Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,44

evenings for you, old pal,’ Bobbie observed.

‘You never know.’

He raised his eyebrows, drawling down his nose, ‘Mission accomplished?’

‘A fuse lit, rather.’

He lifted his glass. ‘To a successful detonation.’

‘You are most kind,’ I said formally.

The music changed gear and Roberta’s partner brought her back to the table.

I stood up. ‘I came to say goodbye,’ I said. ‘I’ll be going now.’

‘Oh not yet,” she exclaimed. ‘The worst is over. No one’s staring any more. Have some fun.’

‘Dance with the dear girl,’ Bobbie said, and Roberta put out a long arm and pulled mine, and so I went and danced with her.

‘Lord Gowery didn’t eat you then?’

‘He’s scrunching the bones at this minute.’

‘Kelly! If you’ve done any damage…’

‘No omelets without smashing eggs, love.’

The chin went up. I grinned. She brought it down again. Getting quite human, Miss Cranfield.

After a while the hot rhythm changed to a slow smooch, and couples around us went into clinches. Bodies to bodies, heads to heads, eyes shut, swaying in the dimming light. Roberta eyed them coolly and prickled when I put my arms up to gather her in. She danced very straight, with four inches of air between us. Not human enough.

We ambled around in that frigid fashion through three separate wodges of glutinous music. She didn’t come any closer, and I did nothing to persuade her, but equally she seemed to be in no hurry to break it up. Composed, cool, off-puttingly gracious, she looked as flawless in the small hours as she had when I’d arrived.

‘I’m glad you were here,’ I said.

She moved her head in surprise. ‘It hasn’t been exactly the best Jockeys’ Fund dance of my life… but I’m glad I came.’

‘Next year this will be all over, and everyone will have forgotten.’

‘I’ll dance with you again next year,’ she said.

‘It’s a pact.’

She smiled, and just for a second a stray beam of light shimmered on some expression in her eyes which I didn’t understand.

She was aware of it. She turned her head away, and then detached herself altogether, and gestured that she wanted to go back to the table. I delivered her to Bobbie, and she sat down immediately and began powdering a non-shiny nose.

‘Good night,’ I said to Bobbie. ‘And thank you.’

‘My dear fellow. Any time.’

‘Good night, Roberta.’

She looked up. Nothing in the eyes. Her voice was collected. ‘Good night. Kelly.’

I lowered myself into the low slung burnt orange car in the park and drove away thinking about her. Roberta Cranfield. Not my idea of a cuddly bed mate. Too cold, too controlled, too proud. And it didn’t go with that copper hair, all that rigidity. Or maybe she was only rigid to me because I was a farm labourer’s son. Only that, and only a jockey… and her father had taught her that jockeys were the lower classes dear and don’t get your fingers dirty…

Kelly, I said to myself, you’ve a fair sized chip on your shoulder, old son. Maybe she does think like that, but why should it bother you? And even if she does, she spent most of the evening with you… although she was really quite careful not to touch you too much. Well… maybe that was because so many people were watching… and maybe it was simply that she didn’t like the thought of it.

I was on the short cut home that led round the south of Reading, streaking down deserted back roads, going fast for no reason except that speed had become a habit. This car was easily the best I’d ever had, the only one I had felt proud of. Mechanically a masterpiece and with looks to match. Even thirty thousand miles in the past year hadn’t dulled the pleasure I got from driving it. Its only fault was that like so many other sports cars it had a totally inefficient heater, which in spite of coaxing and overhauls stubbornly refused to do more than demist the windscreen and raise my toes one degree above frostbite. If kicked, it retaliated with a smell of exhaust.

I had gone to the dance without a coat, and the night was frosty. I shivered and switched on the heater to maximum. As usual, damn all.

There was a radio in the car, which I seldom listened to, and a spare crash helmet, and my five pound racing saddle which I’d been going to take to Wetherby Races.

Depression flooded back. Fierce though the evening had been, in many ways I had forgotten for a while the dreariness of being banned.