Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘How do you feel about losing the ride, Mr Wakelin?’ a voice enquired unctuously at Ross’ shoulder, and he turned to find Harry Douglas smiling at him from behind a hand-held tape-recorder. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Can it be that you didn’t know? Mr Fergusson phoned me this morning.’

  ‘And you didn’t waste any time spreading the glad tidings. I should’ve guessed it was you,’ Ross added through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you ever give up? What have I ever done to you to make you hound me like this? Surely it’s not still about Stephen? Can’t you see he’s better off where he is now?’

  ‘Hound you? You’re imagining things, Ross. I’m a reporter. I merely report what I see. People have a right to know.’

  ‘And you have a right to stir things up when they get a bit quiet, I suppose?’ Ross was aware that they were attracting a fair amount of attention, both inside the collecting ring and out, but he was too incensed to care. ‘Well, I hope you’re happy now you’ve dragged my reputation through the mud, because there’s one advantage to being in my position – I’ve got absolutely nothing to lose!’

  There and then, heedless of the fascinated gaze of the gathering crowd, he hit Harry Douglas with all the weight of weeks of frustration powering his fist.

  The Sportsman’s star reporter reeled back into the arms of the startled onlookers and slid down to sit on the trampled grass with an almost comical expression of amazement on his face.

  ‘Put that in your bloody paper!’ Ross said with tremendous satisfaction and turned away without a second glance. The crowd parted to let him through, and a ragged cheer and amused applause followed his departure. It seemed he wasn’t entirely without friends after all.

  Stephen Douglas materialised at his side as he plodded across the showground in the wake of Danny and Bishop.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for years,’ Douglas Junior said, casting a satisfied glance back to where his father was being helped up and dusted down. ‘He’s been interfering in my life ever since I can remember. He tried to make me hate you because you took over my rides, but I lost that job before you ever came to England. I can see that now. He’s sick! He told me you were going around telling people I couldn’t ride to save my life. Said you were always bad-mouthing me, but nobody I spoke to could ever remember you having said anything against me at all. And then I was talking to Annie the other day – you know, Annie Hayward who does backs – and she put me straight on a few things. And well,’ he paused, awkwardly, ‘I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. I hope you’ll believe I had nothing to do with the things he wrote.’

  Ross waved a hand wearily. ‘Forget it,’ he advised. Then, mindful of the courage needed for such a speech, ‘But thanks. And don’t worry about it. You can’t choose your relations.’

  With evident relief, Stephen drifted away to his next ride and Ross was joined first by Roland, then Lindsay and James.

  ‘Is it true about Bishop?’ Lindsay demanded immediately.

  Ross hadn’t seen her since she’d confronted him in the yard and didn’t know where he stood with her exactly. He hesitated.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted, impatiently.

  ‘Who knows? Probably,’ he said, depressed now that the euphoria of delivering Douglas’ comeuppance was ebbing away. ‘Harry Douglas said so.’

  ‘By the way, lovely right hook, old chap!’ Roland declared. ‘Couldn’t have done it better myself.’

  ‘But how could Harry Douglas have found out first?’ Lindsay persisted. ‘Surely if it’s true Uncle John would have been told? So why didn’t he say anything?’

  ‘Perhaps it was Fergusson’s way of getting back at me,’ Ross suggested. ‘There’s no love lost, you know.’

  ‘But that’s too much! It’s so unfair!’

  ‘Oh, Princess. When will you ever learn?’ he said despairingly. ‘Not everyone has your sense of fair play, you know. You just have to roll with the punches.’

  ‘There speaks a man of the world,’ Roland observed dramatically, adding gently to his cousin, ‘He’s right, m’dear.’

  Lindsay stopped in her tracks, glaring first at Roland, then at Ross. ‘All right, make fun of me! But if you had a little more backbone, perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess!’

  She turned away abruptly and, with a patient shrug, James peeled off and followed her.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Roland murmured as they departed. ‘Well, can’t you think of any way to insult me? I warn you, I’m frightfully thick-skinned but I am particularly touchy about my ears . . .’

  In spite of himself, Ross smiled. ‘I can see why,’ he said with a sly grin.

  Bishop managed a very creditable sixth place in the jump-off, against stiff opposition, but Ross could find little pleasure in it now. He travelled home lying on the sofa-bed while Bill drove slowly in the ever-strengthening winds.

  Soon after they reached the yard the Colonel phoned Bill at the cottage to confirm that Fergusson had received, and was likely to accept, a substantial offer for Bishop from a wealthy farmer with a string of horses in Yorkshire.

  As Bill imparted this news to the team, his eyes rested on Ross with bitter accusation, and the unloading and settling of the horses was carried out for the most part in depressed silence.

  To Ross, the news seemed to signal the beginning of the end and even the memory of Telamon’s wonderful performance failed to keep his spirits afloat. He wondered gloomily what Roland would do with the horse if the yard did break up.

  The other horses would doubtless find places in other yards but he couldn’t see Roland bothering to find another rider for the stallion that he’d bought on a passing whim. Judging by the horse’s past record, he wouldn’t find it easy to place him either. Ross wondered if Roland would consider selling Telamon to him.

  Alone in his room, after a late meal eaten half-heartedly, Ross sprawled on the sofa listening to the wind howling round the stables. Bill had said that Ross needn’t bother to come down for the late rounds, the implication being that he would rather do them alone. Having climbed painfully up the stairs once, Ross was quite content to let him.

  The pain in his knee was many times worse than it had been when he first came to England and he knew he couldn’t put off consulting a specialist for much longer. They would say he ought not to have left it so long. He was supposed to have had a check-up at the end of June but had known they would probably want to operate and surgery would put him out of action for several weeks.

  So what? It probably wouldn’t matter now.

  Three weeks ago he’d been measured for a new pair of leather riding boots with an elastic insert in the left one to ease the pressure. He was due to pick them up in the morning. It hardly seemed worth the bother.

  He gave himself a mental shaking. Self-pity would get him nowhere. After all, England was just one country. If he was determined he could go to another part of Europe where he wasn’t known and start over. Or even Asia. Horse sports were booming in places like Japan.

  No, the future could take care of itself, he decided. What caused such deep, aching misery was the prospect of leaving Oakley Manor under a cloud. Of leaving behind any chance of regaining the respect of the people he had come to know and like.

  Franklin would speak up for him, he had no doubt, but if after all that had happened the extortionist was still at large, what had he achieved? If only he could remember what he’d been going to tell Franklin that night . . . But then, if he had a dollar for all the ‘if onlys’ in his life, he’d be a rich man indeed.

  Sighing, Ross levered himself off the sofa and limped towards the kettle to make himself a cup of instant caffeine. Halfway there, a knock at the door halted him in his tracks. Warily, he made his way over.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked through the panel.

  ‘Lindsay.’

  Mystified, Ross opened the door. Lindsay it was, clad in a soft, jade-green jersey dress that clung invitingly to her slim curves.

  Ross transferred his gaze reluctantly to her face. Her
blue-grey eyes met his for a moment and then fell to a point somewhere in the region of his shirtfront. She looked vulnerable and very unsure of herself.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, concerned. He looked past her, out of the door. She appeared to have come alone. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I – er –’ Lindsay hesitated, biting her bottom lip.

  Ross reached forward to touch her arm. ‘What’s wrong, Princess?’ he repeated, softly.

  ‘I’m surprised you’d still want to talk to me,’ she said with a rush. ‘After some of the things I said to you.’

  ‘I guess I can force myself,’ he said nobly, mouth twitching with amusement. ‘But, as I remember it, there was a fair bit of mud-slinging on both sides!’

  ‘Well, I came to apologise,’ Lindsay said, with the air of one determined to discharge their duty whatever the case. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did but it just makes me mad when I see people I care for being treated like that!’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Ross said, caught between frowning and laughing. ‘But what brought this on? What made it so urgent that it couldn’t wait till morning?’

  Lindsay looked up at him, her eyes huge and suspiciously bright.

  ‘I had to come. I’ve been so miserable. I mean, you must have been feeling pretty awful anyway. You didn’t need me making it worse. I mean, about Bishop and Ginger, and Tuesday night – I never really thought you did that but you wouldn’t defend yourself and it hurts Uncle John so. I wanted you to tell me that you hadn’t. You see, it’s just that it matters! Can I come in?’

  Having tried with limited success to follow this emotional cloudburst, Ross was somewhat taken aback by this final plea. His heart started to thump heavily. It was nearly eleven. It might not be such a good idea . . .

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But . . . um . . . what about James? Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘James told me to come,’ Lindsay said in a small voice. ‘He said he knew when he was beaten, and . . .’ She studied her feet, face reddening.

  ‘And?’ Ross prompted. He had to be sure he was getting the right message.

  ‘He said any fool could see that you loved me.’ Her voice rose on the last words, turning them into a question.

  ‘Oh, Princess!’ Ross groaned, gathering her into his arms. She clung to him, half-sobbing, the top of her fair head barely reaching his shoulder. ‘What do you want with a crippled saddle tramp like me? James has everything: looks, wealth, charm. He’s a great guy.’

  Lindsay pulled away for a moment. ‘Well, you marry him then,’ she suggested. ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody noble! I’m very fond of James but I’ve never loved him, I know that now.’

  Ross put his arms round her and drew her into the room.

  ‘What will your mother say?’ he enquired, teasing.

  ‘Sod Mother!’ Lindsay said indistinctly, her head against his chest.

  With a delighted chuckle, Ross kissed the top of her head. ‘I’d carry you across the threshold, Princess, but my ribs are still a bit sore.’

  ‘Not too sore, I hope?’ she enquired.

  He shook his head. ‘Nowhere near that bad.’

  21

  Lindsay left at first light the next morning, before anyone was up and about.

  ‘I want to tell Mother myself,’ she said when Ross urged her to stay. ‘I think I owe her that much. She doesn’t know the engagement is off yet. I was dining at James’ parents’ last night and I expect she thinks I stayed there. Besides, I couldn’t face going down to the yard when Bill and the others are there.’

  Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘Ashamed of me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. Then, with a carefully straight face, ‘I don’t think I’d want to be seen with you in public, that’s all.’

  ‘You little minx!’ Ross breathed, lunging to get between her and the door.

  Lindsay dodged easily, giggling.

  ‘See you later,’ she called as she skipped down the stairs and out into the windblown morning.

  From the window, Ross watched her cross the yard, a slim figure incongruous in a jade evening dress, and smiled as she turned and waved before rounding the corner. Her subterfuge was almost certainly wasted as the Scotts would hear the engine of her MG as she left and draw their own conclusions.

  In due time, having showered and dressed, Ross made his way down to the yard. It was something of a shock to encounter the depressed faces of his workmates as they fed and mucked out the horses.

  Ross’ whole world had taken on a different complexion overnight and the atmosphere in the yard was totally at odds with the warm glow he felt within. True, his problems hadn’t miraculously disappeared, but neither did they seem so desperately overwhelming. Wherever he found himself in the future, he wouldn’t be alone.

  In the cottage, he ignored the usual copy of the Sportsman. If Douglas had written anything about him at all, it wouldn’t be complimentary and he didn’t want anything to spoil the way he felt this morning.

  After breakfast, which was eaten for the most part in a deafening silence, Ross announced his intention of going to pick up his new boots. He wondered aloud if Danny would like to accompany him.

  ‘Danny’s got things to do here,’ Bill said shortly.

  ‘Young Peter is coming over for the day, Ross,’ Maggie explained, taking pity on him. ‘Danny offered to keep him company and they’re going out this afternoon.’

  ‘Masters is taking us to Beaulieu, to the motor museum,’ Danny put in. ‘They’ve got some wicked cars there! I haven’t been for ages.’

  Bill scowled at his son. ‘Don’t have time to cart you all over the bloody countryside,’ he muttered. ‘Got far too much to do here.’

  So Ross set off alone in the borrowed Land-Rover, eyeing the windblown trees a little apprehensively. Last night’s gale had not died down. If anything, it had strengthened and the roads were strewn with leaves and broken branches. In the yard that morning, empty buckets, haynets and discarded rugs had taken on a life of their own, flopping and rolling across the ground in a way that startled the horses and would have been quite amusing had anyone felt like laughing.

  Cutting across the hills to the northwest of Salisbury via the back roads, Ross’ thoughts dwelt with pleasure on the previous night.

  When a car came at him in the middle of the road on a blind corner, he swerved violently to avoid it, cursing the other driver as the nearside wheels of the Land-Rover bumped heavily into a pothole. It would follow his recent run of luck, he reflected ironically, if after Lindsay’s declaration of devotion he had to spend the next few weeks in hospital recovering from a road accident.

  He shifted down a gear or two and pulled back on to the road. The steering wheel juddered a little under his hands. Darcy was right, the wheels did need balancing.

  His thoughts drifting again, he reached the brow of the hill and saw with pleasure the Wiltshire countryside spread out like a patchwork quilt below him. The road followed the ridge for a few hundred yards, curving round the head of a steep-sided valley, and here the rising wind buffeted the Land-Rover so heavily that Ross had to steer into it to stay on course.

  Avoiding another traveller on the not over-wide road, he again had to bump on to the side and as he pulled back on to the tarmac had the uneasy feeling that the vehicle wasn’t responding as it should.

  It seemed now to be pulling hard into the wind. As the incongruity of this dawned on him, the road banked a little as it rounded the valley head and the Land-Rover, without any warning, lurched violently to the right.

  Resisting his instinctive attempts to correct its course, it swerved wildly across the opposite carriageway, hit the grass verge and launched into the air.

  The brakes, applied moments too late, had no effect at all on the temporarily airborne vehicle, and the view that had so delighted Ross just moments before now looked likely to be the last he ever saw.

  The valley was deep and incredibly steep-sided, its slopes stepped by the
feet of countless generations of grazing sheep. The Land-Rover tipped crazily towards it, held up only by three disturbingly rusty strands of barbed wire and a series of ancient, lichen-greyed fence posts. The wire screeched and twanged like a violin in the hands of a toddler and one weary strand gave way under the strain.

  It seemed an age that the Land-Rover hung there, tilted suicidally over the precipice, but it could only have been a matter of moments before the fence, having stretched to its limits, swung back with surprising elasticity, tipping the vehicle back on to three of its wheels.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Ross lost no time in unfastening his seat belt and opening the door. His heart missed a beat as he saw the yawning emptiness beneath his offside front wheel, and although the Land-Rover appeared to have settled fairly firmly, he decided that in this case discretion was definitely the better part of valour, and slid across the front seat and out of the passenger door.

  With his feet back on terra firma, he took three quick steps to distance himself from the vehicle, as though fearing it might yet drag him over the edge, and then turned with morbid fascination to look over the fence.

  It didn’t take a genius to see just how close to oblivion he had come. He was standing on a rough, grassy verge barely a yard wide upon which rested two of the Land-Rover’s four wheels. Immediately to the other side of the fence the turf dropped away, and some two hundred and fifty feet below, at the bottom of a slope that must have been one in three, a flock of startled sheep gazed anxiously up at him.

  The wind whipped through his hair and rocked him on his feet. Feeling suddenly light-headed, Ross turned away from the valley and sat down heavily on the tough, brownish grass of the verge.

  Now that the danger was past, his body reacted to the surge of adrenalin it had produced with a hefty dose of the shakes. He closed his eyes, rested his head on his knees and took slow, deep breaths to steady himself.

  The low drone of an approaching car swelled and stopped as the driver pulled up alongside. A window lowered, unheard above the gale, and a man’s voice enquired, ‘You all right, mate?’