Straight Read online

  Eventually I wound the bandage on again, not as neatly as the surgeon, but I hoped as effectively. Then I dressed, borrowing one of Greville’s clean white shirts and, down in the forlorn little sitting room, telephoned to Nicholas Loder.

  He didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice.

  “Well done with Dozen Roses,” I said.

  He grunted.

  “To solve the question of who owns him,” I continued, “I’ve found a buyer for him.”

  “Now look here!” he began angrily. “I...”

  “Yes, I know,” I interrupted, “you’d ideally like to sell him to one of your own owners and keep him in your yard, and I do sympathize with that, but Mr. and Mrs. Ostermeyer, the people I was with yesterday at York, they’ve told me they would like the horse themselves.”

  “I strongly protest,” he said.

  “They want to send him to Milo Shandy to be trained for jumping.”

  “You owe it to me to leave him here,” he said obstinately. “Four wins in a row... it’s downright dishonorable to take him away.”

  “He’s suitable for jumping, now that he’s been gelded.” I said it without threat, but he knew he was in an awkward position. He’d had no right to geld the horse. In addition, there was in fact nothing to stop Greville’s executor selling the horse to whomever he pleased, as Milo had discovered for me, and which Nicholas Loder had no doubt discovered for himself, and in the racing world in general the sale to the Ostermeyers would make exquisite sense as I would get to ride the horse even if I couldn’t own him.

  Into Loder’s continued silence I said, “If you find a buyer for Gemstones, though, I’ll give my approval.”

  “He’s not as good.”

  “No, but not useless. No doubt you’d take a commission, I wouldn’t object to that.”

  He grunted again, which I took to mean assent, but he also said grittily, “Don’t expect any favors from me, ever.”

  “I’ve done one for you,” I pointed out, “in not lodging a complaint. Anyway, I’m lunching with the Ostermeyers at Milo’s today and we’ll do the paperwork of the sale. So Milo should be sending a box to collect Dozen Roses sometime this week. No doubt he’ll fix a day with you.”

  “Rot you,” he said.

  “I don’t want to quarrel.”

  “You’re having a damn good try.” He slammed down his receiver and left me feeling perplexed as much as anything else by his constant rudeness. All trainers lost horses regularly when owners sold them and, as he’d said himself, it wasn’t as if Dozen Roses were a Derby hope. Nicholas Loder’s stable held far better prospects than a five-year-old gelding, prolific winner though he might be.

  Shrugging, I picked up my overnight bag and felt vaguely guilty at turning my back on so much chaos in the house. I’d done minimum tidying upstairs, hanging up Greville’s suits and shirts and so on, and I’d left my own suit and some other things with them because it seemed I might spend more nights there, but the rest was physically difficult and would have to wait for the anonymous Mrs. P., poor woman, who was going to get an atrocious shock.

  I went by taxi to the Ostermeyers’ hotel and again found them in champagne spirits, and it was again Simms, fortyish, with a mustache, who turned up as chauffeur. When I commented on his working Sunday as well as Saturday he smiled faintly and said he was glad of the opportunity to earn extra; Monday to Friday he developed films in the dark.

  “Films?” Martha asked. “Do you mean movies?”

  “Family snapshots, madam, in a one-hour photo shop.”

  “Oh.” Martha sounded as if she couldn’t envisage such a life. “How interesting.”

  “Not very, madam,” Simms said resignedly, and set off smoothly into the sparse Sunday traffic. He asked me for directions as we neared Lambourn and we arrived without delay at Milo’s door, where Milo himself greeted me with the news that Nicholas Loder wanted me to phone him at once.

  “It sounded to me,” Milo said, “like a great deal of agitation pretending to be casual.”

  “I don’t understand him.”

  “He doesn’t want me to have Dozen Roses, for some reason.”

  “Oh, but,” Martha said to him anxiously, overhearing, “you are going to, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, yes, don’t worry. Derek, get it over with while we go and look at Datepalm.” He bore the Ostermeyers away, dazzling them with twinkling charm, and I went into his kitchen and phoned Nicholas Loder, wondering why I was bothering.

  “Look,” he said, sounding persuasive. “I’ve an owner who’s very interested in Dozen Roses. He says he’ll top whatever your Ostermeyers are offering. What do you say?”

  I didn’t answer immediately, and he said forcefully, “You’ll make a good clear profit that way. There’s no guarantee the horse will be able to jump. You can’t ask a high price for him, because of that. My owner will top their offer and add a cash bonus for you personally. Name your figure.”

  “Um,” I said slowly, “this owner wouldn’t be yourself, would it?”

  He said sharply, “No, certainly not.”

  “The horse that ran at York yesterday,” I said even more slowly, “does he fit Dozen Roses’ passport?”

  “That’s slanderous!”

  “It’s a question.”

  “The answer is yes. The horse is Dozen Roses. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then,” he sounded relieved, “name your figure.”

  I hadn’t yet discussed any figure at all with Martha and Harley and I’d been going to ask a bloodstock agent friend for a snap valuation. I said as much to Nicholas Loder who, sounding exasperated, repeated that his owner would offer more, plus a tax-free sweetener for myself.

  I had every firm intention of selling Dozen Roses to the Ostermeyers and no so-called sweetener that I could think of would have persuaded me otherwise.

  “Please tell your owner I’m sorry,” I said, “but the Ostermeyers have bought Datepalm, as I told you, and I am obligated to them, and loyalty to them comes first. I’m sure you’ll find your owner another horse as good as Dozen Roses.”

  “What if he offered double what you’d take from the Ostermeyers?”

  “It’s not a matter of money.”

  “Everyone can be bought,” he said.

  “Well, no, I’m sorry, but no.”

  “Think it over,” he said, and slammed the receiver down again. I wondered in amusement how often he broke them. But he hadn’t in fact been amusing, and the situation as a whole held no joy. I was going to have to meet him on racecourses forever once I was a trainer myself, and I had no appetite for chronic feuds.

  I went out into the yard where, seeing me, Milo broke away from the Ostermeyers, who were feasting their eyes as Datepalm was being led round on the gravel to delight them.

  “What did Loder want?” Milo demanded, coming toward me.

  “He offered double whatever I was asking the Ostermeyers to pay for Dozen Roses.”

  Milo stared. “Double? Without knowing what it was?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “If you’ve accepted, I’ll flatten you.”

  I laughed. Too many people that past week had flattened me and no doubt Milo could do it with the best.

  “Well?” he said belligerently.

  “I told him to stuff it.”

  “Good.”

  “Mm, perhaps. But you’d better arrange to fetch the horse here at once. Like tomorrow morning, as we don’t want him having a nasty accident and ending up at the knackers, do you think?”

  “Christ!” He was appalled. “He wouldn’t! Not Nicholas Loder.”

  “One wouldn’t think so. But no harm in removing the temptation.”

  “No.” He looked at me attentively. “Are you all right?” he asked suddenly. “You don’t look too well.”

  I told him briefly about being kno
cked out in Greville’s garden. “Those phone calls you took,” I said, “were designed to make sure I turned up in the right place at the right time. So I walked straight into an ambush and, if you want to know, I feel a fool.”

  “Derek!” He was dumbfounded, but also of course practical. “It’s not going to delay your getting back on a horse?”

  “No, don’t worry.”

  “Did you tell the Ostermeyers?”

  “No, don’t bother them. They don’t like me being unfit.”

  He nodded in complete understanding. To Martha, and to Harley to a lesser but still considerable extent, it seemed that proprietorship in the jockey was as important as in the horse. I’d met that feeling a few times before and never undervalued it: they were the best owners to ride for, even if often the most demanding. The quasi-love relationship could however turn to dust and damaging rejection if one ever put them second, which was why I would never jeopardize my place on Datepalm for a profit on Dozen Roses. It was hard to explain to more rational people, but I rode races, as every jump jockey did, from a different impetus than making money, though the money was nice enough and thoroughly earned besides.

  When Martha and Harley at length ran out of questions and admiration of Datepalm we all returned to the house, where over drinks in Milo’s comfortable living room we telephoned to the bloodstock agent for an opinion and then agreed on a price which was less than he’d suggested. Milo beamed. Martha clapped her hands together with pleasure. Harley drew out his checkbook and wrote in it carefully, “Saxony Franklin Ltd.”

  “Subject to a vet’s certificate,” I said.

  “Oh yes, dear,” Martha agreed, smiling. “As if you would ever sell us a lemon.”

  Milo produced the “Change of Ownership” forms, which Martha and Harley and I all signed, and Milo said he would register the new arrangements with Weatherby’s in the morning.

  “Is Dozen Roses ours, now?” Martha asked, shiny-eyed.

  “Indeed he is,” Milo said, “subject to his being alive and in good condition when he arrives here. If he isn’t the sale is void and he still belongs to Saxony Franklin.”

  I wondered briefly if he were insured. Didn’t want to find out the hard way.

  With the business concluded Milo drove us all out to lunch at a nearby restaurant which as usual was crammed with Lambourn people: Martha and Harley held splendid court as the new owners of Gold Cup winner Datepalm and were pink with gratification over the compliments to their purchase. I watched their stimulated faces, hers rounded and still pretty under the blonde-rinsed gray hair, his heavily handsome, the square jaw showing the beginning of jowls. Both now looking sixty, they still displayed enthusiasms and enjoyments that were almost childlike in their simplicity, which did no harm in the weary old world.

  Milo drove us back to rejoin the Daimler and Simms, who’d eaten his lunch in a village pub, and Martha in farewell gave Milo a kiss with flirtation but also real affection. Milo had bound the Ostermeyers to his stable with hoops of charm and all we needed now was for the two horses to carry on winning.

  Milo said ‘“Thanks” to me briefly as we got into the car, but in truth I wanted what he wanted, and securing the Ostermeyers had been a joint venture. We drove out of the yard with Martha waving and then settling back into her seat with murmurs and soft remarks of pleasure.

  I told Simms the way to Hungerford so that he could drop me off there, and the big car purred along with Sunday afternoon somnolence.

  Martha said something I didn’t quite catch and I turned my face back between the headrests, looking toward her and asking her to say it again. I saw a flash of raw horror begin on Harley’s face, and then with a crash and a bang the car rocketed out of control across the road toward a wall and there was blood and shredded glass everywhere and we careened off the wall back onto the road and into the path of a fifty-seater touring coach which had been behind us and was now bearing down on us like a runaway cliff.

  12

  In the split second before the front of the bus hit the side of the car where I was sitting, in the freeze-frame awareness of the tons of bright metal thundering inexorably toward us, I totally believed I would be mangled to pulp within a breath.

  There was no time for regrets or anger or any other emotion. The bus plunged into the Daimler and turned it again forward and both vehicles screeched along the road together, monstrously joined wheel to wheel, the white front wing of the coach buried deep in the black Daimler’s engine, the noise and buffeting too much for thinking, the speed of everything truly terrifying and the nearness of death an inevitability merely postponed.

  Inertia dragged the two vehicles toward a halt, but they were blocking the whole width of the road. Toward us, round a bend, came a family car traveling too fast to stop in the space available. The driver in a frenzy braked so hard that his rear end swung round and hit the front of the Daimler broadside with a sickening jolt and a crunching bang and behind us, somewhere, another car ran into the back of the bus.

  About that time I stopped being clear about the sequence of events. Against all catastrophe probability I was still alive and that seemed enough. After the first stunned moments of silence when the tearing of metal had stopped, there were voices shouting everywhere, and people screaming and a sharp petrifying smell of raw petrol.

  The whole thing was going to burn, I thought. Explode. Fireballs coming. Greville had burned two days ago. Greville had at least been dead at the time. Talk about delirious. I had half a car in my lap and in my head the warmed-up leftovers of yesterday’s concussion.

  The heat of the dead engine filled the cracked-open body of the car, forewarning of worse. There would be oil dripping out of it. There were electrical circuits... sparks... there was dread and despair and a vision of hell.

  I couldn’t escape. The glass had gone from the window beside me and from the windshield, and what might have been part of the frame of the door had bent somehow across my chest, pinning me deep against the seat. What had been the fascia and the glove compartment seemed to be digging into my waist. What had been ample room for a dicky ankle was now as constricting as any cast. The car seemed to have wrapped itself around me in an iron-maiden embrace and the only parts free to move at all were my head and the arm nearest Simms. There was intense pressure rather than active agony, but what I felt most was fear.

  Almost automatically, as if logic had gone on working on its own, I stretched as far as I could, got my fingers on the keys, twisted and pulled them out of the ignition. At least, no sparks. At most, I was breathing.

  Martha, too, was alive, her thoughts probably as abysmal as my own. I could hear her whimpering behind me, a small moaning without words. Simms and Harley were silent; and it was Simms’s blood that had spurted over everything, scarlet and sticky. I could smell it under the smell of petrol; it was on my arm and face and clothes and in my hair.

  The side of the car where I sat was jammed tight against the bus. People came in time to the opposite side and tried to open the doors, but they were immovably buckled. Dazed people emerged from the family car in front, the children weeping. People from the coach spread along the roadside, all of them elderly, most of them, it seemed to me, with their mouths open. I wanted to tell them all to keep away, to go farther to safety, far from what was going to be a conflagration at any second, but I didn’t seem to be able to shout, and the croak I achieved got no farther than six inches.

  Behind me Martha stopped moaning. I thought wretchedly that she was dying, but it seemed to be the opposite. In a quavery small voice she said, “Derek?”

  “Yes.” Another croak.

  “I’m frightened.”

  So was I, by God. I said futilely, hoarsely, “Don’t worry.”

  She scarcely listened. She was saying “Harley? Harley, honey?” in alarm and awakening anguish. “Oh, get us out, please, someone get us out.”

  I turned my head as far as I could and looked back sideways at Harley. He was cold to the world but hi
s eyes were closed, which was a hopeful sign on the whole.

  Simms’s eyes were half open and would never blink again. Simms, poor man, had developed his last one-hour photo. Simms wouldn’t feel any flames.

  “Oh God, honey. Honey, wake up.” Her voice cracked, high with rising panic. “Derek, get us out of here, can’t you smell the gas?”

  “People will come,” I said, knowing it was of little comfort. Comfort seemed impossible, out of reach.

  People and comfort came, however, in the shape of a works foreman-type of man, used to getting things done. He peered through the window beside Harley and was presently yelling to Martha that he was going to break the rear window to get her out and she should cover her face in case of flying glass.

  Martha hid her face against Harley’s chest, calling to him and weeping, and the rear window gave way to determination and a metal bar.

  “Come on, Missis,” encouraged the best of British workmen. “Climb up on the seat, we’ll have you out of there in no time.”

  “My husband ...” she wailed.

  “Him too. No trouble. Come on, now.”

  It appeared that strong arms hauled Martha out bodily. Almost at once her rescuer was himself inside the car, lifting the still-unconscious Harley far enough to be raised by other hands outside. Then he put his head forward near to mine and took a look at me and Simms.

  “Christ,” he said.

  He was smallish, with a mustache and bright brown eyes.

  “Can you slide out of there?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He tried to pull me, but we could both see it was hopeless.

  “They’ll have to cut you out,” he said, and I nodded. He wrinkled his nose. “The smell of petrol’s very strong in here. Much worse than outside.”

  “It’s vapor,” I said. “It ignites.”

  He knew that, but it hadn’t seemed to worry him until then.