by James Anson
"I'd like to," said Mr Halliwell, "but unfortunately I have to go over to our New York office at that time. Miserable place. I'd much rather stay and see Cleobury Mortimer wallop Larton."
"Or vice versa," said Robert. "Well, I'd better be off now - try and beat the commuter rush. Hope Mike hasn't invited the Beaufort to tea. Can't stand 'em myself, but anyone on a horse is a chum to Mike. Just wish he had friends of a more intellectual bent instead of fellas whose horizons are bound by whether or not to jump Matilda in a martingale or a hackamore!"
Mr Halliwell made sympathetic noises and reminded Robert the book would be published shortly, which to Robert was not music to the ears.
He managed to make the train he wanted for once and settled in the first class with a large whiskey and the evening papers. He glanced through the headlines to make sure the further doings of fun-loving Amy, Countess of Merton were not featured and, relieved, began to do the crossword. After a while he gave up on that and brooded on the passing scenery and his now constant worry about Michael .
Need to talk to him, he thought. He's got something on his mind and I don't think it's the bloody team. Things aren't working out for us, either. Just not getting enough time together any more. I know when we started out I said, Good, be fine not having you under my feet when I'm working, clattering about booted and spurred all the time, but we've hardly had any time together for eight months now. I know Mike's not happy about that, and I'm not - have to admit that. Could move to Dublin with him, but I can't stand the place. He knows that and doesn't expect me to. I can't ask him to pack in his job with those damn horses - he wouldn't be happy.
Oh well, something will work out. It has to. I'll tackle him first - find out what else is the matter.
At that moment Gretton station appeared and with a sigh of relief Robert left the train and collected his car from the station car park. He was driving along in a much happier frame of mind when he spotted a familiar figure trudging along the road ahead. It was Lord Bourton. After a short struggle with his conscience, Robert drew up beside him.
"Evening, Jack," he remarked, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.
"Where are you off to? Care for a lift?"
"Thanks, Robert," said Lord Bourton, climbing into the car with alacrity. As usual, he appeared to have slept in his clothes. "I'm off to see Maud Blackett. Crocked up, y'know. Rodney went off with me car, wretched lad. Met me heir, have you?"
"Yes," said Robert shortly.
"Um," said Lord Bourton. "Takes people that way, does Rodney. The lady wife has never liked him either. Wonder if the army can do anything with the lad. I asked Mike about it once. He rolled about laughing. I see Mike's back. Mentioned Galway, has he?"
"As in Bay?" queried Robert. "No, he hasn't. Why?"
There was a silence. "Not my place," said Lord Bourton at last. "But ..."
"Oh, get on with it," said Robert. "And I've seen the bloody Sun."
"Nothing in that," said Lord Bourton dismissively. " Mike's not a complete idiot. Know Rory Kepple, do you? Hunts with the Whaddon - very sound chap."
"No," said Robert.
"Ah. Well, Rory's been down in Galway, visiting. His mother comes from round there. Very old family, all mad as hatters. He went out with the Blazers a few times; rough crowd, sink five double whiskeys before a meet, that sort of thing. He heard Mike was coming down from Dublin most weekends - throwing a leg over anything that could jump well. He took out some real bastards. Goes hell for leather too. Shook some of them, the chances he was taking. Drinking, too. He had a fall into some wire, could have been bad. Thought you'd better know."
"Thanks for telling me," said Robert. "I knew something was wrong. We'll sort it out. Here is Maud's place now. Give her this from me." He passed a package over and waved as the door was opened by a hobbling but still cheerful Maud.
When he arrived back at Parsons Farm he found Michael had eaten his supper and gone to bed. Robert had a quick meal, showered and went to Michael's room.
"Mike!" He rapped on the door. "Can I come in?"
"All right," said a gloomy voice.
Robert entered and looked about. "Spartan, isn't it?" he remarked. "Always surprised you don't have a hay-net slung up in here in case you get peckish in the night. Care for some company?"
"I'm warning you," said Michael, looking up from his book, "I'm knackered."
"Just for once," said Robert, "stop assuming we are all after your body. It's not that attractive, you know. I want to talk to you."
"What about?" asked Michael, putting down his book. "Wouldn't rather rub my back, would you? It's been giving me gyp."
"No," said Robert, "I wouldn't. Oh, all right. Come on, roll over. My God ... What happened to you? Get those scratches from fun-loving Amy's fingernails?"
"I have not," said Michael with restraint, "spent my time making mad, passionate love to Amy all over Dublin as those papers were saying. Her husband was on the Show Committee and I was asked to take her round. Think I drew the short straw. Had to keep stopping her unbuttoning my tunic in taxis."
Robert chortled. "Wish I'd seen it - you having to fight for your virtue. Well, then, Butch, where did you get them?"
"Fell into some wire in Galway," said Michael sleepily. "Um, that feels good. Hey, that hurt!"
"Good," said Robert. "Was meant to. Go on, get some sleep. I can see you're not going to be riveting company. You can pass me your book. I'm going to stay right here so I can bend your ear first thing in the morning before you escape to the damned stables."
Michael moaned in protest, passed over his book, rolled over and was asleep in moments.
Wish I could do that, thought Robert regretfully, starting his inevitable battle with his chronic insomnia.
He awoke with a crashing headache.
'S not fair, he thought, I'm practically teetotal.
Michael entered the room with a large mug of coffee and two aspirins. "Told you to wear your glasses last night, didn't I?" he remarked.
"Shut your face," said Robert, taking the coffee and aspirins. He surveyed his companion critically.
Michael presented his usual early morning spectacle, dressed in a well-worn shirt, old shabby breeches held up with what Robert swore were his grand-dad's braces, and wellington boots - or at this moment large woolly socks as Michael had heeled his stable-soiled boots off in the passageway. He hadn't shaved either.
"Jennie should see you now," said Robert. "Knock that crush she has on you for six."
"Hasn't affected yours yet," said Michael with smug satisfaction.
"I wouldn't get too secure, my lad," warned Robert. "We are going to have words when I can get my strength up." He looked out of the window. "Looks good. Fancy a stroll round my garden first?"
Robert pulled on his robe and slippers and trotted out, coffee mug in hand. It was already pleasantly warm in the sheltered rear garden. Robert took a deep lungful of fresh country air, then moved upwind of the stables, after first having a word with Flash and ignoring Piper, who was hammering on his door for attention. Michael passed him, muttering, laden with bucket, shovel and hay-net.
Robert moved on to the vegetable garden, which was looking very trim now with its soldierly rows of beans and peas, paths neatly lined with brick and old-fashioned pinks.
The courgettes were doing very well, he noted. A pity the most prolific vegetables were never popular. Maybe if he smothered them in cheese sauce and kept Michael talking - not a difficult feat - he wouldn't notice what he was eating.
He moved to the bench set nearby and settled to enjoy his coffee. Michael joined him just as he was working out where he could put an onion bed. He sat down beside Robert, stretched, and slung an arm round his shoulders.
"Doing well, aren't they?" said Robert, pointing at a very vigorous row of beetroot.
"Not bad at all," said Michael. "You're getting to be quite a gardener. Be putting in for the 'biggest marrow' soon."
"Over there," Robert pointe
d. "Behind the rhubarb. Go and have a look."
Michael did and emitted a loud whistle as he surveyed the obese specimen resting regally on its well-manured bed.
"A whopper," he said reverently.
"It's Ashley's really," Robert admitted. "He comes and feeds it twice a week with something disgusting. Has three others round the village but says this one is the most promising. Doesn't have the right conditions at home, he says. Yeah - " he looked about " -things are going well. I've found when I get stuck writing, if I come out here and attack the greenfly or something it stops me rolling on the floor in there, chewing the carpet. Get ideas, too. It's going to be a fine day."
"Yes," said Michael. "I could do with some coffee."
Robert passed over the rest of his mug. Michael got up and looked over the garden as he drank it.
"It's good to be home," he said. "I don't find it very pleasant in Dublin these days.
Ten, even five, years ago no-one cared that I had a brother in the British Army, or that I was an Anglo. Now I'm slightly suspect, not real Irish. Anglos didn't bother that I was serving in what they still call the Free State Army, or that I was a Catholic - just put it down to an aberration on my part. After all, I had the right background and all that rubbish. Now I find their doors are shutting, too. When I travel with the horses it's easier, and when I served abroad, of course. But now, back in Dublin ..." He shrugged.
"Blast them to hell," said Robert. "What bloody right do they have to look down their noses at you? You do a great job with the team, and nearly got yourself killed in the Middle East, serving there with their piffling army! Got scars there you'll carry to your grave - and which give you gyp when it's cold. Lousy politicians. Always thought they were a scummy lot!"
"Yes, well ..." said Michael. "I've been going down to Galway at weekends every chance I get. Still have some good friends left down there. I've been getting in some hard riding to let off steam. Stop me knocking heads together in Dublin - or worse."
"I heard about Galway," said Robert. "Little bird told me."
"Rory Kepple is an old woman," said Michael. "Knew he'd go bleating to Jack. I'm thinking of packing it in, Robert. Don't know how much more I can take before I go and do something daft."
"This has been going on for some time, hasn't it?" said Robert quietly.
Michael looked at him in surprise. "Yes, it has. I thought I'd done a good job at keeping it to myself. It's not the country I grew up in any more - everything is changing."
Robert sighed. "Look, Mike, I understand how you feel, but don't let those shits make you give up a job you enjoy. And for God's sake stop risking your life with those bloody bastards in Galway!"
Michael grinned and sat down beside him again. "That's my Rob," he said fondly, giving him a friendly hug.
Robert extricated himself with a sniff. "You need a shower," he said firmly. "And shave. Your face feels like sandpaper. Leave some hot water for me."
"Could have one together," suggested Michael hopefully.
"No, I'd much rather take a look at those beans and de-slug the hostas," said Robert.
"The ultimate put-down," said Michael. "You prefer a slug hunt to me." Mournfully he made his way showerwards.
Robert, unmoved, continued his inspection. When he finally arrived in his kitchen, shaved, showered and in fine fettle, Michael was working through his breakfast. A small white plastic bag lay near his plate.
Robert glanced at it casually, then went to fetch their mail.
"Would I like to attend a literary luncheon on the 17th of August? No, Halliwell warned me about this one. Said if I went he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences. Invite to the drag hunt dinner - for both of us. You can tell 'em how bad my leg is on the night." Robert leaned over the table and poked the white plastic bag; it felt squishy.
"Mike, what the hell have you got in there?" he inquired.
"Just a sample," said Michael, buttering another slice of toast. "I'm sending it off to the lab to get a worm egg count done."
"Get it off the table!" said Robert loudly. "Now, please, Mike! I can't eat with that sitting there."
"I'm looking for a Jiffy bag," said Michael with an injured air. "Don't know what you're upset about. I've never caught anything off a horse."
"That's debatable," said Robert. "Now, Mike!"
Michael removed the offending object to the bench in the passage, then returned to bury himself in the current issue of Horse and Hound, after admiring his portrait on the front.
"Should ask them for a copy of that," said Robert. "Then you can put it up in your room and admire yourself twenty-four hours a day."
"They sent me one," said Michael. "Going to give it to you for your birthday."
"You're too kind," said Robert. "Pass the marmalade."
There was silence for a while, with Michael immersed in the Hunt news.
"I see old Colonel Somerfield's gone, then," he remarked cheerfully. "He fell on his head jumping a high bank. Well on into his eighties. Not bad that. That's the way I'd like to go, Rob."
Robert put down his knife before he was tempted to use it.
"Mike, that's just like you," he said bitterly. "No thought for others. First we would have to catch your horse and lug your misbegotten carcase home. There'd be an inquest, our names in the papers, reporters around disturbing my work. Why can't you just settle to die quietly and decently of cirrhosis of the liver like all your other boozing, fox-hunting mates?"
Michael, unmoved by all this, read on. He reached the For Sale section. "Rob ...?" he started.
"No," said Robert. "We can't afford it. What is it?"
"Horsebox," said Michael. "Be very useful. Right size for Piper, too."
Robert looked at him. "Planning on taking him to the seaside, are you? Or perhaps you've had an invite to ride with the Whaddon again? Now, Mike, you know my views on ..."
Michael looked at the clock. "Better get over and see Jack about the meet," he said.
"I'll call in on Jess, then I want to take Piper out this afternoon. He's getting fat and sluggish -needs livening up. You coming out with me? Flash could do with a hard gallop too, if you can make it."
"Might as well," said Robert. "I need to get out, I'm starting to twitch over the book.
But you're galloping on your own. I'm not having Flash straining anything."
Later in the evening Robert was resting on the sofa, stretching out with pleasure as he loosened all the kinks in his back.
"'it’s true, you know," he said, looking affectionately at Michael, who was searching in the drinks cupboard. "A good gallop does get you in the mood. Must be all the adrenalin going."
"Always knew it," said Michael. "Will whiskey suit you?"
"Yes," said Robert. "And bring over the salted almonds - if you haven't eaten them all."
"Like me to peel you a grape while I'm at it?" Michael inquired politely.
"Only if you can find one," said Robert. "Oh, God ... it's raining again. Better get the buckets in position."
He hurried out of the room.
Michael presently joined him on the upper landing. Robert was looking moodily up at the place from whence the drips were falling in steady plops into the bucket at his feet.
"I swear the hole's getting bigger," said Robert. "Wouldn't like to climb up there and stick your finger in it, would you?"
"That's got to be fixed," said Michael in an autocratic manner. "Had more than enough of leaking roofs in Ireland. Can't we get it done?"
"Only if we have two thousand pounds for a new roof," said Robert. "Otherwise it's a case of patching, and it's patched to extinction already. With being a listed building we have to have real tiles, not that modern grot. You haven't got two thousand spare, I suppose?"
"I haven't two thousand, period," said Michael. "Can't we take out a second mortgage or something?"
"At the present rate of play we'll be old dodderers by the time we get our first mortgage paid off," said Robert, "the way the int
erest rate is going up. Could start economising, I suppose."
A look of horror crossed Michael’s face. "Never mind," he said hastily. "With luck we'll come up on the Irish Sweepstake this year. I've got two tickets."
He said this with what Robert referred to as 'the happy optimism of the halfwitted' as they returned to the kitchen.
"Must be ten degrees colder upstairs," said Robert, reseating himself on the couch.
"Hurry up. The Mummy's Curse is starting in a minute."
Michael settled beside him, glass in hand. "Never have films like this on Telefis Eireann," he said. "And anyway, you can't hear yourself think in the Officers' Mess in the evening, everyone talking away."
"You know," said Robert, "that's the only good reason you've ever given me for moving to Dublin. Talk's on a very high level, is it?"
"Of course," said Michael. "The cost of hay, what to do about saddle-galls, and whether that woman who keeps the Magic Lantern in Westmoreland Street ever comes across."
"And does she?" inquired Robert with mild interest.
"Ah, well now ..." began Michael. "Film's starting."
They settled down to enjoy it, Robert as usual falling asleep halfway through.
"Who won?" he inquired, woken by the final crashing chords.
"Wasn't fair," said Michael. "He got shot in a swamp. Only needed some affection - just like me. I'm hungry. Supper?" He looked hopefully at Robert.
"Kitchen's that way," said Robert. "Every leave I have to retrain you."
To his surprise Michael got up and made them some very passable sandwiches. He viewed Michael with instant suspicion.
"How would you like to come to Hickstead with me?" asked Michael as they ate.
"Could be for the last time. Lads have been doing well and if they can keep it up they have a chance of competing at the Toronto Winter Fair. I'd like to finish on a high. We could have a second honeymoon at Niagara Falls. They say it's very romantic."
"Can't think why," said Robert. "Just watching all that water wastefully flowing away. And for your information we didn't have a first honeymoon, romantic or otherwise."
