Midnight on Lime Street (17 page)

‘About bleeding time,’ Gordy Hourigan exclaimed loudly. ‘I thought you’d retired without paying any tax or National Insurance. There’ll be no pension if you
don’t buck up, lad.’

The lively gelding sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring and narrowing many times as he analysed the day. With his tail waving almost listlessly at flies that had gathered in his filthy stable,
he ambled nonchalantly round the paddock’s perimeter. Two stable boys leapt forward with rakes, forks, shovels and wheelbarrows; at last, Murdoch’s place of residence could be cleaned.
The animal had been in a bad mood for days, and no one but the donkey had wanted to share space with him.

‘It bloody stinks in here,’ one of the boys yelled. The sitting/standing tenant of the stable and his donkey friend had been given winter feed, as Murdoch had refused to emerge even
to graze, and Nicholas Nye had remained by his side. The horse had discovered and perfected a talent for sulking. Gordy Hourigan found himself wondering about the male equivalent of prima donna
because the horse had an appalling attitude. It was Babs. Gordy knew this was all about Babs.

Nicholas Nye, guessing his best friend’s intentions, clung to Murma, who never suffered from or indulged in flights of fancy. Murdoch had a plan, and the wise donkey knew when to stay away
from his protector.

Gordy’s gaze was fixed firmly on his naughty pupil. He had never worked with so great a horse; nor had he met a worse one. The powerful yet strangely graceful steed was beginning to prance
as if aiming for proficiency in a military two-step with a bit of the St Bernard’s waltz thrown in for good measure. If all else failed, he might clatter about in a circus.

Murdoch nodded constantly, urging himself onward, trotting, cantering, picking up speed until at last the nodding slowed and he was streamlined.

‘Bugger,’ Gordy whispered. ‘Here we go again. He knows she’s on her way.’

Murdoch cleared the five foot paddock fence as if he owned invisible wings, and after he had landed gracefully he greeted four dogs with a warm whinny as they ran towards him. He stopped, lay on
the grass and allowed the smaller creatures to make a fuss of him. They leapt on him, licked him, tugged at his tail, chewed on his mane and barked. He played with them, pushing them gently with a
front leg. Murdoch was a star, and this was his curtain call.

‘One way or another, that animal will be the death of me,’ Gordy mused aloud while watching the tatty mongrels worshipping their master. ‘He’ll be wanting a bouquet of
roses soon.’ Geese, cats and chickens remained out of reach, of course. A natural affiliation between equines and canines appeared to exist at Wordsworth House, probably because Mr Crawford
had encouraged it, but smaller beasts knew when to keep their distance.

Murdoch raised his beautiful head again just as Eve Mellor’s van pulled onto the gravel driveway. The day was living up to his expectations, because he had tasted Babs in the air. He rose
to his feet, and the dogs scattered. For Murdoch, nothing else mattered now. She had arrived, and the real fun could begin.

As Babs jumped down from the vehicle, a tall, handsome man of middle age approached her. ‘Miss Schofield?’ he asked, extending his right hand.

Distracted by the horse, she smiled, nodded and walked past the stranger.

Gordy stopped her in her tracks. ‘That’s Mr Philip Macey,’ he whispered. ‘He’s a great man, a town councillor, supporter of dozens of charities, and Murdoch’s
other owner. When he knows you, he asks you to call him Lippy. That’s his nickname.’

Babs returned to Mr Philip Macey. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I love that terrible horse. I’ve seen you in the papers.’

The visitor shook her hand. ‘The nuisance has boundless potential, but he’s picky and stubborn. I hear he’s taken a liking to you.’

She shrugged. ‘No accounting for taste, is there?’

Mr Macey’s smile broadened in response to her accent. She was Liverpool to the bone, and Liverpool delivered strong fillies. ‘And you don’t ride?’

‘Not yet.’

He led her into the kitchen. ‘Mr Crawford’s resting upstairs. I understand that you and your friend are intending to look after him because of his heart problem—’ He
stopped abruptly; Murdoch was coming through the door.

Babs sat at the kitchen table and waited until the animal placed his nose in her hair. ‘He’ll be all right now,’ she announced, thanking her lucky stars that this man seemed to
know nothing about Don Crawford’s sexual requirements.

Lippy Macey sat in a chair opposite hers, a frown and a smile fighting for dominance on his face. ‘This has been – and continues to be – a difficult young horse to
train,’ he explained. ‘If he has a bond with you, we must take full advantage. He’s very intelligent, stubborn and feisty. Where’s your friend?’

‘Sally? Still in the van, I think. She’s not keen on great big animals.’

‘And you are?’

She turned and looked at her tormentor. ‘It’s just this smelly horse. Will you stop spitting in my hair, Murdoch? Go on. I’ll play with you later.’ She grinned at her
human companion. ‘I’ve visited twice so far, and he always goes for my hair. Still, I’ll get compensation for shampoo used, I suppose – oh, and I’ll have a hard hat
with my hair tied up underneath it.’

‘He obeys you, Miss Schofield,’ Mr Macey said as the horse executed an admirable three-point turn in order to leave the house. ‘Have you seen National Hunt racing?’

Babs offered no reply.

‘Well, have you?’

She spoke. ‘Jumping over fences and stuff? Yeah, I’ve seen it on the telly. They break their legs and get shot, and I don’t mean the jockeys. It wants stopping. Flat
racing’s all right, but—’

‘But Murdoch’s a flier.’

‘I know.’

‘We have our eyes on the Grand National.’

‘I know.’

‘We want you to ride him.’

‘I know.’

‘Will you?’

Babs shrugged. ‘Look, they don’t let women ride, and I’ve nearly broke me neck falling off a bike, so he’d get to the finish without a rider.’

‘If he drops you, he’ll stay with you. Can’t you feel his love?’ He paused. ‘The rules are going to be relaxed, and women will ride in the National. Hasn’t
Gordy told you that?’

She pondered for a moment. ‘Yes.’

‘He would grind to a halt and stand over you to prevent the rest of the field trampling you. His attitude is that of a warhorse, and if you read about World War One and earlier wars,
you’ll know how many mounts gave their lives while attempting to shield their riders. You are what we need, and you’re all he needs. Gordy Hourigan is a great trainer, and Murdoch
occasionally shows him an edge of respect, but that animal runs from the heart. Will you help?’

Again, Babs raised her shoulders. ‘You know I’ll do my best, but I draw the line at sleeping in the stable with him. And you’ll need a man jockey on standby in case I’m
not allowed.’

Lippy Macey laughed. ‘He has Nicholas Nye to share his stable. And you shall go to the ball, Cinderella.’

Babs failed to hear the last few words. ‘And he has his mam close by. Mr Macey, have you seen Murma? I mean, Murdoch looks nothing like his mother, does he?’

‘I have seen her, of course. It seems impossible, doesn’t it? She looks as if she should be between the shafts of a gypsy caravan. But I understand that his sire’s like greased
lightning.’

‘Nobody can catch him,’ Babs said, the words deformed by a giggle.

‘Catch him, Miss Schofield? Very few see him. He probably breaks the sound barrier when he’s on the run. His real owner lives two counties away from Murma’s old stable.
He’s a bay with a very slender and crooked white flash on his nose, so he’s recognizable when fairly still and fairly close, which is seldom. He covered Murdoch’s mother, and
photographs were taken by the stable manager; that was the sole proof of our foal’s rather mixed pedigree. Mr Crawford bought the foal and the dam, because he’s soft-hearted. And
luckily, we became accidental owners of a very fine animal.’

Sally crept in. ‘The horse came in the house,’ she gasped.

‘We noticed,’ Mr Macey said, ‘and if he continues to eat Miss Schofield’s hair, we may be obliged to provide her with a wig.’

‘I’ll buy a few,’ Babs said, winking cheekily at the seated gentleman. ‘I could have a change of colour whenever I fancied.’

Mr Macey laughed.

‘Sal?’ Babs turned in her seat. ‘Just run up and see if Mr Crawford needs anything. The doctor has him on bed rest.’

Sally left the kitchen. She could see that the man at the table was special and that an important meeting was taking place.

Negotiations continued. ‘My name’s Philip,’ he said, ‘but friends call me Lippy.’

‘Barbara – usually Babs.’

‘Right you are, Usually Babs. Don and I will organize lessons. You will go eventually with Murdoch and Hourigan to showjumping arenas just to get used to the rhythm of hurdles. Before
that, I have gentler horses for you to ride. Once ready, you will ride Murdoch on my land, which has plenty of fences and hedges.’

‘He’ll be jealous if I ride other horses,’ she warned him.

‘Tough,’ was the reply. ‘Once you graduate to Murdoch’s level, you will learn when to stand in the stirrups with your seat away from the saddle. Don will not allow the
whip to be over-used, so you must become accustomed to stroking the horse with it. It will take time, but we have plenty of that, because Murdoch is far too young for the race. The younger mounts
have speed, but little stamina. We have five years at least to achieve the right standard. And, of course, you will run in other steeplechases first. Also, remember that Murdoch is a secret; we
don’t want the racing community to take an interest for a while. The odds for the National will be short enough once he starts winning elsewhere, so we mustn’t tempt fate.’

Babs pursed her lips when the soliloquy reached its end. ‘So Mr Crawford is an animal-lover?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he’s happy to see Murdoch shot if there’s a pile-up at one of those horrible fences? Does he know how many horses die or get injured? Does he know how many get too winded
to breathe without help and that the Aintree course is five times more lethal than any other steeplechase?’

Lippy nodded. ‘He also knows that Murdoch can make it. Babs, it’s about spirit and bravery and love for the rider. Do you have any idea how many jockeys run that race on an animal
they scarcely know? Murdoch with you on his back will be carrying a jockey he treasures. He will see you almost every day. Hourigan has always had his mind set on the National, but Don wasn’t
sure until he learned about you having been chosen by Murdoch. Spirit, love, a good ribcage, great lungs, strong legs, combative attitude – Murdoch has them all. He will win. You will win. We
are going to win. You, my dear, will be the first woman to finish first.’

Babs Schofield drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I’ve been reading about it,’ she said. ‘It’s a death trap for the horses, but we’ll need to wait for a few
more dead or crippled jockeys before the damned race gets stopped. If my horse dies, you will answer for it.’

The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Your horse?’

Babs nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, mine. It’s nothing to do with money or ownership – you just said so. He chooses me, so he’s mine. I belong to him.’

‘And he to you?’

‘Yes. Anyway, I might be no good at it. No need to jump Becher’s till we get there, eh?’ She stood up. ‘And remember – I’m only a woman. I’ll just get
our stuff from the van before Eve throws a purple fit with custard.’

‘Eve?’ he asked.

‘She’s just our driver.’ Smiling to herself, Babs went out to get the luggage. From this day, that’s all Eve would be – the woman who ferried passengers and
luggage. Babs had met a gentleman, a real gentleman who was going to improve life no end. And she had a horse of her own, a champion in the making who loved her to bits, just the way she loved
him.

Murdoch followed Babs to the van. Eve had deposited the girls’ bags on the gravel drive and was safely back behind the steering wheel.

‘Thanks, Eve,’ Babs said through the open window on the driver’s side. ‘For everything.’ Until this moment, the younger woman hadn’t realized that she quite
liked Eve.

Eve’s jaw dropped. What was little Miss Trouble up to now?

‘I mean it.’ God, this falling in love with a horse was a strange business. Babs was softening, even towards people she’d never liked. ‘Bets are off, Eve. I don’t
want to gamble with a man’s life, so get my five hundred back off Kate, yes?’

Eve managed to speak. ‘Right you are.’

‘Open me a bank account at the Trustee, will you? Just send me the bank book here. Me and this lunatic breathing down me neck are going to have adventures. Don’t say anything,
because I’m still shocked about it, too.’

Eve frowned. ‘Are you all right, Babs?’

‘Never been better.’

‘Well, good luck to you and Sally. You’ll be missed, especially by Belle.’

‘But not by you, eh?’

‘That loony horse is eating your hair.’

‘Yes, he does that.’

‘Ta-ra then, Babs. No hard feelings, eh?’

‘None at all. Ta-ra, Eve.’

The younger woman stood with her horse and watched as Eve reversed through the open gates. The new chapter had begun, and a real gent was in charge. Sorted. Again.

*

It took a while for Bill Tyler to read the column before he folded the newspaper and left the house. Everybody was out, so he had no explaining to do and no one to help with the reading, though
he’d got the gist of the article. He shoved the paper into the saddlebag before mounting his bike; it wasn’t strictly his, because it was shared between him and two brothers, but this
was an emergency. If somebody else needed it – tough luck. The shock hadn’t yet sunk in properly, and he was reacting as sensibly as he could manage.