A Three Day Event (5 page)

“I’m worried about Michel,” she finally said flatly.

“Why?”

“He’s unhappy. It’s not just the sponsors, he can handle that, I mean he
does
win a lot and whatever is bugging him, it doesn’t affect his riding. No, there’s something else. He’s been all torn up since Palm Beach, something’s eating at him. I think it’s something with his father.

“Michel’s too old to still be here, you know,” she confided in lowered tones, though no one was within earshot. “Roch still treats him like a kid. And
he
still acts like a kid when he’s with him. He needs to get away from here, start his own barn. It would be so great, just a small, private barn…not here…maybe in North Carolina, Southern Pines is really pretty…”

And you’d run it together, just the two of you. Dream on, you poor kid.

“How do you get along with Roch?”

Shrug. “Okay. But I guess I see him different from everyone else. I mean, everyone thinks he’s just this fun–loving, jolly guy who’s good at running shows and training horses and riders.”

“And in fact you see him as–?”

“Tough. Very tough on Michel. I think he’s like–kind of living through him–like Michel is doing what
he
had to stop doing because he got married too young. You remember when he quit, don’t you? He might have had a career like yours. Actually I always wondered why
you
quit when things were going so great for you. I don’t know. Roch and I sort of stay out of each other’s way.”

She was fiddling with her mug, twisting it back and forth. And she smoked one cigarette after another. She evaded Polo’s increasingly concerned gaze. He had never seen her so jumpy.

“Joc–what is it?” Then he remembered the searing glance she had directed at the stable boy. “Is there something else? Something to do with that creepy–looking kid with the fancy belt buckle?”

Her face sagged with released tension, and she shoved her hand through her uneven bangs. Looking anxiously around her, she leaned over the table and, in a strung–out whisper, said, “Polo, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but there’s no one I can talk to about it. Ever since we got back from Florida–the tension here, you can cut it with a knife. And it’s that Liam, for sure. He’s scary. But Michel won’t talk about it, and Roch tells me it’s none of my business.”

“I’m listening.”

Jocelyne drew a deep breath, stubbed a cigarette out with a savage twist and immediately lit another.

“This guy has something on everyone here. I don’t know what he’s after, whether it’s blackmail or just for kicks. But he follows people around, he knows what gets to them.

“Me, I found him once going through my purse–I always leave it on the floor of my car–he said he was looking for one of the horse’s passports–as if I’d leave one there, he knows they’re all together in the office. I mean, it was a really dumb excuse. But I had a few joints in my bag and now he probably knows it. Michel hates that shit, he’s so squeaky clean with drugs, he’d be disgusted if he knew…I mean, it’s only on days off, but he’d think I was garbage.

“Then one day I see him talking to Fran’s wife Eva. Fran is the dressage instructor–he’s from Europe, an old guy, a real military riding type, you know, strict, but knows his stuff. His wife is a really nice lady and she used to come all the time to watch Fran and help him set up
cavaletti
or whatever, and then I see Liam talking to her one day, like as if he had something really juicy she’d want to hear, and she’s looking suddenly like she saw a ghost and she starts crying. And Fran runs over and starts to yell at him in German. And now Eva never comes here, and Fran looks at him like he wants to kill him…”

“But surely he must have said something to Roch?”

“No, that’s the weird thing. He never said anything, I know he didn’t. It’s like he’s afraid of Liam.
Nobody
complains to Roch, and Liam makes sure he sucks up to him to keep him happy. But he isn’t a fool–Roch, I mean–and he knows there’s
something
wrong. He’s been snapping at everyone, usually it’s Gilles, his nephew, who gets shit…”

“Go on.”

“Liam and Bridget–she does the eventing side, she’s from England–they’re like cats and dogs all the time–like snarling, trying to see who can insult the other the most. And he’s not all impressed with her the way most people are here. He keeps making these snide comments about the cross–country jumps and how they’re not built right, and what if the people in Ottawa knew–and she just laughs and tells him to–what is it–
sod off–
is that it? Nobody else says it here…”

“I don’t really know Bridget. Is she any good?”

Jocelyne shrugged. “She knows eventing stuff, I guess, and pretends to be an expert on everything. She spouts off all the time about what a big time rider she was in England before she had to give it up. I don’t know that much about eventing. Michel and Roch think it’s sort of a joke sport, like doing three different disciplines and none of them properly. It’s for amateurs, they say…”

Polo smiled fleetingly and said nothing. He shared their view. When eventers joined the jumper circuit to improve that phase of their discipline, they were usually pretty hopeless, and he understood their dressage was laughed at in the same way by the fulltime dressagists. As for the cross–country jumping over solid barriers, it was known to be a high–risk thing, and in his time he’d heard some horror stories, both about riders and horses. Lately, he knew, the animal rights people had been on their case.

“Okay,” Jocelyne continued, “so there’s these two kids who work here. There’s Gilles who I mentioned before, that’s Roch’s nephew from Brossard. He’s like not a bad guy. Doesn’t know squat about horses, still he’s trying, but he makes a lot of goofy mistakes. And Benoit, who’s in my opinion a jerk, thinks he’s hot shit, Mr. Muscles, you know the type, always trying to cruise me–like as
if…
and any other girl who walks through the barn. I mean, really
cruises
them, even the clients.

“He’s an asshole. I mean, Roch flirts with the girls, but everyone knows it’s just a routine. He knows where the line is, and he knows who not to try it on with. But this guy is so thick…I’m sure some of the clients have said things to Roch, but I guess it’s complicated…he’s a Desrochers and that family and Roch’s are close…I get the impression he thinks he has some big future here, maybe because his family used to own the place.

“Anyway, this Liam has them both, Gilles and Benoit, in some kind of weird…” she gestured with her hands, searching for a word,
club
or something. I mean, you see them all three talking all the time and you walk by and they stop and stare at you as if they were like spies or something…”

She sighed. “Do I sound like I’m crazy? Like what do they call people who think other people are after them or something?”

“You mean paranoid? No, you sound as if you’re reacting to something real. But what about Michel? Why won’t he talk to you about it?”

The girl bit her lip and looked down at the table. “I–I feel disloyal to talk about Michel.”

“Joc–” Polo weighed his words, “Joc–if you think Michel is in some kind of trouble, it would be wrong not to try and help him.” He paused. “It doesn’t have to be me, but–” he waited for her to meet his eyes and added gently –“I think I’ve been as good a friend as he’s likely to find in this business…and Roch and I used to compete together. I wouldn’t want to see any harm come to either of them if I could help it.”

Jocelyn blushed deeply and tears crept down her cheeks.
Calvaire, don’t cry.
Please don’t cry.

Taking a deep breath, Jocelyn said in a tremulous murmur, “Liam is trying to blackmail Michel, I think. He told me he knows Michel is–he says Michel is”–she was trying but she couldn’t say the word.

“Gay?”

She nodded dumbly, her head bent miserably down to the table.

“Is he?” Polo asked as delicately as he could.

“
No
!” she said firmly and her head snapped up so she could meet his eyes with all the defiance her love could command.

“Joc–”
Marde de la marde,
this is a tough one–
“Joc, you’ve been in this business a long time. You know the guys–the riders–you know there’s more gays than straights–it’s probably like fifty, maybe sixty percent, at least on the east coast, so the kid, this Liam, may be taking a statistically good chance on spec. But on the other hand, if it were true–I’m not saying it is–but what’s the difference? He’s still Michel, nothing changes for you…”

“It’s not true! You mustn’t say it!” She hissed.

“Okay, Jocelyne, okay. I’ll take your word… and you think he’s blackmailing Michel and that’s why he won’t talk about it?”

“I don’t know if it’s for money, or just to get at him. He seems to hate him for other reasons. He’s always mooning over those two Irish horses, Bridget’s, that Michel rides. He thinks Michel’s too tough on them and he tells him so, right to his face! I mean what a nerve, telling
Michel Laurin
how to train a horse…shit, I don’t know why Michel hasn’t whacked him one by now. I know I would have!

“And I know one thing, that if Roch knew Liam was saying these things, I mean about Michel being gay, he’d kill him. You know how macho Roch is, it’s like a religion with him. Meanwhile, Roch’s happy with the guy’s work, which counts a lot with him, and I got to admit myself he’s fantastic in the barn, and great with the horses. Guy thinks he’s God’s gift.”

“Guy?”

“Yeah, Guy Gilbert–the vet–Liam’s been here during some bad times–a tough colic, a horse almost died, and then when Aur cast himself, he got him turned around, not easy with such a monster horse–so that’s another reason Roch doesn’t want to know–he wants Guy to stay happy. He isn’t like most vets. He doesn’t have a practice or anything, so he’s like always around. And Liam acts like he’s the official assistant. It makes me crazy, he’s like two different people.”

“Do you want me to speak to Michel?”

“No!” she said sharply. “No, I can’t stand…I think we got to let Michel work it out. But I really appreciate you listening to me. I feel better.” She added wistfully, “I don’t get to talk to anybody like you very often.”

“Like me?” Polo was genuinely puzzled.

She squirmed self–consciously and twisted at a ring. “I mean, someone who–it’s hard to explain–someone who’s in horses, but isn’t–like–doesn’t need to suck up to anyone?” she ended on a note of query, as if asking him to substitute a more comprehensive and articulate thought.

Polo smiled sympathetically. “That’s a nice thing to say, Joc. And I’m glad you think of me as independent. It’s the answer to your question, by the way.”

“My question?”

“You said before you always wondered why I quit the circuit when things were going so great.”

“Oh. Yeah. I see what you mean.” She nodded, frowning, trying to look smart.

No you don’t, you poor sucker. You don’t know what freedom is. You don’t want to know, either.

She sighed. “Maybe I’ll take a few days off to get my head together. I should visit my parents, I haven’t seen them in more than a year…”

“Where do they live, Chibougamou?”

“No,” Jocelyn said morosely, “just in Valleyfield…”

Cristi! Just a two–hour drive away. And she’s not the only one. They’re like slaves, only they make their own chains
…

On the way out, Polo passed a stocky young man mucking out stalls, who stood up at his approach and followed his progress from dark, hooded eyes. With his full, sensual lips, doughy baby face and carefully molded fifties’–style pompadour, he had the air of a youthful Elvis Presley. That must be the unsavoury Benoit, Polo thought to himself. Further on a bit, Liam was wheeling fresh shavings down the aisle. Polo nodded curtly to him.

“Hey, wait,” Liam said as Polo moved briskly to the exit, “you didn’t say who I should say was here.”

“Tell him Polo was here,” he said, his hand reaching for the door, “Polo Poisson.”

CHAPTER THREE

“
P
olo Poisson!”
exclaimed Marion Smy indignantly. “
What do you mean you’ve asked Polo Poisson to be your co–chair! I just told you Rob Taylor has very graciously agreed to help us. You can’t possibly imagine the committee would prefer to have Polo Poisson when
Rob
Taylor
is willing to join us!” As she pronounced Rob Taylor’s name, the internationally renowned nickname ‘Canajun, eh?’ seemed to tremble silently, reverentially, in the air beside her She glared fiercely at Roch, the unhappy surprise–spoiler.

Roch appealed mutely to Hy, who had leaned back and crossed his arms with satisfaction at having Marion’s anger deflected onto someone else. And Roch deserved to twist in the wind a bit, Hy thought. Although overwhelmingly gregarious, Roch avoided “situations.” Hy was starting to recognize this conflict–avoidance as characteristic of many people he was meeting in the sport. He couldn’t help comparing horse people to businessmen–and women too, of course–for whom conflict came with the territory. In business you developed strategies for dealing with problems, and dealt with them. This lot wouldn’t last a year if they were running a business, he mused.

In the end, exerting all of his considerable charm, Roch smoothed Marion’s feathers, explaining that Polo was going to be on the site in any case as Hy’s contractor, that Hy was footing the bill for his accommodation in the ski condos nearby (at which point Stuart murmured encouragingly to Marion), that he was more than competent in all the areas needed: jumper course design and building, logistical supervision–well, he appealed around the table, everyone knew there was no one in the horse business who had covered every base like Polo, so…

When it seemed as if Roch had suffered enough, Hy broke in with, “And Roch was also influenced by the fact that Polo is a personal friend of mine. I guess I felt that this was one perk I could assume as–” he made a little show of finding and adjusting his half–moon reading glasses and scanning the papers before him–“ah, yes,
honorary chairman
it says here, right…”

Marion unleashed fresh indignation in her return look, but Hy was by now fed up with the overlong meeting, determined to finish with this–to him–non–subject, eager to move on to lunch which they had committed to attend, and get going home, home, home, home…. he looked across to find Thea Ankstrom staring quite intensely at him. He moved firmly for adjournment.

There was a brief recess before luncheon was served. People clustered in pairs and groups to review their impressions of the meeting or cultivate personal contacts. Denise Girandoux and Roch slipped into the corridor for a smoke and a quick gossip about the Quebec show circuit. Stuart Jessop and Bill Sutherland disappeared into the offices, Bill to consult the massive FEI rulebooks concerning queries that had arisen during the meeting, although he knew his responses had been perfectly correct, Jessop to telephone Ronald March in Calgary who was awaiting news of this and other Federation business. The bathroom doors on the main floor swung briskly to and fro.

There was a private, more elegant Ladies Room on the second floor with an old–fashioned ante–room where female Federation mandarins could perch on red velvet demi–back chairs and shore up their fading charms in the flattering light of rose–tinted glass wall sconces. On one of these dainty thrones Thea Ankstrom was sitting, staring somberly into the sepia–tinted mirror, massaging hand cream into her fingers, when Marion Smy entered the room. Thea started and a barely audible hiss of annoyance escaped her lips.

“Aha! So this is where you’re hiding!” Marion chirped enthusiastically. Seeing Thea move to sweep her lipstick and hand cream into her handbag with the obvious intention of leaving, Marion slipped quickly into the adjacent chair and laid an imperious hand on the younger woman’s arm. Thea flinched imperceptibly, but acknowledged to herself the impossibility of any explicable withdrawal from Marion’s normally tolerable presence. She screened her thoughts with her civil public face as she turned a passive and apparently receptive ear to whatever it was Marion wanted to say.

“Thea dear,” Marion began, awkwardness creeping into her voice as she groped to frame her apology, “I really
am
sorry about that little
gaffe
I made in the meeting.” Thea quickly murmured the appropriate pardon and put up a hand to forestall any further inroads on the privacy of her feelings, but Marion, intent on her mission, was blind to any and all emotional moats as she galloped heedlessly across the still open drawbridge of their longstanding friendship.

“My dear, you must know how terribly I–all of us in the Federation–feel about what happened to your beautiful, talented Stephanie. We all know what a brilliant student she was, and what a great veterinarian she would have been. I thought her professor from Tufts was so eloquent at the memorial service. Please believe me. Any riding accident is a tragedy, and when it happens at an official event, well of course it’s that much worse, I’m sure you agree.”

“Worse?” Pale and trembling slightly, Thea gazed steadily and inscrutably into Marion’s exorbitant eyes. “You say it is worse that Stephanie died in an
official
way than if she had died out hacking, or training, for example? Worse for whom, Marion?” She spoke quietly, uninflectedly, but now it was Marion who shrank away.

“Oh, I see what you’re saying, of course,” Marion, pinkening, stammered hastily. “Nothing could be worse for
you
, no matter where it happened. Oh yes, I see that. And it’s true. A mother, well–there it is. But you see–” she frowned and hesitated. The scene was not playing itself out properly and she was not coming up with any fresh themes. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“It’s us, you see, the Federation,” she began plangently with a nervous smile. “We’re under a lot of pressure, as you just heard. Those articles, this horrible publicity, these disgusting lawsuits–”

Thea swivelled on the little chair and leaned towards the older woman. In her rich, full–timbred tones she asked, “Marion, am I to take it that the Federation–Stuart, Barbara and the others–have sent you to find out if I’m considering taking action about what happened? If I’ve thought of suing Bridget or the Federation for negligence? Because I am sure Bill Sutherland has told you that any event held under
official
Federation sanctions would, indeed, make the Federation liable.”

She turned back to the counter and sat very still for a moment, recovering total control over her feelings and, locking Marian’s anxious eyes to her own in the mirror as she delicately applied the palest of lipsticks, added with a kind of detached amusement, “Do you know how much liability insurance C–FES carries for all of Canada, Marion?”

Dumbly, slowly, as if hypnotized, Marion wagged her head negatively.

“Well, I’ll tell you,
my dear
,” Thea said. “Three million dollars.” She shook her head in quiet amazement, as though hearing this news for the first time. “Think of it, Marion. Why, I carry a million dollars liability insurance on my horse, on my one horse. I’m sure a lot of us do. And C–FES, in this riskiest of all sports, for
all of Canada”–
she broke off and shook her head at herself in the mirror. Marion’s eyes widened with anxiety as she absorbed the obvious fact that Thea had done her homework–as usual.

What did it mean for the Federation? Marion had thought she knew Thea pretty well after so many years together in common service to horse sport. Now she was not at all sure she knew anything at all about her. What with her divorce from Harold and then Stephanie–well, Thea might even have come unhinged by what had happened. That detached, really very cold look in her eyes…Anything was possible.

Marion squirmed and opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again and blurted out, “Listen Thea, you can’t blame us for being worried. Nobody denies it. The ‘drop’ on the cross–country course was deeper than it should have been. But that wasn’t the cause of it. I mean, the horse
stopped
before he flipped over. It was a rider error. You can’t blame the organizers for that.”

“So I’ve been told,” Thea answered coolly. “First by Bridget, who claims Stephanie lost her nerve in the approach to the drop, as well as by Brian Jones, whose precious Timberline Farm must at all cost be saved from bad publicity, and later by other parents and coaches and trainers who all say it’s part of the sport, tragic, but there you are, that’s horse sport.”

Marion seemed relieved that Thea was helping her write the revised scenario, and nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she went on eagerly, “that’s it exactly. And who should understand that better than you, dear. After all,” she smiled with genuine warmth and camaraderie, “you’re one of us, Thea, you’ve been there all along. If you took against us, well, the whole thing could fall apart. I’m not being dramatic. It’s a fact. We have to stick together, you know. Especially now,” she concluded intimately and ominously.

“I understand exactly what you’re saying,” Thea responded evenly, facing her directly, “and I can assure you that my plans do not include any lawsuits at the moment.” Turning back to the mirror, she met Marion’s image, rosy and childlike in relief, with a slight but dismissive nod, which let even Marion know that the interview was over. Marion smiled, feeling she was back in control of the situation. She squeezed Thea’s unresponding hand, stood tall in her famously no–nonsense way, flashed a V for victory salute, and swept out of the room.

Thea continued to stare fiercely into and beyond her austere reflection in the mirror.

You’re one of us.

What had she and Marion, this foolish, bovine, boring woman in common?

You’re one of us.

How had it happened that she had so willingly devoted so much time, half a lifetime, to a pursuit that now seemed so utterly meaningless?

You’re one of us…

Thea covered her face with her lily–of–the–valley–scented hands, which so grotesquely twinned memories of her own bridal bouquet and the masses of funeral wreaths, and moaned quietly, “Oh Stephanie, you were always the brave one. I have been the coward. I’m the one who lost my nerve. But I’ll find the way to avenge you, I promise. I failed you in life, but I won’t fail your memory.”

Lunch was served in the baronial dining hall across from the meeting room. Hy assessed its content with gloom: canned
consommé
with nothing but a sliver of julienned carrot to gladden the eye, thin sandwiches of pallid ham, stringy roast beef and American cheese on sliced white bread, and the whole depressing collation topped off with canned fruit cocktail and commercial shortbread cookies. Hy tried not to think about his usual noon fare.

Thea Ankstrom, weary–looking and later than the others, slipped in beside him. In a low, silky voice, she asked quietly, “You said you were a friend of Polo’s?”

“Yes,” Hy replied. “We go back more than thirty years now.” He laughed. “I always feel old when I think of how long I’ve known him.”

“Is your father’s name Morrie?” Her voice was lower and slightly rougher to his ear now.

“Yes, it was.”

“Was?”

“ He died a few years ago, actually. But how do you”–

“Died?! Oh, I’m terribly sorry, very sorry.” She bit her lip and rushed on to forestall Hy’s natural curiosity. “You see, I met him once. Just the once. But I was–well–the circumstances were unusual–oh, dear, I’m not making much sense–but it’s really not important about the circumstances. I just wanted to say that I thought he was a most–well,
extraordinary
person.”

“We all thought he was. And thank you–I assume.” There could only be one connection between this elegant Rosedale matron and his father. “ I take it you must have met through Polo.”

“Yes, in a way.” She flushed slightly and looked down at her plate. “It was so long ago that I didn’t twig to the coincidence of your names until Polo’s name came up at the meeting. Did you say that Polo will be on the site all through May, then?”

“Yes, he will. As a matter of fact you’ll be neighbours. We’re taking over some of the ski condos, they’re just down the road a bit from the barn, and that time of year we can have our pick. I think you’ll be comfortable there, with plenty of room for your computers and stuff. Nice view of the mountain and the cross–country course. How long has it been since you’ve seen Polo?”

“Seen him? Oh, my dau–my interest was always more in eventing than in jumping, so I’ve seen him occasionally around the shows when he coaches or designs the course. But I’ve never actually spoken to him. It’s just, well I knew that your father was his sponsor, and I rather got the impression that Polo was in some way a member of your fam–your household?”

Hy laughed and shook his head. “You know, I still haven’t quite figured out how to answer that question. He was around our house so much he was
like
a member of the family, but–” Hy shook his head again–“his life was so different from ours, my sister’s and mine, and he came and went so freely–” here he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, “all I can tell you is that in spite of us having practically nothing in common, I consider him one of my oldest and best friends.”

She nodded, then became her usual, sphinx–like self again. She turned to talk to Bill Sutherland, and Hy felt once again that curious mixture of fascination and unease she seemed to conjure in people as a matter of course.

It was at last time to leave. People were stowing papers in their briefcases, brushing crumbs away and congratulating each other on the morning’s accomplishments. Hy was delighted that the moment had finally come, but something tugged at his memory. In the commotion over Polo’s chairmanship, he had forgotten to mention a curious oversight in the agenda. Now he remembered, and prayed it wouldn’t involve another battle with Marion.

“Look everybody, I’m sorry to delay you a few more minutes. I know we’re all anxious to be off, but my people are going to have to order the T–shirts pretty soon from our suppliers, not to mention the banners and flyers and whatnot, so I’ll have to know before the next meeting what the name of the show is.”