by James Anson
"Himself had to go and see the vet," said Con. "We are the second to last to go in. Ah, here he is now."
Robert saw with relief that Michael was already mounted and the team formed up and moved out. They made a brave show, Robert considered, and he was not prejudiced.
He had just settled by the BBC monitor when he heard his name being called. It was Shawney, balanced on two crutches and supported by a young lady whom Robert remembered seeing in a nurse's uniform at the hospital. Between them they got him safely into the stand, wittering on happily about how good it was of Himself to see he was let out so he wouldn't miss everything.
Robert, whose own stomach was now turning cartwheels, would have been happy to swop his seat in the stands for a nice quiet hospital bed any time. After ten minutes he could take no more and left for the buffet tent, the gasps from the crowd and the announcer's voice keeping him in touch. He was just starting on a revolting yellow scone when a French rider left his horse at speed and exited on a stretcher. Sadly it was not 'good old Philippe'.
Robert gave up on his scone and went back to the collecting ring. Most of the team were back, busy comparing notes. Con went two faults; only a British rider and Michael to go now.
"It's going to be a damn close thing, Mr March," said Brendan.
"As the Duke said," Robert remarked. "Wellington at Waterloo," he added, seeing Michael's mystified face.
"Ah, yes," said Michael. "A Dublin man."
"I see Dave's going," said Robert as the British rider started his round.
He heard the crowd's incredulous murmur as his horse refused; it jumped at the second attempt but then had a brick out of the wall. Robert found that even he was beginning to count points.
Michael, his face expressionless, took his horse into the ring, saluted and started his round, jumping his horse, as a British rider standing next to Robert remarked, "Just like a bloody copybook."
Robert, however, was also noticing that Michael was not so much pale as grey with it. There was a roar and cheer from the crowd: a clear round.
Robert sighed with relief as the placings were announced: second, best they had done that year. The lads should get their trip to the Winter Fair at Toronto for sure. Pity he couldn't stand Niagara Falls but still ... couldn't beat Canadian hospitality. He watched with pride as his team paraded to pick up their award. No doubt about it, his lads were the best.
They came back into the collecting ring, Robert joining them just as Michael dismounted and collapsed in a rather untidy heap. He reached Michael neck and neck with the St. John Ambulance man.
"Nothing to worry about, Mr March," said Con breezily. "Sure, he has a touch of groin strain. The doc gave him a shot so he could get round. I expect it's worn off."
Robert was speechless for a moment as he looked at Michael's pallid face, then saw he was firmly taken to the Red Cross tent. He hurried to the stand to give Jess the news.
Lord Bourton had now appeared there - Robert hoped - to remove Miranda who was rapidly getting out of hand.
Robert then returned to the Red Cross tent to find Michael lying down, being cheered up by a British rider lugubriously telling him how a groin strain can put a real blight on some of life's happier moments. Michael started to laugh and regretted it.
A doctor appeared and said that what Commandant Faulkner really needed was peace, quiet and to be flat on his back taking things very easily for the next few days.
"You will not wish to do anything else," he assured Michael grimly.
Michael, attempting to dispute this, moved, gasped and agreed the doctor could have something. He then instructed Robert to see the lads and tell them that after the horses were set for the night to go and enjoy themselves at the customary last night party. He also requested that Robert went and did the same, and to stop watching him like a hawk as he wasn't about to expire and it was getting on his nerves. Oh, and maybe he'd better ring Dublin and tell them what had happened so they could confirm Con in charge, and to please remember to tell them that we did rather well.
Robert sighed deeply and went off to look for a telephone. Why, he asked himself, is it always me who has to negotiate with headquarters?
Dublin, in fact, were mildly displeased to hear that their Chef d'Equipe was now out of action, though elated at the team's success.
"We'll all be celebrating tonight here!" But no, they did not consider putting Captain O'Brien in charge to be a sensible move. They would send Mrs O'Riordan over in the morning, and now, about those forms they had requested. Perhaps Mr March could find out what had happened to them?
Robert asked them to give him the numbers and said he would see what he could do.
He took down a long list of forms required in triplicate. Bad as the Met, he thought. Duty done, he went to give Michael the news.
A faint smile crossed Michael's face. "So they're sending Mari, are they? Rob! You'd better get along and warn Con to keep them within some sort of limit."
By the time Robert caught up with the lads, celebrations were well under way.
Michael was demonstrating how to dance a jig to two giggling girls, Con had tried one with a bottle standing on his head and had drenched several people in warm Guinness. He was now telling a doubtful young lady that she was the one he had been waiting all his life for. He waved at Robert and ambled over, embracing him affectionately.
Like being hugged by an alcoholic Labrador, Robert thought as he extricated himself.
"Con," he said firmly, "Mrs O'Riordan will be over from Dublin in the morning. She will be taking over the team."
Con looked at him hopefully. "Ah, you're having a little joke now, aren't you, Mr March?"
"No," said Robert loudly, "I'm not. And Commandant Faulkner says you're to see things don't get too much out of hand." He looked about and wondered why he was bothering. It had all the signs of developing into a hooley to remember. Just then, another member of the team crashed into the room, laden with bottles.
"Now don't you worry, Mr March," said Con. "Sure we'll all be fit as fiddles tomorrow. And will you be having one with us now?"
Robert had a very small one and left the party, hoping for the best. He inquired about Michael's whereabouts; everyone seemed hell-bent on celebrating and were a trifle incoherent when asked. He finally found Michael in a van belonging to the British team captain, getting through, in Robert's opinion, far too much whiskey and happily reliving previous encounters.
Robert was handed a large glass, drank it, then presented his host with a bottle of Irish from their personal store. The party livened up considerably. Robert even found himself having an amicable chat with Jack, who informed him he would be taking Michael back to Larton in the morning.
"Have the shooting-brake here - soon load him up and off to Highgreen Farm. Jess said she could manage him while you're busy with the team."
After that Robert found a more congenial person to talk to; that is, one whose sole topic of conversation did not centre on the stables, and forgot all about Michael and his problems and anything else of a more weighty nature.
He awoke the next morning with a crashing headache; someone was hammering on the van door, Robert having taken over Michael's office to try and get some sleep, the party still well in progress when he left. He got up gingerly and opened the van door. A brisk-looking lady surveyed him.
"You are Mr March?" she inquired.
He nodded a dubious affirmation.
"Good. I'm Mari O'Riordan. I need to speak to Commandant Faulkner. How is he?"
"Sore mostly," said Robert brightly. He noticed a very subdued-looking Brendan hovering behind the lady. "A visit from you should cheer him up," he added unwisely.
She gave him a long, measuring look; Robert just resisted the urge to check his fingernails were clean.
"I'm not here to cheer him up, Mr March," she announced, "but to find out what needs to be done. That brainless young fool Connor O'Brien doesn't seem to have a clue, and I suspect he is suffering from
a hangover."
And not the only one, thought Robert as he led her to Michael, who was still enjoying the luxury of Dave's van and being waited on hand and foot.
He waved a glass of liquid breakfast at Robert. "Painkiller," he said cheerily. "Hello, Mari. How's Tim?"
Mrs O'Riordan shook her head. "Well, Mike, and what damn-fool thing have you done now?" she asked.
Michael seemed delighted to see her: they were obviously old sparring partners, so Robert left to see how the lads were faring. Con, a six-foot Michael in embryo, was swallowing alka seltzers and filling in forms as though his life depended on it.
"She's an awful woman," he moaned to Robert. "And God, I've a head on me."
"Just be thankful it's still on," said Robert. "Mine's about three foot up there, floating and throbbing away. Was a good party though - what I remember of it."
"It was that," said Con reminiscently. "And wasn't I doing fine with the lady till Michael told her about Moira, the bugger!"
"Moira?" asked Robert. "Your fiancée, or something?"
"Ah, no," said Con. "The wife, of course. Did I never mention her to you?"
Robert shook his head and found Jack Bourton at his elbow.
"Mike ready yet?" he inquired.
"I'll get him," said Robert.
Michael mildly resented being torn away from the arms of several ladies, all totally unknown to Robert but of a horsy aspect, who had been cheering him up, and looked at Jack's battered shooting-brake with distaste.
"Plenty of room for you to lie down in the back," said Jack heartily. "I've put some sacks down so you will be quite comfortable."
Michael sniffed disdainfully. "What was the last thing you carried in this?" he asked.
"A pair of goats?"
"No," said Jack, "around twenty dead pheasants and two sopping wet red setters. Old Monty Blewett borrowed her - had an invitation to shoot with HRH in Norfolk. You know what his old van is like."
"How did he do?" asked Michael, trying to make himself comfortable. He failed.
"Not bad at all," said Jack. "Winged one of his host's peacocks - stupid birds - and planted five pellets in Porchy Mayhew."
"Oh, good," said Michael. "He tried to stick me with a bad horse once."
"Not the first," said Jack. "Now, we had better get you off to Jess's. Don't worry, Rob. We'll see he gets taken care of."
He started his brake with a jerk that had Michael's language turning the air blue for miles. Robert waved them off, relieved that, whatever Jack's competence as a driver, he could rely on him and Jess to see Michael obeyed his doctor and did what he was told.
Robert's journey back to Dublin and McKie Barracks with the team passed without undue incident and, in spite of his misgivings, he enjoyed the trip. He even decided to stay over for a few days, looking up friends, and was invited to be a godfather. He found himself accepting. Con was delighted to show off his family to him, plus his very pretty wife, who seemed to have him well in hand. Robert held young Sean at the font with great aplomb, but reflected that he must ask Michael what being a godfather entailed, Michael having fulfilled that office for the three other children, not a choice Robert would have approved of for any child of his.
He telephoned Jess, who informed him that Michael was recovering slowly but was as yet unable to put boot to stirrup without screaming, but was otherwise mending in a satisfactory manner.
Michael, coming on the phone, disputed this vigorously, but Robert decided he could be safely ignored. He could do with a few days' holiday himself, fitting in a visit to ex-Captain Higgins, now teaching history, and Michael's uncle, to catch up on the family news.
Professor O'Brien was delighted to see him, inquired after Robert’s research efforts, and filled Robert in on his own magnum opus on medieval Ireland and his battles with his publisher on the matter of illustrations.
"Cheeseparing philistines," said the Professor savagely.
Robert happily recounted atrocity stories of his own publisher, then they set to and demolished the magnificent high tea that Mrs Cadogan had set before them.
"I was so glad you could visit, Robert," remarked the Professor. "It enabled me to ignore my doctor's advice and partake of this sumptuous feast."
Robert looked at him. "Bad as Mike, you are," he said. "Am I going to have him after me with a hatchet?"
"Not unless he finds out. One gets so sick of following orders. I'm in no mood to consider my heart. It's never shown the slightest consideration for me."
"My God," said Robert, "you are just as bad as Mike. That's the sort of damn-fool remark he would make."
"Now there you are," said the Professor. "I always said blood will out. And has Mike made up his mind yet? To leave the army and make his home permanently in England?"
"How should I know?" said Robert morosely. "I'm going to be the last one he mentions it to. Could strangle him sometimes. Wish he would settle in England. Don't know what he sees in this damn place."
"Roots are painful things to tear up, Robert, and even worse, those of a life you chose for yourself. But I think Mike should leave now; the day of the Anglo-Irish here is over. It's time he accepted that."
Robert glared at him. "A very pretty speech," he remarked, "when most of your great patriots, finest soldiers and writers were Anglos! And considering that Mike has given the best part of his life to your piddling army. No, I take that back. They do a great job out there for all the bloody thanks they get for it. It's just that when I watch Mike some mornings when his old wounds are griping him, and he never says a word... I'd like to kick some bloody politician's teeth in!"
"Quite natural," said the Professor. "I'd feel exactly the same way. But it doesn't alter facts. There is no place here for him now. Mike understands that better than you."
"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave," said Robert. "I'm afraid Mike still sees it that way."
"It never was, you know," said the Professor. "And now, shall we have a few hands of whist before we take one last turn around the garden? You're staying the night, of course?"
"Of course," said Robert. "And let's see how many plants I can smuggle past Customs this time. There was a very pretty little polyanthus you showed me last time - Irish Molly, I think?"
"Ah, yes. I have a couple of plants spare," said the Professor. "And those two moss roses you fancied are ready to be moved. Now they need a lot of good feeding, remember?"
"No problem at all with the dobbins," said Robert with feeling.
Next day Robert returned to the barracks and made his farewells to the lads. He was inundated with invitations to visit for holidays, and laden with more alcohol than he had a hope of getting through Customs. He was also informed that they all wished he and the Commandant were going to Paris with the team as Mrs O'Riordan's standards of discipline would have been considered exacting by Frederick the Great.
Robert was rather touched by this, but pointed out he was needed at home. To his surprise he bade them all a regretful goodbye, even looking down emotionally as he flew home over Ireland's Eye, with its lighthouse flashing.
He arrived home to find Michael was now on his feet, limping about, cursing luridly, while in the paddock and stables six strange horses were eating their heads off.
"And where," Robert inquired, "have all these extra gee-gees appeared from?"
"Just helping Jack out," said Michael briskly. "He has some of the Whaddon staying. Ran out of space, so I said we'd have 'em. The other two are Maud's. She's had to go to Cheltenham - that sister of hers is bad again."
"And who is paying the extra food bill?" asked Robert.
"Oh, Jack said he'd see to that," said Michael vaguely.
Robert made a mental note that Jack would indeed see to that and then went to see how his new plants, all safely smuggled through, were getting settled in their new home; it helped to keep his mind off the rather discouraging sales figures for his latest book.
"Said all along it wouldn't do,
" he remarked to Michael. "Mind, would have been nice to be wrong for once."
Michael raised a sardonic eyebrow and went on reading The Gretton and Larton Weekly News as Robert, now well into his stride, raved on, castigating the reading public, his publisher for his crummy advances (of money), the weather, and the fact he had blackfly on the broad beans again.
"That's it," said Michael. "I've had enough. Come on, we're going out." He threw Robert's jacket at him and assumed a commanding air.
After a short preliminary protest Robert followed him, remarking that they would probably get bitten by midges and if they had to take that dog would Mike please see he didn't start hawking things out of the hedge again.
"Nice evening," said Michael, looking about with approval.
There was a grunt from his companion, who was determined not to enjoy himself.
Robert had started to thaw out, however, when Sam spotted Frodo in the distance and launched an all-out attack which was unsuccessful, the cockerel surveying them benignly from the roof of his hen-house as they passed, his adoring harem scratching away beneath him.
"So that's the bugger who wakes me up at 5 a.m. every morning," said Robert, looking beadily at the bird.
"I think he's very handsome myself," said Michael. "And lucky - with all those ladies ..."
"You would," said Robert. "Oh, good evening, Mr Perkins. Nice lot of birds."
Mr Perkins agreed and tried to coerce them into buying some of his duck eggs.
"I'm not eating anything with a bright green shell," said Robert as they hurried on.
"Think he waits in ambush with those eggs. It's not natural to be that colour."
"It is for a duck egg," said Michael. "Tried one once, very strong."
"Now we are at the village," said Robert, "the Brewers, is it? That's where you usually end up in the evening."
"Not with Sam," said Michael. "Their yorkie had him by the throat last week."
"Good old Genghis," said Robert with approval. "Well, here's your pigs ..."
They stopped to admire the pigs, Michael tossing them a couple of apples from his jacket pocket.
Robert surveyed them without enthusiasm. "Must be congenital," he said, "this passion of the minor gentry for pigs - unless you're seeing them on your plate, alongside a couple of fried eggs?"
