‘No.’
I understood her deeply, and she realised it, moved despite herself to an internal wave of emotion and self-knowledge. She shook her head as if to disown the moment and got to her feet, tall and competent, a horsewoman for whom horses ultimately were not enough.
‘If you don’t need me tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I’ll deliver the tubes to Patrick in London and discuss things with him, and be back on Wednesday. What time?’
‘You’ll need to set off from here at seven. You’ll cross from Dover to Calais and reach your French destination at about six. Returning on Thursday, you’ll have to go to Jericho Rich’s daughter’s place, of course, to deliver the horse. You’ll be back here late, perhaps ten o’clock.’
‘Right.’
She wrapped the two amber tubes carefully in a handkerchief and stowed them in her handbag. Then with a brief nod of farewell she walked out to her car and inconspicuously departed.
Retrieving the four other tubes from the desk drawer, I wrapped each one in a tissue and put them in my jacket pocket. Then I poured the mug’s contents back into the thermos, screwed on the inner stopper and the outer cap and restored it with the sandwiches to the carrier for onward transport to my house.
The work day was ending. There were still boxes out on the road, though I wouldn’t wait for their return. The drivers never expected it and might have taken too much close checking as a lack of trust. There had, however, been phone messages during the day both from the nine-box I’d sent to Ireland with broodmares and from the box in France that was bringing the two two-year-olds over to join Michael Watermead’s stable, all the calls to the effect that neither box would be arriving back until two or three in the morning.
For us, that was quite normal. For Michael Watermead, it was bound to be an intolerable inconvenience. I had already arranged with the driver to come straight back to home base and to keep the two young horses in the farmyard’s stables until morning, but remembered I’d forgotten to tell Michael himself.
Stifling a yawn, I pressed his numbers and found him at home.
‘Two in the morning!’ he protested. ‘You know I don’t like it. It disturbs the whole yard, noise and lights when the other horses are asleep. They do need a good sleep, you know.’
‘If you like, we could keep your two-year-olds here in the farmyard stables until morning.’ I suggested it as if I’d just thought of it. ‘They’d come to no harm. They’re travelling well, my driver says. They’re calm and eating.’
‘You might have organised it better,’ Michael grumbled, gently reproving, as usual converting any strong feeling into good-mannered restraint.
‘There’s been a hold-up with the ferry in Calais,’ I explained. ‘Your horses won’t reach Dover until about ten tonight, they say. I’m very sorry, Michael, but it’s out of our hands.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, I do see. But blast it, it’s bloody irritating. Still, yes, I suppose those two-year-olds won’t come to much harm. Bring them over first thing, though. Six-thirty or soon after, when my lads come to work. Eh?’
‘First thing,’ I confirmed.
‘All right then.’ He paused for a change of subject. ‘Any... er... more news of your mechanic, poor fellow?’
‘The police were asking accident-type questions.’
‘Too bad he fell.’
‘Rotten.’
‘Let me know if I can do anything.’
‘Thanks, Michael.’
‘Maudie sends her love.’
I put the receiver down with a sigh, wishing Maudie meant it, and after a moment’s thought got through to the stud farm that was expecting the delivery from Ireland.
‘Your four mares with foals,’ I said soothingly, ‘are on the ferry right now but they won’t get to Fishguard until eleven tonight and if we bring them straight on to you they’ll be with you sometime after three. Is that all right with you?’
‘Fine. We’ll be up all night anyway, with mares foaling.’
Jobs done, I stood up tiredly, picked up the carrier, locked the outer office door, leaving the canteen open for the drivers, and went out to shift gears in the Fourtrak, my workhorse buggy. I sometimes felt, climbing behind that practical wheel, as if the Jaguar XJS persona was leaving me altogether; but somewhere below the businessman the jockey still had a pulse, and I now saw that it was essential to keep him alive, not to let him slip away, to be still willing for him to risk his neck daily, even if he no longer did.
I drove home, ate, went to bed.
I would unleash the Jaguar more often, I thought.
Soon after six-thirty in the morning I was up, dressed and breakfasted, and driving along in the strengthening daylight to the farmyard to see what was what.
The box from France with Michael Watermead’s two-year-olds stood quietly in its accustomed place, its cargo dozing in the stable, its driver nowhere about. There was a folded note from him, however, tucked under the windscreen wiper. I opened it and read, ‘Can someone else take them to Watermead’s? I’m bushed, I’m out of hours, and I think I’ve got flu. Sorry, Freddie.’ It was signed ‘Lewis’ and dated 2.30 a.m., Tuesday.
Damn the flu, I thought forcefully. Damn all invisible enemies, in fact.
I unlocked the outer office door and went along to my own room to fetch the duplicate keys of Lewis’s box, deciding that it was easier to drive it along to Michael’s yard myself rather than wait for another driver to be ready. Accordingly, I unlocked the horsebox, loaded the patient untroubled guests from my stable and took them the scant mile to their destination.
Michael was already out in his yard, looking pointedly at his watch, which stood nearer to seven than the appointed six-thirty.
When I climbed down from the cab his displeasure lessened a little but not altogether. He was, for him, in a comprehensively bad mood.
‘Freddie! Where’s Lewis?’ he said.
‘Lewis came back with flu,’ I said ruefully.
‘Dammit!’ Michael did some arithmetic. ‘What about Doncaster? This flu takes so long.’
‘I’ll give you a good driver,’ I promised.
‘It’s not the same. Lewis is helpful with saddling and so on. Some of those lazy buggers get to the races and sleep in their cabs until it’s time to go home. That Brett was one of those. I couldn’t stand him.’
Making sympathetic noises, I lowered the ramp for access to the two-year-olds and untied the nearest one to lead him out.
‘I thought the bloody French were sending a lad with them,’ Michael grumbled, his fair head back, his mild voice plaintive.
In anyone else, the displeasure level would have come roaring out in full-blown anger. In Jericho Rich, for example, intemperate man.
‘Lewis told us yesterday on the phone that the French lad went back home from Calais,’ I explained. ‘He apparently thought he would be sea-sick on the crossing. Lewis assured me he could manage on his own, so we decided not to lose even more time in finding a substitute attendant. Where do you want me to put this fellow?’
The two-year-old was skittering around playfully at the end of his rope. Michael’s head lad, half running, came to take him into custody and lead him away to his new home.
With the second import safely unloaded, Michael’s irritation subsided into his normal bonhomie and he suggested a cup of coffee before I went on my way. We walked together into his house, into the bright warm welcoming kitchen where frequent visitors sat unceremoniously round a long pine table and helped themselves to juices and toast.
Maudie was there in jeans and sweat-shirt, blond hair still tousled from sleep, face bare of make-up. She received my hello kiss absentmindedly and asked for Lewis.