From below, like the distant thunder of an approaching storm, came the rumble of the sliding doors as they opened to allow Oliver and the black entire to leave the manège.
“When he leaves,” the Count said, rising from his seat and turning away from me in order to retrieve his stick, so that I was unable to see the expression on his face, “I believe I shall mind more than I have minded anything in my whole life.”
SEVENTEEN
The solution came from Francesca. A few weeks later I received a letter informing me that she had passed her preliminary examinations and was coming back to organise the opening of her riding school within the month. Reminding me of my promise, she asked if I was still willing to help her. I replied that I was.
So when Oliver eventually told me that he had accepted a position at Reinstitut von Neindorff in West Germany, I was both resigned and prepared for it, but what I had not expected was to be asked to go with him. The position offered was that of a groom, and a backward step, but even so, had the news taken me unawares I would probably have agreed to it for Oliver’s sake. As it was I had no choice but to refuse, having given my word to Francesca.
Oliver tried hard to persuade me to change my mind and took my refusal badly. In anger he accused me of selfishness and of deceit.
“… Making your arrangements with Francesca, without a thought to how I might feel about it, making promises without informing me, without regard for any plans I might have made,” he had said angrily.
“And what about you,” I had countered, “did you think about me when you were making your arrangements? Did you consider my feelings as you were planning to leave? No, you did not! If you had any consideration at all for me, you would have told me you were leaving months ago!”
“How could I have told you months ago,” he had demanded furiously, “when I have only just decided to accept the offer made to me? How could I tell you something I did not know myself?”
Ah, I had thought, but you did know, didn’t you, Oliver? You had received offers long before the one you finally accepted. You had already decided to leave. But out if loyalty to the Count I held my tongue. I kept my silence, I did not betray his confidence. And in this way we parted, with bitterness on Oliver’s side and sadness on mine. I wrote to him often at first, but as the only replies I received were in the form of postcards, and the only message they bore was a mere signature, gradually my letters became less frequent, and finally I saw no point in writing at all. During the next four years I was to receive postcards from such various paces as Karlsruhe, Etampes, Saumur, Munster, Stromsholm, Helsingborg, Barthus, Avessada, Vienna, and Jerez de la Frontera. Few of these names meant anything to me at all. On my birthday and at Christmas I received conventional greetings cards. These also bore nothing apart from the usual unaccompanied signature – Oliver.
Until Francesca returned, I stayed on with the Count. He had invited me to continue working at his establishment, but whilst I was grateful for his offer, I knew I must get away, if only to leave behind the things which reminded me daily of Oliver. If in some way I had to begin to build a career for myself, if I was to be alone now, it could not be in a place where Oliver had been before me, I had to start afresh. I did not know how I should like working with Francesca, I had no experience of teaching children to ride, but two years ago I had made a faithful promise, and now that it had been reaffirmed I had to honour that promise and I was determined to do so.
If any other reason for leaving the Count’s establishment was needed it came soon enough in the form of another young boy, slim and golden-haired, with a gentle manner and a graceful seat in the saddle. I had watched him working the horses under the Count’s instruction and thought him malleable and promising, if somewhat lacking in character, and without the edge of steel necessary for success in such a disciplined art. I could see that there was a resemblance to Oliver, but he did not have the easy, sensuous look that Oliver had in the saddle, he did not have his cool elegance, nor his level, rather challenging gaze, he lacked the glamour, the slight air of ruthlessness, all of which drew eyes wherever he went. Oliver had changed a lot since our gymkhana days, and in comparison, the golden-haired boy was a child. But there was no doubt that he was a pleasure to watch in the manège, and his gentle approach was appreciated by some of the horses, although I never saw him ride the black entire.
I was soon to notice that the boy appeared increasingly often in the manège, and would often be seen walking round the yard a few steps behind the Count, carrying his coat perhaps, or his stick, but it was only when I glimpsed him sitting in the back of the car with Count Von Der Drehler as it left the yard one morning, that I properly realised that here was the latest protégé, the replacement for Oliver, and I could not endure the thought of it.
I could not bear to watch someone else leading the displays, helping to demonstrate movements to a class of pupils, riding the horses that Oliver had ridden. I made myself absent. I stayed away. I did not blame the Count. I was glad for him, and when I left it was possible to shed tears of genuine regret, but it was with a feeling of relief that I walked out of the establishment for the last time.
Francesca, meanwhile, had encountered an unexpected obstacle when the Diocese had forbidden the use of church land for the purpose or running a business for commercial gain. This meant she had to look elsewhere for land with suitable buildings at an affordable rent, and this was proving an impossible task. Everywhere she looked, the rent had been beyond her means until finally, just as she had been about to abandon the project altogether, she had been offered Pond Cottage, its buildings, and its waterlogged acres, at a comparatively modest monthly rental and without any tenancy agreement or capital sum in advance. She accepted it, and in this way began her running battle with the decrepit stabling, the woefully neglected cottage, and the constant problems arising from the flooding of the river. It seemed to me a grossly unfair trick of fate when I learned much later that the river that so precisely and evenly watered Oliver’s luxuriant acres, was the very same that ruined Francesca’s by its over generosity.
In the years that I spent with Francesca, I was never convinced that I really enjoyed riding school work. The surroundings did not help, but I was never engrossed and totally involved the way I had been with the show horses, or with the training of my young horses at the Count’s establishment. There had been times when I had thought to leave, to do something else, but Francesca needed me, and perhaps above all things, I wanted someone to need me, and so I stayed, and I endured.
I did not forget Oliver. Every week, every month, I combed the horse papers and the glossy magazines for news of him. Spasmodically, short paragraphs would appear reporting his successes in international competition. From Horse and Hound I first learned that he had given up competition and turned professional, and then came the issue which carried his photograph on the cover, and inside, the news that he had landed the richest sponsorship in the history of any branch of equestrian sport, and that after a short period in Spain, where he was engaged in selecting staff and Andalusian horses, he would be returning to England to open a training establishment of his own.
The next postcard I received was from Cazallo, and this time there had been more than just a signature, there had been an offer of the position as Oliver’s personal assistant when he returned, and with it, or so I had imagined, forgiveness. In the face of Francesca’s disapproval and indignation, I had accepted, my own delight and relief at the prospect of being reunited with Oliver eclipsing any concern I might otherwise have had for how she might feel, and how she might manage when I had gone.
Well, I had not lasted long with the Oliver who had returned. Four years as a prima donna in the dressage centres of Europe had turned him into a stranger and I had found that I no longer knew him.
But now, stranger or not, there was only Oliver left who could help St. Luke, and it was I who had to ask him. And this evening, with Francesca absent for a few hours, was the perfect time. I steeled
myself to do it. I picked up the telephone.
As I expected, John Englehart’s voice answered. Trying to sound confident, as if I was sure he would want to speak to me, I asked if I could be put through to the house, to Oliver.
There was an uncertain silence, before the well-trained voice said: “Oliver Jasny does not accept personal calls. This is his secretary speaking, can I ask what this is about?”
I might have realised it would not be that easy. It would take a wily bird to slip past John Englehart’s ardent vigilance.
“John,” I said, “this is Kathryn. I need to speak to Oliver rather urgently. Is he there?”
“Kathryn …” Now that he realised who he was speaking to, the assured telephone manner faltered.
“He is there, isn’t he?” I felt sure he must be. I knew he very rarely left the premises in the evenings.
“He is, but you can’t speak to him. He … he isn’t available.”
I was not to be forestalled as easily as that. “Now look here, John,” I said firmly, “I need to speak to Oliver, and I intend to speak to him. This is urgent, it is a family matter.”
Even this approach did not have the desired effect. “He can’t speak to you, Kathryn,” he insisted, “he’s engaged, he has a … an evening lesson.”
I knew him to be a poor liar, and I knew he was lying now although I did not know why. Could Oliver have given instructions that I was to be turned away if I ever tried to approach him again? Would he have done that? I knew him capable of it, and I had said some unforgivable things when we had parted. And yet I did not believe that this was the reason. John Englehart was more than usually nervous. If he had been carrying out Oliver’s instructions he would have sounded more confident. With Oliver’s authority behind him, he would have found the courage to be firm. But he was not. For some reason, John Englehart was frightened.
“Is something wrong?” I asked him, “Has something happened?”
“Well, there has been a …” he hesitated, as if uncertain whether to proceed, but then it all came spilling out in a rush. “The thing is, Kathryn, there’s been a bit of trouble with one of the caballerizos. He’s always been a bit of a … well, Oliver’s never liked him, and in the stable he’s known to be particularly … He’s just rough with the horses, and you know Oliver, he won’t stand for that. I mean people don’t matter to him all that much, but the horses … well, what happened was that he caught him at it, Oliver did. He was just walking past the stable, and there was a set to, he was really vicious, he beat him …”
“The caballerizo beat Oliver?” I could not imagine it.
“No, Oliver beat him, and now he’s taken it to the tribunal, and he’s tried to get Oliver for assault. I suppose the sponsors had to know about it, and now they’re all involved … you wouldn’t believe, Kathryn, what a business it is.”
I could believe it only too well. “But if he was ill-treating the horses …” I said.
“Yes, but Oliver, he didn’t half … the caballerizo was properly roughed up. I mean more than a bit, he had to be taken to hospital, he really thrashed him.”
This was an entirely new development as far as I was concerned. I did not like the sound of it.
“So there’s a sponsor’s meeting going on, not an evening lesson at all?”
“Yes, we’ve got the police, the sponsors, the union, and even somebody from the Spanish Embassy here.”
Already regretting his indiscretion, he added in a fraught tone, “Kathryn, you won’t tell Oliver I told you all this? If he knew I’d discussed it, if he thought I’d told anyone about it, he’d cut my tongue out.”
I thought this was probably true, and from our opposite ends of the telephone there was an uneasy silence whilst John Englehart struggled with his guilt, and I began to absorb fully the implications of what I had heard. In turn I was alarmed, appalled, and dismayed. I had even forgotten the original purpose of my telephone call. St. Luke and his problems were now far from my thoughts, which were now entirely directed towards Oliver and his predicament. I did not think there was anything I could usefully do to help. I could not get to the Training Centre because I had no transport. Only one bus a day connected us, and that left in the early morning and returned in the evening. And what would my presence achieve? Even if I were to saddle up one of the horses and ride the nine or so miles across country, what kind of reception could I expect? Would Oliver thank me for it? I did not think he would. There seemed nothing I could do other than to remind my brother that I existed, to let him know that if he needed me, I was available.
“John,” I said, “I doubt if he will want to speak to me, but if you have an opportunity later, will you mention that I rang? Will you tell him that if he would like to ring me, I am on Cuckfield 272, and will be here for the rest of the evening?”
“Yes. Yes … all right,” I heard him rustling about amongst his papers trying to find something to write with, “Cuckfield 272. I will tell him, Kathryn, but you do understand I can’t promise he’ll ring, he’ll make up his own mind about that, so don’t blame me if he doesn’t,” I imagined him pushing back the mat of soft, spaniel hair, “you know how it is … you know Oliver.”
As a matter of fact, you are wrong, I thought as I replaced the receiver, that’s just the trouble. I no longer know Oliver at all.
I sat by the telephone all evening, waiting for it to ring. Half of me knew it would not, the other half hoped that it would. When Francesca returned, looking exuberant and promisingly flushed, I could not bring myself to talk to her about it. I said nothing. I forced myself to move away from the telephone, to admit to myself that he was not going to call. Francesca had flounced through the door in the red and white dress and hurled herself across the lumpy, uncut moquette settee, purchased, like most of her furniture, from the House Clearance Centre in the nearest town, whilst St. Luke had been quietly divesting the vicarage of what should have been hers, in aid of St. Chad’s. An air of triumph radiated out from her.
“Well,” I asked, “how did it go?”
Tossing back the Renaissance fringe, Francesca grinned at me.
“I think it would be true to say,” she said, “that it went very well indeed.”
I was not in the mood for badinage. “Oh,” I said shortly, “good.”
“We had dinner,” Francesca said, “no,” she corrected herself, “first we had cocktails, then we had dinner …”
“Cocktails,” I said, “how nice.” My eyes strayed to the telephone. In my imagination I saw the caballerizo being carried out of the stable on a stretcher, and my blood was chilled by the thought of it.
“After that,” Francesca continued, “we had coffee and brandy and chocolate orange peel.”
I had never heard of chocolate orange peel, it sounded very exotic, but I could not tear my eyes away from the telephone. I heard John Englehart’s voice saying “People don’t matter to him all that much,” and I could see Oliver’s face, cold and uncaring, and was suddenly desperately afraid for him.
“Then,” Francesca said gleefully, “came the champagne.”
Champagne! Despite my anxiety over Oliver, I looked at Francesca in surprise. “Champagne!” I said.
Francesca sat up properly on the settee and looked at me in a sober manner. “But that was after we had discussed the matter of Moor Park Stables,” she said.
“Moor Park Stables?” Giving her the benefit of my fullest attention now, I stared. “Did you say Moor Park Stables?”
“I did,” Francesca confirmed. “And I am sure you would like to know that we will be moving out of here and into the yard there, just as soon as the stable flat has been refurbished.”
“What?”
“Of course, I didn’t agree to it immediately,” she went on, smoothing the red and white dress calmly over her knees, “it wouldn’t have been quite the thing to have appeared too keen, and I still have to give our definite answer. I only agreed that we would consider it.”
I dropped down o
nto the arm of the settee and stared at her in disbelief. “You did WHAT?”
The grey-green eyes regarded me in an artless manner. “But I could hardly say yes straight away, could I? I have to be in a position to strike a bargain, otherwise I shall be at a disadvantage. The rent he is asking is more than we are paying now and I hope to persuade him to reduce it. Of course, I do believe,” Francesca said, “that Moor Park does have certain advantages.”
The telephone shrilled. As she was sitting next to it, she picked up the receiver.
“Cuckfield 272 … No, really, I haven’t been disturbed … Yes, Kathryn is here … No, honestly, it’s no trouble at all, she’s practically by my side, I’m not in the least inconvenienced.” She held out the receiver. “A call for you,” she said.
“I do believe I have just been speaking to Francesca,” Oliver’s voice said.
“Yes.” I had not yet recovered from Francesca’s bombshell, and now I was further amazed to receive his call. I did not know what to say.
“I suppose it would have been polite to have told her to whom she was speaking, but I was rather afraid she would replace the receiver,” Oliver said.
Francesca was following the conversation with a lively interest. “It’s Oliver,” I told her. “He would have told you, but felt you would have cut him off.”
She looked at me, wide-eyed. “Well, yes,” she admitted in a stunned way, “I suppose I might.”
“I told Francesca, she says she probably would have.”
“Rather fortunate then, that I did not introduce myself,” Oliver said in a dry voice. I was relieved to hear him sounding so cool and composed. If he was in trouble, his voice gave nothing away.
“I tried to ring you earlier,” I told him, “but I was told you were not available.”
“No, I had a pressing engagement.”
I could almost have smiled at such a masterful understatement. “So I heard.”
There was an ominous silence. I had not intended to betray John Englehart’s indiscretion, and I hoped that I had not done so by the tone of my voice. I felt it was useless to try to say more on the telephone, not even about St. Luke, especially with Francesca staring at me incredulously, hanging onto my every word.
Flying Changes Page 14
