Bonecrack

'It's cold in here,' she said.

'Yes.'

'Warmer in the office.'

The half-head disappeared and did not come back. I decided to accept what I knew had been meant as an invitation, and retraced my way towards the corner of the house which adjoined the yard. In that corner were the stable office, a cloakroom, and the one room furnished for comfort, the room we called the owners' room, where owners and assorted others were entertained on casual visits to the stable.

The lights were on in the office, bright against the grey day outside. Margaret was taking off her sheepskin coat, and hot air was blowing busily out of a mushroom shaped heater.

'Instructions?' she asked briefly.

'I haven't opened the letters yet.'

She gave me a quick comprehensive glance.

Trouble?'

I told her about Moonrock and Lucky Lindsay. She listened attentively, showed no emotion, and asked how I had cut my face.

'Walked into a door.'

Her expression said plainly 'I've heard that one before,' but she made no comment.

In her way she was as unfeminine as Etty, despite her skirt, her hairdo, and her efficient make-up. In her late thirties, three years widowed and bringing up a boy and a girl with masterly organisation, she bristled with intelligence and held the world at arm's length from her heart.

Margaret was new at Rowley Lodge, replacing mouselike old Robinson who had finally scratched his way at seventy into unwilling retirement. Old Robinson had liked his little chat, and had frittered away hours of working time telling me in my childhood about the days when Charles II rode in races himself, and made Newmarket the second capital of England, so that ambassadors had to go there to see him, and how the Prince Regent had left the town for ever because of an enquiry into the running of his colt Escape, and refused to go back even though the Jockey Club apologised and begged him to, and how in 1905 King Edward VII was in trouble with the police for speeding down the road to London-at forty miles an hour on the straight bits.

Margaret did old Robinson's work more accurately and in half the time, and I understood after knowing her for six days why my father found her inestimable. She demanded no human response, and he was a man who found most human relationships boring. Nothing tired him quicker than people who constantly demanded attention for their emotions and problems, and even social openers about the weather irritated him. Margaret seemed to be a matched soul, and they got on excellently.

I slouched down in my father's revolving office armchair and told Margaret to open the letters herself. My father never let anyone open his letters, and was obsessive about it. She simply did as I said without comment, either spoken or implied. Marvellous.

The telephone rang. Margaret answered it.

'Mr Bredon? Oh yes. He'll be glad you called. I'll put you on to him.'

She handed me the receiver across the desk, and said, 'John Bredon.'

Thanks.'

I took the receiver with none of the eagerness I would have shown the day before. I had spent three intense days trying to find someone who was free at short notice to take over Rowley Lodge until my father's leg mended, and of all the people whom helpful friends had suggested, only John Bredon, an elderly recently-retired trainer, seemed to be of the right experience and calibre. He had asked for time to think it over and had said he would let me know as soon as he could.

He was calling to say he would be happy to come. I thanked him and uncomfortably apologised as I put him off. The fact is that after thinking it over I've decided to stay on myself-'

I set the receiver down slowly, aware of Margaret's astonishment. I didn't explain. She didn't ask. After a pause she went back to opening the letters.

The telephone rang again. This time, with schooled features, she asked if I would care to speak to Mr Russell Arletti.

Silently I stretched out a hand for the receiver.

'Neil?' a voice barked. 'Where the hell have you got to? I told Grey and Cox you'd be there yesterday. They're complaining. How soon can you get up there?'

Grey and Cox in Huddersfield were waiting for Arletti Incorporated to sort out why their once profitable business was going down the drain. Arletti Incorporated's sorter was sitting disconsolately in a stable office in Newmarket wishing he was dead.

'You'll have to tell Grey and Cox that I can't come.'

'You what?'

'Russell- count me out for a while. I've got to stay on here.'

'For God's sake why?'

'I can't find anyone to take over.'

'You said it wouldn't take you more than a week.'

'Well, it has. There isn't anyone suitable. I can't go and sort out Grey and Cox and leave Rowley Lodge rudderless. There is six million involved here. Like it or not, I'll have to stay.'

'Damn it, Neil-'

'I'm really sorry.'

'Grey and Cox will be livid.' He was exasperated.

'Go up there yourself. It'll only be the usual thing. Bad costing. Underpricing their product at the planning stage. Rotten cash flow. They say they haven't any militants, so it's ninety per cent to a cornflake that it's lousy finance.'

He sighed. 'I don't have quite your talent. Better ones, mind you. But not the same.' He paused for thought. 'Have to send James, when he gets back from Shoreham. If you're sure?'

'Better count me out for three months at least.'

'Neil!'

'Better say, in fact, until after the Derby- '

'Legs don't take that long,' he protested.

'This one is a terrible mess. The bones were splintered and came through the skin, and it was touch and go whether they amputated.'

'Oh hell.'

'I'll give you a call,' I said. 'As soon as I look like being free.'

After he had rung off I sat with the receiver in my hand, staring into space. Slowly I put it back in its cradle.

Margaret sat motionless, her eyes studiously downcast, her mouth showing nothing. She made no reference at all to the lie I had told.

It was, I reflected, only the first of the many.

CHAPTER THREE

Nothing about that day got any better.

I rode out with the second lot on the Heath and found there were tender spots I hadn't even known about. Etty asked if I had toothache. I looked like it, she said. Sort of drawn, she said.

I said my molars were in good crunching order and how about starting the canters. The canters were started, watched, assessed, repeated, discussed. Archangel, Etty said, would be ready for the Guineas.

When I told her I was going to stay on myself as the temporary trainer she looked horrified.

'But you can't.'

'You are unflattering, Etty.'

'Well, I mean- You don't know the horses.' She stopped and tried again. 'You hardly ever go racing. You've never been interested, not since you were a boy. You don't know enough about it.'

'I'll manage,' I said, 'with your help.'

But she was only slightly reassured, because she was not vain, and she never overestimated her own abilities. She knew she was a good head lad. She knew there was a lot to training that she wouldn't do so well. Such self knowledge in the Sport of Kings was rare, and facing it rarer still. There were always thousands of people who knew better, on the stands.

'Who will do the entries?' she asked astringently, her voice saying quite clearly that I couldn't.

'Father can do them himself when he's a bit better. He'll have a lot of time.'

At this she nodded with more satisfaction. The entering of horses in races suited to them was the most important skill in training. All the success and prestige of a stable started with the entry forms, where for each individual horse the aim had to be not too high, not too low, but just right. Most of my father's success had been built on his judgement of where to enter, and when to run, each horse.