by Dick Francis
Without looking up from his plate Patrick murmured, ‘In a nutshell.’
‘That’s no help at all,’ I said, disregarding him. ‘Didn’t he say anything about where he was going, or what he might do, when you got to Milan?’
The engineer shook his head. ‘He m … m … meant to come straight back with us, in the afternoon, I’m sure of th … th … that.’
‘We didn’t come straight back, of course,’ said Kyle matter-of-factly.
‘You didn’t?’ I was surprised. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘We were supposed to. They got the return load of horses loaded up and then discovered there were no papers for one of the two they’d put in first. They had to get the whole lot out again, and they weren’t very quick because there were only two of them, and by that time I said it was pointless loading again, as it would be too late to start, I’d be out of hours.’
‘They should have checked they had all the papers before they loaded,’ I said.
‘Well, they didn’t.’
‘Only two of them,’ I said, frowning.
‘That’s right. The young one – Billy, did you say? – and one other. Not your friend Simon. A deaf old fellow.’
‘Alf,’ I said. ‘That’s Alf. What about the two others who went over? They were two specials going with horses from the studs they worked in.’
‘From what I could make out from the old man, those two were going on with their horses right to their destination, somewhere further south.’
I thought it over. Simon obviously hadn’t intended to come back at all, and it hadn’t been the unexpected overnight stop which had given him the idea.
‘You didn’t see where Simon was headed, I suppose, when you got to Milan?’ I spoke without much hope, and they both shook their heads.
‘We got off the plane before him,’ Kyle said.
I nodded. The crew didn’t have customs and unloading to see to.
‘Well … that’s that. Thank you for coming today, anyway. And thank you,’ I said directly to the engineer, ‘for delivering that bottle of pills to the girl in the souvenir shop.’
‘P … pills? Oh yes, I remember.’ He was surprised. ‘How on earth d … d … did you know about that?’
‘She told me a tall crew member brought them over for her.’
‘If … f … found them on the plane, standing on the w … w … washbasin in the k … k … karzy. I th … th … thought I might as well give them to her, as I was g … going across anyway. I did … didn’t see how they got there, b … b … but they had her name on them.’
‘Simon was taking them to her from me,’ I explained.
‘Oh, Is … see.’
Patrick said, grinning, ‘Were they…?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘He didn’t go over to the airport building at all, then,’ said Patrick flatly. ‘He left the pills on board, hoping they would get to Gabriella somehow, and scooted from there.’
‘It looks like it,’ I agreed gloomily.
‘You can get off that end of the airfield quite easily, of course. It’s only that scrubland and bushes, and if you walk down that road leading away from the unloading area, the one the horseboxes often use, you’re off the place in no time. I should think that explains pretty well why no one saw him.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘that’s what he must have done.’
‘But it doesn’t explain why he went,’ said Patrick gently.
There was a pause.
‘He had … troubles,’ I said at last.
‘In trouble?’ said Kyle.
‘Looming. It might be because of something I discovered, that he went. I wanted to find him, and tell him it was … safe … to come back.’
‘On your conscience,’ said Patrick.
‘You might say so.’
They all nodded, acknowledging their final understanding of my concern for a lost colleague. The waiter brought their cheese and asked whether they would like coffee. I stood up.
‘I’ll see you again,’ I said. ‘How about after the fifth, outside the weighing room? After I’ve changed.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Patrick.
I ambled off to the weighing room and later got dressed in Mr Thackery’s red and blue colours. I’d never ridden in the Gold Cup before, and although I privately agreed with the engineer’s assessment of the situation, there was still something remarkably stirring in going out in the best class race of the season. My human opponents were all handpicked professionals and all Clobber’s bunch looked to have the beating of him, but nevertheless my mouth grew dry and my heart thumped.
I suspected Mr Thackery had entered Clobber more for the prestige of having a Gold Cup runner than from any thought that he would win, and his manner in the parade ring confirmed it. He was enjoying himself enormously, untouched by the sort of anxious excitement characteristic of the hopeful.
‘Julian’s regards,’ he said, beaming and shaking hands vigorously. ‘He’ll be watching on T.V.’
T.V. There was always the fair chance that one of the people I knew at Fenland might be watching television, though none that I’d heard of was interested in racing. I turned my back on the cameras, as usual.
‘Just don’t disgrace me,’ said Mr Thackery happily. ‘Don’t disgrace me, that’s all I ask.’
‘You could have got a professional,’ I pointed out.
‘Oh, eh, I could. But frankly, it hasn’t done me any harm, here and there, for folks to know you’re riding my horses.’
‘A mutually satisfactory arrangement, then,’ I said dryly.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Thackery contentedly. ‘That’s about it.’
I swung up on his horse, walked out in the parade, and cantered down to the start. Clobber, an eight year old thoroughbred chestnut hunter, had only once won (thanks to being low in the handicap) in the company he was taking on now at level weights, but he shone with condition and his step was bursting with good feeling. Like so many horses, he responded well to spring air and sun on his back and my own spirits lifted with his. It was not, after all, going to be a fiasco.
We lined up and the tapes went up, and Clobber set off to the first fence pulling like a train. As he hadn’t a snowball’s hope in hell of winning, I thought Mr Thackery might as well enjoy a few moments in the limelight, and I let Clobber surge his way to the front. Once he got there he settled down and stopped trying to run away with me and we stayed there, surprisingly leading the distinguished field for over two and a half of the three and a quarter miles.
Clobber had never been run in front before, according to the form book, but from his willingness it was evidently to his liking. Holding him up against his inclination, I thought, probably accounted for his inconsistency: he must have lost interest on many occasions when thwarted, and simply packed up trying.
The others came up to him fast and hard going into the second last fence, and three went ahead before the last: but Clobber jumped it cleanly and attacked the hill with his ears still pricked good temperedly, and he finished fourth out of eight with some good ones still behind him. I was pleased with the result myself, having thoroughly enjoyed the whole race, and so it appeared was Mr Thackery.
‘By damn,’ he said, beaming, ‘that’s the best he’s ever run.’
‘He likes it in front.’
‘So it seems, yes. We’ve not tried that before, I must say.’
A large bunch of congratulating females advanced on him and I rolled the girths round my saddle and escaped to the weighing room to change for the next race. The colours were those of Old Strawberry Leaves, who had commented sourly that it was disgraceful of me to ride in public only three weeks after my father’s death, but had luckily agreed not to remove me from his horse. The truth was that he begrudged paying professionals when he could bully the sons of his friends and acquaintances for nothing. Boathook was his best horse, and for the pleasure of winning on him I could easily put up with the insults I got from losing on the others
. On that day, however, there was one too good for him from Ireland, and for being beaten by half a length I got the customary bawling out. Not a good loser by any means, Old Strawberry Leaves.
All in all I’d had a good Cheltenham, I thought, as I changed into street clothes: a winner, a second, an also ran, one harmless fall, and fourth in the Gold Cup. I wouldn’t improve on it very easily.
Patrick and the other two were waiting for me outside, and after we’d watched the last race together, I drove them down to the station to catch the last train to London. They had all made a mint out of the engineer’s tips and were in a fine collective state of euphoria.
‘I can see why you like it,’ Patrick said on the way. ‘It’s a magnificent sport. I’ll come again.’
‘Good,’ I said, stopping at the station to let them out. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
He grinned. ‘Milan first stop.’
‘Arabia again for us,’ said Kyle resignedly, shutting the door.
They waved their thanks and began to walk away into the station. An elderly man tottered slowly across in front of my car, and as I was waiting for him to pass the engineer’s voice floated back to me, clear and unmistakable.
‘It’s f … funny,’ he said, ‘you qu … quite forget he’s a L … Lord.’
I turned my head round to them, startled. Patrick looked over his shoulder and saw that I had heard , and laughed. I grinned sardonically in return, and drove off reflecting that I was much in favour of people like him who could let me forget it too.
Chapter Ten
Fire can’t burn without air. Deprived of an oxygen supply in a sealed space, it goes out. There existed a state of affairs like a smouldering room which had been shuttered and left to cool down in safety. Nothing much would have happened if I hadn’t been trying to find Simon: but when I finally came on a trace of him, it was like throwing wide the door. Fresh air poured in and the whole thing banged into flames.
The fine Cheltenham weather was still in operation on the Friday, the day after the Gold Cup. The met reports in the charter company’s office showed clear skies right across Europe, with an extended high pressure area almost stationary over France. No break up of the system was expected for at least twenty-four hours. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I half turned to find Patrick reading over my shoulder.
‘Trouble free trip,’ he commented with satisfaction. ‘Piece of cake.’
‘We’ve got that old D.C.4 again, I see,’ I said, looking out of the window across to where it stood on the tarmac.
‘Nice reliable old bus.’
‘Bloody uncomfortable old bus.’
Patrick grinned. ‘You’ll be joining a union next.’
‘Workers unite,’ I agreed.
He looked me up and down. ‘Some worker. You remind me of Fanny Cradock.’
‘Of who?’ I said.
‘That woman on television who cooks in a ball gown without marking it.’
‘Oh.’ I looked down at my neat charcoal worsted, my black tie, and the fraction of white showing at the cuffs. Beside me, in the small overnight bag I now carried everywhere, was the high necked black jersey I worked in, and a hanger for my jacket. Tidiness was addictive: one couldn’t kick it, even when it was inappropriate.
‘You’re no slouch yourself,’ I pointed out defensively. He wore his navy gold-braided uniform with the air of authority, his hand-some good natured face radiating confidence. A wonderful bedside manner for nervous passengers, I thought. An inborn conviction that one only had to keep to the rules for everything to be all right. Fatal.
‘Eight each way, today?’ he said.
‘Eight out, four back. All brood mares.’
‘Ready to drop?’
‘Let’s hope not too ready.’
‘Let’s indeed.’ He grinned and turned away to check over his flight plan with one of the office staff. ‘I suppose,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you’d like me to organise an overnight delay at Milan?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
‘You could do it yourself.’
‘How?’
‘Load up all the horses and then “lose” the papers for a front one. Like John Kyle said, by the time they’d unloaded and reloaded, it was too late to take off.’
I laughed. ‘An absolutely brilliant idea. I shall act on it immediately.’
‘That’ll be the day.’ He smiled over his papers, checking the lists.
The door opened briskly and Yardman came in, letting a blast of cold six-thirty air slip past him.
‘All set?’ he said, impressing on us his early hour alertness.
‘The horses haven’t arrived yet,’ I said mildly. ‘They’re late again.’
‘Oh.’ He shut the door behind him and came in, putting down his briefcase and rubbing his thin hands together for warmth. ‘They were due at six.’ He frowned and looked at Patrick. ‘Are you the pilot?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What sort of trip are we going to have?’
‘Easy,’ said Patrick. ‘The weather’s perfect.’
Yardman nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good, good.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down, lifting and opening his brief case. He had brought all the brood mares’ papers with him, and as he seemed content to check them with the airline people himself I leaned lazily against the office wall and thought about Gabriella. The office work went steadily on, regardless of the hour. No nine-to-five about an airline. As usual, some of the flying staff were lying there fast asleep, one on a canvas bed under the counter Patrick was leaning on, another underneath the big table where Yardman sat, and a third on my right, stretched along the top of a row of cupboards. They were all wrapped in blankets, heads and all, and were so motionless that one didn’t notice them at first. They managed to sleep solidly through the comings and goings and telephoning and typing, and even when Yardman inadvertently kicked the one under the table he didn’t stir.
The first of the horseboxes rolled past the window and drove across to the waiting plane. I peeled myself off the wall, temporarily banished Gabriella, and touched Yardman’s arm.
‘They’re here,’ I said.
He looked round and glanced through the window. ‘Ah, yes. Well here you are, my dear boy, here’s the list. You can load the first six, they are all checked. There’s just one more to do … it seems there’s some query of insurance on this one …’ He bent back to his work, riffling through his brief case for more papers.
I took the list and walked across to the plane. I had expected Timmie and Conker to arrive in a horsebox as they lived near the stud one lot of horses had come from, but when I got over there I found it was to be Billy and Alf again. They had come with Yardman, and were already sitting on the stacked box sides in the plane, eating sandwiches. With them sat a third man in jodhpurs and a grubby tweed jacket a size too small. He was wearing an old greenish cap and he didn’t bother to look up.
‘The horses are here,’ I said.
Billy turned his wide insolent glare full on and didn’t answer. I bent down and touched Alf’s knee, and pointed out of the oval window. He saw the horseboxes, nodded philosophically, and began to wrap up his remaining sandwiches. I left them and went down the ramp again, knowing very well that Billy would never obey an instruction of mine if I waited over him to see he did it.
The horsebox drivers said they’d had to make a detour because of roadworks. A detour into a transport café, more like.
Two grooms who had travelled with the mares gave a hand with the loading, which made it easy. The man who had come with Billy and Alf, whose name was John, was more abstracted than skilful, but with six of us it was the quickest job I had done when Billy was along. I imagined that it was because he knew Yardman was within complaining distance that he left me alone.
Yardman came across with the all clear for the other two mares, and we stowed them on board. Then as always we trooped along to the Immigration Office in the main passenger building where a bored o
fficial collected our dog-eared passports, flipped through them, and handed them back. Mine still had Mr on it, because I’d originally applied for it that way, and I intended to put off changing it as long as possible.
‘Four grooms and you,’ he said to Yardman. ‘That’s the lot?’
‘That’s the lot.’ Yardman stifled a yawn. Early starts disagreed with him.
A party of bleary-eyed passengers from a cut rate night flight shuffled past in an untidy crocodile.
‘O.K. then.’ The passport man flicked the tourists a supercilious glance and retired into his office. Not everyone was at his best before breakfast.
Yardman walked back to the plane beside me.
‘I’ve arranged to meet our opposite numbers for lunch,’ he said. ‘You know what business lunches are, my dear boy. I’m afraid it may drag on a little, and that you’ll be kicking your heels about the airport for a few hours. Don’t let any of them get … er … the worse for wear.’
‘No,’ I agreed insincerely. The longer his lunch, the better I’d be pleased. Billy drunk couldn’t be worse than Billy sober, and I didn’t intend to waste my hours at Malpensa supervising his intake.
Patrick and his crew were ready out by the plane, and had done their checks. The mobile battery truck stood by the nose cone with its power lead plugged into the aircraft: Patrick liked always to start his engines from the truck, so that he took off with the plane’s own batteries fully charged.
Yardman and I followed Billy, Alf and John up the ramp at the rear, and Patrick with his co-pilot Bob, and the engineer, Mike, climbed the forward stairs into the nose. The airport staff wheeled away the stairs and unfastened and removed the two long sections of ramp. The inner port propeller began to grind slowly round as I swung shut the double doors, then sparked into life with a roar, and the plane came alive with vibration. The moment of the first engine firing gave me its usual lift of the spirits and I went along the cabin checking the horses with a smile in my mind.
Patrick moved down the taxy track and turned on to the apron set aside for power checks, the airframe quivering against the brakes as he pushed the throttles open. Holding two of the horses by their head collars I automatically followed him in imagination through the last series of checks before he closed the throttles, released the brakes and rolled round on to Gatwick’s large single runway. The engine’s note deepened and the plane began to move, horses and men leaning against the thrust as the speed built up to a hundred over the tarmac. We unstuck as per schedule and climbed away in a great wheeling turn, heading towards the Channel on course to the radio beacon at Dieppe. The heavy mares took the whole thing philosophically, and having checked round the lot of them I went forward into the galley, bending under the luggage racks and stepping over the guy chains as always in the cramped D.C.4.
