‘It’s rubbish,’ Tremayne snorted. ‘I never said “no comment”. No one asked me for any comment. The sponsor had left by the time it happened, so how can he be furious? So had the Jockey Club members. They went after the speeches. I talked to some of them as they were leaving. They congratulated me. Huh!’
‘The fuss will die down,’ I assured him.
‘Makes me look a bloody fool.’
‘Make a joke of it,’ I suggested.
He stared. ‘I don’t feel like joking.’
‘No one does.’
‘It’s this business about Harry, isn’t it? Upsets everyone. Bloody Angela Brickell.’
I made the toast.
He said, ‘Are you fit enough to ride Fringe?’
‘If you’ll let me.’
He studied me, some of his ill-feeling fading. ‘Concentrate, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Look,’ he said a touch awkwardly, ‘I don’t mean to take my bad temper out on you. If you hadn’t been here we’d all be in a far worse pickle. Best thing I ever did, getting you to come.’
In surprise, I searched for words to thank him but was forestalled by the telephone ringing. Tremayne picked up the receiver and grunted ‘Hello?’, not all his vexation yet dissipated.
His face changed miraculously to a smile. ‘Hello, Ronnie. Calling to find out how the book’s going? Your boy’s been working on it. What? Yes, he’s here. Hold on.’ He passed me the receiver, saying unnecessarily, ‘It’s Ronnie Curzon.’
‘Hello, Ronnie,’ I said.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m riding a good deal.’
‘Keep your mind on the pages. I’ve got news for you.’
‘Good or bad?’
‘My colleague in America phoned yesterday evening about your book.’
‘Oh.’ I felt apprehensive. ‘What did he say?’
‘He says he likes Long Way Home very much indeed. He will gladly take it on, and he is certain he can place it with a good publisher.’
‘Ronnie!’ I swallowed, unable to get my breath. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. I always told you it was all right. Your English publisher is very enthusiastic. She told my American colleague the book is fine and he agrees. What more do you want?’
‘Oh...’
‘Come down from the ceiling. A first novel by an unknown British writer isn’t going to be given a huge advance.’ He mentioned a sum which would pay my rent until I’d finished the helium balloon and leave some over for sandwiches. ‘If the book takes off like they hope it will, you’ll get royalties.’ He paused. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Sort of.’
He laughed. ‘It’s all beginning. I have faith in you.’
Ridiculously, I felt like crying. Blinked a few times instead and told him in a croaky voice that I’d met Erica Upton twice and had sat next to her at dinner.
‘She’ll destroy you!’ he said, horrified.
‘I don’t think so. She wants a copy of the book when it’s published.’
‘She’ll tear it apart. She likes making mincemeat of new writers.’ He sounded despairing. ‘She does hatchet jobs, not reviews.’
‘I’ll have to risk it.’
‘Let me talk to Tremayne.’
‘OK, and Ronnie... thanks.’
‘Yes, yes...’
I handed back the receiver and heard Ronnie being agitated on the other end.
‘Hold on,’ Tremayne said, ‘she likes him.’
I distinctly heard Ronnie’s disbelieving ‘What?’
‘Also she’s very fond of her nephew, Harry, and on Wednesday John saved Harry’s life. I grant you she may write him a critical review, but she won’t demolish him.’ Tremayne listened a bit and talked a bit and then gave me the receiver again.
‘All right,’ Ronnie said more calmly, ‘any chance you get, save her life too.’
I laughed, and with a sigh he disconnected.
‘What happened?’ Tremayne asked. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘I’m going to be published in America. Well... probably.’
‘Congratulations.’ He beamed, pleased for me, his glooms lifting. ‘But that won’t change things, will it? I mean here, between us. You will still write my book, won’t you?’
I saw his anxiety begin to surface and promptly allayed it.
‘I will write it. I’ll do the very best I can and just hope it does you justice. And will you excuse me if I run and jump and do handsprings? I’m bursting... Ronnie said it’s all beginning. I don’t know that I can bear it.’ I looked at him. ‘Did you feel like this when Top Spin Lob won the National?’
‘I was high for days. Kept smiling. Topsy Blob, I ask you!’ He stood up. ‘Back to business. You’ll come up with me in the Land Rover. Fringe’s lad can ride him up, then change with you.’
‘Right.’
Ronnie’s news, I found, had given me a good deal more confidence in Fringe than I had had on Drifter, illogical though it might be.
It’s all beginning...
Concentrate.
Fringe was younger, whippier and less predictable than Drifter: rock music in place of classical. I gathered the reins and lengthened the stirrup leathers a couple of holes while Fringe made prancing movements, getting used to his new and heavier rider.
‘Take him down below the three flights of hurdles,’ Tremayne said, ‘then bring him up over them at a useful pace. You’re not actually racing. Just a good half-speed gallop. Bob Watson will be with you for company. Fringe jumps well enough but he likes guidance. He’ll waver if you don’t tell him when to take off. Don’t forget, it’s you that’s schooling the horse, not the other way round. All ready?’
I nodded.
‘Off you go, then.’
He seemed unconcerned at letting me loose on his half-share investment and I tried telling myself that ahead lay merely a quick pop over three undemanding obstacles, not the first searching test of my chances of racing. I’d ridden over many jumps before, but never on a racehorse, never fast, never caring so much about the outcome. Almost without being aware of it I’d progressed from the hesitancy of my first few days there to a strong positive desire to go down to the starting gate: any starting gate, anywhere. I had to admit that I envied Sam and Nolan.
Bob was circling on his own horse, waiting for me. Both his horse and Fringe, aware they would be jumping, were stimulated and keen.
‘Guv’nor says you’re to set off on the side nearest him,’ Bob said briefly. ‘He wants to see what you’re doing.’
I nodded, slightly dry-mouthed. Bob expertly trotted his mount into position, gave me a raised-eye query about readiness and kicked forward into an accelerating gallop. Fringe took up his position alongside with familiarity and eagerness, an athlete doing what he’d been bred for, and enjoyed.
First hurdle ahead. Judge the distance... give Fringe the message to shorten his stride... I gave it to him too successfully, he put in a quick one, got too near the hurdle, hopped over it nearly at a standstill, lost lengths on Bob.
Damn, I thought. Damn.
Second hurdle, managed it a bit better, gave him the signal three strides from the jump, felt him lift off at the right time, felt his assurance flow back and his faith in me revive, even if provisionally.
Third hurdle, I left him too much to his own devices as the distance was awkward. I couldn’t make up my own mind whether to get him to lengthen or shorten and in consequence I didn’t make his mind up to do either and we floundered over it untidily, his hooves rapping the wooden frames, my weight too far forward... a mess.
We pulled up at the end of the schooling stretch and trotted back to where Tremayne stood with his binoculars. I didn’t look at Bob; didn’t want to see his disapproval, all too wretchedly aware that I hadn’t done very well.