Cut Throat (39 page)

The horse had behaved impeccably throughout an uneventful morning and when Danny boosted Ross into the saddle did no more than sidle, respecting the boy's hand on his rein. When Danny stepped back, however, the chestnut launched himself skywards.

Ross had been ready for something of the sort. They were on a patch of exercise ground behind the horseboxes and he let the animal have his head as much as possible, hoping that he would ease the kinks out of his system and settle down before he had to head for the ring.

When, half an hour later, they made their appearance at the practice ring for Ring Two, they caused quite a stir. Telamon had settled into a high-stepping trot, his dark copper neck arched and tail streaming like a banner. Although, mercifully, he took no notice whatsoever of the mares while he was being ridden, a few of them noticed him and neighed excitedly.

From the goggle-eyed expressions his appearance provoked, Ross concluded that news of Telamon's purchase had not yet filtered through the grapevine.

‘You sneaky sod!' was Mick Colby's comment. ‘If you can pull this off, my friend, the scoffers will have to eat their words.'

‘If,' Ross agreed. ‘But he's just as likely to pile me in the middle of the ring for all the world to laugh at!'

Somebody had erected a good-sized practice pole and Ross put Telamon at it. He pinged it just for fun, jumping high and wide, putting in a spirited buck on the landing side for good measure. Ross cursed at him, caught between annoyance and amusement. He let the stallion walk round quietly then until his number was called.

That Telamon was wildly excited as he entered the ring was immediately obvious even to the most uninformed spectator. He crossed the turf in an extravagant trot, tail held high and nostrils cracking. To Ross he felt like a tightly coiled spring with a hair-trigger release. His champing jaws periodically tossed back streams of white foam to decorate Ross' black jacket. The crowd began to buzz with anticipation.

He concentrated on staying relaxed, hands gently playing on the reins to keep the horse's attention, and after stopping to acknowledge the judges, gave the stallion a fraction more rein, letting him spring forward into a canter. As the hooter sounded, he swung the horse between the timing beacons and approached the first fence, an inviting, rustic affair that Telamon negotiated with the kind of mini-explosion that with him passed for a jump. A stride after landing, he was airborne once more. Ross sat the buck quietly then pushed him forward.

Telamon took the next two fences without appearing to notice them and then allowed himself to be guided round the first turn and towards the fourth.

A double of gates, a wall, parallel bars and a tricky upright were all traversed with almost scornful ease and Ross began to enjoy himself. He was leaving the horse to find his own stride as much as possible, knowing that interference only served to provoke conflict.

Coming to the second last, however – parallel bars that you could comfortably have driven a small car between – he couldn't resist squeezing slightly with his calves to ask for extra effort.

Extra effort was unquestionably what he got.

Telamon shot into the air with an indignant grunt, giving the black-and-yellow poles at least eighteen inches' clearance, and landed running. Ross attempted valiantly to make the turn to the last fence but by now Telamon was convinced that running was the order of the day. They missed the jump by a good yard, still accelerating, and began to circumnavigate the ring.

It was at this point that Ross' memory chose to dredge up a snippet from a few weeks before, and he heard Bill Scott saying disparagingly:
He's a failed racehorse, you know . . . Used to run away going down to the start
.

Rejecting the sensible course of action, Ross concentrated on steering, and with forward planning and a fair degree of luck managed to thread the horse between the jumps to arrive on line with the last fence a second time. Obligingly, Telamon picked his feet up at the appropriate moment and they skimmed between the timing beacons to finish the course.

The stallion plainly thought it a huge joke, for as Ross sat back to try and ride him to a halt, he put in a buck of gargantuan proportions that sent the American over his head without a hope in hell of saving himself.

The crowd gasped collectively, then clapped and laughed as Ross picked himself up with a self-conscious grin and dusted himself down, waving away the stewards who were running to his aid.

He saw with amusement that no one had yet attempted to catch the stallion, who was standing by the exit watching the other horses in the collecting ring. He patted the horse's sweaty neck with no resentment and led him out.

‘Well, don't say we don't give you entertainment value,' the voice behind the loudspeaker said as they departed from the arena. ‘That was, amazingly, just four faults for circling. Four faults for Ross Wakelin on Mr Roland Preston's Telamon.'

Ross was heartily grateful that Harry Douglas wasn't commentating at the show. His reception in the collecting ring was mixed but mostly good-natured. It seemed that his supposed indiscretions were momentarily sidelined in the face of this new interest.

Outside, where Danny waited with a cotton sheet to throw over the chestnut's loins, Ross was greeted by Lindsay, James and Roland.

‘I see what my revered father sees in the sport now,' Roland said in the tone of one finally understanding an enigma. ‘It really is quite exciting, isn't it?'

Lindsay gave her cousin a playful push. ‘Roland! Stop acting the fool.'

‘You should have seen it from where I was sitting,' Ross suggested.

James laughed. ‘I don't think many of us envied you. I know I didn't! But he did look rather good when he behaved, didn't he? Even to my untrained eye.'

Lindsay agreed wholeheartedly.

‘Well, I'm looking forward to his next class,' Roland said with the enthusiasm of the newly converted. ‘Now Ross has got used to the horse, we should have a good chance in that one.'

‘Oh, sure,' he said ironically. ‘I shouldn't be surprised if we win it!'

The afternoon continued apace. Ross rode Flowergirl once more and Ginger twice, before bringing Woody out for the bigger classes.

He was constantly changing horses and numbers and rings. Bill and Danny worked like termites, scurrying to and fro to make sure the right horse, wearing the right tack, reached the right collecting ring at the right time.

Woodsmoke managed a very creditable second place in his first class and a sixth in his second, but he seemed to be feeling the hard ground with his ageing limbs and, knowing Franklin would agreewere he there, Ross consulted with the Colonel and withdrew him from the last class.

By this time he was bone weary and his knee felt as though someone had it in a vice and was trying to reshape it with a mallet.

He would have been quite happy to have gone home had Telamon not been down to jump in the last class, and if the hope of salvaging the final shreds of his reputation had not, very probably, rested upon his partnering the horse a second time.

If Telamon was any less excited on this, his second outing, it would have taken a keen observer to have spotted it. He entered the ring with the same high-stepping trot and screamed his excitement to the world in general, in the way that only a stallion can. Several hopeful mares answered him, which seemed to do his ego good for he shook his head and tried to break into a canter.

Ross restrained him and nodded to the judges, hoping that they would sound the starting hooter without too much delay.

His wish was granted. He eased the stallion forward and inclined him towards the start of the course. These jumps were considerably bigger than those in the earlier class but Telamon accorded them the same glorious lack of respect. Ross once again chose a policy of non-interference, restricting his part in the proceedings to steering towards the appropriate fences and tentative suggestions about moderating their heady speed.

It was only when the last combination had been cleared and they were passing the finishing markers that he realised they had, incredibly, jumped a clear round. The appreciative crowd cheered, enjoying the stallion's highly individual style, and Ross felt the chestnut gather himself for another huge buck. He hauled his head up and the buck became a fairly harmless leap instead.

Despite his weariness, Ross could not prevent an idiotic grin from spreading over his face as he returned to the collecting ring.

This horse was one big, crazy son of a bitch but, hell, he could jump! And he, Ross, had the ride!

The Oakley Manor team and followers couldn't have been more delighted if he had just won an International Grand Prix. It was a feather in their collective cap that the horse was jumping well for their yard when others had failed to produce the goods. Their obvious pride in his achievement lifted Ross as nothing else had done for a long time.

Half-an-hour later, he and Telamon were back in the collecting ring, waiting to be called for the jump-off.

There had been only five clear rounds. One of these was accomplished by Stephen Douglas on China Lily and Ross would have been less than human if he hadn't felt a great deal of satisfaction when he saw the tight-lipped discomfort of Telamon's former jockey.

The jump-off course was tight and twisty, and didn't suit Telamon's wide, galloping turns, but the chestnut jumped clear again, and when two others faulted, Ross found himself lining up for a third-place rosette. The stallion was greatly diverted by the notion of a lap of honour, doing his best to overtake the first- and second-placed horses as they circled the ring, and bucking when his attempts were foiled.

As they filed out, one of Ross' fellow competitors turned in the saddle and said, ‘Rather you than me, mate!'

Ross grinned widely.

As he slid off the horse and loosened his girth, Ross heard a plummy, upper-class voice declare: ‘They say he drinks, you know.'

‘Well, if that's Dutch courage,' a second voice replied, ‘I'm going to try some!'

The American caught Danny's eye and laughed.

While Ross was having supper with the Scotts that evening, the Colonel rang to say that Robbie Fergusson had requested that as Bishop would not be fit to jump in the two classes for which he was entered on the final day of the show, Ginger might take his place. Ross agreed, reluctantly, although he was fairly sure that the request was more in the nature of a command.

Putting the handset down, he sighed. He'd been relieved to have got the mare safely through her classes and had been looking forward to a Ginger-free day. In some instances she would not have been eligible for Bishop's classes, as she was graded below him, but as luck would have it, the two classes tomorrow were qualifiers and open to all.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, he found he was really too tired to worry about it. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

Ross was greeted first thing the next morning by a note pushed under the door at the foot of the stairs. It read:
King Rat has bolted. The cat is in pursuit
.

It wasn't signed and Ross smiled to himself. McKinnon was obviously exercising his individual brand of humour at Leo Jackson's expense.

At the show he found another note awaiting him in the secretary's tent when he went to declare the change of horses.

Ross experienced mild relief at the thought that Leo was out of the picture. Now at least Mr X wouldn't be able to use the ex-groom's spite as a cover for his own activities. A faint sense of unease persisted, however.

Why
had
Leo suddenly decided to leave? Had he realised he was being watched and was therefore unlikely to get away with any more mischief-making? Ross had done a lot of thinking before he got to sleep the previous night, and the half-conclusions he had come to didn't fit at all with Leo's abrupt departure this morning.

Back to the drawing board, he thought resignedly. At this particular moment, though, five fit and eager horses awaited him in the horsebox and he had a very busy day ahead. It was neither the time nor the place to try to sort out Franklin's problems.

By lunchtime, Ross and his crew had expended a great deal of effort and energy, and had in return collected a sprinkling of rosettes and one silver trophy. This last was won by the ever-consistent Simone in a hotly contested Top-Score competition.

Ross' success with Telamon the previous day seemed to have earned him a reprieve with some of his critics, and several of his fellow competitors came up to congratulate him on Simone's win.

The afternoon got underway with another speed class, in which Ross and Flowergirl had to be content with second and which Lindsay and Gypsy won. She was delighted and teased him about his second place as they lined up to receive their prizes. They circled the ring in a lap of honour and as Ross watched her slim, black-jacketed figure cantering ahead of him he ached with the intensity of his feelings for her.

When she slid off Gypsy outside the collecting ring, however, it was to James that she turned, accepting his congratulatory kiss and demanding of him: ‘Wasn't Gypsy wonderful?'

James agreed dutifully but his eyes were on Lindsay and his love for her shone like a beacon on a clear night.

Ross rode on by.

By mid-afternoon he had ridden in four more classes, including the Foxhunter Qualifier on Ginger. A vague hope that there might be a problem with substituting the mare for the absent Bishop had been dashed by a helpful official and Robbie Fergusson had appeared uncharacteristically in the vicinity of the collecting ring, as if to physically compel Ross into the ring.