on the subject of meanness. He had listened with wry pain and given me a resume once Vivien had run out of steam.
‘One of the cats in the village told her we were here, so now the whole family will know,’ he said gloomily. ‘She says Donald is bankrupt, Lucy is starving and Thomas got the sack and can’t deal with unemployment. Is it all true? It can’t be. She says I should give them twenty thousand pounds each immediately.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt,’ I said. ‘It’s Gervase’s idea watered down.’
‘But I don’t believe in it.’
I explained about Donald’s school fees crisis, Lucy’s crumbling certainties, Thomas with Berenice chipping away at his foundations. He said their troubles lay in their own characters, which was true enough. He said if he gave those three a hand-out, he would have to do it for us all, or there would be a shooting civil war among Vivien, Joyce and Alicia. He made a joke of it, but he was stubborn. He had provided for us through our trust funds. The rest was up to us. He hadn’t changed his mind. He’d thought over Vivien’s suggestion, and the answer was no.
He telephoned back to Vivien and to her fury told her so. I could hear her voice calling him wicked, mean, cruel, vindictive, petty, sadistic, tyrannical and evil. He took offence, shouted at her to shut up, shut up, and finally slammed down the receiver while she was still in full flood.
All Vivien had achieved, I thought, was to make him dig his toes in further.
I thought him pig-headed, I thought him asking to be murdered. I looked at the unrelenting blue eyes daring me to argue, and wondered if he thought giving in would be weakness, if he thought baling out his children would diminish his own self-respect.
I said nothing at all. I was in a bad position to plead for the others, as I stood to gain myself. I hoped for many reasons that he would be able to change his mind, but it had to come from inside. I went out to Moira’s greenhouse to give him time to calm down, and when I returned neither of us mentioned what had passed.
On the dogs’ walk that afternoon, I reminded him that I was due to ride at Cheltenham the following day, and asked if he had any cronies in that direction with whom he could spend the time.
‘I’d like to see you ride again,’ he said.
He constantly surprised me.
‘What if the family come too?’
‘I’ll dress up as another chef.’
I didn’t know that it was wise, but again he had his own way, and I persuaded myself he would come to no harm on a racecourse. When we got there, I introduced him to George and Jo who congratulated him on Blue Clancy and took him off to lunch.
I looked around apprehensively all afternoon for brothers, sisters, mother and step-mothers, but saw none. The day was cold and windy with everyone turning up collars and hunching shoulders to keep warm, with hats on every head, felt, tweed, wool and fur. If anyone had wanted to hide inside their clothes, the weather was great for it.
Park Railings gave me a splendid ride and finished fourth, less tired than his jockey, who hadn’t sat on a horse for six days. George and Jo were pleased enough, and Malcolm, who had been down the track with them to watch one of the other steeplechases from beside one of the jumps, was thoughtful.
‘I didn’t realise you went so fast,’ he said, going home. ‘Such speed over those jumps.’
‘About thirty miles an hour.’
‘I suppose I could buy a steeplechaser,’ he said, ‘if you’d ride it.’
‘You’d better not. It would be favouritism.’
‘Huh.’
We went thirty miles towards Berkshire and came to a hostelry he liked where we stopped for the late afternoon noggins (Arthur Bellbrook was taking the dogs home with him for the night) and waited lazily until dinner.
We talked about racing, or rather Malcolm asked questions and I answered them. His interest seemed inexhaustible, and I wondered if it would die as fast as it had sprung up. He couldn’t wait to find out what Chrysos might do next year.
We ate without hurrying, lingering over coffee, and went on home, pulling up yawning outside the garage, sleepy from fresh air and French wine.
Til check the house,’ I said without enthusiasm.
‘Oh, don’t bother, it’* ‘arr’
‘I’d better check it. Honk the horn if you see something you don’t like.’