The Dark Horse

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Mr Quillan.’

  ‘Who employs you?’ Mr Leventine’s ‘Who?’s grew more and more regal. ‘I – or Mr Quillan?’

  ‘I suppose… you do, sir.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Leventine. ‘You will take your orders from me, and at this moment they are that you will come with me in my car and get this… this animal out of this ridiculous situation and bring him immediately home.’

  ‘Me?’ Ted sounded as if he could not believe his ears.

  ‘Who else?’ and Mr Leventine, looking down at the little man who seemed to have shrunk even more and aged by twenty years, put a plump hand on the rigid shoulder and said, ‘I think no-one else but you can do it, Teddy.’

  Far from grating on him, the silly little nickname heartened Ted as nothing else could have done. No-one since Ella had called him Teddy and Ted took his clean handkerchief out of his pocket – by habit he had a clean handkerchief every morning – used it, put it meticulously away and said, ‘I’m ready, sir.’

  ‘We call him Beauty,’ Sister Joanna told Ted and Ted’s chivalry rose to the occasion. ‘A good name for him, ma’am.’

  ‘Not ma’am. I’m a Sister.’

  ‘Ain’t never had a sister.’ It was an emotional evening for Ted, but that did not prevent him giving Dark Invader a thorough rating. ‘You shocker! That’s what you are, a shocker.’

  A secret fear had been removed from Ted; he could not help remembering, even though he had been fuddled, how Dark Invader had not greeted him that night. ‘Thought he had gone off me for Mr Saddick,’ but when Ted gave his whistle across the Convent vegetable garden, Dark Invader pricked his ears. There was a loud whicker of welcome and the Invader tried to break away from Gulab and Sister Joanna. Ted had gone quickly to the rescue. ‘Shocker! Putting it on for these kind ladies. Never heard of such a thing, but don’t think you can get away with it. You’ve been too kind to him, ma’am – Sister,’ and, ‘You’re coming home, my lad,’ said Ted to Dark Invader who looked at him lovingly, a cabbage-leaf dangling from his lips – nothing had been nicer than the nibbles of fresh vegetables in the Convent garden, but, ‘Home’. Ted said it sternly and, recalling his war years, ‘Toot de sweet and the tooter the sweeter.’

  ‘But how do you think you’ll get him there?’ asked Sister Joanna.

  ‘Ride him, of course. Would you ask that man of yours to bring the saddle and bridle?’ My saddle, Ted almost said, Ching didn’t ought to have touched it, but remembering the reason, blushed and kept quiet and was glad that he had when John Quillan appeared with Gulab. He did not speak to Ted but gave him a leg up when Dark Invader had been saddled and bridled; he had not objected even when Ted tightened the girth. ‘He’s wise enough to know when the game’s up,’ Ted told Sister Joanna. Once more in the saddle he gathered up the reins. ‘Say goodbye and thank you.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be safer,’ Sister Ignatius said, ‘if we opened the garden gate and he went out that way?’

  ‘That wouldn’t do,’ said Mother Morag. ‘He must leave through the crowd,’ and, ‘It will probably be with the crowd.’

  The crowd was getting bigger, they could hear the rising hum and, ‘Can you manage him?’ asked anxious Mr Leventine.

  ‘Gawd Almighty!’ said Ted; back in the saddle with Dark Invader under him, that was almost the power he felt. ‘The Invader and I, ain’t we used to crowds?’ and he ran his finger in the familiar Ted gesture up the long line of Dark Invader’s mane, but there was a doubt in Ted’s mind. John Quillan had given Ted his chance, almost equally with Mr Leventine, gone along with him all the way and, though John now was silent, hostile, Ted was not taking Dark Invader out without his permission and, ‘Mr Quillan, sir?’ asked Ted. It was a beseeching.

  John raised his head and perhaps only Dahlia could have told what the quirk of a smile he gave Ted meant, and, ‘Go to it, Ted,’ said John.

  ‘Almost as big a crowd as for the Cup,’ said John.

  There had been no trouble, no Invader antics. Mother Morag had pulled his ears and given him a most un-nun-like slap on the rump. Sister Joanna had whispered, ‘We shall miss you, Beauty,’ and Ted had ridden him out of the vegetable garden, through the courtyard, past the rows of nuns, past Gulab who, with a swollen nose, was standing guard over the stable where Strawberry was eating his supper, past Dil Bahadur who saluted, and into the crowd which parted respectfully then, as Mother Morag had predicted, arranged itself to accompany them up the road. Bunny had driven up – ‘I thought it wise to ask him,’ said Mother Morag – and he controlled the concourse, but Ted sat easily, using the long rein. Only once did he jerk it when Dark Invader nosed too eagerly for the jilipis and sweets that were offered. Marigolds were thrown down too and both were garlanded. Dark Invader put his head down graciously as if flowers were his due, but Ted turned a deeper bronze and hunched his shoulders. Sadiq and Ali followed, chastened, and as they neared the Quillan stables, the bandar-log came dancing down, and, as Ted dismounted, Dahlia, who was waiting by Dark Invader’s stall, threw her arms round Ted’s neck and kissed him.

  ‘A little fast work tomorrow morning,’ John gave Ted his orders, as if nothing had happened, thought Ted. ‘You can take him as far as the four furlong mark. Ching can pace you with Flashlight. Repeat on Christmas Day, then, on the morning of the race, a two furlong sprint just to clear his wind. Got that?’ asked John.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Ted.

  Sir Humphrey met Mr Leventine on Christmas Day in the billiard room where both had taken refuge – sanctuary, thought Mr Leventine.

  ‘Well, how are you, Leventine?’

  ‘Thank you. I’m in clover.’

  ‘Hear you had some trouble with your horse down on the course.’

  ‘Just nemesis,’ Mr Leventine waved his hand. ‘We were foolish enough to let another jockey try him.’

  ‘Doesn’t answer so close to the race. Hope it hasn’t impaired his chances.’

  ‘We still hope to turn a nimble shilling on him.’

  The Judge looked slightly astonished but only said, ‘Well, good wishes for the day.’

  ‘Bless you, Sir Humphrey,’ said Mr Leventine.

  The Sisters had made a small crib in the Chapel. ‘In the excitement I had almost forgotten tomorrow is Christmas Eve,’ and Dahlia brought the bandar-log to see it.

  ‘Don’t take them,’ said John. ‘They won’t know what it means and will want to play with it and probably tear it to pieces.’

  They certainly knew what it meant. They had brought with them two small clay horses, one painted dark brown, the other dark red. ‘Mohan, our friend in the bazaar, made them for us. Don’t you think they’re pretty?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Mother Morag. Mohan, in the way of Indian potters, had added a few painted daisies and golden necklaces.

  ‘They are to stand close to the Jesus,’ said the eldest boy.

  ‘Oh no! they can’t.’ Sister Ignatius was shocked.

  ‘Why not? You have an ox and an ass.’

  ‘And they must. Darkie has come to say “thank you”. Strawberry has come to say “please”,’ explained the eldest girl.

  ‘No – they have both come to say “thank you”. They both have come to say “please”,’ said the bandar who was the youngest except for the two babies. At that moment, with his big eyes turned up to look at Mother Morag, he looked less like a monkey, more like a wise little owl and, ‘Yes, put them close to the manger,’ said Mother Morag, ‘and both of them shall say thank you and please, so shall we,’ and that night in chapel she announced, ‘Tonight we shall sing the Te Deum:’

  Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur

  Te aeternum patrem omnis terra veneratur

  We praise thee, O God…

  All the earth doth worship thee…

  Dark Invader was back unharmed at Quillan’s. Strawberry was in the Convent stall. ‘Tonight we will take him on the round, and I don’t think we’ll need any more expensive
tikka gharries,’ Mother Morag told Sister Ignatius. Mr Leventine had promised a new cart. John Quillan was mollified, though Captain Mack still smiled. Bunny was enchanted, but Mother Morag’s knees felt weak all the same and she said, ‘I don’t want to see or hear a magpie-robin again.’ Then she stopped. ‘But – magpie-robins… they don’t come till March. That one I heard’ – she almost said, spoke to me – ‘was singing out of season!’

  VII

  The start of the Viceroy’s Cup was in front of the stands which made it more of an ordeal for jockeys and the starter; the business of getting nervous spirited thoroughbreds into line needed not only skill, patience and immense authority, but unquestionable fairness.

  It was the greatest day of the whole racing year. Flags flew over the stands, and banks of potted flowers filled every corner, dahlias in garish colours, chrysanthemums – white, yellow and gold – and the blue of cinerarias. No lawns were ever greener, no ropes and rails whiter, and the track itself stretched like a wide emerald ribbon in the golden sunlight of the Bengal winter.

  The Governor had arrived in state; after him, in greater state, the Viceroy, both in four-horse landaus, shaded by scarlet and gold umbrellas, and accompanied by the Lancers, their horses matched, white sheepskins on their saddles, pennons flying below glittering lance points, jackboots, red coats, white breeches immaculate, and dark faces bearded under a pride of turbans, starched in blue and gold; the whole noiseless on the grass, except for the clink of bits and chains and the creak of leather. There was a fanfare of trumpets in the royal salute while the Stewards stood in an array of grey morning suits, white carnations and white topees, which would presently be replaced by grey top hats.

  The Members’ Enclosure was filled; the women’s dresses, hats and sunshades were worthy of Ascot or Longchamps but, for beauty and elegance, could not match the exquisite shimmering saris of the Indian women, nor the turbans of the visiting Princes. Bunny had a pink gauze one with an emerald in front, ‘Your colours,’ he told Mr Leventine, ‘happiness and hope. I’m not allowed to bet,’ Bunny said ruefully – he had lost a small fortune on racecourses and in casinos before he was twenty, ‘but I would have put twenty thousand on your Invader.’

  ‘If the bookie would have taken it,’ said John.

  ‘I could have put it on the Tote,’ but, ‘Don’t be too sure yet,’ said Mr Leventine. He was still superstitious and John added, ‘This is the crux – the first real test. Darkie won’t be able to gallop away with it as he has so far – not with this lot.’

  It was time for the big race. The staircases were lined by the now dismounted Lancer bodyguards. There was no mistaking the importance of the occasion.

  For the first time Ted was nervous. He had not been helped in the changing room. His stock would not come right; he pulled it off and gestured to the bearer for a new one. Then the jockeys who had ridden in the race before came in, unbuttoning their silks and putting on new colours, picking up saddles and weight cloths and taking turns on the scales, trying their weight. Among them were Streaky Bacon, Willie Hunt and three other English jockeys. Streaky paused when he saw Ted. ‘Hullo – here’s Father Christmas.’

  ‘Methuselah,’ said one of the others, but Streaky looked closer. ‘Seen you before. Weren’t you one of Michael Traherne’s strappers?’ He straddled the floor. ‘And what are you doing here, may I ask?’

  ‘Riding,’ Ted said briefly.

  ‘Riding for Quillan, Mr Leventine’s Dark Invader,’ put in one of the others.

  ‘Cor! The comeback of all time! Methuselah in person. Riding Dark Invader!’

  ‘Which is more than you can do.’ Willie’s voice came across the room, heartening Ted. ‘Remember Thursday morning,’ said Willie and Bacon turned away, but Ted saw him go into a huddle with his friends.

  Ted had expected this. ‘Watch out for Bacon,’ John had said, but what Ted had not expected was the crawling feeling in his guts, the sudden cold sweat that broke out on his neck and hands. This was the first time Dark Invader had appeared since his encounter with Streaky. Ted was going to race with him and against him. Would there be trouble? Ted looked at the order on the race card. ‘Thank God I didn’t draw next to him.’

  Ted fastened his silks, tucked them into his breeches, picked up his whip, saddle and weight cloth and went on to the scales for a final check.

  They were singing at him now, a ribald version of ‘John Anderson My Jo’:

  Now your brow is bald, Ted,

  Your locks are like the snow,

  But blessings on your frosty pow …

  pow pow pow

  ‘Blessings! I don’t think,’ said Streaky Bacon.

  Ted could almost feel the grizzle among the fair tuft on his head. He tried not to hurry as he pulled on his cap. His legs felt so clamped with terror that he seemed to swagger as he walked. If only there had not been the bad luck of Streaky’s appearance. If only Streaky had not got near Dark Invader. If only… He, Ted, had let John Quillan down. Would he let Mr Leventine down – Mr Leventine who had such trust in him? If… if… if. Then Ted remembered that Sister who had been leading Dark Invader. At parting she had said, ‘Oh, I do hope you’ll win.’ Then she had caught herself back. ‘I suppose one mustn’t pray for racing.’

  ‘Prob’ly not,’ Ted had said – he was not used to talking about praying, but in the strangeness of the Convent he had been led to add, ‘You can pray for the Invader and for me.’ Must have been out of meself, Ted had thought afterwards. What would Ella have said but, standing on the vegetable garden path, the young Sister had looked so appealing that, ‘If you will, my dear,’ Ted had said. The ‘my dear’ made it seem more paternalistic but, ‘Oh, I will. All of us will,’ she had said fervently and, ‘That’s the way for us to win,’ Ted had said.

  Now a little knot seemed to form inside Ted. ‘If you’ve got the jitters, whatever you do, don’t pass them on to the Invader. He’s going to need all he’s got, so you forgets about your blinking self,’ Ted Mullins told Ted Mullins.

  As the crowd watched, the first little brightly clad figures came through the door of the weighing room verandah and sat down on the bench. The judges in the Judges’ Box identified them. Blue bird’s eye, orange cap, that would be Quarterback, a grey five year old from Bombay. White, red sleeves, red cap – Backgammon, ridden by Streaky Bacon, the visiting crack brought out specially by the Rajah of Raniganj. Here was another, a chessboard effect, black and white checks, scarlet cap, Lady Mehta’s Flashlight. Then Volteface, red with brown sleeves and black cap. Then pink and green, green cap – a small man, even smaller than the others – Ted Mullins, famous with Dark Invader.

  Quarterback, Backgammon, Volteface, Dark Invader, Flashlight. That made five but there were eleven runners; six more to come: Racing Demon, Postillion, Bezique, Tetrazone and Moonlighter. Last of all Ching, peacock jacket, white sleeves, white cap, having his first run in the Viceroy’s Cup on Greensleeves, owned by a syndicate and trained by John Quillan. At the bell they came into the paddock where the trainers were gathered while the grooms led the horses round and round.

  Then came orders to mount, quick hands swung the little hard men in brilliant silks into absurd saddles. A last tug at girths and a look at stirrup leathers – Streaky’s powerful legs were tucked under him until he seemed almost to kneel on the horse’s withers. Dark Invader – ‘Hell of a horse,’ said someone in the crowd, but the little Mullins seemed to sit him quite calmly. On the grey, Quarterback, was a solid little chunk of a man, snub nose, blue jowl – the English jockey, Tim Stubbs – Quarterback was a hell of a horse, too. Then Flashlight, little head, little short ears, bit of white in his eye – a sporting print racehorse – and his English jockey Syd Johnson on top, white as a sheet and sweating. ‘He has a weight problem, poor devil,’ – then Willie Hunt with Racing Demon.

  It was time for the parade. The horses gathered at the start, walked down in single file past the stands and crowds – it seemed half Calcutta was gathered on the
far side of the rails – past the finish in order of the race card, Dark Invader five behind Backgammon and Streaky. Did he hear the cries of ‘Darkie!’ ‘Darkie!’ that came pitched louder than ever from the crowd? Then they came back, one by one, at a fast canter with a slap of the reins, a flutter of silk and the sweet smell of horses and bruised grass.

  ‘The one race I should really like to watch,’ said Mother Morag, ‘is this one. I, who thought I should never want to watch a race again.’ Dahlia felt the same. It was not only the dress she had seen at Hall and Anderson’s, silk in her favourite apricot with lace and the sweetest sunshade with a tassel, it was Ted and Dark Invader. ‘If we all could have gone, the children too.’ The bandar-log had, of course, gone down to the races with the spare syces who put them up on their shoulders, but Dahlia knew she had to stay at home.

  Back at the start the stream of orders came from the Starter who had horses facing the wrong way, breaking out, sidling round. There was swearing, cries of, ‘No, sir. No,’ all plainly heard in the stands. Mr Leventine, sweating under the hat he had exchanged for his topee, mopped his forehead; his rosy face was growing purple. John’s was white. Never had Ted looked so small, hunched and old; Dark Invader never as big and as intimidating. Yet John noticed Ted’s easy seat, the quiet rein, the horse’s ears pricked. Dark Invader was eager. Eager! thought John, marvelling.