The Dark Horse

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Isn’t it, rather, nemesis?’ but that was another word Mr Leventine did not know. ‘For thirty-five years,’ said Mother Morag, ‘first as a young Sister, then as Superior, I have helped to organise the collecting by which our old people live – scraps of food, Mr Leventine, scraps of money to rich people like you. Our Sisters go round the offices and most firms are generous, but yours is one of the few where, every time, they get a rebuff. It seems Leventine and Son cannot afford to spare an anna.’

  ‘Afford!’ That affronted Mr Leventine. ‘Madam, we are one of the most successful firms of our size in the city.’

  Out of your own mouth, thought John – he was enjoying this.

  ‘Then perhaps it really would take a miracle to change your heart?’

  ‘I thought you said this was Providence,’ said John.

  ‘Yes, but maybe something more. Usually one can find an explanation for Providence, but how do you explain, Mr Quillan, when Dark Invader bolted, as I have heard he did, then turned and trotted, when his own stable was such a short way off, that he should suddenly have turned in here? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said John.

  ‘Nobody knows, but I think we Sisters can guess. Well then?’ said Mother Morag.

  Mr Leventine looked at her. He knew he was beaten. His heart, that Mother Morag had spoken of, also knew, under his ornate waistcoat, that it had had enough. His bewildered eyes were sharp again as he asked, ‘How much for Dark Invader?’

  ‘Money?’ The eyebrows went up. ‘Not money, Mr Leventine. The people would never understand that. To them, though, one horse is much like another. If you would give us a carriage horse used to harness, strong yet tractable – our driver is not very skilled – a horse not too young but not too old,’ her voice faltered, she was thinking of Solomon. ‘One that Captain Mack and Mr Quillan would approve… ’

  Mr Leventine was affronted again. ‘Madam, I think you will find I am as good if not a better judge of a horse than they. They would not have bought Dark Invader.’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours,’ John told Mr Leventine. ‘Today is the 22nd and I must have three days to get Dark Invader wound up.’ John had not tried to gain time – by now he knew Mother Morag too well – but Mr Leventine had. ‘If I give you my promise.’

  ‘Promises won’t do, Mr Leventine. Think of the people. A horse can go, certainly, but there must be a horse here.’

  ‘I only hope,’ said Captain Mack, ‘that he doesn’t think he can get away with rubbish, something that takes the eye. He’s probably sure that a nun can’t know one end of a horse from another.’

  ‘Let things take their course,’ said John and smiled.

  That afternoon Mr Leventine was outside the Convent, stamping his foot imperiously on the bell of a smart Cee spring buggy. In the shafts was a good-looking bay horse, well-groomed and, by his appearance, English rather than Australian. Mr Leventine pulled up, got down and waited with every satisfaction for Mother Morag to appear.

  ‘Certainly rather good looking,’ she said, which, by her tone, sounded derogatory, and she seemed, to Mr Leventine’s dismay, to take in the whole of the horse with one glance. She walked to its head, rubbed the nose and lifted the upper lip with a deft finger, then, ‘No thank you,’ said Mother Morag.

  ‘No thank you?’ Mr Leventine was dazed.

  ‘How can you, Mr Leventine!’ Mother Morag was stern. ‘You are wasting your time – and mine. This horse has been raced. At some time he has sprained a tendon and the injury has calloused. That wouldn’t interfere with his work, but I said, “Not too young,” also “not too old.” This horse is twenty.’

  ‘Madam, you must be mistaken.’

  ‘Perhaps I am; perhaps he is even older. Look at that corner tooth, Mr Leventine. It will tell you his whole story, so – no thank you.’

  Mr Leventine was chagrined, but challenged too. ‘Why not settle for that roan country-bred, Raj Kumar, belonging to the Nawab?’ asked John. ‘I actually have him in the stable. No good for racing but broken to carriage work, strong, docile, six years old. Ideal. The Nawab would let you have him for a thousand rupees.’

  ‘A thousand! Five hundred is the price for a country-bred.’

  ‘He won’t let it go for less,’ John shrugged. ‘All right, go your own way, but remember, every hour is precious.’

  All the same, Mr Leventine could not resist trying again. This time it was a dapple grey – ‘a colour ladies seem to like’ – and a true carriage horse, belonging to a Greek, Mr Petrides, who drove sedately to his office every morning, sedately back every evening, and was now retiring so that his Bimbo was for sale. Bimbo was ten years old, but had been little used – ‘an advantage in a car but not in a horse,’ said Mother Morag – and, ‘overfed, underworked and listen, Mr Leventine,’ she lifted her arm in a sudden deliberate gesture so that her sleeve flapped, startling Bimbo into the loud grunt that spells a broken wind. This time Mother Morag had no need to speak to Mr Leventine or to say, ‘No thank you.’ She simply looked at him in reproach.

  Mr Leventine found himself with another curious new feeling. He was torn; half of him filled with chagrin because, for once, he could not make a bargain, half of him filled with admiration for this, to him, revelation of a nun.

  ‘Cas, why not give in?’ said John. ‘Take her the roan.’

  ‘But the price! A thousand rupees.’

  ‘I’ll pay half,’ said John. ‘After all, the whole thing is my fault,’ but, for some reason he did not understand, Mr Leventine refused. ‘Have I ever before refused to bargain?’ He did not know what was the matter with him – it was like having teeth drawn – but an hour later he and the buggy drove into the Convent again, and this time, between the shafts was a horse, but one with a difference, an upstanding red-roan with the arched neck, corkscrew ears of an Indian country-bred, and a splendid Arab tail. He was strong, vigorous, but obviously tractable with an intelligent but docile eye and, ‘Ah!’ said Mother Morag.

  She examined him as carefully as she had the others, but this time her voice was warm, her eyes bright. Then, putting the last hoof down and giving the right flank a pat, she said, ‘I should like to try him.’

  ‘Try him. You mean… ’

  ‘I mean that while a horse may seem suitable, until he is ridden or driven… ’

  ‘I will take you gladly. Let me help you up,’ and, as he joined her and Sister Ignatius in the buggy, ‘Now where shall I drive you?’

  ‘I will drive.’ Mother Morag had already gathered up the reins. Mr Leventine had never thought he would be seen being driven round Ballygunj in a buggy by a nun, another sitting up behind, but he soon forgot his embarrassment as he saw how Mother Morag drove, with what skill she coaxed response from the strong roan, how lightly she held him.

  ‘But how,’ he was to ask John when he got back to the office, ‘how does a nun know about horses?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Captain Mack – they were all gathered there – ‘she was born to it. Her father was Dawson – Rattler Dawson – the leading horse dealer in Dublin.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bunny. ‘That’s how I met her. My father used to buy horses from her father. He made a fortune from us because Papa wouldn’t have any other colour than chestnut and didn’t mind what he paid.’

  ‘And Mother Morag – Helen Dawson as she was then – used to show off hunters when she was still at school,’ said John. ‘I believe that did wonders with the young cavalry officers from the Curragh. Couldn’t bear to be bested by a brat in pigtails,’ and he said, ‘she knows all right.’

  ‘She certainly knows,’ said Mr Leventine gloomily.

  ‘That was satisfactory,’ Mother Morag had said as she jumped down from the buggy. Mr Leventine had been ready to help her, but she jumped down like a girl and he was left to help stiff old Sister Ignatius. ‘How I enjoyed that!’ She sounded so elated that he was not prepared for what came next. ‘Of course we still have to try him in the cart.’

  ‘The… cart?’


  ‘Yes – it’s much more difficult than a beautifully sprung buggy. It’s heavy and awkward. Also we must see if Gulab, our driver, can manage Raj Kumar who is not yet as well-trained as Solomon, but you’ll see.’

  ‘You mean… I am to come with you?’ This time Mr Leventine really did shrink, but mysteriously found himself seated next to the driver in the cart. ‘This is what she does to you,’ Bunny was to tell him, ‘and you don’t know how.’

  The cart did not run, it trundled; the tyres on its large wheels were so thin that it jarred. Its roof was of canvas so old that obviously it had let in the rain and it stank of mildew. The flooring was of rough planking on which some dozen canisters, as large as dustbins, rattled. The lights were two hand-lanterns that swung from hooks each side of the cart; another was hung inside. There were two small wooden seats for the Sisters while, in front, a wide plank set on battens and covered with a strip of carpet made the driver’s seat, and, ‘This is impossible,’ said Mr Leventine. He hoped, almost prayed, that nobody he knew would see him perched up beside the old Hindu bundled in his ancient coat. What if Sir Humphrey should pass? Mr Leventine shrank back under the hood but still he felt conspicuous and, ‘Impossible,’ he said.

  ‘It is what we have,’ Mother Morag was serene, ‘and has been possible for years. Would you believe it, Mr Leventine, that this old cart has been the means of feeding some hundreds of people every day?’ She did not add, ‘with what you throw away!’ ‘But sometimes I do not know how Gulab manages it.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Mr Leventine.

  ‘It will be better with Strawberry,’ – the Sisters had already abandoned the grand name of Raj Kumar for homely Strawberry, and, ‘Strawberry is more adroit,’ said Mother Morag.

  Back in the Convent courtyard she patted him gratefully. ‘Poor old Solomon’s mouth was hard,’ and, ‘Better with Strawberry,’ she told Gulab who was already gleaming with pride.

  ‘And better still,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘you will have the buggy.’

  ‘The buggy?’

  ‘The buggy, of course, is yours too.’

  That did take her by surprise. ‘But, dear Mr Leventine, what should we do with a buggy? How would it hold our canisters? Protect the Sisters in wet weather? Yes, I know our canvas leaks, but… ’

  ‘You could use the buggy for errands,’ but she shook her head.

  ‘The poor don’t have buggies and we are Sisters of Poverty; we do our errands as they do, by ’bus or tram, or on our own feet when we can’t afford fares. We have the cart only for our “collecting” and Strawberry must pull that. It is most kind of you… ’ She paused, then a look came over her face, a shrewdness, twin, he recognised with unexpected comradeship, of his own. ‘Of course, as you are so generous, perhaps the cost of the buggy could repair our cart.’

  ‘Repair that! You shall have a new cart.’ Mr Leventine seemed unable to stop himself saying it and at once wanted to retract. He should have added ‘one day,’ which would have meant never; he was just going to say it when the old Sister spoke, the one who had accompanied Mother Morag like a shadow and had never opened her mouth. Now, in a curiously deep and impressive voice, she said, ‘God bless you, Mr Leventine,’ and a strange feeling of happiness that seemed to come from outside himself warmed and illumined Mr Leventine. He had never been blessed before.

  Strawberry’s papers and certificates had been handed over, ‘Now all we have to do,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘is make our amicable exchange,’ and another, even stranger, sensation filled him, a feeling of deep gratification, though why he should be gratified when he had been forced – yes, forced – to spend a great deal of money, he did not know, but he felt it, as he said, ‘our amicable exchange. The Quillan syces have arrived to fetch Dark Invader.’ He bowed to Mother Morag in what was meant to be a farewell, but a crowd had gathered outside the gate, a crowd that was growing larger; the air was full of murmurs and wonderings and Mother Morag said suddenly, ‘It would be wise – I think imperative – that the people see the horse goes willingly.’

  Dark Invader would not go willingly. After these two halcyon days, he had no intention of returning to the effort and stress of the racecourse. The quiet walks around the vegetable garden while he was talked to gently, or heard gentle talking – the fact that Mother Morag was saying a psalm made no difference to Dark Invader – the tidbits of bread and salt that came like manna from heaven at unexpected times, Gulab’s and Mother Morag’s gentle grooming, none of that thump and slapping, all suited his large, lazy and greedy self. When Gulab led him out of the stall he thought at first it was for another quiet wander or some more bread and salt. Instead, he saw Sadiq and Ali advancing. Dark Invader stopped, looking carefully, then laid back his ears, showed his teeth and, when Sadiq put his hand on the halter rope, taking it from Gulab, the Invader gave vent to a sideways swing of his head that hit his hard jawbone on Gulab’s face and drew a gasp from the crowd.

  Then they, Mr Leventine and the nuns, were given a display of such horse fireworks they had never seen or imagined. Dark Invader kicked, reared, beating the air with his forefeet, bringing them down on the cobblestones with a crash and going up again. Sadiq and Ali manfully held on, dodging the flashing hooves, shouting and cursing, while Mr Leventine wailed, ‘Last time it was on the racecourse on grass, here it is stone. He will come down. He will injure himself.’ It was only the appearance of Sister Barbara and Sister Joanna bearing, like handmaidens, slices of bread and salt, calling in their cooing voices, ‘Beauty, Beauty, Beauty,’ that made Dark Invader stop. As if nothing had happened, he accepted their tidbits and when Sister Joanna took the rope from Sadiq, let her lead him towards the vegetable garden leaving the two grooms out of breath and shamed, their turbans half off their heads, and furiously, ‘Allah! Ismallah! Shaitan! Satan!’ Sadiq muttered, rewinding his turban, while Gulab staunched his nosebleed. ‘Do you think,’ the shattered Mr Leventine asked Mother Morag, ‘that the sight of Sadiq could have brought back this famous fear?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mother Morag. ‘The horse was not sweating or lathered or trembling. He simply wanted to have his own way – but poor Sadiq and Gulab.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Leventine slapped his thigh. ‘Of course, that fool Johnny should never have sent them,’ and he bellowed, ‘Why didn’t he send Ted Mullins?’ and Mr Leventine ordered, ‘Telephone Quillan and tell him to send Mullins at once. No – wait,’ and Mr Leventine said majestically, ‘I will fetch him myself.’

  ‘Mullins. Mullins!’

  Ted raised his head. He was sitting where he had sat for most of the last two days – at the desk in the darkest corner of the darkened room – he had kept the shutters closed. There was nothing on the desk now; the photograph of him and Ella in her ‘lace curtain’ had been shut away in the drawer, as had been the framed form of his new licence. From long habit he had gone to bed at night, undressed, put on his nightshirt, only to lie awake; at dawn when he heard the Jemadar’s call, he got up, shaved and dressed but, as he heard the horses go out, he took a cup of tea from Ahmed’s tray, leaving the toast and bananas untouched, and shut himself in the room again. ‘He will die!’ Dahlia wept in her distress. ‘For two days he has taken nothing but that cup of tea, no food, no drink. He will die.’

  ‘No-one dies from going without food or drink for two days,’ said John.

  ‘Papa – you must forgive poor Ted. You must.’ The bandar-log were frantic. ‘You are not to go near him,’ John had ordered them, but of course they disobeyed, or would have if Ted had allowed it, but, ‘If your Pa says no – no it is,’ Ted’s voice had said from inside. Still they kept vigil, tried to prise open the shutters with their fingers, to creep in through the bathroom, but he had locked the inner door.

  ‘Papa. Please, please,’ but, ‘Mr Mullins,’ John had said, ‘is going straight back to England.’

  ‘But John, why are you so hard?’ Dahlia pleaded. ‘You’re not usually so hard.’

  ‘Because usually I k
now what to expect, but I trusted Ted.’ There were few people John Quillan trusted and Dahlia knew he was not only angry but hurt, deeply hurt and, ‘I don’t want to see him again,’ said John.

  Ted knew it and shut himself out of sight. Now, ‘Mullins, open the door.’

  It was the voice of authority. Dazed, Ted got up, drew back the bolts and opened the shutters, wincing at the light.

  ‘And what do you think you are doing? Or not doing?’ asked Mr Leventine.

  ‘Doing?’ mumbled Ted.

  ‘Why are you not with your charge? With Dark Invader?’

  ‘The… the Invader, sir?’ Ted croaked. ‘I knew he had been found, thanks be. Mr Quillan sent me a note.’ ‘I had to, in decency,’ John said. ‘But I thought… thought he was out of the race, that he wouldn’t race now.’

  ‘And what business have you in thinking? Who says he’s out of the race?’

  ‘Then – he isn’t?’ Joy lit up Ted’s face. ‘You mean he’s fit! But… ’ and the shame came back. ‘Anyway, I’m out.’