A Man For All Seasons
A Man For All Seasons
by
Jenny Brigalow
Eside Media Pty Ltd
trading as Steam eReads
Copyright © Jenny Brigalow 2013
First Published 2013
ISBN 978-0-9874581-5-5
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
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Table of Contents
One
As Chad Cherub breathed in the scent of leather and lemon, his exhaustion fell away like bark off a gum tree. Excitement flared in his abdomen. Finally he was here. England.
His head tipped back against the high, leather headrest of the luxurious car in which he travelled. Life had taken on a dream like quality. Through the tinted window a long line of sulphur yellow lights snaked away into the distance in a misty trail. How strange it was, he thought, that suburbia was the same everywhere. He could just as easily been travelling through the lamp-lit streets of Brisbane.
He stretched out long legs, enjoying the unlimited space. Whilst trapped for hours within the confines of the great jumbo jet, he'd felt a renewed empathy for battery hens. A soft humming sound caught his attention and he watched with interest as the glass panel that separated him from the front of the Jaguar's interior slid slowly down.
“Are you comfortable, Sir?” said the driver.
Chad nodded. “I'm good, thanks.” Truth was, he felt awkward in the back seat. He'd much rather have been in the passenger seat, or better still, at the wheel. The sleek vehicle was something else. He reckoned it must have more horsepower than a dozen unbroken broncs. Still, it was an experience all the same.
The driver nodded gravely and the window glided up.
Water beaded and ran down the windows. Chad longed to stop and get out of the vehicle to stand bare headed in the rain. He could barely remember the last time he'd done so. Maybe three years? After half an hour the rain stopped, but the urban lights had been left behind. Dense stretches of trees flickered by. The wheels of the Jaguar hissed softly over wet tarmac.
The window slid down again. “We're nearly home, Sir… Chad.”
Nearly there. He thought about his host Walter Driscoll: businessman, entrepreneur and racehorse enthusiast. He was genuinely cheered at the idea of seeing the man again. Good bloke, Driscoll. He just hoped things would work out all right. Long way to come, for nothing.
The car slowed and turned. In the bright beam of the headlights two vast gates swung ponderously apart. Two large lions snarled down at him from aloft columns, frozen for eternity in stone. His eyes followed the gravel driveway that twisted gently through stands of trees, naked of leaf, stark against an inky, moonlit sky. Small pinpoints of light in the distance grew until the vague outline of a vast house emerged. Chad stared in amazement. Old Wally must have a huge family.
The lower levels of the house disappeared behind a wall and the car came to a smooth halt in a gravelled car park abutting what appeared to be a massive stone barn. There were no windows, but a strip of light shone from beneath a pair of huge timber doors. Even as Chad exited the vehicle he heard the scrunch of approaching feet. He found himself enveloped in a hearty embrace, the likes of which he'd never experienced before. At least not from a bloke.
“Cherub you young bastard, good to see you!” Walter Driscoll beamed a smile.
Despite his three chins, mournful bloodhound eyes and Toby jug ears, Driscoll gave off the air of a man well content with his lot in life.
Unsure how to respond to the older man's bonhomie, Chad tried an experimental pat on the smaller shoulder. To his vast relief this seemed to pass muster and Wally, as he liked to be called, stepped briskly back and lifted a meaty hand in the direction of the barn directly behind them.
“Cherub, come have a look at this, old chap.”
For a brief moment Chad wondered if his facial hair added on more years than he'd imagined, until he recalled that 'old chap' was a phrase Wally had used long before he'd grown his luxurious brown beard. Personally, Chad felt the beard gave him an air of authority. At least, he hoped so.
He followed Wally, wrapping his arms around his chest as a northerly wind embraced him. Christ it was cold. His host pushed open one of the massive timber doors. Light flooded through the open space causing Chad to close his eyes involuntarily. When he opened them he found himself in a lofty cavern of sand and light. The old barn must have stretched a hundred metres long and fifty wide. Huge lights hung from cathedral ceilings and the opposite wall housed a long mirror.
Fascinated, and not a little cheered to be out of the searing wind, Chad looked about him. Beneath his booted feet the sand felt spongy and pleasant. The huge space was empty except for a lone horse and rider cantering slowly toward them from the far end. As the pair neared he realised, to his delight, that he was looking at none other than the mighty thoroughbred stallion Can't Take a Trick. There was no mistaking the massive liver chestnut body and four matching white legs.
Sat astride the seventeen hand high horse was a young woman. She brought the huge animal to a halt beside the two men.
Driscoll made the introductions. “Cherub this is my daughter, Seraphim. And I'm sure Trick needs no introduction.”
Chad could only stare, his brain apparently disconnected from his mouth. He felt as if he'd been kicked in the crotch by a Brahmin bull. Black boots on slender legs, long thighs tightly bound in white jodhpurs and a slim torso in a black, turtleneck jumper. Dark mahogany hair, pulled back in a ponytail, emphasised the perfect contours of her oval face. Thick lashes curled onto creamy skin and slanting molten black eyes regarded him with open curiosity. And then she smiled, her wide mouth, with its high upper lip framing even, white teeth.
“Pleased to meet you Mr Cherub,” she said. Then she laughed. It was like sunshine on a dreary day. “You'll forgive me if I don't shake.” She lifted two dainty gloved hands which held not one, but two sets of reins.
Chad had never heard a voice like it. She spoke each with word with clarity, as if she treasured each vowel and syllable. Such was her perfection that he felt completely overwhelmed. Reticent by nature, far from his natural environment and tired beyond belief, his brain refused to cooperate. Vaguely he realised that he was not making the best impression. Desperate, he echoed the only refrain which materialised in the fog of his mind. He nodded curtly. “G'day.”
Wally slapped the horse loudly on the shoulder. “Seraphim, young Chad here is the one I was telling you about. You know, the gent I've been buying mares from in Oz. I'm hoping to talk him into taking Trick over there to stand at stud.”
She smiled again. “I see.” She shortened up the reins. “I'd better get on, or I'll be late for dinner.” Then she circled the great horse away. The only sound in the vast room was the rhythmical two-time tattoo of the horse's hooves as he covered the ground in an explosive trot.
Driscoll turned and pushed open the door. The wind whipped through the gap and bought Chad abruptly from his reverie. He hurried out the door feeling wretched. What a bloody idiot. G'day. Really smooth. He should have asked her about Trick or what she was up to. He should have commented on the great set up she had in the barn. Anything would have been an improvement on his hick from the sticks act. Then he realised that Driscoll was addressing him. He tuned in quickly.
“My daughter is a dressage fanatic. She's just back from a six-month stint in Germany. She'd go back but her wedding's coming up fast. Trick's doing some basic dressage at the moment as part of his rehab programme. Don't know if I agree with it really, but I guess it won't do any harm.”
Chad's tired brain went into overdrive as he tried to assimilate all this. The bit about the stallion he understood. The racehorse had busted a cannon bone the year before, and after a long stint in plaster, he was on the mend. Then his brain kangaroo hopped immediately to the daughter. A fiancé. A wedding. A strange sense of disappointment flooded him. But then he shook himself mentally. What was he thinking? This was a business trip.
It was pitch black a few feet away from the dim light that filtered beneath the barn door. His host set off with his jaunty stride and Chad followed. They crossed the parking lot, gravel scrunching loosely under foot, and followed a towering wall for a short distance.
Suddenly Walter Driscoll disappeared. Chad paused uncertainly. Then he nearly aged ten years when Wally's head materialised from the wall.