Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (9 page)

“Oh well. Charlie. It was a—what’s the phrase?—a
coup de foudre
. She was simply bowled over by him, and stayed that way to the end. That’s why it’s so extraordinary that she’s taking it so well.”

We moved back towards the stables as Alice was coming back on Cracker.

“Gran, Gran, did you see me? Can you watch me dismount? You take
both
your feet out of the stirrups at once and then you get off like this!”

Peggy led the pony away as Delia appeared from the stables and said to Rosemary, “Can I stay for an extra hour? Liz said I could help her mix the feeds and fill the hay nets.”

“I’m sorry, darling; I’ve got to be back before four,” Rosemary said. She turned to me. “Mother’s expecting me. She’s got these two old chums coming to tea and I promised to take her some cream for the scones.”

“Oh, Gran!” Delia said. “They’re so busy here with it being a Saturday and they do need some help, especially now that Charlie . . .”

“It’s all right,” I said to Rosemary, “I can wait and take Delia back. I’ll just give Jilly a ring and say we’ll be a bit later. And you’d better go. Mustn’t keep your mother waiting for the cream!”

Rosemary pulled a face and went.

On the way back in the car later on, I said to Delia, “What exactly
is
laminitis?”

She considered for a moment. “It’s something that usually affects ponies, but some horses are subject to it. It’s often caused by the horse eating too much new sweet grass in the spring, or the second growth at this time of the year. That’s probably how Tarquin got it before he came to us. It causes a painful burning sensation in the hooves, which are very sensitive. You cure it mainly by diet and medication and also by poultices. I expect that’s what poor Charlie was going to do when he was looking at Tarquin’s hooves.”

“Goodness,” I said, “aren’t you knowledgeable!”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of books about horse management and horse diseases,” Delia said. “It’s very interesting. Actually, Tarquin’s getting much better. Liz has put special boots on him—that helps, you know—so he should be quite all right soon. Liz says that Jo might buy him from Mr. Webster. I hope she does. I don’t think Mr. Webster really likes horses and he hardly ever rides Tarquin—not that he could now with the laminitis, but before. I think he just wanted a good-looking horse to show off—that’s what Liz says anyway.”

I thought about what Esther’s reaction would be to the news that Jo had bought the horse that had killed her husband, but then Esther would never allow Simon and Vicky to have a pet animal when they were children “because of the hairs all over the furniture.”

“Liz is very good with Tarquin. She knows a lot about all sorts of horsey things.” Delia turned round to address Alice. “She says she thinks you’re getting along very well and perhaps you might be able to go out on one of the shorter rides soon. If you do, I’ll come on that one with you—though, of course I usually go on the two-hour ones—and I can keep an eye on you. I expect you’d like that.”

Overcome by this magnificent prospect, Alice, most unusually robbed of speech, nodded silently.

 

The church was full for Charlie’s funeral. Not just local friends, but people from the horse world so eminent that even I recognized them. There was a general buzz of conversation, almost as if it were a social occasion. Charlie would have liked that. I went with Thea and Michael (lawyers always seem able to get time off for funerals) and when Rosemary came in she sat by us.

“Such a lot of people!” she whispered, “but I suppose he
was
such a well-known figure. So nice to think that people haven’t forgotten him.”

I was pleased to see, in the little procession that followed the coffin, that Simon, Liz and Peggy were gathered round Jo—her chosen family really—while Esther and Gordon walked separately behind. I was pleased too that Jo had chosen the proper
Book of Common Prayer
service. The beautiful language, soothing and familiar, felt so much more fitting to me than the determinedly cheery language of some contemporary services, though I suppose many people do find comfort in them. Horses for courses, as Charlie would say.

It was a surprise, though, to find that one of the hymns Jo had chosen was Newman’s “Lead, Kindly Light.” With so many people filling the church with their singing, the words came through with a freshness and immediacy.

 

Was that a summing up of Charlie’s life? I hadn’t thought of Jo as having a strong faith. I couldn’t remember seeing her in church, though of course, Sunday is always a busy day at the stables. But maybe she has something of that splendid Victorian certainty, different from the vague hope that is the most many of us feel. Perhaps she really believes that one day she and Charlie will be reunited in some celestial city. I hope so.

Afterwards, when we were gathered with drinks and sandwiches in the local hotel, talking affectionately of Charlie, the atmosphere was definitely partylike. There was a buzz of chatter, with sudden little bursts of laughter as one person after another recalled some anecdote or incident. “I remember when . . . ,” they began, and Charlie’s life seemed to unroll from their memories of him.

Looking round, I saw Jo standing on her own at the table where the drinks and things were laid out, and I went over to speak to her. She was pouring herself a cup of coffee and looked up as I approached.

“I think it went well,” she said.

“It went wonderfully, and now,” I said, nodding towards the room full of people, “it’s turning into a splendid party.”

Jo smiled. “He’d have been so pleased. He loved to see people enjoying themselves.” She looked around. “I was very touched that so many people came, and a lot of them from the old days. Dear Charlie, it’s wonderful that they still remember him. . . .” Her voice broke a little and the cup rattled in its saucer as her hand shook. She put it down quickly on the table and said, “I’m sorry, Sheila. It’s been rather an emotional time.” She laid her hand on my arm. “Thank you for coming,” she said, and moved away.

As Michael, Thea and I were about to leave, Simon came over and spoke to us.

“It was a good turnout, wasn’t it? I’m so glad for Jo’s sake. She’s been wonderful, of course, but it’s all been so complicated, determining the cause of death and all that confusion. Thanks, Michael, for dealing with all the legal stuff—much appreciated. Now we must try to carry on.”

“How are things at the stables?” I asked.

“Quite good really, in the actual day-to-day running of things. Liz and Peggy are brilliant and I try to put in a few hours when I can, just helping out—as well as doing the books and so forth. Jo, of course, is fantastic—never stops. I worry about her sometimes, but I do see that’s what keeps her going. And we’re all determined to keep up the standard; Charlie would have expected that.” Simon smiled. “And we feel that somehow he’s still in charge.”

I’d arranged to have lunch with an old school friend, Rhonda Jackson. She lives quite a long way away in Devon, so we usually meet halfway at South Molton. We met at one of the restaurants that seem to have sprung up in the small market town now that a large number of fashionable Londoners have bought second homes down there. This one is in a mews behind the main street and has made a feature of its original stables origin. The menu is equally fashionable.

“What on earth are pumpkin gnocchi?” Rhonda demanded. She’s always been very forthright and has what someone once described as the sort of voice that lost us the Empire, so that heads were turned in our direction. “And young leaves of
what
?” she went on.

“I quite fancy the crusted sea bass with celariac puree,” I said.

“I shall have the fish cakes,” Rhonda said, “though why they have to be Thai with chili dip beats me! Anyway, how’re Rosemary and that terrible old mother of hers?”

I gave her the latest Taviscombe news and, of course, she wanted to know all about Jo and Charlie.

“Such an extraordinary thing to have happened,” she said. “I never did trust horses. Enormous brutes—stand on your feet as soon as look at you! And I never understood about Jo. I mean, there she was, acting at the National and the RSC, on top of her profession, traveling all over the world—a wonderful life. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard she’d thrown it all up and gone back to Taviscombe of all places!”

“It was her home,” I said mildly.

“But
Taviscombe
, such a dead and alive hole. I must say I couldn’t wait to get out!” I refrained from commenting on the aliveness or otherwise of Newton Abbott, where Rhonda now lives.

“I must say it’s always seemed a bit odd to me,” she continued. “I wondered if there was something behind it all.”

“What sort of thing?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know—something to do with her career. You should know; you were always the one who was mad about the theater. Mind you, we never knew her really well in the old days, did we? She was a jump older than us. Now,
Esther
was still at school when we were. She was a prefect—do you remember?”

“Yes,” I said with feeling, “I certainly do.”

“Goodness, she was bossy—worse than the staff, really. I remember that time when Phyllis Shaw threw her school hat up onto the roof of the bus shelter while we were waiting for the school bus and Esther made her climb up to get it—said Phyllis had damaged the good name of the school!”

“I’d forgotten that,” I said, “but I do remember how, when Rosemary and I sneaked off from that museum trip in Exeter to go shopping, she caught us coming back and meanly reported us to Miss Martin. Actually, Miss Martin was a good sport— and I think would rather have liked to have gone shopping herself—and only gave us an order mark.”

“Still,” Rhonda said, prodding her fish cake experimentally, “I’m really sorry for poor Jo. Of course there are no children—that makes it much worse for her.”

“Her nephew is very devoted to her,” I said. “He lives in Taviscombe and has been marvelous over all this.”

“I’m sure he has. But,” she went on with the authority of the mother of four, “it’s not the same as your own, is it? I don’t know why they call this a
Thai
fish cake—it’s only cod with bits in it.”

“Jo’s been wonderful,” I said. “Carrying on as usual, though she must miss Charlie dreadfully; they were so close.”

“I’d have thought she might sell up,” Rhonda said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll go mad and have a pudding—that fish cake wasn’t very filling. The pear and almond tart sounds all right. I can’t be bothered to make pastry anymore. How about you?”

I shook my head. “Not for me. No, I’m sure Jo will never sell the stables; they’re part of her life with Charlie. Anyway, I think it’s the work that’s helping her through.”

“Oh well, it takes all sorts I suppose. But she’s getting on a bit and it’s hard work; she won’t be able to carry on forever.”

When I parted from Rhonda (“No really, you paid last time”; “Oh all right, but next time is on me”), I thought I’d drive back over Withypool Common. It was a beautiful afternoon, still bright, summer weather, though the heather was fading and tipped with brown, and the grass was no longer green and fresh, but dusty and close-cropped where the sheep had been feeding. Yet the sky was a light, clear blue and the sun felt warm through the windscreen of the car.

Considering it was still the school holidays, there wasn’t much traffic, and very few people had stopped in the lay-bys on the hill. But, as I approached the turning that leads down to Landacre, I saw two cars parked on the verge: an old Land Rover and a smart new Mitsubishi four-by-four. Driving past, I realized that it was Jo’s Land Rover, but there was no sign of her, nor of the other driver. Presumably she was seeing someone about a horse; it was a perfectly reasonable explanation. But the fact of seeing someone (or their car) in an unexpected place always evokes a faint prick of curiosity. I was puzzling about it until, out on the open moor, the sight of a large herd of ponies silhouetted dramatically against the sky drove all other thoughts from my mind.

Chapter Eight

A few days later I had to go up to Kirkby Lonsdale for several weeks. My cousin Marjorie had fallen and broken her arm rather badly, and her sister, Bridget, who lives with her and who would normally have been able to look after her, had gone to Australia to be with her daughter, who was expecting her first baby.

“It’s frightfully good of you to offer, Sheila. I know she’s got lots of friends and splendid neighbors,” Bridget said, when she rang me from Melbourne, “but she really does need someone to monitor her insulin injections and, anyway, I’d feel
so
much better if there was someone actually sleeping in the house. I feel awful about being away just when she needs me, but Jenny’s due any day now. . . .”

I took Tris with me, and Foss went to stay with Michael and Thea, to disrupt their household and tyrannize over their little cat, Smoke. In a way, I wasn’t sorry to be going away. Somehow too much seemed to be going on in Taviscombe and I felt it would be nice to have a break and live in a completely different environment for a while. Marjorie and I always get on well and I was looking forward to being in the Lake District again.

At first Marjorie really did need a lot of attention and several visits back and forth to the hospital to adjust the horrible metalwork frame on her poor arm; it was a challenge to find garments she could wear and getting her up and dressed took at least half an hour. But after a while she was well enough to come out for little drives so that I could revisit my favorite places.

“It’s wonderful to be out of the house again,” she said as we sat looking out at the still waters of Coniston. “I was beginning to feel quite claustrophobic.”