by K. M. Peyton
“I dare say Myra will be happier with Mr Fellowes than with Dad,” Greevy said. “Dad doesn’t make people happy, does he?”
What on earth was she supposed to say to that? The understatement of all time.
“I don’t live at home any more. I’ve got myself a flat in the village, walking distance from Raleigh’s. It suits me fine. In fact I only see Dad if he comes to the races.”
How civilized he had become!
“I like my job, even if Dad did throw me in at the deep end. And you too – you’ve stayed with it. You’ve done well. Funny how things work out. That night – God almighty! He deserved it – what he did… but I’m glad I stopped you killing him.Where would you be now? Think of that! You owe me, Tessa – saving you…”
Greevy must have had a few drinks, to be so forthcoming.
“I wish I had killed him!”
“What, and still be in prison? You’re crazy!”
“We all know she’s crazy – you just found out?” Another voice broke in, and Tessa swung round to see the tanned, smiling face of Tom Bryant looking down at her.
She had to hide the shock that suddenly electrified her. She hardly recognized him from the invalid she had last seen. He looked so wonderful! Slender and obviously fit, in a fine suit and tie like Greevy, his sky-blue eyes were taking in her miserable figure.
“So, you’re swapping stepfathers? A celebration surely? Don’t mind Greevy here, he knows what I think of his dad, eh Greevy?”
Greevy laughed. “I’ve got a good idea. Don’t worry, I can take it.”
They chatted like old friends while Tessa goggled beside them, heart thumping. What was it about Tom that made her feel so weird?
Then Tom turned to her and said, “Want some fresh air? I don’t think you’re a party person, not enough practice. Come and take a turn with me outside and tell me what you’ve been doing. Long time no see.”
He took her arm and steered her adroitly through the throng out on to the terrace. They walked down the steps and across the lawn to where a river made the boundary, running slackly in the sharp autumn sunlight. Their shadows lengthened towards it. Tom walked without a limp at all, and moved as easily as a dancer.
“You are better! It all worked?”
“Yes, better than anyone imagined. I’ve been so lucky! As soon as I was walking again I went to the States, and only came back last week. I’ve got relations out there, and lots of racing contacts. I started to ride out again, and got myself really fit and learned a hell of a lot into the bargain. It’s been terrific. And I’ve already got some good rides lined up for the season. A year ago I thought my number was up – it’s amazing.”
“You’re so fit. It must help, when you have to fight back.”
“Yeah. Jockeys usually bounce back. I’m not the only one. I’ve just been really lucky. And what about you? And that great ugly beast of yours? Jimmy said he’s still around.”
“Yes. Like you. Back from the dead. He can see now and I’ve got him really fit. I ride him out every day. Not with the others. Just in my time off.”
Tessa’s face lit up as she started to tell Tom the story of Buffoon’s rehabilitation. Tom listened gravely. What else had Jimmy told him? Tessa wondered. Nobody at home spoke of her ambition for him. It was just too difficult a hot chestnut to tackle.
“You want to race him again, don’t you?” It wasn’t hard for Tom to pick up this fact. “You’re off your trolley, Tessa. He’s too old, beat up. They never come back.”
Hearing it from Tom, the words that everyone had stopped saying at home because it was no use telling her, Tessa felt her world cave in.
“He will come back! You come and ride him! He feels marvellous!”
She looked up at him, white-faced, and Tom saw again the light in those weird eyes and the passion that suffused the small wiry figure. This was what Morrison must have seen, he thought, when she launched herself at him with the knife. In her black dress, throwing out sparks, she looked marvellous.
“But to race?” He stuck to his guns. “He’s too old now, to start again.”
“It’s what I want.”
Tessa always got what she wanted. In the end.
“No. You’re deluding yourself.”
“Look at you – nobody thought you’d come back.”
Tom laughed. “No? Well, I’m young, haven’t you noticed? And lucky. Besides, I’m not a horse.”
“Come and ride him, and see what I’m saying. He feels just like he used to.”
“Well, I might. To humour you.”
To humour himself, perhaps. Was it possible that Tessa might learn to love something other than a horse? She gave no signs. One would no more try and steal a kiss from Tessa than enter the stable of a kicking mule.
“I exercise him in my own time. I never take work time on him. I ride him every afternoon, and that’s my own time.”
“That’s a hard day. And what about the race riding?”
“I’ve got to do as much as I can, because I need the money. I have to pay Peter. If you can get me some rides… tell them all how good I am?”
“Yeah, I’ll do my best. You work at the riding, that’s what’s the most important. You could be up there – win a big one. You can do it.”
“Mum’s on my side.”
She was the only one. But she was mad too.
They stayed talking, Tom telling her what he had been up to in America, and it grew dark and they went inside. Other people came to talk to Tom and Tessa left, not wanting any more. It was only three miles to walk home, and now she was wrapped in dreams and glad to be out in the night on her own. She went out through the car park which was completely deserted. An almost full moon glittered on the metal roofs, making it look like a sea. Tessa turned her face gratefully to the cool air.
By the entrance a large white car was parked on its own. There was a man in it, watching her. She sensed rather than saw him. She had to pass close to it to get out of the entrance and as she passed the door opened and a voice called her name.
She stopped, stupidly, instead of making a run for it, and a figure stepped out and caught her by the arm. The grip was painful.
“I want to talk to you!”
It was Maurice, breathing stinking whisky fumes over her.
“My dear little stepdaughter! Come and talk to me, tell me how my darling wife is enjoying herself these days.”
He dragged her into the car and Tessa heard the automatic locks click. She sat in the passenger seat, tense, trying not to show her fear. For God’s sake, don’t start the engine! she prayed. He could kill her.
“I wasn’t asked to the party,” he said.
“Everyone was asked. It was an open invitation. You could have come if you wanted.”
“If I wanted? But no one else wanted me, did they?”
“No, they didn’t.”
In the moonlight she could see his drawn, jowly face, and the ice-cold eyes. She was completely in his power. Yet, even in this extreme situation, she could not find the words to sweet-talk herself out of it. The hate rose up like bile.
“My mother is happy now, with Peter! And so is Greevy, now he’s left you. And me! We’re all happy without you! Can’t you see what you are?”
And even while the words left her tongue she was telling herself what an idiot she was.
Maurice laughed.
“You never play your cards right, do you, Tessa? You’re still just a spoilt brat as far as I’m concerned. A very nasty spoilt brat with a vicious streak. I am going to see that you get your just desserts.”
He put his hand out to switch on the ignition.
Tessa knocked it away. She tried to find her door handle, the panic rising, but knew it was locked anyway. There were headlights coming towards them out of the car park and she turned to scream out for help but
Maurice knocked her violently against the window, nearly stunning her. He started the engine. Tessa reached out desperately and put her hand on the horn. She kept it pressed down and screamed again but fear stifled her voice. Only the headlight, flaring now across their struggles, gave her hope.
The car swung wide, crossed in front of Maurice’s car and blocked the exit. Maurice, wild and drunk, lashed out at her again as she lunged for the ignition keys. He was so mad he was going to ram the car that blocked him.
The driver leapt out and Tessa screamed at him.
“Tom, mind out!”
She kicked out at Maurice’s ankles and swung her fist at his face. Pure rage guided her blows and Maurice couldn’t get the car in gear. He roared at her, and she lunged again for the ignition keys, this time managing to pull them out of the lock. The engine died as they dropped on the floor.
“Let me out! Let me out!”
She beat on the windows with her fists, thinking Maurice in his rage was going to kill her. But he sat quietly, breathing hard. Then he bent down to pick up the keys.
He clicked the door locks free.
“Get out,” he said.
He leant over and opened the door and Tessa stumbled, half fell, into Tom’s arms.
“What on earth’s going on? What were you doing to her?”
“She’s hysterical. Take her home. Do I have to spell out to you that she’s unhinged? Wasn’t she put away for it, for heaven’s sake?”
Maurice looked up at them, his face twitching with the effort to keep in control. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Whoever was unhinged at that moment, Tessa knew it wasn’t herself. He looked just like the madman he was. She felt Tom’s arms tighten round her.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“Yes. Make him go. Move your car.” Tessa could not bear the expression in Maurice’s eyes, boring into her. It brought all the crises in her life spilling back, the black holes she didn’t want to look into again.
The urgency in her voice made Tom comply. He drove his car out of the way and Maurice started his car and roared away into the night.
Tom said gently, “What was all that about?”
Tessa didn’t want to talk about it. It was too difficult. She shook her head.
Tom said, “I’ll drive you home.”
She sat silent, unable to make sense of the incident. Perhaps Tom believed Maurice, that she was hysterical.
She just said, “He was drunk.”
“I’ve never understood him. If his horse loses, he takes it as a personal affront. As if all the horses and all the jockeys and all the trainers ganged up together, personally, to beat him. He has the filthiest temper I’ve ever come cross. You wonder, sometimes, what made him like that. He’s a self-made man, so nobody knows what sort of a past drives him. It’s just such a pity he has to choose racing as a sport. Rather than yachting or motor-racing, or even golf. It was bad luck, your mother meeting him.”
Tessa sat in silence, white as the moonlight. The ice-maiden, Tom thought. He talked to cover up the strange happening which he didn’t understand and which Tessa was obviously not going to explain. There was no way having her in his warm car after the party was going to develop into anything but a lift home. Large areas of Tessa were prohibited. Damn and blast Maurice, whatever he had or hadn’t done. And Tom was prepared to believe what Maurice had said.
Tessa could not sleep. She blocked out the Maurice thing, wondering if she had, indeed, been hysterical. She had certainly been frightened. Terrified. That was no figment of her imagination. But it disgusted her, that Maurice had the power to frighten her. She would not think of it. She had wanted to think about Tom, but now, after that, she had sensed his doubt. It was spoilt.
The stable yard was quiet, a half moon shining serenely over the big chestnut trees by the field gate. She went to Buffoon’s box and let herself in. He was lying down, with Lucky, and neither of them got up, but turned their heads and made welcome snuffling noises. Tessa sat down by Buffoon’s head and laid her cheek against his.
“What they say, Buffy. It’s rubbish. Even Tom.”
As always, what she didn’t want to know she blotted out. Being with Buffoon reminded her of what really mattered. Buffoon. She had to believe, whatever they all said. If you didn’t have faith… what was the point? Nobody believed a horse could win the Grand National three times until Red Rum did it. There were no rules in life that couldn’t be broken. She knew Buffoon had a great heart. Hearts didn’t change. Did they?
She didn’t want to ride him in the Grand National, after all (did she?), only in a small race or two.
And then there was the money. Oh, the money! To be an owner, there were all sorts of unseen expenses before you even started, and when you were an owner there were bills for keep, for shoes, for the vet, for the jockey, for entry fees, for travel in the horsebox… Peter, so far, keeping his head down, only docked her pay for the cost of Buffoon’s feed, bedding and shoes. Buffoon was still, officially, Tessa’s hack, a plaything. Not a racehorse. Just a livery. But if he were to race…
“You can have all my money,” her mother said.
But what money her mother had was Peter’s. She hadn’t a penny from Maurice. Never a great one for housekeeping, she worked in the stable rather than in the house and rode work every morning, for which Peter paid her the going rate. Tessa would accept that, fair enough, if her mother didn’t want it.
“You’re mad, of course,” Sarah said to Tessa, knowing only too well her ambitions and agonies. “Tell your mother to divorce Morrison and get a huge settlement. Half of Goldlands, for a start. Then you can keep a racehorse.”
“Maurice won’t let her divorce him, will he? And lose all that money? His lawyers are all the tops. She can’t be bothered with it.”
“You’ve just got to get the rides then, no other way. Three a week at least.”
Sarah was the only one now who humoured Tessa’s desires. She didn’t see – money apart – why Tessa shouldn’t ride Buffoon in a little no-hopers race at a far-flung course, just for the joy of it. Or otherwise. She only said it was an awful lot of money for just a fun ride or two. On an old has-been nag.
“But start riding!”
And as the season got under way, Tessa did manage to get some rides. She had shown she had the talent, and she did not make mistakes, her steely determination and intelligence in reading how the race was progressing standing her in good stead. What she might lose in finishing strength she made up for in intelligent strategy. And horses went kindly for her. She got a reputation for handling the funny ones, not what she really wanted. But a ride was another packet towards Buffoon’s costs.
She saw Tom at the races. He was too busy now to think about girls. He always had a word for her and she knew that her friendship with the top jockey stood her in good stead. Sometimes she rode in races with him but he was usually well ahead or behind, waiting to pounce. But just sometimes they rode knee to knee, and Tom would give her a wink and they would have a chat. Tessa usually didn’t have enough breath to do anything but nod her head in answer, but Tom was always cruising.
Once he said to her, “That horse you’re riding, take him on now. Don’t hang around. He likes to be in front and he stays for ever.”
The trainer had told her to stay up close but not go on until the last bend. She decided to take Tom’s advice and go for it. Tom came with her, passed her at one point, riding hard now, head down, no time for chat, but Tessa knew her job with this trainer was on the line now and rode like a demon. As Tom promised, her horse’s dour stamina prevailed and Tom’s horse, for all Tom’s riding, fell tamely away. Tessa won. It was thanks to Tom, but she took the credit from the surprised trainer.
The ten per cent prize money was a bonus. Tessa scraped and saved every penny and by the end of the season had enough to register herself as an owner and put Buffo
on officially into training with Peter. Peter said he wouldn’t charge her any more than Buffoon’s expenses. Perhaps after one or possibly two races she would realize she was on a hiding to nothing. She rode Buffoon at exercise with the string and galloped him with Gamekeeper and Cantata, and he had a job to keep up, finishing last of the three by several lengths. Tessa tried not to show disappointment. Peter said it was good, better than he expected.
Riding back home beside Sarah on Gamekeeper, Tessa tried to be positive.
“It wasn’t bad for first time.”
“No. But don’t kid yourself, Tessa. Put him in a race and you’ll see. You can always pull him up, after all. He’s yours to do as you like with, that’s your bonus.”
They all knew Buffoon only got anywhere in races over three miles, for he hadn’t the speed to go with the two-mile specialists. He won by wearing down the opposition, by his stamina and heart, not by his speed.
Tessa decided to ask Peter to put him in a suitable race. She had to know. Peter scratched around and found a race at Huntingdon.
“Easy course, no hills, he just has to keep on going.”
So this was the day that Tessa had waited for. She was so excited she could not eat nor sleep but, with her caravan to herself, nobody saw. She was sick when she got up. It was April, but cold and sharp with intermittent showers. Jimmy came as “lad”, curious to see the outcome, and Tessa shivered beside him in the cab as the lorry sped along the M4. Peter and Jimmy were talking over her head about getting a travelling head lad for the next season. The stable was expanding and Peter had visions of going to the races in a car with Myra beside him like a proper trainer. Not many trainers drove their own lorries.
“We’re getting somewhere slowly,” he said with satisfaction. He was a markedly happier man since Myra’s arrival on the scene.
“Yes. And when Tessa here wins the Grand National on her red elephant we’ll really be in the money,” Jimmy said.
“Of course,” Peter said gravely.
