self-satisfied Leo. He leapt up to a padded window seat and proceeded to wash himself meticulously, even behind the ears, which always made me smile.
She placed the tray on top of the newspaper, seemingly assuming that I had, in fact, read it. On the tray were a cafetière, jug of milk and pot of honey plus two mugs – one of them my favourite.
‘I didn’t think you’d say no to some coffee.’
‘You’re right.’
She flashed a quick smile, depressed the cafetière and poured out the fresh coffee. The strong aroma filled the conservatory.
‘You don’t get this service in hospital, you know.’
‘That so?’ She added a generous spoonful of honey to each mug. I was immediately transported back to the first time I’d invited her here to the cottage. It was early in our courtship and she’d been intrigued as to why I’d laid a tray of coffee and placed a pot of honey on it.
‘For energy,’ I’d explained as we’d sipped in delicious, exciting closeness.
‘Don’t get any ideas, Harry. You’re rushing your fences.’
I’d laughed outright at her misinterpretation. ‘I do hate to disappoint you, but what I said, I meant. At six o’clock in the morning before you disappear into a stable on an empty stomach, a coffee laced with honey keeps you going for about three hours, till you get to eat breakfast.’
It had converted her there and then. She never drank it any other way afterwards.
Annabel handed me my mug and clinked it delicately with her own. ‘Here’s to your rapid recovery, Harry.’
‘Amen to that.’
For a few peaceful minutes it seemed like the last two years had never happened. But I was acutely aware of living in the moment and of appreciating her company to the full. Not for a second did I want to take her for granted.
‘What did you think, about Elspeth Maudsley retiring?’
‘People do at that age; trainers are no different.’
‘Hmmm.’
I drained the last of my coffee. ‘OK, come on, Annabel, what did Mike want me to think?’
‘What do famous people do, when they are about to retire?’ she hedged.
‘I dunno. Sell up, go to the Bahamas, write their autobiography …’
‘You got it.’
‘All three?’
‘No, of course not, well … I’m not sure about the first two, but certainly the last.’
I looked hard at her. ‘Please, tell me I haven’t got it. An autobiography is, by its definition, something the person in question writes.’
‘You know you’ve got it. Not everyone can write a book.’
‘I certainly can’t.’
‘Oh, come now, you write for the newspaper.’
‘Not the same thing.’
‘It is. They’re both non-fiction.’
‘But I can’t write a book.’
‘It’s still words on paper.’
We stared at each other.
‘Mike sent the paper over with you so you could try and persuade me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But, I mean …’ I floundered. ‘What put the idea into his head? It doesn’t say anything in the article about an autobiography.’
‘Apparently Elspeth was speaking to him about the possibility of you doing the writing for her.’
‘We’re not talking about me being a charity case, are we?’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Harry.’ Annabel stood up and began gathering together the coffee things. ‘You said yourself you won’t know the verdict about your riding for several months possibly. And you do need some work. It would tide you over, admit it.’
‘I think you’re crackers, you and Mike – no, all three of you, Elspeth as well. I’ve never done anything like it before. I don’t even know if I can.’
‘Get started – and find out.’
I struggled to my feet, shaking my head.
‘If you don’t,’ she wagged a finger at me, ‘someone else will. Mike told me Elspeth said she’d give you a week to think it over.’ She reached up and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Anyway, I must get back to work. I’ve enjoyed our lunch.’
I was immediately contrite. ‘I have
too. Thank you for the food, and thank you for coming, Annabel.’
She smiled and gave me another quick, chaste kiss. ‘One week, Harry.’
SIX
I let the newspaper lie on the conservatory table until late in the evening. I’d had a scrappy sort of supper, fed the cat and, with no excuse to procrastinate any further, forced myself to pick up the paper. I went into the sitting room and flung myself down with frustration on to the settee.
I read the article again, and then a second and third time. Annabel and Mike wanted me to do the writing – I wanted to about as much as I wanted a second shattered kneecap. Yes, I needed a job, some income and I couldn’t earn money from my chosen profession, not now, maybe not ever. Did I even have a choice? There was nothing else on offer. I tossed the paper on to the floor in disgust. Was this what my life had come to?
I stared morosely at the blank television screen and ran through some meagre options: live on savings until they ran out – which, of course, they would do; hope like hell for a miracle so I could get back to riding horses again; sell the cottage – or go and see Elspeth Maudsley and talk about the bloody book.
I had a week.
I struggled upstairs to bed and slept on them.
Unicorn Racing Stables, where Elspeth held court, were about twenty-odd miles from my cottage. On hearing my voice on the telephone that morning, she had immediately said, ‘Stay where you are. I’ll send one of the lads over to pick you up.’
Now, Darren, covered in pink pimples contrasting sharply with his carroty-red crew cut, drove me through the main gates with impressive pillars topped by stone unicorns and barrelled down the long drive to the stable yard at the bottom.
Elspeth was just coming out of the tack room. A sturdily built woman, taller than average with shrewd blue eyes that bored into you, she had a presence that was almost tangible and commanded instant respect.
‘Ha, Harry.’ She thrust out a hand and pumped my own. ‘Sorry about the fall. Any idea how long you’ll be grounded?’
‘Not as yet, no.’
‘Months, then?’ she persisted as we walked over to the house.
I nodded. ‘Probably.’
‘Plenty of time to ghost write my book, then.’ She said it with a certain satisfaction.
‘Look, Elspeth,’ I began, ‘we need to talk about it first.’
She stopped in front of the oak front door and unlocked it, ushering me inside.
‘Harry, if you weren’t going to do the job, you wouldn’t be here, would you?’ Those shrewd eyes lasered into mine. ‘So, let’s stop beggering about and get down to what you really want to know. Which is, how much will you be paid?’ Her directness didn’t exactly have me draw in breath – I knew her as a formidable lady who didn’t tolerate fools. All the same it took away my psychological bargaining power.
She took me into the kitchen and proceeded to pour out the already perked coffee. For sweetening, I noticed with a small stab of ridiculously superior pride, she only used brown sugar. Following her down the hall, she waved me to a seat in her office. She plumped down into a black leather swivel chair behind a cluttered desk.
As our discussion wound on, it became clear she was giving me no chance of getting ahead of her. Her decisions on all aspects of the production of the biography had been made and no way were they open to negotiation.
‘So,’ she leaned back in the swivel chair and let it rock her gently to and fro, ‘you know what’s on the table, what do you want to do?’
We both knew I didn’t have the luxury of turning the offer down – and it was a pretty fair one, much more than I’d expected.
‘I’ve written a column for the newspapers, so yes, OK, I can string words together, but honestly that’s as far as my writing talent extends. I’ve never attempted a book before. Are you quite sure you want me to do the work?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely sure.’
‘And if I fall off whilst I’m attempting it?’
‘You won’t.’
‘I might.’
‘Then I’ll leg you back up on to your computer again.’ She was smiling, not a warm, comfortable smile, but a complacent self-satisfied one. She knew perfectly well I’d have a bash at it – with nothing else in sight to rely on it was a walkover. I’d give it a good go. The outcome was an unknown.
‘One snag, Elspeth. As you can see, I’m not able to drive …’
A hand flipped dismissively. ‘You can start on my first box file of cuttings, photographs, interviews I gave, etc. I’ve been seriously preparing the paperwork, since I decided retirement was my best plan. The cuttings are all as they appeared in the press but I’d just chucked them altogether in a great cardboard box.’ She laughed. ‘One the television came in years and years ago.’
My heart, already down on the polished floorboards, burrowed down below the foundations. It was going to be a bloody nightmare.
Elspeth saw my expression and guffawed. ‘Don’t look as though you’re tied to a railway track. It’s not that bad. Like I said, I seriously sorted it all out, about three years ago. That was when I approached a publisher and floated it past him. He snapped at the chance.’ She guffawed some more. ‘’Course, I did hint there’d be some juicy little bits. Anyway, I put everything relevant into box files, one for each year since I married Victor and took out an assistant trainer’s licence. So,’ she broke off and fixed me with a hard look, ‘stop worrying – I’m not. It’ll be a doddle.’
Whilst I didn’t agree with her, I could see it probably wasn’t going to be half as bad as I’d expected. ‘I’ll need to bring my tape recorder over and take you through your early days, childhood, schooldays, teens … family history, all that background material.’
‘Make a start on the first of the files, tell me what day you want to do the interview and I’ll send Darren over for you.’
She had it all thought through. I capitulated; there wasn’t a lot else I could do. We settled for Thursday, three days hence. It would give me time to go through some early stuff and hack out a list of questions I’d need to ask her.
I’d already decided I would visit Silvie on Friday, and nothing on God’s earth was going to stop me. If Annabel was tied up I’d just have to take a taxi.
Elspeth handed me the earliest file and what looked like an ancient shoebox. ‘Family photos,’ she said succinctly. ‘Don’t lose them.’
‘I won’t,’ I promised.
We were on the point of leaving her office – she’d already stretched out her hand towards the doorknob – when the door was thrust wide open into our faces. We both stepped back quickly.
A man barged in, face darkly flushed and looking for a jaw on which to land his fist. It was Marriot, Elspeth’s son. ‘You can’t be bloody serious!’ He swung his head in his mother’s direction first, then in mine. He reminded me of an enraged bull. All that was needed was for him to furiously paw the ground.
‘All this crap about your autobiography …’ He sneered at her. ‘You’re going to actually let … him …’ he jabbed a stiff forefinger in my direction, ‘… rifle through all our private papers. Are you quite mad?’
‘Relax, Marriot, it’s already been out in print courtesy of the newspapers. All I’m doing is setting it out in a book. The journalists made their living out of writing up my life, now I’m going to take a fat cheque off the publisher.’
The flush faded a little, he unclenched both fists. ‘Well, make sure it is only the stuff already out in the public arena. I demand you let me read the manuscript before it leaves this house. You hear me, Mother?’
Elspeth’s eyes were chips of blue ice. ‘I can hear you, but don’t forget,’ she raised her voice and practically spat the words at him, ‘this is my house and I’ll damn well do as I please on my own patch.’
The last of the dull pink left Marriot’s face, leaving it deathly white. Fighting for control, he marched out of the office, down the hall and we heard the heavy front door crash behind him. I was embarrassed t
hat I’d been witness to the unpleasant scene but Elspeth drew a deep, ragged breath and gained control of herself.
‘Ignore him, he’s always had a short fuse, gets it from Victor, it’s in the blood, genes, whatever.’ She walked to the door and swung it open. ‘Darren will drive you back. Give me a ring if you can’t get here on Thursday, otherwise I’ll expect you around nine o’clock, OK?’ I inclined my head and she put out her right hand. ‘No backing out now,’ she warned. ‘Shake on it.’
Reluctantly I grasped her hand. ‘Thursday.’
‘Where to, Guv’nor?’
I’d struggled to climb into the car, belted up, placed the box file in the passenger foot well and perched the precious shoebox of photographs on my knee. ‘Back to my place, thanks.’
‘Right.’ Darren shot a quick glance sideways at the box. ‘Anything breakable?’ he added uncertainly.
I thought of the way Darren habitually drove and grinned. ‘No, only Mrs Maudsley’s heart if I damage them.’
He took off in true form, heading for the gates. I wasn’t concentrating on the driving – my thoughts were revolving around the job ahead, and I’d taken one of the photographs from the shoebox and was trying to guess at the family line-up.
I could make this as easy as possible or get bogged down with data and struggle. Genealogy wasn’t my thing.
Countless thousands logged on to try and trace their ancestors but I found life in the present took me all my time to process and gave me all the problems I was able to cope with. My ancestors – and their then difficulties – were definitely in the past. Any trials and hardships they had faced were over and since there was nothing I could do in the twenty-first century that would help or change any of their sufferings, it didn’t make any sense to go backwards. Life was always in the present. Right now my present was throwing up enough difficulties.
By now, we were about halfway home travelling downhill on a stretch of road I’d always enjoyed driving along.
I lifted my gaze from the old photograph in my hands and let the soft green light soothe my ragged nerves. The resistance I’d felt to seeing Elspeth and beginning the biography had used up more nervous energy than riding a full card of afternoon races. I felt shattered.
Dead Certainty Page 4
