by Rumer Godden
‘Nervous?’ asked John, but Ted gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Not with him.’
Ted had ridden in the first two of the Cold Weather Meetings, but not on Dark Invader. His first ride on the opening Saturday was Mr Leventine’s Pandora – the mare who had come out on the same ship, while Ching rode her companion Pernambuco. Pandora had won. On the second Saturday, at Ted’s suggestion, he and Ching changed mounts, Pandora had won again, while Ted rode Pernambuco into second place. The same afternoon, to Lady Mehta’s joy, he had brought Flashlight up to win the mile-long Jaisalmir Plate. ‘Up Quillans!’ Bunny was bubbling over with congratulations for his friend but, ‘Wait,’ said John. ‘The crux hasn’t come yet.’ The crux was the first appearance of Dark Invader.
As John had said, it was a Class IV race, ‘but there’s a huge field,’ he told Ted. ‘They have had to make two divisions.’ Dark Invader was in Division I with top weight, ‘but compared to the others you’re on a flying machine,’ John told Ted. ‘All the same,’ he added, ‘it’s often the cold-stone certainty that comes unstuck.’
‘He won’t,’ said Ted. Ted had weighed out, carried his saddle and number-cloths through the door and handed them to John. He, himself, was smart and dapper, his breeches made as a special order by Barkat Ali in Park Street. ‘I would have had them made in London if we could have been sure of the fit,’ Mr Leventine had said. Ted’s boots, though, had been sent out from Maxwell’s, copied from a pair he had worn in the old days. Mr Leventine’s colours were pink, with emerald hoops, and green cap, and were so bright they made Ted blink. ‘Pink for happiness, green for hope,’ Mr Leventine had explained but, ‘Hullo, Rosebud! Ain’t she sweet!’ jeered the other jockeys, but as the horses came into the paddock, there was no mistaking that Dark Invader, with his size, his blooming coat, was outstandingly the best-looking horse on the course; led by Sadiq, murmurs of admiration followed him as he walked round, and soon he had moved up to odds-on favourite.
As Ted was swung into the saddle he met Mr Leventine’s gaze, full of a confidence and belief that had not been given Ted since Ella died – he had to turn his own eyes away – but John Quillan still had his doubts and, walking beside Dark Invader as the horses moved out, again he gave Ted his anxious final orders: ‘Keep clear. If they crowd you, go for the outside rail. Remember you have twenty lengths in hand. Use them. Keep clear.’
Only once did Ted steal a look under his elbow at the tailing field behind him. Already two lengths clear, he took the inner rail and kept that distance, finishing, hard held, in a time that – sure as eggs is eggs, thought Ted – would take Dark Invader to Class III. ‘Exactly as we wished him to do,’ Mr Leventine beamed and even John was pleased.
It was a pattern set for the six races that followed, six that for Dark Invader were little more than training gallops; each time he got away to a good start and was never headed, which brought him from Class III to Class II. ‘As we expected,’ said Mr Leventine, rubbing his hands.
Mr Leventine did not live in one of Calcutta’s mansions which, to people who did not really know him, would have seemed suited to his wealth and ostentatious tastes. Mr Leventine detested waste and, ‘What would one man do with twenty rooms?’ he would have asked. One day he might marry but now he had no time; he had little time too for gardens, trees, lawns, and none at all for the hangers-on that always come with vast houses. He was perfectly content with a flat in a modern block on Park Street, but took the precaution of renting the flat above his so that he would not be annoyed by noise or other tenants. His two secretaries were allowed to live there, but had to walk about in socks or slippers and speak in whispers. He also rented the flat below, where he put his chauffeur, his car attendant and his personal bearers – it needed two to keep his clothes as he thought fit and, ‘I don’t want them smelling of servants’ quarters, of cooking and biris.’
Now in his library, he moved all his racing cups to a side table and kept his mantelpiece only for Dark Invader’s; already there were three, only of Indian silver it was true, but there was also a gilt quaich. He had to ask John to explain what the Scots drinking cup was. ‘A tassie,’ John had said, to tease him – Mr Leventine could not find ‘tassie’ in the dictionary. There was a two-handled goblet, sterling silver this time and, most handsome of all, a rosebowl. ‘You are coming up,’ said Bunny. Mr Leventine felt he could ask Bunny and, now and then, John to come and drink his excellent whisky. There was nobody else. One day, if Dark Invader succeeded, perhaps Sir Humphrey… but that was a dream. Meanwhile here was Bunny and, ‘You must keep a place for the gold one,’ said Bunny with his usual sunniness. Mr Leventine, superstitious to his backbone, almost said, ‘Hush,’ but, ‘He’s just doing what we expected,’ was all he said.
What no-one had expected was the impact of Dark Invader on the crowd. Though, after his first win, the odds offered on him would have made nobody’s fortune, the whole of racing Calcutta seemed to have taken him to their hearts. It was partly his size and his good looks, partly the way in which, once he had won, instead of coming in with his ears still intent, he let them flop as if to say, ‘That’s that,’ tucked in his chin modestly as if to say, ‘It’s nothing at all,’ and would not wait to nuzzle Mr Leventine’s pockets. He and Ted had swiftly become a legend and stories were told of how Darkie would race for no-one else, nor even let anyone ride or so much as mount him: of his extraordinary intelligence: his laziness – ‘He doesn’t bother to try at gallops. Why should he? He knows he can when it’s the real thing’: of his greediness and how the salty taste of Bengal straw had once induced him to eat his bedding and how he would have died of colic if Captain Mack had not dramatically saved him – this happened to be true and, after that, Dark Invader was bedded on tan-bark: of his exceptional docility and good nature – as long as he was not ridden by anyone else but Ted.
Ted had difficulty, not only on race days, but in the early mornings, of getting the Invader through the admirers who wanted to see and pat him. ‘Just like a matinée idol outside a stage door,’ said John. On race days he had to ask for a police escort and for every race Dark Invader was entered, there came, from the Public Enclosure and the frenzied dust-coloured crowds that lined the rails, a chant for Darkie. A mounted policeman, conspicuous in his white starched tunic and scarlet turban, would often have to turn his horse backwards to the people to let it kick out and drive them back from surging on to the course itself. As soon as Dark Invader appeared, the people would begin with single shouts as his great striding form showed clear of the field along the back stretch. ‘Darkee!’ ‘Darkee!’ they would call and then, as he came storming past the stands, they would break into a quick-fire rhythm, ‘Dark Invader, Dark Invader, Dark Invader.’
Mr Leventine would be out on the course to lead him in, Ted, in his over-brilliant silks, perched firmly on top, lifting his whip in shy salute. Dark Invader would tuck in his chin and lop his ears in acknowledgement of the applause before his search for tidbits and the crowd would grow wild.
‘Your horse seems to have become something of a personality,’ Sir Humphrey sought Mr Leventine out at the Club. ‘You know he’s now eligible for the Viceroy’s Cup?’
‘I know.’ Mr Leventine had a new dignity, while even John Quillan betrayed a fresh buoyancy. ‘I believe, Sandy,’ he said to Captain Mack at Scattergold Hall, ‘that the time is coming when you may have to eat your hat.’
‘Willingly,’ said Captain Mack. ‘What fun if Ted beats all the top-price English jockeys who’ll be brought out for the big races.’
V
On the eve of December 21st which, as the Sisters knew, was St Thomas’s Day, a full moon looked down over Calcutta.
It was well after midnight and the morning mist was beginning to form on the river, spreading softly over the banks and the wide flatness of the Maidan, filling the star-shaped moat of the Fort, swirling up the lower tiers of the stands on the racecourse, laying a white carpet round the domed marble of the Victoria Memorial and the spired g
othic of the Cathedral.
In the bedroom of his flat in Park Street, Mr Leventine lay alone in his large carved mahogany bed over which his mosquito net hung from a vast frame; in fact, everything in the flat was vast. The room was lined with massive Victorian wardrobes with full-length mirrors, others were in his dressing-room where his dressing-table was divided by another looking glass; his silver brushes and bottles with silver tops shone. The wardrobes were full of well-pressed suits, their exteriors were polished and the floors of imitation stone were burnished to a red gloss.
His bathroom held a huge porcelain bath set in mahogany and in his elaborate basin the humble plug was replaced by a column operated by knobs and levers, all silver plated. The lavatory might have been designed for the hams of a race of giants; the pan had a pattern of pink tulips and green leaves. In all this splendour Mr Leventine could not sleep. Why not? He had an invaluable capacity, taught him by his mother, of ‘switching off’ and falling at once to sleep. As in his childhood, he still reached up to an imaginary electric light switch, to flick it off. He had done the same tonight, but it had not worked.
The evening before, after Bunny had gone, Mr Leventine, glass in hand, had stood looking at the mantelpiece. Bunny’s friendliness had filled him with such cheer that suddenly he had been moved to rearrange the cups – goblets to the left, the quaich and rosebowl on the right, in the middle an empty space and, ‘It will be gold,’ Mr Leventine had whispered.
‘It will be gold.’ Seldom had he felt as confident, as full of cheer; that night he had slept like a child, but tonight he was uneasy. Why? asked Mr Leventine.
The moon shone down on the Quillan stables; on the lawns and across the track it threw long shadows of trees, shadows too on the verandahs that ran around the stalls but the light picked out the blanketed forms of the syces where they lay, each with a lantern turned low beside his charpoy. The coming champion or hope of India was not asleep; Dark Invader was on his knees on the tan-bark of his bedding, straining with a total loss of dignity to reach an odd straw which had escaped his neighbour’s stall, elongating his lips till he looked like his distant South American relative, the tapir. Finally, resigned to failure, he sighed deeply, rose to his feet, drooped his lower lip and slept.
The bedrooms of Scattergold Hall were empty. December 20th was Dahlia’s father’s birthday and, by Quillan tradition, John drove her, the children, the latest baby and Gog and Magog to Burdwan where Mr McGinty worked, as many Eurasians did, on the railway.
John’s car was an old four-seater Chrysler. ‘1922 model,’ John purposely told Mr Leventine. Its wooden spoked wheels needed water poured on them in hot weather; its broad back seat held children, dogs, bags of oats or bales of hay, kittens, luggage, parcels, and it ran accompanied by a steady thump from the engine like an elderly tramp steamer. The children loved it and all the year, Dahlia, as John knew, looked forward to this day. Burdwan was one of the biggest junctions, and its Institute or Eurasian Club was crowded so that there she saw many of her once-upon-a-time people as well as her father and mother – uncles and aunts, great-uncles, great-aunts, troops and troops of cousins and friends – because in the evening they always went to the Institute, the railway workers’ club, and Dahlia could show off her John and their children, who equally shrank from it but, as if drawn by an unspoken love, went through it with a grace that no-one would have believed of them. John joked, laughed, danced, even sang, while the bandars submitted to Dahlia’s idea of lacy frilled dresses and sashes, white shorts and shirts and bow ties, ‘like little gentlemen’. There was always a dinner, elaborate as only Dahlia’s mother could make it, and the Quillans always stayed the night.
With Eurasian voices still shrilling in his ears John slept fitfully in his parents-in-law’s big bed – touchingly, they always insisted on moving out of it for John and Dahlia. She lay softly against him, blissfully asleep, and softly against her lay their newest baby. Prolific as her name-flower, Dahlia had just produced their eighth child; ‘another little calamity’, Babu Ram Sen had said, which meant another daughter and, in Ram Sen’s thinking, another dowry to be found, but John was not thinking of dowries – ‘There won’t be any, anyway’ – he was worried about the present. He should not really have left the stables this year, so much was at stake, but it was Dahlia’s day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five, and John comforted himself with the thought that Ted was there. John had given careful orders, ‘and I shall be back soon after nine,’ he had told Ted. ‘The baby wakes us at dawn.’ ‘Never, never should the baby be allowed to sleep in its mother’s bed,’ said the books, but Dahlia never read books and all her babies slept with her, ‘which is why they don’t give any trouble,’ said Dahlia.
‘The trouble comes later on,’ said John wryly but now, careful not to disturb her, he reached across Dahlia and, with a deftness that no-one would have believed of that once fastidious and cynical young cavalry officer, covered and tucked in the sleeping baby with its shawl. The baby blew a contented bubble from its lips and, ‘Ted’s there. It must be all right,’ and John too went to sleep.
Ted was not asleep. He was sitting on his small verandah and, though his jersey was thin and he had no coat, he did not feel the cold, nor the mosquitoes biting. He was past feeling anything.
It had been a bad day which was odd because the bad day should have been yesterday, the anniversary of his and Ella’s wedding. Ted seldom spoke on that day and always tried to keep it properly as he had done when Ella was alive. Here in Calcutta, in the midst of all the excitement, he had taken out their wedding photograph from the small tin trunk that held all his possessions and put the silver-framed picture beside his bed, a vase of sweet peas in front of it. The Bandar-log had been much interested. ‘But why is she wearing a lace curtain on her head?’ asked one of the boys. It was an innocent question – none of them had seen an English wedding – but then the eldest girl had looked more closely and, ‘You told us Mrs Ella was pretty,’ she said accusingly. ‘She was, to me.’ ‘Well, I think she’s ugly.’ Ted had snatched the photograph away and given the little girl a slap. It was the first time he had slapped a child and it was too hard. She burst into tears, tears hurt and surprised and with one accord the bandars deserted Ted. They had not been near him since and had gone to Burdwan without saying goodbye.
To be truthful, yesterday, apart from the ritual of the photograph and flowers, Ted had not thought much about Ella until the evening. Yesterday he had eaten his solitary dinner quite cheerfully – tonight he had sent it away. Usually after dinner he played snakes and ladders, or draughts, or cards with the children, at which they were adept, but yesterday there had been no children; he had not wanted to go to bed and, after a time, a strange restlessness, uncommon after a day’s work, had driven him to walk in the garden. He had meant to think about Ella but, about eleven o’clock the old Chrysler turned in at the gates and he saw it was Mr Quillan – not only he, but Mrs Quillan, which was uncommon. He could not remember Mrs Quillan going out at night, but Bunny had given a pre-Christmas dinner and insisted that Dahlia should come. ‘Don’t be stuffy, John. I like Dahlia and I want her.’ Dahlia had been enchanted. ‘Out two nights running! My God!’ and John had let her buy a new dress and evening cloak at Mrs Woods’s shop on Park Street.
John always drove himself and when he had put the car away, he and Dahlia had walked back through the garden to the house. They had passed close by Ted who had stepped back behind a screen of bougainvillaea; beside him was another plant that drenched the air with such sweetness he felt giddy. Dahlia paused; it was seldom that she was out so late. ‘What is that perfume?’ ‘Queen of the Night,’ said John, ‘rat ki rani,’ and Dahlia had echoed, ‘Queen of the Night’.
Ted could see her clearly; her bare arms and neck – the light where the moon caught her hair – Dahlia was always especially radiant after the birth of a child. The new dress, a confection of taffeta and lace in her favourite apricot, had a silken rustle as she moved; the cloak had s
lipped down as she turned to John. The two of them clung close, then John put his hand under her chin and bent his head to kiss her. Ted had heard the kiss. He could not bear to watch. His eyes had been burning and he had hastily gone inside.
Next afternoon the Quillan family left for Burdwan.
‘I hate to go,’ John told Ted, ‘but I know you will take charge. Captain Mack will come and support you for the evening parade, His Highness too,’ – if Bunny remembers, thought John – ‘and you will have Ching and the Jemadar. Here are the morning orders.’ He went through the list with Ted: which riding boy was to ride what horse: Ching’s rides: how they should ride: matched with whom, and for how long: even what Ted was to do with Dark Invader, ‘and I should be glad if you will take Firefly yourself. That horse is a problem. We shall leave Burdwan about six, so I should be back by nine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If anything is the least wrong, tell the babu to ring Captain Mack.’
‘Yes, sir, but I’m sure there won’t be.’
‘And Ted, last thing, will you do the stable night round?’
