The Dark Horse

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Possibly, but he won’t see Streaky.’

  ‘Or his like?’

  ‘Or his like. We’ll see to that.’

  ‘Then – you think he has a chance in spite of Captain Mack?’

  As always when John Quillan met opposition he was obstinate and, ‘He’s going to have a chance,’ said John.

  ‘But how, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know how – yet – but somehow. We must see to it,’ and, ‘I’m glad you came, Ted.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Ted.

  After dinner, when the last bandar had hushed, the last baby been fed, when Dahlia had gone to bed and the last round of the stables been done, John liked to light a cigar – he allowed himself one every evening – and then stroll among the tumbledown terraces and fountains of his scented garden to think over his plans and the problems of the day. Tonight it was Dark Invader.

  John could visualise that first race at Lingfield. Dark Invader well away – Michael Traherne had assured him the horse was a willing starter – but when the field caught up with him, forced to quicken his stride by an almighty squeeze in an unexpected place and John saw the typical Bacon finish, the furiously urgent figure, the rhythmically swinging whip, shown but not striking, the horse desperately extended, those legs, thighs and knees gripping vice-like above the flimsy saddle. It must have hurt hideously – ‘a stab from a knife’, Mack had said. Poor old Darkie, thought John. That’s probably what you were trying to tell us stupid old human blockheads. Well, we’re there at last, but what to do about it? What the hell to do about it, I don’t know. With which dispiriting thought he threw away the butt of his cigar, called to Gog and Magog and turned to go to bed.

  On the verandah he paused; certain troubled, puzzled and honest phrases were coming back to him. ‘I never had no trouble with him… ’, ‘Had it when he come over from Ireland… but that was before… ’, ‘I never had no trouble with him,’ and, ‘I wonder,’ said John to Gog and Magog, ‘I wonder.’

  ‘Ted,’ said John next morning – Mullins had now permanently become Ted – ‘I have been doing some thinking. I should like you to show me how you ride Dark Invader. Will you?’

  ‘Will I?’ It was Dark Invader’s fourth day in India and during early work John had had him walked quietly down to the racecourse and on to the exercise track. ‘Will I? Thought I would never be on him again,’ said Ted.

  Like most trainers, John Quillan retained his own jockey, a young quarter English, three quarters Chinese, whose name was Ah Lee, but whom everybody called Ching. Ted had already met him, lithe, slim, eager, his black eyes alert. John had picked him out from a set of young jockeys from Singapore and had slowly trained him. Now, ‘Will Mr Ching mind?’ asked Ted. ‘It’s the Invader’s first ride here.’

  ‘No. No. I like to see, maybe learn,’ but Ching was obviously puzzled as he stood with John, watching.

  Dark Invader had acknowledged Ted’s arrival in the saddle with a backward slant of an ear. Nothing else. ‘Not much awkwardness about him after a month at sea,’ said John.

  ‘I didn’t expect it, sir. Easiest horse alive,’ and Ted told Dark Invader, ‘Walk on, boy. That’s the fella! Just a little trot now. Gently does it,’ and Dark Invader trotted round the circuit soberly, as he was told. There were new things to look at: a fat little sheep: three geese: rough-bottomed baskets full of horse dung: a vulture picking at some small dead animal. Dark Invader examined them all with prick-eared attention, without faltering in his steady trotting. Then, ‘That’s enough,’ Ted seemed to say as he brought the big horse round and back to where Sadiq was waiting. Ted slipped to the ground and patted the handsome neck, while Dark Invader nosed impatiently at his pockets.

  ‘Thanks, Ted.’ John came up. ‘Just what was wanted.’ Then, ‘Ted, would you ride a bit of work for me? Would you take Snowball, that old grey there, and do the whole circuit with the riding boy on that bay mare? She’s to race in a fortnight’s time. Snowy’s not in the same class, but he has been racing in the Monsoon Meeting so he’s that much fitter. Take them along to the four furlong mark and come home as fast as you like.’

  ‘Fast! On Snowy!’ said Ching.

  ‘Exactly. The mare should lose him fairly quickly,’ said John.

  Snowball’s stud book name was Arctic Elegance; he was Australian bred, a gelding, now twelve years old; his coat, once grey, had whitened, his teeth yellowed and the hollows over his eyes sunk deeper. Years of slogging round the same racing and practice course had hardened his mouth and soured his temper. ‘I hate ride him,’ said Ching.

  John watched closely as Ted began by taking the old horse round and round their group, and saw how Snowball tried to get his snaffle-bit into its usual position against his back teeth – and failed to get it to stay there. ‘Hands!’ said John to Ching. ‘Watch Mullins’s hands.’ They saw Snowball begin to chase the bit with his tongue with a flicker of interest. Then John heard Ted’s voice, ‘Cheer up, old cuddy. ’Tisn’t such a bad old world,’ and saw him run a finger up the side of the hogged mane and pull one of the stiff ears in what seemed one continuous movement. Snowball shook himself and gave a little hoist to his quarters. ‘Good boy,’ said Ted. ‘Come on, let’s show them what we old ’uns can do,’ as they set off to join the mare and riding boy. ‘The touch of the craftsman,’ said John, but Ching did not understand. At the four furlong mark, John pressed his stop watch and waited for the mare to draw away from Snowball. After a furlong she led by half a length but could not shake him off, and Snowball finished galloping stride for stride with his head level with her girth. The stop watch showed a satisfactory time for the mare, a surprising one for Snowball. ‘Well, well,’ said John. ‘The old English long rein finish. I never thought to see it in this city.’

  Ching was almost too dumbfounded to speak. At last, ‘Is English style?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Was,’ said John. He walked over to where the riders had trotted back, noting with increased respect Ted’s steady hand and unhurried breathing. They dismounted and John said again, ‘Thank you, Ted. You certainly sweetened that old plug and kept him going. He didn’t even do his usual ducking out towards the rubbing-down sheds.’

  ‘No, I told him different.’ Ted said it as if it were every day – as it is with him, thought John. ‘I think I often know what’s in a hoss’s mind before he knows hisself. Comes from being with them.’

  With them in more senses than one, thought John, but, aloud, ‘I can guess that’s true.’ Then he said directly, ‘Ridden with the best in your day, haven’t you, Ted?’

  ‘I did quite a lot,’ Ted admitted. ‘Pre-war Derby, four times. Never in the frame, though. Come to think of it, I was third in the Oaks once, and fifth twice.’

  ‘And what are you doing now when not seeing the world free of charge?’ They were walking towards the Stands. ‘Still riding?’

  ‘No… retired from all that.’

  John heard a pause. Lost his ticket, he thought. I wonder why.

  ‘Didn’t do much after the war,’ Ted went on. ‘It didn’t seem to matter. You see, I lost my wife in the ’flu epidemic – ’18 that was.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Her name was Ella.’ John did not know it, but this was a rare confidence; Ted had not spoken Ella’s name in all these years. ‘Wouldn’t swop my Ted for the King of England.’ Ella had often said that; she had made Ted feel like the King of England too. Ella, a heap of clay with his flowers beaten into the soil by the rain, and yet it seemed to Ted now as if Ella were suddenly with him again, egging me on to talk, thought Ted. ‘Mr Michael, he took me on ’cos of his father, I think. A man on his own doesn’t need much,’ said Ted. ‘So I did my two, same as when I was a nipper. Must admit there was a bit of whisky – more’n a bit. Then the Invader came – from Ireland it was. I remember the day. After that it was just him. Somehow I never got round to thinking he would be sold… Now… ’ and Ted looked away over the green distances of the Maidan, then quickly recollected hi
mself. ‘’Spect I’ll make out,’ and, ‘You were saying, sir?’

  ‘I was interested in your finish, the long rein,’ said John. ‘Seems a lost art. The boys nowadays can’t drive a horse without climbing up its neck and think they’re not on the job unless they’re chewing its ears off. Interesting too that you don’t ride as short as most.’

  ‘Not surprising. When I were a boy, it was all straight legs, toes down. Soon we was all taught different, but I never took to the very short style, like Streaky’s – legs doubled up like a frog.’

  ‘Yes. I should guess you ride four to six holes longer,’ and John again said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder.’

  Ted had a fortnight before his ship, the City of Benares this time, sailed for England and, ‘You should see something of India,’ John told him. ‘You could easily make a tour, go to Darjeeling and see the Snows. Everest.’

  ‘They are lovelee,’ said Dahlia. She and Ted were now fast friends.

  ‘Delhi, Agra and the Taj Mahal,’ said John.

  ‘They are lovelee too.’

  ‘And you could go across and see the Ellora and Ajunta caves and sail from Bombay,’ but all of India Ted wanted to see was here in the Quillan stables – the track that led down to the racecourse, the racecourse itself and its circuits. ‘Well, what do you want to do?’

  Ted cleared his throat. ‘If it’s all right by you, sir, could I stay here a little longer? There’s another boat in about three weeks’ time, and I think Mr Michael could spare me as he hasn’t the Invader; and as I’m here… I have a bit put by so could pay my way.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said John. ‘I was wishing you could give me a hand. Ching hasn’t much experience. There’s Dark Invader to acclimatise and,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘Mr Leventine.’

  Back from Europe Mr Leventine came to watch the evening parade. Several owners were there, sitting on the seats or benches, walking, gossiping and visiting their horses, giving them sugar-cane, carrots, even apples. ‘Apples! Probably from Kulu! Think what they cost!’ Sister Ignatius would have said. The owners patted necks and pulled ears affectionately, talked to the grooms, often consulted with John, sometimes Ching or the Jemadar. Never at this time was there a sign of Dahlia or the bandar-log.

  Gog and Magog, sitting on each side of the verandah steps, kept guard – no owners’ dogs dared intrude. Ayahs were putting the babies to bed, the children were having their supper. Now and again a wail or the sound of a child fight would float out over the lawn, but this was one rule that had to be kept because, ‘Out of sight, out of mind – almost,’ John said bitterly. It took time for Ted to understand.

  Mr Leventine’s arrival was different from anyone else’s, as was his car, a large Minerva, painted deep blue with huge brass lamps and a bulb horn in the shape of a brass serpent. The chauffeur was in blue to match, with polished brass buttons, and another servant with a crested turban sat beside him; his duty was to open doors and carry any possessions Mr Leventine happened to have with him. Mr Leventine himself was in a pale grey suit, a carefully folded white silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, a pink rose in his buttonhole. He also wore brown and white laced shoes, the sort unkindly called ‘co-respondent’, of which he was innocently unaware. Of the other owners, the men, mostly in jerseys, sports coats and flannels, looked dusty and shabby beside him and as he advanced with a strong waft of cologne, a few said, ‘Good evening, Leventine,’ but most of them parted before him and became immersed in talk. Only Lady Mehta smiled and waved.

  ‘Well, Johnny. How are you?’ and Mr Leventine laid a diamond-ringed hand on John’s shoulder who was spared from responding, ‘And you, Cas?’ as Mr Leventine would have liked him to, because the excited voice went straight on: ‘Where are they?’ Mr Leventine had not come to meet people, but to look at his horses. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Dark Invader?’

  ‘Of course.’

  John presented Ted who was given a curt nod. Ted could see nothing wrong with Mr Leventine. ‘Dressed up,’ he would have conceded that, ‘but that’s natural, isn’t it? He’s some sort of foreigner and they have different ways. Can guess he’s very rich, probably doesn’t know how rich he is, but not half as much a show-off as Captain Hay. Talks loud ’cos he’s interested,’ and Ted followed as Mr Leventine went along the stables – his horses had been kept in for his visit – discussing each with John. Then they came to Dark Invader who whickered when he saw Ted.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Leventine and stood still. Ted noticed that Sadiq’s eyes gleamed at the sight of Mr Leventine and he gave a deep salaam. ‘Ah!’ and then, ‘You asked me why I bought him,’ said Mr Leventine in a reverent tone. ‘Well, look, Johnny. Look.’ Mr Leventine’s voice was as loud as if he were addressing a stadium. ‘Look at him. He’s bred to the big Open races.’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘I can guess what happened. His owner – this Captain Hay – is, by all accounts, a young man, ambitious for a big win, not interested in anything else. They tried Dark Invader, a certainty to win first time out as a two year old, got good odds about him ante post and engaged the famous Tom Bacon to ride him. Colt was green; got left six lengths but Bacon had his orders so he set about him and got him home.’

  ‘Correct,’ whispered Ted under his breath.

  ‘Colt hasn’t tried a yard since. Why? He’s bred right, looks right and moves right.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ whispered Ted.

  ‘But isn’t right,’ John said it calmly.

  ‘Then find out why,’ commanded Mr Leventine. Then he dropped his voice still further. ‘Don’t you see, now’s our chance, Johnny. His record’s so terrible he’ll be put in Class IV with a lot of Australian washouts and English weeds, and so… slowly, slowly, if we handle him carefully, he need never have another hard race.’

  ‘Till he gets back to his own class.’

  Mr Leventine gave his trainer a long, purposeful stare. ‘He’s in a class by himself,’ said Mr Leventine with finality.

  ‘That’s what I say.’ Ted was suddenly bold enough to speak aloud, and Mr Leventine turned. ‘Johnny said you were… ?’

  ‘Ted Mullins, sir.’

  ‘Ah! I remember. The Dark Invader’s stable lad.’ Mr Leventine, Ted noted, did not call him Darkie. ‘The one I had come out with him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ted, ‘and I thank you, sir.’

  The unexpectedly good manners – ‘It was Ella kept me up to that’ – struck even Mr Leventine. He gave Ted an even longer, harder look than he had given John, then made what John called ‘one of the swift and, usually irrevocable, Leventine decisions’. ‘Johnny,’ he said, ‘this man must stay with the horse.’

  ‘Stay?’

  ‘Right through,’ said Mr Leventine.

  ‘But he’s working for Michael Traherne,’ began John and, ‘perhaps Traherne can’t spare him…’

  ‘Traherne’, and the, for Ted, omnipotent Michael was brushed away like a fly. ‘Settle terms, any terms they like,’ ordered Mr Leventine, ‘but this man must stay.’

  Against his usual custom – he detested getting up early – Mr Leventine began to come down for the morning’s work, wrapped in a camelhair coat, his throat muffled in a cashmere scarf. His footman or car attendant or bearer, ‘or what-you-call-him,’ said John, stood behind him holding a shooting stick, a handsome pair of binoculars, and a topee for when the sun grew warm. Mr Leventine watched with John as Ching on chosen horses, the riding boys on others, and Ted on Dark Invader, took their turn.

  The scene was always the same; each trainer had his ‘camp’ with horses and syces moving round it, a heap of rugs and saddlery in the middle. The Jemadar called the horses out to the group of waiting riders; John watched tensely, sometimes worried, sometimes delighted. Sometimes he mounted Matilda to ride further up the circuit; sometimes he went on foot, but always shadowed, though never intruded upon, by Gog and Magog, the amber of their paws and flanks wet and dark with dew.

  After work, while the grooms and riding boys wa
lked the horses home, most trainers and their owners and jockeys went over to the stands for coffee and chat. John avoided this, riding Matilda straight back to the stables, but with Mr Leventine it was different; he demanded his full rights and talking about his horses, the daily discussion, was one of these.

  Over coffee he asked suddenly, ‘Why isn’t that little man riding for Micky?’ – it was the first time John had heard anyone call Michael Traherne ‘Micky’. John had told Mr Leventine about Ted’s riding of Snowball, Arctic Elegance; at the time Mr Leventine had only said, ‘Humph!’ but he had watched Ted minutely and, ‘That man’s a jockey,’ said Mr Leventine firmly.

  ‘Yes. He was quite well known before the war.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Lost his licence.’

  ‘Not mixed up in any dirty work, I hope.’ The small brown eyes were sharp.

  ‘Wouldn’t be with Traherne if he had,’ said John. ‘It was a doping case. Mullins obviously didn’t know anything about it but, as you know, once the powers get working they’ll warn off anything in sight up to and including the stable cat, and ask questions afterwards. Poor Ted!’