I ran to the telephone in the tack room. “Oliver?”
“You are out of breath, Kathryn,” he observed, “I hope this is not inconvenient for you.”
“Not at all,” I gasped. Panting and scarlet-faced after my two-acre sprint, I imagined him in the office, leaning back on his chair with one immaculate boot on the desk, the fingers of his free hand playing idly with the deersfoot paperknife.
“I thought you would like to know that I have seen the sponsors and we are agreed in principle, although there are only three possible dates for the display; Tuesday the fourteenth of September, Friday the seventh of October, or Saturday the twenty-seventh of October.”
“Oliver, how simply marvellous, I can’t tell you how …”
“I have arranged to perform a festival of dressage. My best pupils will ride a quadrille, and I will give a solo performance. I have asked for a quintet to play live chamber music and for the manège to be banked with flowers in cream and crimson and red. There will be a reception beforehand naturally, and afterwards, my stables will be open for inspection. In order to relieve people of such an astonishing amount of money,” Oliver said, “I suppose I must allow myself to be a little inconvenienced.”
I held onto the receiver, hardly able to speak.
“You must decide, of course, which is the most convenient date, but I would point out that to stage the festival on a Saturday afternoon would bring the maximum amount of people, and if we are to reach our target, it is vitally important that every seat is occupied.”
“Then it must be the Saturday, Oliver,” I said, overwhelmed, “I … we, all of us, we won’t know how to thank you for this.”
“There will not be any need to thank me. I shall look upon it as a means to enable me to fulfil an obligation. There is, however, one small thing that I should mention.”
“Oh,” I said, “what small thing is that?”
“It is a condition,” he said.
“A condition?”
“The condition is that you come back to this establishment as my second rider.”
I might have expected something like this, but it had not occurred to me and now I was shocked into silence.
“You do understand, Kathryn,” Oliver’s cool voice said. “Quite simply, what I am saying is, no second rider, no festival of dressage.”
TWENTY
“Flowers in the manège,” Francesca said in astonishment, “live chamber music?”
From the tone of her voice, one might have imagined I had suggested that Oliver, as his pièce de résistance, was planning to turn himself into a frog.
I had forgotten that Francesca was not familiar with dressage, or High School, that the converted farm buildings in the Ensdale yard and the long rows of identical sectional timber boxes at the Northern Riding Centre where she had trained for her examinations, set the limits to her expectations of equestrian splendour. She had never seen the gilt-framed pier-glass mirrors in the count’s riding school, his decorative urns spilling out their extravagant flower arrangements, his tumbling pigeons, nor his fountain. She had never even allowed herself to question me about Oliver’s training centre.
“Dressage is a bit like that,” I tried to explain, “being a classical art it is quite compatible with flowers and chamber music and chandeliers.”
“Chandeliers?”
“There won’t actually be chandeliers,” I said patiently, “There will be spotlights though, and the quintet will be playing Beethoven perhaps, or Verdi.”
I could visualise it all as I described it, San Domingo’s coat shining like glass, his plaited mane braided with ribbons to match the floral displays, cream, and gold, and crimson.
“And Oliver will receive a standing ovation, as always. People have torn up the flowers before now,” I told her, “and thrown them into the arena.”
Francesca frowned. With her scoop half-embedded in a sack of dried sugar beet, she paused for a moment, as if to consider how such excessive behaviour could possibly be justified.
“And what will Oliver do for this solo display?” she enquired.
“Piaffe,” I said, “voltes in passage, flying changes every stride, that kind of thing.”
“Goodness.” Even allowing for her personal prejudices, she could not help but be impressed.
I upended my bucket of water into the huge tub in which we steeped the sugar beet overnight before feeding.
“You have never realised,” I said, “how talented he is, how famous.”
“No.” She pondered the truth of this, allowing the grey, unappetising pulp to trickle slowly out of the scoop, watching it collect and float upon the surface of the water. “No, I suppose I never have.” With typical honesty, she added, “I have never wanted to.”
There was more to tell. I could have gone on to describe how, at the reception beforehand, Oliver, in the centre of Tio Fino dignitaries, would allow himself to be displayed in the tailcoat, wearing the white breeches with the doeskin strappings, and the long polished boots cut higher on the outside to emphasize the elegant length of leg, the unmistakeable golden head shining out amongst the dark of the Spanish grandees, the shippers, their press officers and publicists as they made their way slowly from group to group. I could have continued, relating how the caballerizos who, only half an hour previously would have been putting the finishing touches to the horses, braiding the last plaits, putting on bandages, rubbing up the black, deep-seated German saddles with their straight flaps and their extended girth straps, getting ready the bridles with their long-cheeked bits and bradoons, their curb chains, and their browbands and nosebands padded with soft, white leather, would now be obliged to appear, with their hair slicked back and their fingernails scrubbed, wearing their uniform of dark blue cotton breeches, full-sleeved shirts and Tio Fino waistcoats, in order to hand round trays of canapés and sherry. I could also have said that they were discouraged from conversation with the public beyond the conventional responses decreed by good manners, and strictly forbidden to discuss what went on in the stables, that although their attentions were supposedly addressed to the public, they were ever watchful for Oliver’s smallest movement, alert for every gesture. Amongst the decanters there would be a bottle of super-dry fino reserved solely for his consumption, and his glass would have a thread of wine-coloured cotton wound round the stem to distinguish it from the rest, so that he should not be presented, in error, with something which would offend his palate. I could have told Francesca all this, but there was something more pressing, something more important to discuss. Somehow I had to tell her that I had agreed to go back to the training centre as second rider.
For several days I had plotted and planned how I could tell her. I had even paved the way for my confession by suggesting that when she moved to Moor Park she should take on two or three capable working pupils who would work in the yard, performing all the basic tasks in return for training towards their basic examinations in riding and stable management. But Francesca had been scornful of such an arrangement.
“Have you any idea how long it takes to train anyone to be remotely useful in the yard?” she had demanded, “I suppose you think, like most people who have never experienced it first hand, that the working pupil system is just a way to get the stables mucked out for nothing? Don’t you realise they have to be under constant supervision and have hours of instruction every day? How am I going to find time to do all that on top of the work I have to do already? And anyway,” she had added with unarguable practicality, “where would they sleep?” I had not pursued the idea of working pupils.
What I had decided was that I should open the conversation by talking about our pupils generally, leading on to the frustrations of teaching children and ponies when one’s heart was really not in it, when one longed to be working with more highly trained horses, and having thus prepared her for what was to come, I would confess that I had never really enjoyed riding school work, and was seriously considering a move back to some form of higher equ
itation. This was how I had planned to lead up to it, feeling my way, breaking the news as gently as I could, but naturally, when the time came, I could not be patient, I had to come straight out with it.
“Francesca,” I said, “I am afraid I shall be leaving in a month’s time. I have to go back to Oliver.”
I did not think she could have heard me at first, she looked at me in such a matter-of-fact way, continuing with what she was doing, picking up the broom handle and using it to stir the beet pulp into the water.
“I have to go back,” I said, “we made a bargain.”
“Well, yes,” Francesca said in a calm voice, “I rather thought you might have. I expect the bargain was that Oliver would stage the Festival of Dressage if you would agree to go back to him as second rider. When you told me he had asked, I never really imagined that he would accept your refusal as final. Oliver has not got where he is by giving up easily. I knew he would find a way.”
For all her ignorance of his achievements, I thought, how well she knows him. And she had expected this. She had guessed that it would happen and she had been able to live with it. I realised that Francesca, in her perspicacity, had grasped more of the situation than I had given her credit for, more even, than I had known myself, that she had seen this sort of conclusion as inevitable, and had anticipated it. I felt ashamed. I looked down into the blackening whirlpool of sugar beet.
“I won’t be going back as second rider right away. I shall have to take my old job back for a while. Oliver has given John Englehart a month’s notice.”
This was something I had anticipated, but still it had been a shock to hear it. I did not blame Oliver for his decision, because I had known that John Englehart would not be able to continue to hold down his job, that his obsession with Oliver would hopelessly impair his efficiency, but I hoped the fact that he had told me about the sponsor’s enquiry into the beating of the caballerizo had not been a contributing factor to his dismissal. I felt desperately sorry for him, knowing how much it would hurt, wondering where he would go, what he would do. I knew that my leaving Pond Cottage Riding School would not cause me a quarter as much pain, but:
“Francesca, I am sorry,” I said.
“It’s alright,” she replied in a careless tone, “if you choose to allow yourself to be blackmailed by Oliver, there is not a lot I can do about it.”
I had not thought of it as blackmail, or that by agreeing to go back I had exposed a weakness on my part. Rather, I had viewed it as a sacrifice made in order that St. Chad’s should have a roof, St. Luke should have peace of mind, and Francesca should eventually inherit some respectable furniture. Of course, this was nonsense.
“I expect that, as usual, you have managed to convince yourself that he needs you, that he isn’t just making use of your talent to further his own ends, that there is more to it than that?” Francesca’s grey-green eyes regarded me levelly across the plastic tub. “If you have managed to convince yourself, if you can believe in that, then good luck to you,” she said.
I did not want to go into this. More than anything I wanted to believe that Oliver needed me. All the years of my life, it seemed, I had clung to this belief even though at times it had been miserably torn and tattered, and now I was reluctant to lose my last shred of hope. I was afraid to let go.
“I do know that you want to go back,” Francesca said. “I know you haven’t been happy here. And I know you love him. I can understand that. You always have. But I think you should accept that Oliver neither loves you nor needs anyone. I just hope you know that Oliver is incapable of love. Oliver has never cared for anyone apart from himself. I have told you before what I think of Oliver, and my opinion hasn’t changed. Oliver is obscene. Oliver is a filthy, conniving, heartless bastard.”
I looked up at her in reproach, but as this had been said without enmity, as it had been stated as fact, I did not challenge it. Instead I felt relieved that she had taken everything so well, when I had half-expected a scene.
“You must promise me that you will get help,” I said. “You must advertise for someone. A qualified person perhaps, someone who can help with the instruction.”
Francesca removed the broom handle from the glistening sugar beet.
“Oh, I don’t think I want to pay anyone,” she said in an artless voice, “I rather thought I might take on a couple of working pupils.”
* * *
Saturday morning. The usual mêlée of children, ponies and parents, the usual last-minute fussing over the length of leathers, the security of girths, the correct fitting of hat harnesses. There was even the anxiously animated presence of Davina’s mother.
“I do realise she doesn’t enjoy hacking,” she confided, “in fact she is not at all keen to go, but I do feel that after the most unfortunate incident last time, she ought to be encouraged to go out – we don’t want it to become a phobia, do we?”
The outside telephone bell shrilled. It was a relief to escape to the comparative sanctuary of the tack room.
“Kathryn?” It was Oliver’s voice.
“Oliver?”
A silence.
“Oliver, are you there?”
“I am,” the voice was strained, “but regretfully, I am not the bearer of very good news.”
“Oliver, what is it?” My heart plummeted. “You don’t mean, you can’t mean the sponsors have changed their minds about allowing you to stage the Festival of Dressage?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Oh, Oliver …”
Immediately I thought of St. Luke, reading my message, smiling in his gentle, unworldly manner, feeling the intolerable weight of his obsessive responsibility lifted from his shoulders, thanking God, lifting the telephone in order to accept the Crabtree estimate.
“But can’t you influence them? Can’t you beg them, threaten them, can’t you make them change their minds? There must be something you can do!”
“I am afraid not.” For the first time in my life I noticed hesitation in his voice and realised that there was more to come.
“Kathryn,” Oliver said, “John Englehart was discovered hanging from the gallery yesterday evening.”
Nothing could have prepared me for such a blow. With my spare hand I groped in an involuntary manner for a bridle hook by which to support myself. I reeled back against the wall and watched the ceiling revolve. Shock, horror, pity and revulsion swept over me in turn, leaving me faint and sickened.
“It is not possible to go into details at the present time,” Oliver said, “but I thought it circumspect to warn you. The police are still here. The sponsors are involved, naturally.”
“Oh,” I said, “Naturally.” My voice came out as a whisper.
“Kathryn, it is not solely the fact that he committed suicide,” Oliver said. “It is the reasons he gave for his action. He left a note. There were also letters. He wrote letters to me, dozens of them, almost a hundred have been found. He planted them everywhere, in the house, in the office, even in my car. The whole establishment is awash with letters detailing an imaginary relationship of the most repellent nature.”
It did not take any imagination at all to realise what the letters contained.
“You mean he wanted people to think …”
“I mean,” Oliver said, “that in my life I have been guilty of many things, but now I am to be judged against something of which I am innocent, and no one is going to believe me.”
“But I believe you, Oliver,” I said desperately, “I knew John Englehart, I knew what he was like, I can speak for you …”
I had been about to involve Francesca too, but realised that her personal opinion of Oliver would put her at a serious disadvantage when called upon to defend his morals, “and I can bring St. Luke!”
“I would prefer that you did not,” he said, “I do not wish anyone else to be involved in this. You will stay away, Kathryn, I would prefer it.”
“But the sponsors,” I cried, “they know you, surely they don’t believe …
”
“The sponsors have already informed me that they have no alternative but to withdraw their support. This has ruined me,” Oliver said.
* * *
St. Luke answered the telephone on my fifth attempt.
“St. Luke, this is Kathryn. I’m ringing to talk to you about the message I left.”
There was a puzzled silence. “Message?” he said in a vague tone.
“The message. It was delivered by Mrs. Fernley. She wrote it down for you. She left it on the hall table.”
“Did she really? How very kind,” said St. Luke.
“But you didn’t receive it?”
“I don’t believe I received it.” I imagined him, looking around, going through the pockets of the tweed jacket presented to him by a man who had believed that all was lost, only to be delivered in his eleventh hour.
I was so relieved. So St. Luke had not received the message. Of course he had not. What chance had one scrap of paper to be noticed amongst all the others? Why, the Vicarage was choked with scraps of paper.
“Was it important?” St. Luke enquired, “the message you left?”
“Not at all,” I said. “It was just to tell you we had not forgotten we had promised to help raise the money, and Francesca has some news for you. She is moving to better premises. There is more land. We are going to organise a gymkhana.”
“A gymkhana,” St. Luke was impressed.
“And after that we shall have Hunter Trials. We will not be able to raise all the money all at once, but even a few hundred …”
“A few hundred would be splendid,” said St. Luke in a heartfelt voice. “We have already raised two hundred and sixty four pounds and thirty three pence by means of the fête. Today I was able to add over two centimetres to the barometer.”
Again I had forgotten about the fête, and in the face of his good spirits, it somehow did not seem appropriate to mention Oliver’s tragic predicament.
Flying Changes Page 16
