Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ross supposed it was natural to get cold feet at the last minute, and for Lindsay it must almost feel like the final commitment with the scale of the celebrations, but he fervently wished she hadn’t chosen to unburden herself on him. Fond was a strange choice of word, though.

  ‘You’ll be fine. You make a great pair,’ he assured her. ‘Look, can I get you something? A coffee? Beer?’

  Lindsay shook her head. ‘No. Thanks all the same. I’d better get back. I’ve got to change and finish getting ready. I’ll probably get a rollicking as it is.’

  She made no move to leave, however, concentrating on the scratch on the doorpost once more, a little crease between her brows.

  Ross finished soaping the last bridle and started reassembling it. The silence was loud between them and he wished she would just go. He wasn’t by any means the best person to advise her on affairs of the heart, and after last week he would have thought she’d have known that.

  ‘Why don’t you want to come tonight, Ross?’ she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

  He blinked. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been a direct challenge.

  ‘I . . . er . . . I don’t have anything to wear,’ he said lamely. ‘I wasn’t expecting to have to dress up when I packed to come over.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. There’ll probably be all sorts there.’

  Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘Not jeans and cowboy boots,’ he said. ‘Your mother would crucify me!’

  ‘Stuff Mother!’ Lindsay countered forcefully. ‘But it’s not just that, is it, Ross? You could have borrowed. Why don’t you want to come? Is it Danielle?’

  Ross felt cornered. ‘No, it’s not Danielle. I never did ask her to go out tonight. Sorry, Princess. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m just not in the mood for partying.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Lindsay confided with a smile. ‘Look, please say you’ll come? Even just for a little while. Roland will lend you something to wear. He’s about your height and he’s got tons.’

  Ross was taken aback. ‘He might not want to . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t mind. I asked him yesterday, just in case. Please say you will? It won’t seem right otherwise. Do it just to annoy Mother, if nothing else!’

  Ross gave in. He’d had it in the back of his mind that he really ought to put in an appearance, anyway.

  ‘You say your mother organises everybody,’ he said pointedly. ‘Okay, I’ll come but it won’t be until later. Now you’d better be on your way, hadn’t you?’

  Lindsay nodded. She turned away and then stopped and said over her shoulder, ‘I knew you weren’t going out with Danielle tonight. She’s coming to the party with Roland.’

  ‘You devious little . . .!’ Ross threw his cleaning sponge at her and she ducked and ran out of the door.

  Ross travelled to the first day of the New Forest Show on the Tuesday with his mind all over the place. Behind him in the lorry, four excited horses shifted and stamped on the straw-covered matting but for once he had little thought for them.

  He’d spent less than an hour at Lindsay’s party. Roland and Danielle were the only people he’d known apart from the Colonel and the engaged couple themselves, and he was not in the mood for making small talk to strangers.

  He nibbled a couple of canapés, drank a glass of champagne and slipped away when the dancing began, feeling he’d done his duty and unable to bear the sight of Lindsay, gorgeous in emerald silk, smiling up at James as they circled the floor.

  He slowed the box as they approached the bottleneck of Lyndhurst High Street, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

  Monday’s article in the Sportsman had not spared him. The photograph of Diane Faulkner and himself was a masterpiece, surpassed only by the wording of the headline, which ran AMERICAN RIDER IN CRIPPLED CHILD TRAGEDY.

  The accompanying report rated Ross as little better than a child molester. He was labelled a ‘controversial rider’, his accident in America was termed an ‘incident’ and Mrs Faulkner was described as ‘understandably bitter’.

  She was quoted as saying that Ross had tried to buy her silence with a wheelchair for Naomi, and made it sound as though his reckless or incompetent riding was to blame for the tragedy. No mention was made of Vixen’s brain tumour.

  The article was careful to draw no conclusions and make no direct accusations on its own behalf. It really didn’t have to.

  Ross’ Monday night session with the Colonel had not – for the second week running – been a bundle of laughs.

  ‘Life certainly hasn’t been dull since you came to ride for us, has it, Ross?’ his boss said by way of an opener as they sat down together.

  ‘No, sir.’ Ross returned a steady gaze.

  ‘Accidents, prowlers, break-ins, fights amongst the staff, and now this . . .’ He indicated a copy of the Sportsman which lay open on his desk.

  Ross said nothing. There didn’t seem to be anything he could say.

  ‘A reporter from the local rag woke me at half-past seven this morning, wanting to know my feelings on the matter,’ the Colonel told him. ‘I think he got rather more of them than he bargained for! I detest such intrusions, especially by the press, and especially before breakfast. I threatened him with trespass!’

  Ross smiled, picturing the scene.

  The Colonel picked up the paper. ‘It doesn’t read well, though, does it? We can do without this sort of thing if we’re going to try to attract sponsors next year.’

  It was the first Ross had heard of looking for a sponsor, although it was something that became a necessity for most riders when they started competing at a higher level.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, helplessly. ‘It wasn’t the way they make it sound. They twist everything round to suit themselves.’

  The Colonel nodded, seeming calm enough. ‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed the way Harry Douglas has singled you out, you know. Several people have remarked on it. Franklin is of the opinion we should put some pressure on the editor to make Mr Douglas toe the line. Would you like to make a statement in your own defence?’

  Ross considered this. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said after a moment. ‘You can’t convince those that don’t want to be convinced, and the others won’t believe this rubbish anyway. I think if I ignore it and Douglas can be persuaded to give it a rest, the whole business will die a natural death.’

  The Colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, yes. I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’ He tapped the photograph with one finger. ‘I assume there is a reasonable explanation for this?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘She’d hit me once and was going to do it again. I had to stop her somehow.’

  The Colonel regarded him long and thoughtfully. ‘For a quiet, unassuming chap, you certainly seem to have a genius for upsetting people,’ he said finally.

  Ross smiled. ‘Don’t I just?’

  He explained to the Colonel about the wheelchair; how it was offered as a gift. ‘I wanted to try and help somehow and I couldn’t think of anything else. God knows it was little enough but it was something. She threw the offer back in my face,’ he remembered regretfully. ‘I guess it was a dumb idea.’

  Telling the Colonel had helped, in a way. It was a long time since he’d talked of it to anybody, even Lindsay, and it helped to get it out into the open. To stop it festering away inside.

  Nevertheless, the matter preyed on his mind as they travelled the short distance to Brockenhurst.

  Several people had gone to the trouble of ringing the yard to spout verbal abuse at him, linking the article – as Douglas had no doubt intended – with the earlier one about drinking. Two callers Ross had spoken to himself; the others – he didn’t know how many – had been fielded and dealt with by Bill. Knowing the censure was unjustified didn’t stop it leaving a nasty taste in his mouth.

  He began to think about issuing a statement in his defence, after all. It seemed he had underestimated the depth of feeling the article would arouse.

  At the show
, waiting just inside the collecting ring on Simone and trying not to notice the nudging and whispering, he was hailed by Mick Colby who was attending the show as a spectator.

  ‘Does everybody read that bloody paper?’ Ross asked, as Mick came over.

  ‘What paper?’ his friend enquired innocently. ‘No, don’t you dare touch my shoulder.’ He moved his bandaged arm back out of Ross’ reach. ‘But honestly, I shouldn’t worry. They’ll get over it. It’ll be somebody else another day. You’re just flavour of the month at the moment.’

  ‘Some flavour,’ Ross remarked dryly.

  By midday he discovered he had become more or less immune to the stares and pointing fingers, and when during the afternoon Clown unseated him in the practice area and he heard several smothered giggles, it troubled him not at all.

  In fact, when he had remounted the flighty skewbald, he rode past the offending group, said with a creditable imitation of Roland, ‘Hilarious, wasn’t it?’ and had the satisfaction of seeing their faces redden in discomfort.

  At least it seemed the horses were on his side. They all jumped competently and behaved well, and the lorry cab was decorated with a smattering of rosettes as they joined the queue of slow-moving traffic leaving the showground that evening.

  By the time the horses were unloaded and settled for the night, all their gear sorted and cleaned, and the horsebox made ready for the next day, there was only time for a few hours’ sleep before the whole performance began again.

  Four horses made the journey to the show on Wednesday. The two mares, Ginger and Flo, occupied the two foremost stalls in the lorry, with the stallion, Telamon, at the very rear. In between was one empty section and the solid figure of Woodsmoke, who effectively quelled any romantic notions the big chestnut might otherwise have nurtured.

  Ross had another busy day. Ginger behaved herself, although she could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have been described as eager.

  Robbie Fergusson was at the show, Ross knew, but he kept himself to himself which suited Ross just fine. Flo excelled herself, placing in both her morning classes – one an important qualifier. The Oakley Manor team ate lunch on the hoof, and the first of Ross’ rides for the afternoon was Telamon.

  The horse had behaved impeccably throughout an uneventful morning and when Danny boosted Ross into the saddle did no more than sidle, respecting the boy’s hand on his rein. When Danny stepped back, however, the chestnut launched himself skywards.

  Ross had been ready for something of the sort. They were on a patch of exercise ground behind the horseboxes and he let the animal have his head as much as possible, hoping that he would ease the kinks out of his system and settle down before he had to head for the ring.

  When, half an hour later, they made their appearance at the practice ring for Ring Two, they caused quite a stir. Telamon had settled into a high-stepping trot, his dark copper neck arched and tail streaming like a banner. Although, mercifully, he took no notice whatsoever of the mares while he was being ridden, a few of them noticed him and neighed excitedly.

  From the goggle-eyed expressions his appearance provoked, Ross concluded that news of Telamon’s purchase had not yet filtered through the grapevine.

  ‘You sneaky sod!’ was Mick Colby’s comment. ‘If you can pull this off, my friend, the scoffers will have to eat their words.’

  ‘If,’ Ross agreed. ‘But he’s just as likely to pile me in the middle of the ring for all the world to laugh at!’

  Somebody had erected a good-sized practice pole and Ross put Telamon at it. He pinged it just for fun, jumping high and wide, putting in a spirited buck on the landing side for good measure. Ross cursed at him, caught between annoyance and amusement. He let the stallion walk round quietly then until his number was called.

  That Telamon was wildly excited as he entered the ring was immediately obvious even to the most uninformed spectator. He crossed the turf in an extravagant trot, tail held high and nostrils cracking. To Ross he felt like a tightly coiled spring with a hair-trigger release. His champing jaws periodically tossed back streams of white foam to decorate Ross’ black jacket. The crowd began to buzz with anticipation.

  He concentrated on staying relaxed, hands gently playing on the reins to keep the horse’s attention, and after stopping to acknowledge the judges, gave the stallion a fraction more rein, letting him spring forward into a canter. As the hooter sounded, he swung the horse between the timing beacons and approached the first fence, an inviting, rustic affair that Telamon negotiated with the kind of mini-explosion that with him passed for a jump. A stride after landing, he was airborne once more. Ross sat the buck quietly then pushed him forward.

  Telamon took the next two fences without appearing to notice them and then allowed himself to be guided round the first turn and towards the fourth.

  A double of gates, a wall, parallel bars and a tricky upright were all traversed with almost scornful ease and Ross began to enjoy himself. He was leaving the horse to find his own stride as much as possible, knowing that interference only served to provoke conflict.

  Coming to the second last, however – parallel bars that you could comfortably have driven a small car between – he couldn’t resist squeezing slightly with his calves to ask for extra effort.

  Extra effort was unquestionably what he got.

  Telamon shot into the air with an indignant grunt, giving the black-and-yellow poles at least eighteen inches’ clearance, and landed running. Ross attempted valiantly to make the turn to the last fence but by now Telamon was convinced that running was the order of the day. They missed the jump by a good yard, still accelerating, and began to circumnavigate the ring.

  It was at this point that Ross’ memory chose to dredge up a snippet from a few weeks before, and he heard Bill Scott saying disparagingly: He’s a failed racehorse, you know . . . Used to run away going down to the start.

  Rejecting the sensible course of action, Ross concentrated on steering, and with forward planning and a fair degree of luck managed to thread the horse between the jumps to arrive on line with the last fence a second time. Obligingly, Telamon picked his feet up at the appropriate moment and they skimmed between the timing beacons to finish the course.

  The stallion plainly thought it a huge joke, for as Ross sat back to try and ride him to a halt, he put in a buck of gargantuan proportions that sent the American over his head without a hope in hell of saving himself.

  The crowd gasped collectively, then clapped and laughed as Ross picked himself up with a self-conscious grin and dusted himself down, waving away the stewards who were running to his aid.

  He saw with amusement that no one had yet attempted to catch the stallion, who was standing by the exit watching the other horses in the collecting ring. He patted the horse’s sweaty neck with no resentment and led him out.

  ‘Well, don’t say we don’t give you entertainment value,’ the voice behind the loudspeaker said as they departed from the arena. ‘That was, amazingly, just four faults for circling. Four faults for Ross Wakelin on Mr Roland Preston’s Telamon.’

  Ross was heartily grateful that Harry Douglas wasn’t commentating at the show. His reception in the collecting ring was mixed but mostly good-natured. It seemed that his supposed indiscretions were momentarily sidelined in the face of this new interest.

  Outside, where Danny waited with a cotton sheet to throw over the chestnut’s loins, Ross was greeted by Lindsay, James and Roland.

  ‘I see what my revered father sees in the sport now,’ Roland said in the tone of one finally understanding an enigma. ‘It really is quite exciting, isn’t it?’

  Lindsay gave her cousin a playful push. ‘Roland! Stop acting the fool.’

  ‘You should have seen it from where I was sitting,’ Ross suggested.

  James laughed. ‘I don’t think many of us envied you. I know I didn’t! But he did look rather good when he behaved, didn’t he? Even to my untrained eye.’

  Lindsay agreed wholeheartedly.
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  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to his next class,’ Roland said with the enthusiasm of the newly converted. ‘Now Ross has got used to the horse, we should have a good chance in that one.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ he said ironically. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if we win it!’

  The afternoon continued apace. Ross rode Flowergirl once more and Ginger twice, before bringing Woody out for the bigger classes.

  He was constantly changing horses and numbers and rings. Bill and Danny worked like termites, scurrying to and fro to make sure the right horse, wearing the right tack, reached the right collecting ring at the right time.

  Woodsmoke managed a very creditable second place in his first class and a sixth in his second, but he seemed to be feeling the hard ground with his ageing limbs and, knowing Franklin would agreewere he there, Ross consulted with the Colonel and withdrew him from the last class.

  By this time he was bone weary and his knee felt as though someone had it in a vice and was trying to reshape it with a mallet.

  He would have been quite happy to have gone home had Telamon not been down to jump in the last class, and if the hope of salvaging the final shreds of his reputation had not, very probably, rested upon his partnering the horse a second time.

  If Telamon was any less excited on this, his second outing, it would have taken a keen observer to have spotted it. He entered the ring with the same high-stepping trot and screamed his excitement to the world in general, in the way that only a stallion can. Several hopeful mares answered him, which seemed to do his ego good for he shook his head and tried to break into a canter.

  Ross restrained him and nodded to the judges, hoping that they would sound the starting hooter without too much delay.

  His wish was granted. He eased the stallion forward and inclined him towards the start of the course. These jumps were considerably bigger than those in the earlier class but Telamon accorded them the same glorious lack of respect. Ross once again chose a policy of non-interference, restricting his part in the proceedings to steering towards the appropriate fences and tentative suggestions about moderating their heady speed.