‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’ And I closed the door.
I eased myself out of the white plastic shell and chanced standing in the shower without it, letting a stream of cool water wash away the grime and bring relief to my itching body. I washed my hair with new shampoo, brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush, and shaved my chin with a new razor. I then reluctantly put myself back in the plastic straightjacket before dressing in crisp clean new shirt and trousers. I suddenly felt so much better. Almost a new man, in fact.
The taxi returned after lunch and took me to Uffington, back to the Radcliffes’ place. I had called Larry Clayton to say I was coming and he was sitting in his office when I arrived about two thirty, the same scuffed cowboy boots resting on his desk. It had been only two days since I had been here, but somehow it seemed longer.
‘How can I help?’ he said, not getting up.
I handed him a copy of the Millie and foal photo.
‘Do you recognize anyone in this picture?’ I asked him.
He studied it quite closely. ‘Nope,’ he said finally.
‘The foal is Peninsula,’ I said.
He looked again at the picture.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Still can’t help you.’
‘When did you say you arrived here?’ I asked him.
‘Last September,’ he said.
‘Where were you before?’ I said.
‘Up in Cheshire,’ he said. ‘I managed a meat-packing plant in Runcorn.’
‘Bit different from this,’ I said. ‘How did you get this job?’
‘I applied,’ he said. ‘Why, what’s your problem?’ He lifted his feet off the desk and sat upright in his chair.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No problem. Just seems funny to move from meat packing to foals.’
‘Perhaps they wanted me for my man-management skills,’ he said, clearly annoyed with my questions.
‘Is there anyone working here now who was here when Peninsula was born?’ I asked, trying to change direction.
‘Doubt it,’ he said unhelpfully, leaning back and replacing his feet on the desk. It was his way of telling me that my time was up.
‘Well, keep the photo anyway,’ I said. ‘If anyone recognizes the man will you ask them to give me a call.’ I handed him one of my business cards but I suspected that he would put it in the waste bin beside his desk as soon as I was through the door, together with the photo.
‘When did you say the Radcliffes will be back?’ I asked him from the doorway.
‘The Kentucky Derby is at Louisville tomorrow,’ he said, leaning further back in his chair. ‘They’ll be back sometime after that.’ He seemed determined not to be too helpful.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Would you ask them to look at the picture as well, please?’
‘Maybe,’ he said.
The taxi had waited for me and I asked the driver to take me back to the Queen’s Arms. That had all been a waste of time, I thought.
I called Eleanor and asked her if I should stay for a second night or go on to Oxford. Arthur had booked my hotel from the Friday, and I had already called to check that all my boxes had arrived there safely.
‘I’m on call again,’ she said.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked her. She seemed strangely reticent for someone who had previously been so forthcoming, almost eager.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m just very busy at the moment.’
Was it something I had said, I wondered.
‘But would you like to have dinner together?’ I asked. ‘You may not be paged tonight.’ There was a pause from the other end of the line. ‘But we can leave it if you like,’ I went on quickly. Was I being too pushy?
‘Geoffrey,’ she said seriously. ‘I’d love to have dinner with you, but…’
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I’ll have to come back here afterwards.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, upbeat. ‘Why don’t we have dinner at the Fox and Hounds in Uffington, and then I’ll get a taxi to take me on to Oxford while you go back to Lambourn.’
‘Great,’ she said, sounding a little relieved.
‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ I asked her again.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I promise. Everything is fine.’
We disconnected and I was left wondering whether men could ever fully understand women.
We had arranged to meet at the Fox and Hounds at eight. I had noticed the pub on both my trips to the Radcliffe place. It was a yellow plastered building set close to the road in Uffington High Street and I arrived early at ten past seven in a taxi with my two suitcases.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the publican as I struggled in through the door with both cases and my crutches. ‘We don’t have any accommodation, we’re only a pub.’
I explained to him that another taxi was picking me up later and he kindly allowed me to store my bags in his office in the interim.
‘Now,’ he said as I half sat myself on one of the Windsor-style bar stools. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Glass of red, please,’ I said. ‘Merlot, if you have it.’
He poured a generous measure and set the glass down on the wooden bar top.
‘I called and booked for dinner,’ I said.
‘Mr Mason?’ he said. I nodded. ‘For two? At eight?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m early.’ I looked around the bar. I was so early that, even on a Friday evening, I was his only customer. ‘Quiet tonight,’ I said to him.
‘It’ll be much busier later,’ he said. ‘All my regulars will be in soon.’
I rather hoped that Larry Clayton would not be amongst them.
I pulled a copy of the Millie and foal photograph from my jacket and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?’ I said, pushing it towards him.
He had a good look. ‘I don’t know the woman,’ he said. ‘But I think the man is Jack Rensburg.’
‘Does he live round here?’ I said. I could hardly control my excitement. I had thought the pub might be a long shot and hadn’t expected to get an answer so quickly.
‘He used to,’ the publican replied. ‘He worked at the stables on the Woolstone road. He’s been gone for two or three years, at least.’
‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.
‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.
‘No, nothing like that,’ I assured him with a laugh.
‘He used to talk a lot about cricket,’ he said. ‘He’s South African. He played for the village team here and they come into the pub after matches in the summer. He was always going on about how much better the South Africans were than the English team. But it was just banter. He’s a nice enough chap.’
‘Do you know why he left?’ I asked.
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I think he went away on holiday and never came back.’
‘And you don’t know when exactly?’ I asked him.
He thought for a moment but shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
Some more customers arrived and he went off to serve them.
So, I thought, the stud groom was called Jack Rensburg and he was a South African who liked cricket and he had left Uffington at least two or three years ago, possibly to go on a holiday from which he had not returned. Young men the world over, especially those living away from their homeland, went on holidays all the time from which they didn’t return. The nomadic life of the young expatriate male should not be a surprise to anyone. Perhaps he met a girl, or simply went home and stayed there.
Eleanor arrived promptly at eight and I was still half standing, half sitting on the bar stool enjoying a second glass of Merlot.
She came over, gave me a peck on the cheek and sat on the stool next to me and ordered a glass of white. Where, I thought, had the kiss on the lips gone?
‘Had a good day?’ she asked rather gloomily, tasting her wine.
‘Yes, actually, I have. I’ve bought up most of the menswear in Newbury, washed, shaved and preened my body, and,’ I said with a flourish, ‘I’ve discovered the name of the man in the picture.’
‘Wow,’ she said, mocking. ‘You have been a busy boy.’ She smiled and it felt like the sun had come out.