Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ross watched him go and sighed gustily.

  Roland slapped him on his bruised shoulder.

  ‘Never mind, old boy. Life goes on,’ he observed brightly.

  Ross regarded him wearily, considering this fatuous, even by Roland’s idiotic standards. He began to wonder if his earlier assumptions about the man’s hidden depths weren’t perhaps mistaken.

  Ross hobbled through the rest of the day, trying to ignore Bill’s open contempt. There was little to do in the yard until the six o’clock feeding and he retired to his room after lunch to take the weight off his leg.

  Bill would probably think he was taking comfort from a bottle, he thought with bitter amusement. He had no doubt that the manager would waste no time in acquainting his employer with his version of the day’s events.

  After the evening meal, as was his custom on a Monday, Ross made his way to the Manor to spend an hour or so with the Colonel, going over the week’s events and planning campaigns to come. They had, Ross felt, been gradually building up a good working relationship founded on mutual respect and he experienced a twinge of unease at the thought of the effect Bill Scott’s report might have had on the Colonel’s fledgling trust. The Colonel clearly thought a lot of Bill.

  He wasn’t over-worried about Leo’s dismissal. He knew that the groom’s behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed of late, and besides, the Colonel had given him the authority to make those decisions for himself.

  Ross’ walk up to the house, plagued by these thoughts and considerable pain from his knee, was not a pleasant one. Masters opened the front door, stiffly correct as usual, and showed him into the Colonel’s study.

  ‘The Colonel will be with you directly, sir,’ he informed Ross quietly.

  Ross nodded. The door clicked shut but in spite of his knee he didn’t sit. His dog lay down and watched him anxiously while he wandered aimlessly round the room, looking with unseeing eyes at sporting prints and photographs he had seen a dozen times. The room had become comfortably familiar to him over the past few weeks and he rebelled violently against the thought that his future here could be in jeopardy.

  A new photograph caught his eye. It had been enlarged and framed, and someone, presumably the Colonel, had written on the mount: ‘Ross on Flowergirl – Gloucester’, and dated it. For some reason it touched Ross. He put all negative thoughts from his head and prepared to do battle to preserve his career, if need be.

  Shortly afterwards his employer joined him accompanied by the inevitable pack of dogs, poured drinks and waved Ross into a chair.

  ‘So you fired Leo,’ he commented without preamble. He settled back, sherry in hand. ‘I’m not surprised.’

  Ross looked across, hopefully.

  ‘It was past time,’ the Colonel continued. ‘In fact, if you hadn’t done it, I would have done it myself – though not, perhaps, in quite the same way. The thing is, we don’t need that kind of disruptive force in our team, and he was disruptive, in spite of what Bill says.’

  Ross took a sip of his sherry, hardly tasting it. ‘What does Bill say?’

  The Colonel cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Oh, he says, “Wakelin never tried to get on with Leo”; he says, “Wakelin hasn’t completely got over his accident yet and probably never will”; he says, “Wakelin hasn’t got the temperament for the jumping game”.’

  Ross studied his drink, swirling it round in his glass. Bill says too damn’ much! he thought with a flash of annoyance.

  ‘And what do you say?’ he asked finally, feeling as though he was inviting the hangman to open the trapdoor.

  The Colonel regarded Ross for a long moment, his grey hair tinged copper by the evening sun.

  ‘I still say I judge as I see, and so far I’ve seen nothing to give me cause for worry.’ He put down his hand to fondle the ears of his favourite spaniel. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

  Ross nodded gratefully.

  The Colonel shook his head, mildly exasperated. ‘You still can’t trust, can you? Look, Ross, I wouldn’t have taken you on if I didn’t think you were up to it, Lindsay or no Lindsay. The fact is, I liked what I saw, and I still do. And I think you are a lot tougher than Bill gives you credit for. But I understand why he thinks as he does and, given time, I think he’ll come round.’ He paused, taking a sip from his glass. ‘The thing is, we’re a man short now. I’ll put an advert in Horse and Hound next week, but do you think we’ll manage in the meantime?’

  ‘In the yard, yes,’ Ross replied. ‘And if we can have Danny now the schools are breaking up, at the shows too.’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to Bill about that. He wasn’t happy, but he agreed as a temporary measure. I said I would pay the lad, of course.’

  ‘It’s a shame he’s so dead set against Danny making horses his career. The boy’s a natural.’

  ‘Mmm.’ The Colonel gestured at the sherry decanter. ‘Another drink?’

  Ross hesitated, looking at his watch. ‘I was going to visit Peter this evening if I had time . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes. I really should go myself. The thing is, I hate bloody hospitals. Spent some time in one after the war. Bloody American pilot ran me down in a jeep.’ He looked sideways at Ross, who hid a smile.

  ‘No good offering you a lift, then?’

  ‘No,’ the Colonel agreed emphatically. ‘But I suppose I ought to make the effort. Tell you what, no sense in us both taking cars. I’ll get Masters to run the two of us up there. We can have another sherry while we’re waiting.’

  ‘In that case, thank you.’ Ross held out his glass. Much longer working for the Colonel and he might even get to like the stuff.

  12

  Danny turned up early the morning after Leo left, exclaimed in admiration over Ross’ impressively bruised face, and did his share of the stablework with refreshing enthusiasm. Sarah too looked relaxed and happy, an indication of just how much Leo’s presence in the yard had bothered her. Bill was the only one who didn’t seem happier for Leo’s absence. He looked bitter and barely spoke a word to Ross.

  In the morning Ross worked Simone and Ginger in the school and in spite of his own physical discomfort felt good about the sessions, his spirits rising like a lark on a summer’s day.

  In the afternoon, Lindsay arrived to ride, accompanied, surprisingly, by Roland. This provoked a lengthy debate as to which horse he should partner. He himself, when consulted, would only say maddeningly that they all looked the same to him, which provoked exasperation in Ross and a fit of the giggles in Lindsay.

  Eventually they decided that Woodsmoke was the best bet for someone who was a little out of practice. Lindsay gave up Gypsy to Sarah, who adored her, and rode the impetuous Fly instead. Ross and Danny on Bishop and Clown made up the rest of the procession that eventually wound its way out of the yard and down the lane.

  Roland gave no reason for his unprecedented desire to ride with them, and on such a hot afternoon, but kept Lindsay and Sarah in fits of laughter with tall tales from his past riding experiences.

  Riding behind with Danny, Ross watched the immaculately clad figure ahead of him. Despite his clowning, the Colonel’s son rode with easy competence. Ross himself found that by riding with longer stirrups than usual his knee was not too uncomfortable and the ride was, in general, a great success.

  When they returned to the yard, Colonel Preston was there, talking to Bill. He broke off in astonishment when he saw his son amongst the cavalcade.

  ‘Good God, Roland! Has the heat got to you?’ he remarked acidly. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you on a horse again.’

  Roland dismounted a little stiffly. ‘Well, I hope you had a good look, Father dear,’ he responded. ‘I’m not intending to make a habit of it.’

  The Colonel turned from contemplation of his disappointing offspring and spoke to Ross.

  ‘I was just telling Bill I shan’t make it to the show tomorrow after all,’ he said with regret. ‘Those bloody hippies are camped down by the copse. I’ve called the police and they say the
y’re keeping an eye on them and if they’re still there tomorrow will come and move them on, but the thing is, I’d better be here. We always get this problem this time of year. They come to Stonehenge for the solstice and then hang around for weeks. It’s a bloody nuisance!’

  ‘Did you know that hippopotamus means river horse?’ Roland enquired of no one in particular. ‘Hippos meaning horse and potamos meaning river. It’s from the Greek, you know.’

  ‘Roland, stop it!’ Lindsay hissed, trying not to laugh. ‘They’re hippies, not hippos.’

  The Colonel favoured his son with a scathing glance, which Ross felt he richly deserved, and after visiting each of his horses, left the yard, followed shortly afterwards by Roland and Lindsay.

  Ross contemplated a long evening of show preparation and tried to ignore the rhythmic stabs of pain in his knee.

  Ross and Danny travelled up to the Three Counties Showground at Malvern in the early hours of the next morning.

  On the way, Danny remembered a childhood game that involved inventing fictitious institutions and societies using the letters on vehicle numberplates. The game started with fairly sensible suggestions such as Retired Jockeys Home for RJH, but quickly degenerated into idiocy. SSH, the Society for Schizophrenic Hamsters, rounded it off as they drove on to the showground.

  The show itself was a big one and at nine o’clock, when they parked the lorry and climbed down from the cab, the area was already abuzz with the frenetic activity so familiar to Ross.

  Most of the schools had broken up for the summer and flustered mothers ran hither and thither, escorting pig-tailed offspring on precocious ponies, while long-legged hunters and jumpers stalked through the throng bearing solemn-faced competitors towards white-railed rings. Grooms and helpers scurried amongst the forest of equine limbs, collecting numbers, carrying tack and monogrammed horse blankets, brushes, and forgotten whips and gloves. Several loudspeakers vied for air space and attention, and somewhere a fairground organ added its melodic strains to the confusion. Vans selling hot dogs, candyfloss, ice creams and doughnuts kept generators humming as queues already began to form.

  Ross stretched his cramped back muscles and grinned at Danny.

  ‘Once more into the breach, dear friend?’ he suggested.

  ‘Up and at ’em,’ the boy agreed.

  Clown came out for his first class with springheels and wide eyes. Every fence was an exciting new adventure, to be regarded with suspicion and cleared with a wild leap. Riding him was something like sitting on a grenade with a loose pin, but somehow Ross managed to steer him unscathed through two rounds and finished with a trophy and a red rosette.

  Franklin Richmond, who had watched through the viewfinder of a video camera, met Ross with a warm handshake and a demand to know just how he had pulled it off.

  Tongue in cheek, Ross told him that every round was meticulously planned down to the last detail and went back to the box to collect Barfly for the next class.

  The fizzy chestnut brought him back to earth with a bump. Literally. A disagreement with the fifth fence left Ross to pick himself up off the dusty ground just in time to see his erstwhile partner exit the ring, tail flying like a banner and stirrups swinging crazily against his sides.

  Ross managed an apologetic grin as Franklin met him in the collecting ring.

  ‘I’d be interested to hear the plan behind that round,’ Fly’s owner remarked, clapping Ross on the back and laughing heartily.

  ‘I asked for that, didn’t I?’ Ross admitted, loosening the chestnut’s girth.

  As he walked the sweating animal back to the horsebox, he heard the familiar tones of Harry Douglas being broadcast from the public address system in the main ring and his heart sank. The man seemed to be everywhere. Ross had already received dirty looks from Stephen today.

  The day wore steadily on.

  Danny and Ross had to work hard to keep up with a demanding schedule but the prevailing humour was good and that made up for the lack of manpower.

  Only after lunch, when Ross was warming up Bishop for his first class, did a cloud appear on the horizon. In the distance, on the edge of the practice area, he spotted Leo talking to Stephen Douglas’ groom. It rocked his concentration for a moment.

  What on earth was he doing there?

  He supposed he might be asking for work, although having obviously been dismissed from Oakley Manor wouldn’t be the best of references. Ross hadn’t spoken of the matter with anyone outside the yard and had asked Danny not to, but it would be evident that some disagreement had occurred. Grooms didn’t normally leave their jobs abruptly, mid-season. A couple of riders Ross knew fairly well had commented on his scarred face but he had passed it off with a joke and no more was said. Uneasy, he nevertheless put Leo out of his mind and concentrated on the horse once more.

  Bishop performed with his customary flair but lost the class to more experienced animals. Ross could only pat him and assure him that he’d done a good job and that his day would come. The big black flicked his ears to and fro, listening, and Ross tugged his mane affectionately.

  Harry Douglas had been unable to find anything more derogatory to say than to imply that it was the American’s lack of experience rather than that of the horse that had cost them the class.

  Having managed a creditable third behind Mick Colby and Stephen Douglas in Bishop’s second class, Ross rode him back to the box to transfer on to Woodsmoke for the final class of the day. He was so tired he hardly noticed when a rider he knew from past shows deliberately turned his back. But when he rode past a neighbouring lorry and the two grooms beside it nudged each other and all but pointed, he became decidedly thoughtful.

  ‘Danny, is there something I should know?’ he asked as he reined in beside the Oakley Manor lorry. ‘The way folks here are looking, I feel like the best-dressed man at a naturist convention.’

  Danny didn’t laugh.

  ‘I think Leo’s been talking,’ he said unhappily. ‘There’s . . . well, a rumour going round. Amongst the grooms, that is.’

  Ross slid off Bishop, gritting his teeth as his bad knee took his weight.

  ‘What kind of rumour?’

  ‘They’re saying . . . well, look, I didn’t really hear it all.’ The boy dived into the box to fetch Woody.

  ‘Danny!’

  He reappeared and stood at the top of the ramp, twisting a cloth agitatedly between his hands.

  ‘They say, some of them do, that your nerve has gone and you drink to keep going.’ He dropped his gaze and plunged on. ‘They say Leo found out and you threw him out. He’s been showing his bruises and, well . . .’

  ‘. . . they’ve seen my face too.’ Ross finished it for him. He laughed harshly. ‘I’d be pretty stupid to fire him if I wanted to keep him quiet, wouldn’t I? Surely people aren’t taking his word for it?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘No, not all of them.’ He hesitated. ‘Only some of them are jealous of you, I think, and . . .’

  Ross sighed. ‘Yeah, I get the picture. Well, I guess it’ll blow over. Some other juicy bit of gossip will turn up and nobody’ll think any more of it.’

  While Danny finished getting Woodsmoke ready, Ross sat on the ramp and tried to ease the throbbing pain in his leg. The knee was badly swollen and the top of his leather riding boot had become desperately tight. Though he hated to do it, Ross took his pocketknife out of the tack box and carefully slit the stitching four inches down the back.

  In the collecting ring again on Woody, Ross felt eyes boring into him from all directions. He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination, but to no avail. Several of the grooms and one or two of the riders were making no secret of their curiosity. It seemed the word was spreading like wildfire.

  Stephen Douglas rode alongside the American and smiled sweetly.

  ‘Sorry to hear of your little – ah – problem,’ he said, unctuously. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

  Ross smiled in return. ‘There is one thing,’ he replie
d. ‘But there are ladies about, so I’ll tell you another time.’

  Douglas was young enough to let his annoyance show. Unable to think of a suitable reply, he turned China Lily abruptly away.

  Ross felt little satisfaction at having won that exchange. Stephen Douglas was a comparative innocent. Other tongues would not be so easily stilled and in spite of his confident prediction to Danny, he was not so sure that the matter would blow over quickly. Although he had made many friends, Douglas had friends too and Ross knew there was a certain amount of resentment at his stepping into a job many of them would have coveted. The deliberate misquotes in Harry Douglas’ article had done him no favours either.

  Whether his growing ill-humour communicated itself to the usually sedate Woodsmoke or whether he was just glad to be out of the lorry and working, Ross couldn’t tell, but the old horse went like a dream. The class had attracted one or two international riders and in a hard-fought jump-off against the clock, Ross was astounded when the old campaigner managed second place. He lined up for the prize-giving feeling elated, and even Harry Douglas’ condescending remark about a novice having a lucky day failed to dampen his pleasure.

  Franklin Richmond was full of praise and, back at the box, Danny was over the moon. His joy was touching. He could hardly have been more enthusiastic had the success been his own.

  Ross relinquished Woody to the boy and exchanged his black jacket, white shirt and stock thankfully for a cool tee-shirt, and boots and breeches for jeans and training shoes. This done, he climbed into the cab and collapsed along the bench seat, glad to leave Woodsmoke to be loaded by Danny and heartily wishing the boy was old enough to drive the box as well. His leg had definitely had enough for one day.

  He closed his eyes, drearily considering the latest black mark against his battered reputation. He supposed the rumour would gradually fade and be forgotten with no further evidence to support it, but he could very well have done without it.

  ‘I say, old boy.’ The voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet.