Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,38

behind me and the smell of Roberta’s fresh flower scent. I turned towards her.

‘Kelly…?’

She really looked extraordinarily beautiful.

‘Kelly… Bobbie suggested that you should take me in to supper.’

‘That’s generous of him.’

‘He seems to approve of you. He said…’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Well, never mind what he said.’

We went down the stairs and through an archway to the supper room. The light there was of a heartier wattage. It didn’t do any damage to Roberta.

Along one wall stretched a buffet table laden with aspic-shining cold meats and oozing cream gateaux. Roberta said she had dined at Bobbie’s before coming on to the dance and wasn’t hungry, but we both collected some salmon and sat down at one of the twenty or so small tables clustered into half of the room.

Six feet away sat three fellow jockeys resting their elbows among a debris of empty plates and coffee cups.

‘Kelly!’ One of them exclaimed in a broad northern voice. ‘My God. Kelly. Come over here, you old so and so. Bring the talent with you.’

The talent’s chin began its familiar upward tilt.

‘Concentrate on the character, not the accent,’ I said.

She gave me a raw look of surprise, but when I stood up and picked up her plate, she came with me. They made room for us, admired Roberta’s appearance, and didn’t refer to anyone being warned off. Their girls, they explained, were powdering their noses, and when the noses reappeared, immaculate, they all smiled goodbye and went back to the ballroom.

‘They were kind.’ She sounded surprised.

‘They would be.’

She fiddled with her fork, not looking at me. ‘You said the other day that my mind was in chains. Was that what you meant… that I’m inclined to judge people by their voices… and that it’s wrong?’

‘Eton’s bred its rogues,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

‘Cactus. You’re all prickles.’

‘Original sin exists,’ I said mildly. ‘So does original virtue. They both crop up regardless. No respecters of birth.’

‘Where did you go to school?’

‘In Wales.’

‘You haven’t a Welsh accent. You haven’t any accent at all. And that’s odd really, considering you are only…’ Her voice trailed away and she looked aghast at her self-betrayal. ‘Oh dear… I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not surprising,’ I pointed out. ‘Considering your father. And anyway, in my own way I’m just as bad. I smothered my Welsh accent quite deliberately. I used to practise in secret, while I was still at school, copying the B.B.C. news’ announcers. I wanted to be a Civil Servant, and I was ambitious, and I knew I wouldn’t get far if I sounded like the son of a Welsh farm labourer. So in time this became my natural way of talking. And my parents despise me for it.’

‘Parents!’ She said despairingly. ‘Why can we never escape them? Whatever we are, it is because of them. I want to be me.’ She looked astonished at herself. ‘I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t understand…’

‘Well I do,’ I said, smiling. ‘Only it happens to most people around fifteen or sixteen. Rebellion, it’s called.’

‘You’re mocking me.’ But the chin stayed down.

‘No.’

We finished the salmon and drank coffee. A large loudly chattering party collected food from the buffet and pushed the two tables next to us together so that they could all sit at one. They were well away on a tide of alcohol and bonhomie, loosened and expansive. I watched them idly. I knew four of them, two trainers, one wife, one owner.

One of the trainers caught sight of me and literally dropped his knife.

‘That’s Kelly Hughes,’ he said disbelievingly. The whole party turned round and stared. Roberta drew a breath in distress. I sat without moving.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Drinking coffee,’ I said politely.

His eyes narrowed. Trevor Norse was not amused. I sighed inwardly. It was never good to antagonise trainers, it simply meant one less possible source of income: but I’d ridden for Trevor Norse several times already, and knew that it was practically impossible to please him anyway.

A heavy man, six feet plus, labouring under the misapprehension that size could substitute for ability. He was much better with owners than with horses, tireless at cultivating the one and lazy with the other.

His brainless wife said brightly, ‘I hear you’re paying Dexter’s lads’ wages, because you’re sure you’ll get your licence back in a day or two.’

‘What’s all that?’ Norse said sharply. ‘Where did you hear all that nonsense?’

‘Everyone’s talking about it, darling,’ she said protestingly.

‘Who’s everyone?’

She giggled weakly. ‘I heard it in the ladies, if you must know. But it’s quite