‘Perry Wilson used to say that mare would be good one day,’ he told Ross. ‘Douglas didn’t like her, but she seems to go well for you.’
Ross thrust his doubts aside. ‘She can certainly jump when she feels like it,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s hope she feels like it tomorrow.’
Bill nodded. ‘Mr Richmond has just arrived. He’s brought Peter with him. He’s got a day off school. I think he’s hoping to see you ride Clown.’
Peter, Ross had learned, was Franklin Richmond’s twelve-year-old son, whose developing passion for horses had been rewarded by the birthday gift, some months before, of Clown, an extravagantly marked skewbald. Stephen Douglas had apparently made no headway at all with this exuberant youngster, who, at six, was just being introduced to serious training.
Leo had brought Clown out and as Ross relinquished Ginger to Sarah, he could see Franklin running knowledgeable hands over the horse, watched by Bill and a slim, fair-haired boy. Clown was an eye-catching animal, which was probably why Peter had chosen him, with irregular splodges of white on a shiny brown coat. He was tall and a little narrow with bright, eager eyes. Ross liked him.
‘Morning, Ross.’ Franklin turned to meet him with a smile. ‘Shame about that horse on Thursday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Good-looking but devious,’ he agreed, straight-faced. ‘I told Bill he didn’t miss much. Not his sort at all.’
‘Anyway, this is my son Peter, who’s got a day off school today,’ Richmond said, putting his hand on the boy’s head. ‘Peter owns Clown.’
The boy glowed with pleasure and held out his hand to Ross, a touch of shyness in his serious grey eyes.
‘Hi, Peter. That’s a fine animal you have there.’ Ross shook the small hand solemnly.
‘He’s out of a Grade-A jumping mare, by the son of a Grand National winner, so he should jump.’ Pride echoed in every syllable of Peter’s voice.
‘Oh, he will,’ Ross assured him. ‘Once we get him settled and his mind on the job.’
The schooling session went well, on the whole, although it was Ross’ third ride in quick succession and his knee was beginning its familiar dull ache of protest. Clown put on a rodeo act to the delight of his youthful owner. Ross stuck with him, a little embarrassed at his inability to get him settled, but eventually the skewbald had worked off his high spirits and began to work quite sensibly.
It was clear, as he rode up to the gate at the end of the session, that Clown’s exhibition had done Ross no harm in Richmond Junior’s eyes. He regarded Ross with something akin to hero worship as the American leapt down and offered the boy a ride back into the yard.
Ross was dog tired that night and rolled into his bed and a deep slumber that neither unpleasant dreams nor the discomfort in his knee could disturb.
Ross encountered Stephen Douglas for the first time at the Lea Farm indoor show the next evening. The Oakley Manor horses were in sparkling form. Ross was accompanied once more by Leo, who was in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. He managed the horses with his usual rough-edged efficiency and Ross found himself wishing, for the umpteenth time, that the groom was a little easier to get along with. They could have made a good team.
As Ross warmed up Butterworth in the practice area for his first class, he watched Stephen Douglas jump a lucky clear round on an impetuous grey gelding that threatened to get away from him on every corner. He knew Douglas would recognise the Colonel’s horse as one he had ridden, and so smiled in a friendly fashion as the boy came out of the ring. Douglas looked hard at Ross as he passed and then deliberately turned away.
Ross was mildly disappointed; it was inevitable that their paths would cross fairly regularly and he hadn’t wanted there to be any hard feelings.
The course was large but fair, and Butterworth pulled like a train, jumping high and clear and beating his nearest rival by almost three seconds in the timed jump-off that followed. Douglas’ grey finally succeeded in getting away from him and swept him past the last wall before he could regain control. Ross sympathised. He had ridden his share of difficult horses.
Simone pulled out all the stops and jumped to a brilliant second in a very hotly contested speed class, and then had a fence down in a Qualifier. Ginger, to Ross’ surprise and relief, behaved impeccably and came away with fourth in the same class.
At the end of the evening, as the less experienced horses and riders were loading up and driving away, Ross changed back wearily on to Butterworth to pull off a marvellous win in the Open class, the biggest of the show.
He felt that the gods were smiling on him at last and his satisfaction was unaffected by the look of intense dislike angled at him by Douglas as they lined up to receive their prizes. If the guy wanted to be petty, then let him. Ross felt he had made the offer of friendship.
Back at the lorry, Leo had the other horses loaded and soon Butterworth was untacked and decked in the multitude of protective pads and boots necessary for the journey.
While Leo loaded the horse, Ross eased his tired feet out of his close-fitting boots and hung his jacket in the purpose-built cupboard in the forward compartment. He looked forward to the day when success would buy him a fully equipped horsebox with living quarters, and he could stretch out after a show on a soft couch and let someone else wrestle the heavy lorry through England’s maze of narrow streets and lanes.
Sighing deeply with weary content, he transferred himself to the cab and began the homeward journey.
Ross’ contentment was unhappily short-lived, for as Butterworth left his stable the next morning, bound for the fields and a day’s rest, it was clear that something was very wrong. The big gelding walked stiffly into the yard with his back hunched and head held low.
Sarah looked round at him doubtfully and then across at Ross with a question in her eyes. With a cold, sinking feeling, he signalled to her to stop and walked over to inspect his most promising partner more closely.
Soothing the horse with a stream of low-voiced, nonsensical words, Ross ran his hands along Butterworth’s spine and down his hind legs. He repeated the action, pressing more firmly, and was rewarded by a distinct flinch and a flattening of chestnut ears.
Bill came up behind the American.
‘Back?’ he asked, in a voice that suggested he already knew the answer.
‘Yeah. He’s in a fair amount of pain.’
‘I’ll call Roger,’ Bill said, turning away. ‘I was meaning to ring him about that Sailor business anyway.’
Ross sighed, motioning Sarah to put Butterworth back in the box. Back problems were often depressingly slow to improve and had a tendency to be recurrent.
The vet came just as Ross was sponging Bishop down after a hard schooling session. He bounced out of his dust-covered Range Rover, wearing baggy corduroy trousers and engaging, boyish grin.
‘Hello again,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Right, where’s the patient?’
In spite of the occasion, Ross felt his spirits rise a notch. A smiling face had become a distant memory.
Roger West’s examination was swift but efficient.
‘There is definitely some tightness there. Just about here.’ He indicated an area midway along the horse’s spine. ‘It may be a strained muscle or he may have put it right out. It could have been done rolling in his box.’
‘Can you do anything?’ Bill asked, at Butterworth’s head. ‘Or shall we call Annie?’
‘She’d be your best bet,’ Roger agreed, nodding his mop of tousled brown hair. ‘If she can’t do anything we’ll have to make arrangements to get the old fellow X-rayed. And that’ll cost you.’
‘Who’s Annie?’ Ross wanted to know.
‘A kind of equine chiropractor,’ the vet told him. ‘She’s quite amazing. Sometimes you can see a ninety-nine per cent improvement straight away. I wish I could get such immediate results.’
‘Sort of “Take up thy bed and walk”?’ Ross observed.
Roger laughed. ‘Well, almost. But seriously, she’s well worth watchi
ng. Don’t you have people like her in America?’
‘Sure. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one at work. And you never know quite how much to believe.’
‘That’s true enough. Still,’ Roger said soberly, ‘whatever the outcome, it’ll be rest and a gradual return to work for this one, I’m afraid. No more jumping for a bit.’
Ross nodded in resignation.
Annie Hayward arrived at noon the following day in a Land-Rover that looked as though it had seen service in both World Wars. Somewhere between thirty and fifty, she was a huge woman with an ageless, weather-beaten face, arms like a shot-putter and a voice that would have put a foghorn to shame.
Although she dressed like a farmer, in jeans and a checked shirt, her long, honey-gold hair was plaited and secured with an incongruous pink ribbon.
Butterworth behaved like an angel for her. Annie pushed, pulled and prodded, instructing Ross to hold up various of the horse’s feet in turn, and finally slammed the heel of her palm into the side of the chestnut’s spine with a force that made him stagger.
‘Now lead him out,’ she boomed.
Bill led Butterworth into the yard. The horse moved gingerly at first, as though waiting for the pain, but then gradually grew in confidence and relaxed.
Ross was impressed.
Annie wiped her hands on her torn jeans and nodded. ‘Turn him out to grass for six weeks or so then I’ll come again. Unless he looks uncomfortable in the meantime,’ she added. ‘In that case, give me a call.’ She mopped her brow with something that looked suspiciously like a dishcloth, conjured from somewhere about her person. ‘Any beer in the fridge?’ she enquired.
‘Sure.’ Ross smiled and went to fetch some.
The stable office door was closed and the blind down. When Ross went in there was a slithering crash to his right. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see Leo standing by the refrigerator, just reaching for the handle. Behind him on the floor lay a jumble of pens and papers and an upturned tray.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ Ross demanded.
‘Just getting a beer, Yank. What are you doing?’ Leo returned insolently.
‘You don’t need to turn the office upside down to find the fridge.’
‘I knocked it. It slipped,’ Leo said dismissively.
‘Why didn’t you put the light on so you could see what you were doing?’ Ross sighed. ‘Okay, forget it. But bring a fourpack while you’re there.’
‘Anything you say, Yank.’
Ross swallowed his irritation, picking up the fallen tray and its contents before following him out. To rise to the bait would only give Leo satisfaction.
With Butterworth potentially out of action for the best part of the season, Ross had to put his disappointment behind him and concentrate on bringing the others up to his standard.
He had high hopes of King’s Defender, who was already an experienced campaigner and with improving fitness was a definite prospect for the international shows at Hickstead or Birmingham.
King’s Defender, at fourteen, could not however have many more seasons in him, nor could Woodsmoke, a ponderous old warrior of sixteen who belonged to Franklin Richmond.
Simone was essentially a speed horse, jumping the smaller, twisty courses with swift precision but without the scope needed for the bigger tracks. Of the younger novice horses, Ross’ greatest expectations lay with the big German-bred Black Bishop and bouncy, eager Flowergirl.
In the copse behind the home meadow, somebody had at some time built a small cross-country course of rustic jumps, and Ross and Bill had spent one busy evening repairing broken fences and clearing encroaching undergrowth to make it useable once more.
On the day following Annie Hayward’s visit to Butterworth, Ross saddled Bishop and with a wealth of protective ‘boots’ on the horse’s valuable black legs, took him out into the copse for a training session.
The value of the low rustic fences was in their rigid construction – the poles being bolted to the uprights – which encouraged the horses to pick their feet up, and the undulating terrain that promoted surefootedness and good balance.
Bishop worked like a dream. He skimmed through the wood, giving all the jumps at least a foot’s clearance, enjoyment evident in every stride. Ross walked him back to the yard on a loose rein, letting him blow and dreaming of the places he could go with this exceptional young horse. This was a once-in-a-lifetime talent, he felt sure.
A sudden rustling in the hedge caused Bishop to shy and Ross, instantly alert, turned to see a long black snout and forepaws pushing through the quickthorn. Bishop swung round, snorting nervously as the newcomer scrambled out and proved to be the German Shepherd from the local farm.
‘You’re trespassing,’ Ross told it with mock severity. ‘Come on. Better come with me.’
The dog watched him warily but when he rode on it followed at a discreet distance, and when he reached the yard it flopped down in the shade of the overhang and appeared happy to stay there.
No horse is perfect, and if Black Bishop came close to perfection to ride, he was the devil’s own job to handle in the stable. The giant horse’s pet hate was having his legs touched, which made him the bane of the farrier’s life.
The safest way to apply or remove leg guards or bandages was for one person to hold the horse’s head while the other tackled the task.
On this occasion when Ross dismounted in the yard there was not a soul in sight. With a resigned sigh he led Bishop into his stable and, having removed the saddle and exchanged the bridle for a headcollar, tied him up short to the ring in the wall. This done, he began to remove the boots, thanking God that Velcro and sprung clips had long replaced the fiddly straps and buckles of old. Even so, the job was a tricky one and the only way to remove the boots from the hind legs was first to grasp and hold tightly the hamstring tendon above the horse’s hock joint and, by so doing, incapacitate the lower leg temporarily.
Ross talked soothingly to the horse all the while, although his words seemed to have little effect. With great relief he was reaching down for the last straps when he felt something shove him forcibly between the shoulder-blades and was sent sprawling into the straw by Bishop’s hind legs.
With a grunt of outraged surprise the black jumped forward and lashed out with both back legs. Massive, steel-shod limbs that could power the horse over six foot of timber with ease slammed into the kickboards with a deafening crash, missing Ross’ head by a whisker.
He scrabbled on the slippery straw to get out of the way as Bishop regained his balance and lashed out again. For a few moments his world was a confusion of pistoning black limbs and cracking, splintering wood as he rolled like a jockey to avoid being trampled, and then he was on his feet and lunging instinctively for the horse’s head to try and restore control.
He released the slip-knot and hung on grimly as Bishop spun round one hundred and eighty degrees to see what had attacked him, and then threw his arms round the horse’s neck just behind the ears and let his weight bear the animal down until he was still.
As Bishop gradually calmed, Ross stood up straight again and looked towards the door. There was nobody there, although he could hear footsteps hurrying across the yard in his direction and after a moment Bill appeared.
‘Is the horse all right?’ he asked anxiously, seeing Ross on his feet and apparently in one piece.
Ross took a deep breath to steady himself. He patted the sweaty black neck and nodded. ‘I think so. I’ll have a look in a minute if you’ll hold him.’
‘Looks like he caught you,’ Bill observed. ‘What happened?’
Ross looked down, surprised. His hand was gashed and bleeding freely but there was, as yet, little pain.
‘I . . . um . . . overbalanced. You know what he’s like with his back legs.’
Bill clicked his tongue contemptuously. His expression plainly said it was Ross’ own fault he had been kicked. Ross ignored him.
‘Let’s get him settled,’ th
e stable manager said. ‘Then we’d better look at that hand.’
With Bill’s help Bishop was soon rubbed down and munching contentedly at a full haynet, his flash of temper forgotten.
The two men made their way to the tackroom with the saddle, bridle and troublesome boots, discussing Bishop’s touchiness. Ross said nothing to Bill about how the incident had happened. In fact, now it was over he wasn’t at all sure himself. Perhaps he had overbalanced.
‘Where are the others? he asked casually.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere around. No – that’s not right. Sarah’s got a dentist’s appointment and I sent Leo to feed the youngsters. He’s taking his time, though.’ He stopped short. ‘What’s that bloody dog doing here?’
‘I found him in Home Meadow. I’ll take him back later.’
Bill grunted. ‘Shooting him’d be kinder, poor sod! Old Trenchard keeps him chained up day and night. He oughtn’t to have a dog, that man. Now, let’s have a look at that hand.’
Ross obediently held out his left hand.
Bill unwound the handkerchief Ross had hastily wrapped around it and hissed through his teeth. He looked up under his brows at the American. ‘You’d best let Maggie have a look at that. It might need stitching. She used to be a nurse, patched me up when I was still racing.’
With the wound deftly bathed and dressed, Ross abandoned plans to school Clown, taking him out instead for exercise on the roads. Sarah, back from the dentist, came with him on Cragside. He had fed the dog on scraps from the cottage kitchen before setting out and now it trotted at a discreet distance from Clown’s heels as if it had been doing so all its life.
Ross called in at the farm on his way past and discovered ‘Old Trenchard’ mending a fence in his back garden.
‘Brought the bugger back, have yer?’ he grunted. ‘Thought it might have got run under this time. More trouble than it’s worth.’
‘I’ll take him off your hands if you don’t want him,’ Ross offered.
Trenchard straightened up from his hammering. ‘Well now, I don’t know about that. Cost a fortune, German Shepherds do.’
Cut Throat Page 6
