Enquiry

She grinned. ‘You’re some moron.’

The gates must have shut after I’d stopped on the line. I hadn’t heard them or seen them. I must, I supposed, have been more affected by the gas than I remembered.

‘I called you Rosalind,’ I said apologetically.

‘I know.’ She made a face. ‘Did you think I was her?’

‘No... It just came out. I meant to say Roberta.’

She unrolled herself from the chair, took a few steps, and stood looking at Rosalind’s picture. ‘She’d have been glad... knowing she still came first with you after all this time.’

The telephone rang sharply beside me and interrupted my surprise. I picked up the receiver.

‘Is that Kelly Hughes?’ The voice was cultivated, authoritative, loaded indefinably with power. ‘This is Wykeham Ferth speaking. I read about your accident in the papers... a report this morning says you are now home. I hope... you are well?’

‘Yes, thank you, my Lord.’

It was ridiculous, the way my heart had bumped. Sweating palms, too.

‘Are you in any shape to come to London?’

‘I’m... I’ve got plaster on my leg... I can’t sit in a car very easily, I’m afraid.’

‘Hm.’ A pause. ‘Very well. I will drive down to Corrie instead. It’s Harringay’s old place, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. I live in a flat over the yard. If you walk into the yard from the drive, you’ll see a green door with a brass letter box in the far corner. It won’t be locked. There are some stairs inside. I live up there.’

‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘This afternoon? Good. Expect me at... er... four o’clock. Right?’

‘Sir...’ I began.

‘Not now, Hughes. This afternoon.’

I put the receiver down slowly. Six hours’ suspense. Damn him.

‘What an absolutely heartless letter,’ Roberta exclaimed.

I looked at her. She was holding the letter from my parents, which had been under Rosalind’s photograph.

‘I dare say I shouldn’t have been so nosy as to read it,’ she said unrepentantly.

‘I dare say not.’

‘How can they be so beastly?’

‘They’re not really.’

‘This sort of thing always happens when you get one bright son in a family of twits,’ she said disgustedly.

‘Not always. Some bright sons handle things better than others.’

‘Stop clobbering yourself.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Are you going to stop sending them money?’

‘No. All they can do about that is not spend it... or give it to the local cats’ and dogs’ home.’

‘At least they had the decency to see they couldn’t take your money and call you names.’

‘Rigidly moral man, my father,’ I said. ‘Honest to the last farthing. Honest for its own sake. He taught me a lot that I’m grateful for.’

‘And that’s why this business hurts him so much?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve never... Well, I know you’ll despise me for saying it... but I’ve never thought about people like your father before as... well... people.’

‘If you’re not careful,’ I said, ‘Those chains will drop right off.’

She turned away and put the letter back under Rosalind’s picture.

‘Which university did you go to?’

‘London. Starved in a garret on a grant. Great stuff.’

‘I wish... how odd... I wish I’d trained for something. Learned a job.’

‘It’s hardly too late,’ I said, smiling.

‘I’m nearly twenty. I didn’t bother much at school with exams... no one made us. Then I went to Switzerland for a year, to a finishing school... and since then I’ve just lived at home... What a waste!’

‘The daughters of the rich are always at a disadvantage,’ I said solemnly.

‘Sarcastic beast.’

She sat down again in the armchair and told me that her father really seemed to have snapped out of it at last, and had finally accepted a dinner invitation the night before. All the lads had stayed on. They spent most of their time playing cards and football, as the only horses left in the yard were four half broken two year olds and three old ’chasers recovering from injuries. Most of the owners had promised to bring their horses back at once, if Cranfield had his licence restored in the next few weeks.

‘What’s really upsetting Father now is hope. With the big Cheltenham meeting only a fortnight away, he’s biting his nails about whether he’ll get Breadwinner back in time for him to run in his name in the Gold Cup.’

‘Pity Breadwinner isn’t entered in the Grand National. That would give us a bit more leeway.’

‘Would your leg be right in time for the Gold Cup?’

‘If I had my licence, I’d saw the plaster off myself.’

‘Are you any nearer... with the licences?’

‘Don’t know.’

She sighed. ‘It was a great dream while it lasted. And you won’t be able to do much about it now.’