by Jilly Cooper
‘Oh, go on, Arthur,’ he begged.
And Arthur gallantly slogged on up the hill as fast as his great raking stride would take him. But now there were only the ghosts of previous winners to challenge him because The Prince of Darkness had fallen, brought down by the last fence.
‘May I borrow your binoculars, Kitty?’ asked Hermione. ‘This bit looks rather exciting.’
‘No, you may not,’ said Kitty, snatching them back. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly hold them still. Oblivious of Rannaldini’s howl of rage when The Prince had fallen, she was now screaming her head off with excitement. Arthur cleared the last fence and, with a vigour utterly belying his thirteen years, gallumphed towards the post. Lysander had no need to pick up his whip.
David Hawkley thought his heart would burst with pride and there was never such a roar of amazed delight at Rutminster as Arthur came up the straight, his great feet splaying out, rolling along like the bull terrier at the end of The Incredible Journey, lop ears flapping, to catch every word his young master was saying.
‘My Christ,’ said Rupert, who’d completely recovered his good temper, putting his arm round a joyfully sobbing Taggie. ‘Is that the same old donkey who was always last on the gallops? Come on, Arthur. He’s fucking going to do it.’
‘God, the boy rides like an angel,’ said Ricky France-Lynch in delight.
As if someone had tossed a match into a box of fireworks, the entire Venturer Box erupted in ecstasy.
‘Come on, Arfur, you can fucking do it,’ screamed Kitty, to the amazement of Hermione and the chairman of the New World Phil, and the white-faced, quivering fury of Rannaldini.
‘Come on, Lysander,’ howled Guy and Georgie clutching each other.
Glancing round, Lysander saw Male Nurse ebbing away in the distance. Realizing it was in the bag, and with the post only fifty yards away, he gave a great Tarzan howl of joy that was drowned in the deafening roar of the crowd.
‘We’ve done it, Arthur!’ he yelled and, completely forgetting Rupert’s warning, he punched a fist in the air.
This seemed to startle and unbalance Arthur, who’d always veered to the left when he was tired. Suddenly he stumbled, and to the collective horror of the crowd, he reeled, utterly punch-drunk for a second, then lurched quite out of control towards the rails. Crashing into them, he hurled Lysander over his head within a yard of the finishing post.
For a moment Lysander lay still. Then, dragging himself groggily to his feet, he staggered over to Arthur, collapsing on top of him. Flinging his arms round the horse’s great white motionless body, he pummelled at him with his fists, sobbing his heart out.
The racecourse fell silent. There was hardly a cheer as Male Nurse slid wearily past the post. It was as though the mute button had been pressed on the whole crowd. Utterly appalled, many in tears, they watched the so-recently joyful and youthful conqueror, blood and phlegm pouring from his nose on to his muddy shirt and breeches, as he slumped crying piteously over the huge ugly horse, whose gallant best in the end had not been enough.
The next moment Tabitha had raced up from the stable-lads’ stand and, collapsing, sobbed dementedly beside Lysander.
‘Oh, Arthur, darling Arthur, wake up! I don’t believe it.’
Walking quietly back, leading a shaken but unharmed Prince of Darkness, Isa Lovell dropped a sympathetic hand briefly on her shoulder as he passed.
Before Rannaldini could stop her, Kitty had fled from the box, clattering down the grey stone steps, shoving her way through the boiling cauldron of crowd.
‘What ’appened, me darlin’?’ asked an Irishman.
‘Arfur’s dead, broken his neck,’ sobbed Kitty. It seemed to take hours to battle her way round the paddock, where Arthur had shambled so jauntily only half an hour ago. Barging into the changing room, she pushed past jockeys in various stages of undress and some with just coloured towels round their hips, but all utterly shocked as they looked on helplessly.
Lysander sat huddled in a chair, his head in his hands. Rupert in a mad rage was yelling at him.
‘You fucking bloody idiot goofing off like that. If you’d kept him straight, he’d never have crashed into the rails. Why didn’t you bloody listen to me?’
‘Shut up, Rupert,’ yelled Kitty back. ‘It weren’t Lysander’s fault.’
Lysander looked up. His face was a chaos of tears, blood and mud.
‘Oh, Kitty, I let him down.’
‘No, you didn’t, my lambkin.’ Kitty flung her arms round Lysander’s frantically shuddering body, cradling his head against her breasts. ‘You rode the most wonderful race in the world. They forget winners in a week, but Arfur’ll be remembered for ever. He won really. His great ’eart just gave out.’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ roared Rupert. ‘He broke his fucking neck.’
‘How d’you know it was that, you great bully?’ screamed Kitty. ‘It might have been his ’eart, or his legs givin’ out, and then he broke his neck fallin’ into the rails. There hasn’t been a post-mortem. It’s all right, pet, it wasn’t your fault.’ She clung to Lysander trying to warm him and still his sobs.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ A chill had entered the room, a waft of Maestro mingled with the stench of sweat and antiseptic. Beneath his icy calm, such was the gale force of Rannaldini’s fury that the jockeys drew back.
‘Do you want to make a complete fool of yourself?’ he hissed at Kitty, then nodding icily at Rupert. ‘Sorry about the horse. It was bad luck to lose like that. Come, Kitty, you are needed in the box. We have guests to entertain.’
Lysander looked up in bewilderment.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, hanging on to Kitty in anguish. ‘Please don’t leave me.’
Clamping Kitty’s arm like a vice, Rannaldini almost dragged her out of the changing room. On the way they passed David Hawkley.
‘Where’s Lysander?’
‘In there. Please look after ’im,’ begged Kitty. ‘He needs you so badly.’
For a second, David took her rough, frozen hands.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, yes,’ sobbed Kitty. ‘But I should ’ave lighted a candle for Arfur as well.’
Only when they were outside among the crowds did Rannaldini let rip a lethal lava of invective, far worse than any of his screaming tantrums to the London Met. Hypnotized by his frenziedly yelling mouth, his black-maddened flashing eyes, sickened by the smell of frying hamburgers and the animal reek of wet sheepskin coats all round her, Kitty started to sway. Suddenly she crumpled and was sent flying by a fractious crowd, deprived of the result they wanted and pushing through to watch the next race. As she was trampled underfoot she lost consciousness.
Desolately empty of Arthur, Rupert’s lorry rolled back to Penscombe. In respect of such a death, the curtains had been drawn along Penscombe High Street. The streamers, bunting and flags had been put back in their boxes. For once Charlie the bookmaker was heartbroken to make a killing. Everyone had got to know and love Arthur as he’d shambled along the lanes. At The Goat and Boots, where he had stopped for his daily pint, the champagne had gone back to the cellar.
Stony-faced, the stable-lads and girls unloaded the remaining horses. Taggie tried to comfort an inconsolable Tab, who lay on her bed, sobbing, Arthur, Arthur, over and over again.
Sacked by Rupert, Lysander was so deranged with grief he had to be given a shot by the course vet. Now crashed out at Magpie Cottage where he’d been put to bed by his father, he lay curled up with a watchful, worried Jack in his arms. Having tidied up the mess as best he could, David made himself as comfortable as possible in an armchair and waited for his son to wake.
Unable to sleep, Rupert padded down to the yard to check Pridie, who was a bit stiff, but would live to despatch any opposition another day. But he seemed cast down at the loss of his wise old friend. None of the horses would get any sleep with that Shetland keeping up such a din.
Hardly able to bring himself to go into Arthur’s box
, Rupert found Tiny crouched in a far corner, the picture of furious hysterical desolation.
‘Come on,’ said Rupert gently, stretching out a hand, then hastily withdrawing it as Tiny let out a squeal of misery and lunged at him.
Bloody minded when unhappy, just like me, thought Rupert.
63
Having got rid of his guests, Rannaldini remembered his role of faithful, loving husband and rolled up to see Kitty where she had been kept overnight at Rutminster Hospital. He was greeted by Dr Benson, who was in an excellent mood having had a thousand pounds each way on Male Nurse.
‘How is she?’ asked Rannaldini, as James drew him into Matron’s office for a drink.
‘Shaken and a bit bruised for a start, she needs rest and she shouldn’t lose any more weight. Been overdoing things.’
‘Anything else the matter with her?’ asked Rannaldini irritably, thinking of the New York job where Kitty would need all her energy.
‘Well, this should be champagne,’ said James handing Rannaldini a glass of red. ‘Kitty’s pregnant. Congratulations.’
‘What?’ It was like the first great crash in the Verdi Requiem.
‘About three months, I’d say.’ James smiled happily. ‘Best thing that could happen to her. Been longing for a baby since you two got married. Endured all those tests. Always felt inadequate when all your other wives dropped children so effortlessly. Sweet girl, worth ten of all the rest, if you don’t mind my saying.’ Then, seeing Rannaldini’s utterly bleak expression, ‘Don’t need me to tell you, women need a lot of love at times like this.’
‘But we’re probably moving to New York next month.’
‘No problem. Just see you’re well insured, dear boy.’
Rannaldini was a seriously rattled man. He was furious at not winning the Gold Cup and at the very public humiliation of Lysander and Kitty clinging to each other in front of Rupert and all those jockeys. He needed Kitty as never before to smooth the path for him if he were to conquer New York and tame the toughest orchestra in the world — but not with a squawling brat around.
He left his glass of red. He needed a clear head.
‘You’re right, James,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘Kitty is a wonderful girl. I ’ate being without her. Eef I wrap her in cotton wool, can I take her ’ome this evening?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ James was delighted by this unexpected display of affection.
Following Rannaldini into Kitty’s little room where she lay whiter than her pillow, he was further gratified to see Rannaldini take Kitty’s hand and stroke her forehead.
‘My darleeng, you’re coming ’ome with me so I can look after you.’
There was no way he was going to leave her vulnerable in hospital with Lysander Hawkley on the prowl.
Leaping and pirouetting in delight, Lassie greeted her mistress when they got back to Valhalla. Rannaldini instantly sat Kitty down on the blue and white striped sofa in the summer parlour, banked up the fire, poured her a glass of brandy and turned on Hansel and Gretel pianissimo which he knew she loved. He didn’t even kick up when Lassie joined her on the sofa. There were more important issues — like persuading Kitty to have an abortion.
‘But I couldn’t. It’d be wicked,’ she whispered in horror.
Rannaldini sat down beside her stroking her hair.
‘It is wonderful news that we know you can get pregnant,’ he said soothingly. ‘It means we can have loads of other cheeldren later, my Keety. But I do not know eef this kid is mine or Lysander’s. I am macho-man,’ he shrugged engagingly but menacingly, ‘I would find it hop-lessly deeficult to love another man’s child, or at least to be in doubt.’
And what about your pack of children that I’ve tried and tried to love, thought Kitty bitterly.
‘I can’t ’ave an abortion,’ she said, trembling at her own courage.
‘We’ll discuss it some other time. At least promise not to tell anyone about the baby until we decide what to do,’ said Rannaldini sharply. Then, changing tack and becoming conciliatory, ‘You are cold, you must ’ave a nice hot bath and I weel come and dry you like a leetle girl.’
Oh please, please no, thought Kitty in horror. Fortunately Rannaldini was distracted by the telephone. Emerging from the quickest bath in history, Kitty found that Lassie had shredded a roll of lavatory paper all over the landing carpet — white horses on an olive-green sea. Very pleased with herself, she bounced up to Kitty, seizing the bottom of her dressing gown and tugged it open to reveal her mistress still wet and naked.
‘My child.’ Rannaldini moved forward to touch her.
‘No,’ Kitty shrank away. ‘I still feel queer.’
‘Of course, I just wanted to ’old you in my arms. I bring you sleeping pill.’
Sulphur-yellow, it lay on the palm of his hands.
‘I don’t like takin’ those fings.’
‘My dear, James said complete rest.’
Kitty longed for time alone to mourn the passing of Arthur, but within a couple of minutes sleep engulfed her.
Downstairs, Rannaldini planned his next move.
The sooner Kitty was removed from Lysander’s clutches the better, but maddeningly Graydon Gluckstein had whizzed back to New York at Rannaldini’s expense without confirming his appointment. Having made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich, Rannaldini choked on his glass of Pouilly Fumé as, catching up with the papers, he discovered a large piece in the weekend Times on the relative merits of his and Boris’s candidacies. The damaging implication was that while Rannaldini’s fame and explosive personality would draw the crowds, Boris was a far more interesting and creative musician.
How could they possibly think that? fumed Rannaldini as he turned up the new CD of Fidelio. No-one else made brass sing like that.
The pictures accompanying the weekend Times piece were even more damaging. Rannaldini, marvellously lit in perfect profile and exquisitely cut tails, was conducting on the rostrum. Boris, looking twenty years younger, had been photographed without a tie with his arm round Rachel, each holding a happy child by the hand. In a fury Rannaldini scrumpled up the page and, flipping through his address book, punched out a number.
‘Beattie, my leetle wild thing, we need to talk.’
Lying in Boris’s arms the following Thursday Rachel slowly came back to earth.
‘I must get up.’ She buried her lips in her husband’s shoulder.
‘No, no.’ He held her tightly.
‘I must practise for Saturday.’ She had a concert at a girls’ boarding-school in Sussex. She was going to play Chopin and Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood.
‘Play them for me now as you are.’
With the curtains drawn and one lamp casting a golden glow over his wife’s body, which was as smooth and as ivory as the keys over which she was running her fingers, Boris felt totally happy. Dreaming, The Song of the Reaper, Soldier’s March, Little Orphan, Child Falling Asleep, The Rocking-horse Knight, they were the charming little pieces his mother had played to him as a child.
‘Go on please.’
‘The Merry Peasant’s been re-titled The Happy Farmer,’ said Rachel flicking over the pages, ‘Quite right, “peasant” is much too demeaning and “merry” has connotations of alcohol.’
‘They’ll all know that one,’ said Boris.
There was a new passion to Rachel’s playing that Rannaldini must have unleashed. His wife, Boris decided, had the most beautiful body in the world, the longest neck, the slenderest waist, the softest bottom swelling out over the pansy-embroidered piano stool. He could see the gleam of her unpainted toenails as she worked the pedals. Chloe always painted hers.
Boris hadn’t told Rachel but on the way to Heathrow this evening he was going to pop in on Chloe to pick up some clothes and a pile of scores. He hadn’t seen her since they broke up several weeks ago. He knew she was in a bad way and she needed compassion and consideration, but he was determined not to start the affaire up again. Chloe was beautiful and wo
uld soon find someone else.
Rachel had launched into Important Event which entailed vigorous staccato octaves in the bass, with the right hand going right down below middle C. This meant she had to turn sideways and he could see her breasts jiggling in the firelight. Appropriately Rachel moved straight on to By the Fireside, but she got no further than the opening bars. Boris had pulled her down on to the carpet.
‘I swear I vill nevair love anyone else but you. Pleese one more time before I leave for the airport.’
The following evening Beattie Johnson sat in her large office at The Scorpion flipping through some photographs of Boris going into Chloe’s flat and embracing her tenderly on the doorstep as he left. Then she dialled a number and flicked on the recording machine.
‘Hallo,’ her voice thickened slightly, ‘Rachel Levitsky? I’m sorry, I know you like to call yourself Rachel “Grant”. It’s The Scorpion here. OK, OK, I understand, but before you ring off I wonder if you’ve got any comment about a story that your husband’s gone back to Chloe. Oh dear, she’s hung up.’
Beattie turned to the good-looking boy perched on her desk. ‘OK, Rod, you ring her now. Ask the same question and pretend to be the Mirror. Give it five minutes and you pretend to be the Mail, Kev. Then you can put on a posh voice and be The Sunday Times, Mandy, and finally I’ll do my refined Islington twang and be the Independent. That’s her favourite paper. That’ll really rattle her. She’ll soon crack under pressure.’
Rachel hadn’t cracked, but she hadn’t been able to get Boris in Italy because he’d checked out of his hotel and was obviously on his way to Israel. Despite a sleepless night she didn’t really believe the papers — they were just chasing old rumours — until she came out of Jasmine Cottage with the children on her way to Sussex. It was one of those perfect daffodil-lit mornings when the cuckoo might make his first appearance. Breathing in the sweet air Rachel suddenly noticed a bug-eyed blonde getting out of a car.
‘Rachel Grant, can we have a chat?’
‘No, go away,’ said Rachel, shoving the children and her music case into the back of her car which unfortunately was cold and took a bit of time to start.
