Grand National (6 page)

“Mrs. Hunting?”

Her face showed no emotion. She wiped her hands on the apron and opened the door. “You’ll be Mr. Cobb? She’s been out with the horses and hasn’t changed yet.”

However, she held the door open, if a trifle reluctantly, and led him into a living room with ceiling beams and an enormous brick fireplace, which had rows of horseshoes on each side. They were familiar to Jack: prizes won at various horse shows. Rosettes and ribbons decorated each one.

The woman stood there expectantly, still fingering the dismal apron. “Shall you be wanting something, sir?” she finally asked.

“No, thank you,” Jack said, at which without a word, she turned and vanished.

He looked around. On the shelves and tables were silver-framed photographs of horses. Still others were of a young jockey standing beside his mount and an Army officer in uniform. Engraved on the bottom of the frame was the date: June 6, 1944. The husband, killed in the Normandy landing.

He glanced around the room. It was not exactly threadbare, but nearly so. The seat of an armchair sagged, broken springs doubtlessly; the cretonne looked faded. The carpet beside the door was worn. One of the beams, certainly as old as the house, was cracking and badly needed attention. At this point his inspection was interrupted by a large, shaggy, ancient dog, who stumbled rather than walked into the room. An Airedale, he gave one short whoof at the stranger, wagging his tail rapidly all the time. He came over to be petted, and then with a heavy Airedale kind of grunt sank down and curled up before the armchair.

A sound made him turn. Mrs. Hunting came in, hand outstretched. He smiled uncertainly, reserved and slightly troubled. She paid no attention, but apologized for the delay and offered him sherry from a glass decanter. No sooner had she settled down than she jumped up with the impatience of an active person, walked across the room to a silver cigarette box, placed it on a small table near her, took a cigarette, and lighted it.

“Now then. You wanted to know about my horse, Quicksilver.”

He nodded. I didn’t come all this way for the ride. Get on with it, he thought anxiously. How is he? A slight frown came over his forehead. All the while he had the same feeling of being inspected as on the day they first met at the Robinson stables.

“Oh, he’s a darling. Never a spot of trouble. A bit tricky at first, but as soon as he saw the treatment was helping the leg, he was oh so sweet. Must have felt himself getting better day by day.”

She made a quick, nervous gesture. “Let’s see, he’s been here almost two months now. Of course, we aren’t out of the woods yet. But I do feel that someday before too long I shall phone you to say he is hunting fit and ask you to pick him up.”

Her face beamed. Jack had to admit her smile was attractive. A weight lifted from him; he was happy again after weeks of worry. “It’s a miracle. That’s what it is,” he said.

Instantly her whole expression changed. Her blue eyes became serious, and she answered him sharply. “Not at all. No miracle. Just patience and hard work. Lots of both.” She leaned forward. “But I do feel it’s an achievement for a horse to recover from a bowed tendon and get ready for the toughest steeplechase in this country.”

A most unpleasant bell clanged in another room. “Ah,” she said. “Lunch is ready. My son won’t eat at noon. He’s in training and very strict about his weight. Please come in.”

The dining room had a sideboard with some silver on it; the table was round, large, and shining. In a corner of the room was a kind of hatch, evidently leading to the kitchen. A platter of food was shoved through; then it shut with a decided bang. Mrs. Hunting took the large plate on which stood a dismal-looking dish of shepherd’s pie—minced meat covered with mashed potatoes—and brought it to the table.

“Beer?” He shook his head. “Some wine?” Again he refused.

“Ah, you’re like me. Liquor at noon makes me sleepy by three o’clock.”

Once more the little trap door opened. A harsh voice from the kitchen asked, “I suppose you’ll be having coffee, missis?”

“Yes,” she said, annoyance in her tone.

Jack distracted her. “Tell me now. What did your treatment consist of?”

She became professional again. “First I try hard to do everything myself.” She started eating. “If a stableboy walks the horse or rides him, he may undo all the good I’ve accomplished. So after the inflammation subsided, I exercised him twice a day. Either my son or I took him out regularly. No horse stays in my stable more than forty-two hours without exercise!” She made a decisive gesture with her hand.

Suddenly she turned toward him, earnestly looking him in the eye. “Really, you know, I do envy you. He’s a gorgeous horse.”

This remark gave Jack a lift, because he knew she meant it. Someone in England showed real appreciation of the horse.

Before Jack could answer, the trap snapped up and a tray of coffee appeared. Mrs. Hunting rose and took it. Jack jumped up too. Apparently they had reached the end of the meal. No vegetables, no sweet, nothing fancy. But then, he thought, I didn’t make the trip for the food. He reached for the coffee tray, but with a quick gesture she got it first.

“No, I’ll take it. This is old Lowestoft. Not even my son touches it. Let’s have it in the living room.”

The Airedale, waiting at the doorstep and evidently not permitted in the dining room, rose with some effort and followed along at her heels. Jack took his coffee and sat down.

They drank silently, and then she remarked, “Directly we’ve finished our coffee, we shall go out and let you have a look at him. I do hope you’ll see a difference in his condition.”

In a few minutes she led him out, followed by the Airedale on shaky legs. That wretched dog, falling to pieces, seemed to Jack to typify the whole establishment. Only the owner seemed to be on top of things.

For there was no question she knew her stuff. As she talked rapidly he listened with attention. They crossed a field beyond the barn, and she pointed out a pasture. “See that paddock there? A few weeks ago it was newly ploughed land, soft as peat moss. That’s where I first exercised him, so that the action and reaction of his foot was rather like this.”

She clenched her fist and moved it backward and forward several times. “Do you understand? This motion makes the hoof sink in the ground a little, and this articulates the foot and immediately reacts on the damaged tendon. Then, as the ground in that small paddock dried out, we moved to another field beyond the barn that was also soft and spongy. Before long the horse noticed the difference in his leg, and whenever I went into his stall he lifted up his foreleg for me to work on it. By the fifth week he was all fire and go.”

She kept on talking, but he did not hear. Because there, coming toward him, was Quicksilver with—he suddenly thought—Stanley on his back.

Same age, same vibrant, youthful litheness, same shock of tawny hair, same insolent seat in the saddle, exactly the same as he sat there cantering easily toward them. It was Stanley, yet not quite Stanley either. Jack pulled himself together as the horse heard and recognized him, coming over quickly and nuzzling his head in his owner’s arm.

Stroking that familiar mane, scratching the back of his ears as he always did, Jack realized how acutely he had missed the animal over these long, lonely weeks.

Mrs. Hunting was saying something. “My son, Anthony. Mr. Cobb, who owns Quicksilver.”

The young man leaned down, hand extended. Jack grabbed it. A young, firm, strong hand, a hand used to horses and riding them in competition. Damn it, thought Jack, just like Stan’s hand.

“Mr. Cobb, your horse is superb. It’s a joy to be on him. He’s a bold horse, a National horse. I can tell you, I envy the man who rides him.”

W
HILE
I
RIS
H
UNTING
left to go and change into riding clothes, the young man dismounted and led Quicksilver into the stable, followed by Jack. As he did so, a drizzle began, darkening the sky even though it was still early afternoon. Inside, the stable came as a surprise. One glance told Jack, a former stable owner himself, where the money had been spent: here, not on the house or the farm. Plain outside, the stable was, in fact, immaculate. Fresh paint glistened; the clean straw gave a bright look to everything. Despite the smell of ammonia in the air, the ventilation appeared excellent. A passageway of yellow brick led along the six boxes, of which four were occupied. Each box had a window divided into two parts, so the horse could observe the courtyard and the surroundings. Everything was at hand: feedboxes, forks, rakes, shovels, water buckets arranged carefully on hooks. Beyond, in the small tack room, the equipment along the walls was expensive and shining. Large
No Smoking
signs faced the visitor on every side. He wondered whether the owner obeyed them. Most likely not.

Tony Hunting led Quicksilver into his stall. Immediately the horse raised his foreleg, anticipating treatment.

The young man laughed. “See that. You have an intelligent animal. He likes his treatment.” He gave the horse some water and tossed a day rug of wool over him.

Jack, curious, remarked, “Tell me. Who does all this? Who takes care of the horses?”

The young man, leaning over the horse, glanced up with a puzzled look. “Why, we do, Mother and I. She tends the sick or injured animals herself. Often I ride or walk them for her. When I was at Cambridge I used to come back every weekend and work fourteen hours a day. At the time we had Gamage, the farmer below us, who came in a few hours each afternoon. Now, of course, we manage all right alone.”

Jack shook his head slowly. He knew the work even a small stable such as this one demanded. The place showed organization, care, and much attention to detail, besides a concern and feeling for horses.

At this moment Iris Hunting appeared. The Airedale followed at her heels, entered the stall with her, and slumped in a corner, giving an audible grunt. She felt the horse’s tendon, asked her son whether he had picked out his hoof that morning and how long he had been ridden.

“Half an hour? That’s quite enough. I daren’t risk riding him through that wet, heavy ground today. One slip and we’re in trouble.”

With a gesture she held up her hand to Tony, who handed her a tube of embrocation. Slowly at first, then more firmly, she rubbed it on the animal’s tendon. Her son leaned against the wooden stall, arms outstretched, obviously admiring her. Good Lord, thought Jack, she surely knows what she’s doing.

This treatment continued for twenty minutes. Then, leaving the stables to her son to muck out, she went outside with Jack, followed by the dog. The rain had turned to snow, the sky darkening further as they returned to the fire in the living room.

“He’s with that horse all the time and won’t let anyone else saddle him or take him into the paddock. He has a passion for him,” she said.

“Isn’t it early for snow in these parts?” he asked.

“Yes, but it’s nearly December, you know.” She walked over to the window and regarded the gloomy countryside stretching into the dimness, a wind howling from the northeast. A tea table was laid, with a large, dark china teapot and bread and butter, beside the fire. She sat down and poured.

He studied her face, almost for the first time. Rather grudgingly he admitted she was quite handsome. He was looking at her in a new way.

“See here, Mr. Cobb, you mustn’t risk the roads tonight. The snow blows terribly in these parts, and the wind is rising. Why not phone up Chester, and tell him you’ll stay the night? Tony will dig you up some pajamas.”

He protested, but not persuasively. In fact, he was relieved not to have to buck the swirling storm on strange roads in the dark. Nor did he look forward to returning to the cheerless room at Mrs. Briggs’s after enjoying the warmth and companionship of these people. The living room was shabby, the big chair had worn patches on the arms, but the atmosphere was friendly and agreeable.

Tony entered stamping his feet. The Airedale in the corner raised his head and thumped his tail twice. When Tony heard Jack was spending the night, he nodded approvingly and declared that a real storm was blowing up fast. After tea, he made several trips outside, returning each time with armfuls of logs for the fire, the only heat visible in the room.

Before long a bed was made up in an empty room upstairs, and Jack and Mrs. Hunting went off to get ready for dinner. He came down to a roaring fire, and soon Mrs. Hunting appeared. Now she was different, looking taller than before, wearing a blue knitted dress that set off her face. He began to realize at this point her considerable charm.

They had a drink and went in to dinner. At the end of the room, the hatch clattered up; the hatch banged down. Plates with food were passed out, plain fare as at luncheon, for which no apologies were made. Roast beef with sprouts, beer, and the inevitable biscuits and cheese. Tony ate well, Jack less so. Returning to the living room, Mrs. Hunting slipped out to the kitchen and returned with a coffee tray containing some weak coffee. They certainly did not spend their money on fancy living. Then Tony excused himself, remarking that the time had come to muck out the stables.

For a few minutes they sat silently facing the fire. Mrs. Hunting seemed uncommunicative. Suddenly she opened up. “That boy of mine. Ever since he’s been riding winners for the Greystone Stable, I can’t seem to do anything with him.”

“Should think you’d be pleased to see him win,” Jack replied.

“Yes, I am. But you see he’s just down from the university, and all he cares about is what horse he’ll be riding at Sandown or Liverpool next month. Another stable picked him up last week, and now he has a regular panel of owners who swear by him and simply won’t trust their horses to anyone else in a race. He even talks of becoming a gentleman jockey.”

She tossed her head, scorn in her voice. “What kind of life is that? I wish so often that his father were alive.” She sighed and shook her head. “You know, Mr. Cobb, he was such a thoughtful, helpful boy, but lately he’s become so difficult I scarcely know what to do.” She hesitated again. When she talked of horses in the stable, the words poured from her. Tonight she was slow and hesitant. The words ceased. There was a long silence.