The cash on offer for the hurdle race had stretched the racing world’s eyes wide and excited owners into twisting their trainers’ arms so that the entries had been phenomenal (Dee-Dee said). The field would be the maximum allowed on the course for safety and several lightweights had had to be balloted out.
As a preliminary to their blockbuster, Castle Houses had arranged the awards dinner and subsidized the tickets so that more or less everyone could afford them. The dinner was being held on the racecourse, in the grandstand with its almost limitless capacity; and the whole affair, Mackie had told me, was frankly only a giant advertisement, but everyone might as well enjoy it.
Before we went we met in the family room, Tremayne pretending nonchalance and looking unexpectedly sophisticated in his dinner jacket: grey hair smooth in wings, strong features composed, bulky body slimmed by ample expert tailoring. Perkin’s jacket by contrast looked a shade too small for him and in hugging his incipient curves diminished the difference between the sizes of father and son.
Gareth’s appearance surprised everyone, especially Tremayne: he made a bravado entrance to cover shyness in a dinner jacket no one knew he had, and he looked neat, personable and much older than fifteen.
‘Where did you get that?’ his father asked, marvelling.
‘Picked it off a raspberry bush.’ He smiled widely. ‘Well, actually, Sam said I was the same height as him now and he happened to have two. So he’s lent it to me. OK?’
‘It’s great,’ Mackie said warmly, herself shapely in a shimmering black dress edged with velvet. ‘And John’s jacket, I see, survived the plunge into the ditch.’
The ditch seemed a long time ago: two weeks and three days back to the lonely silent abandoned struggle in the attic, to the life that seemed now to be the dream, with Shellerton the reality. Shellerton the brightly-lit stage; Chiswick the darkened amphitheatre where one sat watching from the gods.
‘Don’t get plastered tonight, John,’ Tremayne said. ‘I’ve a job for you in the morning.’
‘Do you know how to avoid a hangover for ever?’ Gareth asked me.
‘How?’ I said.
‘Stay drunk.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said, laughing.
Tremayne, happy with life, said, ‘You feel confident riding Drifter now, don’t you?’
‘More or less,’ I agreed.
‘Tomorrow you can ride Fringe. I own a half-share in him. He’s that five-year-old in the corner box. You can school him over hurdles.’
I must have looked as astonished as I felt. I glanced at Mackie, saw her smiling, and knew she and Tremayne must have discussed it.
‘Second lot,’ Tremayne said. ‘Ride Drifter first lot as usual.’
‘If you think so,’ I said a shade weakly.
‘If you stay here a bit longer,’ Tremayne said, ‘and if you ride schooling satisfactorily, I don’t see why you shouldn’t eventually have a mount in an amateur race, if you put your mind to it.’
‘I shouldn’t think he wants to,’ Perkin remarked as I hadn’t answered in a rush. ‘You can’t make him.’
An offer I couldn’t refuse, Dee-Dee had said; and I’d thought only of money. Instead, he was holding out like a carrot a heart-stopping, headlong plunge into a new dimension of existence.
‘Say you will,’ Gareth begged.
Here goes impulse again, I thought. To hell with the helium balloon, it could wait a bit longer.
‘I will.’ I looked at Tremayne. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded, beaming and satisfied, saying, ‘We’ll apply for your permit next week.’
We all loaded into the Volvo and went down to Shellerton Manor where everyone trooped in to see Harry. Tired but cheerful he held court from his chair and accepted Mackie’s heartfelt kiss with appreciative good humour.
‘I’m so glad you’re alive,’ she said, with a suspicion of tears, and he stroked her arm and said lightly that he was too, on the whole.
‘What did it feel like?’ Perkin said curiously, glancing at the bandaged leg.
‘It happened too fast to feel much,’ Harry said, smiling lopsidedly. ‘If John hadn’t been there I’d have died without knowing it, I dare say.’
‘Don’t!’ Fiona exclaimed. ‘I can’t bear even to think of it. Tremayne, off you go or you’ll be late. John and I will pick up Erica and see you soon.’ She swept them out, following them, fearing perhaps that they would add to Harry’s fatigue; and he and I looked at each other across the suddenly empty room in a shared fundamental awareness.
‘Do you know who did it?’ he asked, weariness and perhaps despair returning, stress visible.
I shook my head.
‘Couldn’t be someone I know.’ He meant that he didn’t want it to be. ‘They meant to
‘Dreary thought.’
‘I don’t want to guess. I try not to. It’s pretty awful to know someone hates me enough...’ He swallowed. ‘That hurts more than my leg.’
‘Yes.’ I hesitated. ‘It was maybe not hate. More like a move in a chess game. And it went wrong, don’t forget. The strong presumption of guilt has changed to a stronger presumption of innocence. Entirely and diametrically the wrong result. That can’t be bad.’
‘I’ll hang onto that.’
