“Oliver, I wondered … please, if I could come and see you. I need to ask you something, but I can’t really talk about it now, it isn’t really convenient.”
“But of course,” Oliver said, “I will see you whenever you wish. When would you like to come?”
Somewhat taken aback by his readiness to comply, I blurted, “I don’t know … I hadn’t thought … whenever …”
“What about tomorrow,” Oliver suggested, “I shall be free in the afternoon, at any time after four pm.”
“That would be lovely,” I said gratefully, “I’ll come then.”
“And I shall look forward to it.” The line clicked. I handed the receiver back to Francesca. She said in outrage, “You’re not planning to ask Oliver for the five thousand pounds?”
“I might,” I slid down on the settee, feeling totally drained and exhausted. An argument with Francesca was the very last thing I wanted.
“You do realise that he’ll refuse?” she demanded.
I shrugged. Just at that moment I did not feel capable of realising anything.
“But when he does refuse,” Francesca conceded angrily, “you may be sure it will be done with the utmost courtesy. He still has the most beautiful manners.”
She banged the receiver back into its cradle, her previous mood of triumphant self-congratulation quite banished.
“He always was a smooth bastard.”
EIGHTEEN
I arrived early for my appointment with Oliver, he was still engaged in a lesson, although the main part of it, the instruction, was over. Oliver worked his pupils hard, but never for more than forty-five minutes at a stretch, believing that this was the maximum time he could demand their total concentration.
I climbed the steps through the public gallery, empty but for a group of perhaps six or eight people, grooms probably, to the horses in the manège below, and went into the commentary box to wait. Through the glass partition I looked down at the horses, watching them cantering to the familiar strains of Beethoven’s Für Elise, the soft thud of their hooves falling exactly three beats to the bar. The Training Centre seemed a far cry from the Pond Cottage Riding School. Both establishments were concerned with the teaching of horsemanship, and yet, I couldn’t help thinking, how great is the gulf between the grass roots of equitation and the rarefied atmosphere of dressage.
John Englehart was sitting at the table, surrounded by piles of papers and cassette tapes, talking in agonised tones to someone on the telephone.
“But this has nothing to do with whether they are good plants, or bad plants,” he was saying desperately. “Petunias, he suggested, or fuschias, even salvias at a pinch, but not geraniums, he won’t have them on the place, he says the smell makes him sick …… Yes, I told you, he wants them all out, the tubs, the troughs, the windowboxes, and the border by the house …… Well, yes I know he did, and I’m sorry about that, I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset the lad really, but there must be someone else you can send …. Yes, I do mean straight away!”
The receiver slammed down. As I turned, the spaniel eyes fixed upon me accusingly.
“Kathryn, you needn’t have told him,” he said in a distraught voice, “You’d never believe the names he called me this morning!”
So Oliver had guessed that I knew. I might have known that he would.
“I only said I’d been told that he had a pressing engagement,” I said defensively, “I didn’t say anything else at all.”
“It wasn’t what you said, it was the way you said it. ‘So I heard,’ you said, in such a way that he just couldn’t doubt that you knew!”
“Oh John, I’m sorry if I got you into trouble,” I said, “but believe me, it was not intentional, it was just a stupid slip of the tongue. And anyway,” I looked at him with suspicion, “how do you know exactly what was said?”
“Oliver told me.”
“Oh, no he did not!” He was lying again, I could tell. “You make it your business to know everything about Oliver, don’t you?” I said. “You watch his every movement, you read all his letters, even his personal ones, and when he rang me last night, I expect you were eavesdropping in your habitual manner on the office switchboard!”
“Kathryn, I don’t know how you could even suggest such a thing!” The tone was outraged, but the spaniel eyes moved anxiously towards the manège, as if Oliver, by some super-human faculty, might somehow be empowered to overhear our conversation.
“You shouldn’t do it, John,” I warned, “you will be found out one of these days.” A red light winked on the control panel. John Englehart reached out a finger to press the button which operated the sliding doors.
“I don’t know why I stay with him, anyway,” he said in a sulky voice, “he’s a monster, that’s what he is.”
But a monster you can’t live without, I thought as I watched Oliver leave the manège by the rear personnel door. And you will never find the strength to walk away either, you will just go on watching and listening, and hoping, and you will always be wretched, you will always be lonely, because Oliver will never notice you. You are no more to him than a stray dog; now and again he might throw a crust to you, or kick you out of his way, but he will never allow you into the house.
As I ran down the gallery steps, John Englehart’s voice floated out over the public address system.
“The music will continue for ten minutes after the doors have opened for the benefit of anyone who wishes to continue …” His voice, never wholly steady, faltered noticeably. I could see that the job was too much for him, that he was struggling to cope, hoping that Oliver would not notice. I knew however, that Oliver would notice, and I wondered how long he would tolerate it.
Out in the yard, Oliver waited, leaning over a half door. In his dressage breeches, his slim brown boots, and his silk short, he looked not quite real to me; he could have been a glamorised horseman, brought on solely for the benefit of the cameras, to be ushered away afterwards, when there was dirty work to be done.
He smiled at me and opened the stable door. I had not expected this whole-hearted forgiveness, and was made cautious by it. I did not trust him. Inside the stable, one of the dark-eyed Spanish caballerizos was strapping San Domingo’s hard, gleaming coat. The Andalusian horse is nearly always grey, occasionally black, and San Domingo was unusual because of his colour, a strong liver chestnut, flecked with grey. As we entered, the horse fixed its large, intelligent eyes upon Oliver, and whickered an affectionate greeting, but the caballerizo stopped work abruptly, grabbed up his equipment in a panic-stricken way, and would have bolted out into the yard had Oliver not caught him by the collar of his sort.
“Rugs, dear boy,” he said, “before you leave us.”
The caballerizo replaced the horse’s undersheet, and placed on top of it the cream day rug with its double bound border of blue and ruby, and the Tio Fino insignia in the corner. His fingers shook uncontrollably as he pushed the straps through the buckles and keepers on the iron-arch roller, and he left the stable with obvious relief.
“Oliver,” I said, “he was terrified of you.”
“So he should be. I’m a boy beater, haven’t you heard?”
“Well, I …”
“I feel sure you were supplied with every detail by our voluble friend, Mr. Englehart, but I assure you that it will go no further,” he said. “And you need have no fears on my behalf,” he added, “the sponsors have agreed to pay the unfortunate boy off most handsomely.”
“But they won’t do it again, Oliver. You will have to be careful.”
“I shall be.” He leaned against the Andalusian’s big, powerful shoulder and looked at me with cool amusement. “Am I right to suppose that life in the swamp with Francesca has proved intolerable?”
Loyalty to Francesca prevented me from saying how intolerable I had found it. “It isn’t all that bad.”
“But you have decided to accept my offer to come here as second rider?”
“No, that isn’t why I came
.”
“It isn’t?” I fancied the temperature dropped by several degrees, but I may have imagined it. With his hands in the pockets of his breeches, and his shoulder blades resting on the horse’s forearm, he raised an eyebrow enquiringly.
I saw no point in beating about the bush.
“I’ve come to ask you to help St. Luke,” I said, “he needs five thousand pounds.”
Abruptly, Oliver straightened. Astonishment appeared in the dark-fringed blue eyes, followed by stark incredulity.
“Explain to me, Kathryn, why I should give St. Luke five thousand pounds,” he exclaimed, “and perhaps more to the point, from where I should obtain it?”
“Well,” I began, “I rather thought …”
“You rather thought that I had means at my disposal, that I was wealthy,” he said in an exasperated vice. “Like many other people, you assume that because I have the trappings, I also have unlimited funds into which I can dip my hand and scatter for the benefit of all and sundry!”
“St. Luke is not all and sundry,” I said, stung.
“Kathryn, I have no money,” Oliver said, “for St. Luke or for anyone else.”
“You misunderstand me,” I said. “If … if you would just let me explain …”
“Everything you see here belongs to Tio Fino, everything,” Oliver continued, “this stable, this horse, the straw beneath our feet. If everything the sponsors have supplied were to be taken away this very second, I would be left with nothing apart from the clothes upon my back, and even they,” he said with bitterness, “have been bought with Spanish money. You know how it is with me, I have never had access to private means. I am as totally dependent upon my sponsors now, as I ever was upon the generosity of my patrons.”
I turned away from him in resignation. I could see that it was futile to pursue the matter if he would not allow me to speak.
“I hardly need to be reminded by what means you have achieved your success,” I said.
There was an arctic silence.
“That was an exceedingly uncalled for remark,” Oliver said in a cold voice.
I went to the door and, reaching over it, drew back the bolt.
“I have whipped people for less.”
I did not doubt it. I pushed the door. It swung open.
“But even I, who have achieved my success by improper and disgraceful means, am prepared to listen, if it is true that I have misunderstood you,” Oliver said.
I looked round at him. One arm was casually slung across San Domingo’s strongly crested neck, and with the fingers of the other hand he was gently stroking the loose, velvety flesh beneath the Andalusian’s jowl.
“I am aware that I have some obligation to St. Luke,” he said, “and by whatever standards you judge me, Kathryn, you cannot deny that I have always fulfilled my obligations in whatever form they may have been.”
I stood in the doorway, staring back into the stable to where he stood with the horse. They say horses are not capable of love, but the Andalusian loved Oliver, you had only to see the way it looked at him to know it.
“Oliver,” I said, “I was not going to ask that you give St. Luke five thousand pounds, not just like that, I was going to ask if there was a possibility that you could stage a display, a demonstration, in aid of St. Chad’s. If the roof isn’t repaired, if the money isn’t found, the Diocese are going to force a closure. They are going to move St. Luke from the Vicarage into a modern bungalow near St. Aidan’s. It will break his heart. He has managed to raise half the money by selling the furniture, furniture that by rights should be left to Francesca, but soon there will be nothing left to sell. I came to ask you because I thought … I thought …”
Oliver stared at me. “Close the church?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Move St. Luke out of the Vicarage?”
I nodded.
“Over my dead body,” he said.
NINETEEN
I wanted to go and visit St. Luke, to let him know that we were doing something positive, to give him hope, but the summer holidays had just begun, the children were home from school, and Pond Cottage Riding School was fully booked every day. Francesca and I were giving lessons from eight in the morning until eight in the evening, and after that there were the horses to attend to, and the tack to clean. I found it exhausting and tedious, but I knew that we had to take the money when we could, and that we should only gain a respite when it rained. There was no sign of rain. The sky was cloudless, the sun blazed down, the mud dried, the first brave shoots of new grass withered and scorched, and the ground began to crack open. But the pupils flooded in and their money filled the corn bins and the barn, paid for the farrier and for a lorry of chippings to soften the ground in the manège.
In my infrequent spare moments I tried to ring the Vicarage, but whatever time it happened to be, it seemed that St. Luke was absent. In the end I decided to ring Mrs. Fernley and ask if she would mind calling in with a message.
“Well, of course I can pop across to the Vicarage for you,Kathryn,” she said, “I know just what it’s like trying to catch a hold of the Reverend, slippery as soap he is to get a grip on, up and down the village all day long and everybody running after him in all directions, especially this week with the fệte on.”
“Oh, of course.” I had forgotten about the fête. This was good news, because with the fête to occupy him, St. Luke would be far too busy to organise the disposal of any more furniture.
“I don’t suppose there is any point in asking him to ring me, because he will only forget,” I said. “But could you possibly tell him something for me, or leave him a note?”
“I can leave a note on the hall table for him this morning, Kathryn,” she said. “I can pop it in on my way to the butcher. If you can just stay there a minute, whilst I get my pencil …”
There was a crash as the receiver went down, and a short interval before it was taken up again.
“Now what is it you want to say, dear? You just tell me nice and slowly and I’ll write it down.”
There was some fumbling as the telephone receiver and he pencil changed hands.
“Oliver … has … found … a … way … to … raise … the … money.” She repeated. “ Would that be young Master Oliver you’re talking about? Well, I never. It must be nearly ten years since we’ve seen him in the village. He went abroad didn’t he? I know that because he used to send postcards to the Vicarage now and again. He was such a lovely looking boy, such nice manners … Yes, you can go on, dear, Will … be … in … touch … soon … Kathryn. Is that all of it? There’s nothing else you want to say? All right my love, you can leave it to me. I’ll make sure the Reverend gets it!”
I put down the telephone. I tried to imagine St. Luke’s face as he read the message and realised that St. Chad’s was saved. For some reason I could not conjure up anything at all.
“Now, counting strides as you ride a large circle at a working trot, counting out loud, one-two, one-two, to establish the rhythm of the pace, taking care that the pony does not speed up or slow down, remembering that you must dictate the pace at all times … circling round to approach the poles, bringing your pony straight, and trotting down the poles, still counting, one-two, one-two-clunk – what did that tell you, Joanna?”
Joanna, releasing the reins so that the pony dropped into an undisciplined shambling walk as he approached the line of attendant pupils awaiting their turn, looked at me blankly.
“It tells me he’s lazy,” she hazarded, “or else his shoes are too big for his feet.”
From the end of the line of poles, where she was positioned as a human marker in order to focus the children’s attention forward instead of downwards onto the poles, Francesca’s burst of laughter rang out.
“No, it tells you that Foggy can’t quite reach the poles, set as they are, from that rather collected, shorter pace.”
I could cheerfully have wrung the child’s neck, but I swallowed my impatience and forced myself
to be pleasant. I could not, dare not, allow myself to admit how much I detested riding school work.
“Next time, Joanna, ask for a slightly longer stride, which means a little less collection, not quite such a short rein, a little more length to the neck, but no loss of impulsion.”
As the child stared at me with total incomprehension, I turned back to the waiting line hastily. “Next please!”
The outside telephone bell shrilled. Francesca motioned that she would answer it and ran off towards the yard. Her arms and her face were deeply tanned and her hair, brightened by the sun, was plaited and wound around her head. Little puffs of dust rose from her rubber boots as she thudded across the baked paddock.
Davina, back at Pond Cottage after a voluntary absence of several weeks following the crow-scarer incident, rode the dun pony out of the line and jabbed it into a trot with her heels. I had soon discovered that it was pointless to admonish the children for their lack of refinement in applying the aids, because it was the only way they could get the ponies to move. The average pony is not schooled to be sensitive to the leg, nor is the average child endowed with enough developed muscular co-ordination to apply sufficient leg pressure, or to drive their pelvic bones into the saddle. Nor is there any point in trying to attain these things too early given the insensitive, phlegmatic type of animal best suited to beginners and young children. It would have been both dangerous and unkind to subject a more responsive, schooled animal to the unconscious abuses of the inexperienced.
Francesca returned.
“It’s Oliver, be quick. He’s probably ringing about the demonstration – I’ll take over at this end until you get back.”
As far as the arrangements for raising the money for St. Luke were concerned, she was both hopeful and suspicious, wanting to believe that it would happen, but distrustful of the means, and if I had hoped to see her warm towards Oliver at last, then so far I had been disappointed.
Flying Changes Page 15
