Barbara Cleverly - The Last Kashmiri Rose

‘This is the last thing in the world I want to do,’ said Joe, ‘at my age. Irresponsible, half-witted cavalry officers, full to the tonsils with the Club’s champagne! This is the braves of the tribe flashing their manhood, spreading their tails. I didn’t come out to India to get ridden into a waddi by some little half-wit half my age!’

Grumbling, he took his place amidst the laughter in the rough line-up. The Greys officers had discarded their jackets and were riding in night-shirts, many wearing night-caps.

‘Here you are, Joe,’ shouted Midge, throwing a nightcap up to him. ‘Wear this for me!’

‘This is how it gets done,’ thought Joe. ‘Probably since the beginning of time and men fall for it! Christ! I bloody well fell for it!’

‘What do I get if I win?’ he shouted back to Midge.

Kitty answered for her. ‘A ravishing smile, a blown kiss and a cigarette, I should think. Don’t count on more than that! As you often tell me, you are, after all, on duty.’

‘On your marks!’ shouted Andrew and a pistol shot started the Manoli Steeplechase amid deafening cheers.

“This shouldn’t be too difficult,‘ thought Joe. ‘There’s a torch at every turn, good moonlight. I’ll stay back. I’m not going to lead this drunken mob in the dark. Thank God for Bamboo! This would be a great moment to get run away with.’

Shouting and swearing, the cortège streamed away across the maidan.

Prentice was riding slightly ahead and to his right. Two unknown officers were noisily attempting to ride each other off to his left. Someone else he did not recognise was ahead, one or two behind him. Comfortably packed into the field, Joe galloped to the first turn and settled down to ride. Unseen by him a drainage ditch opened up across their path but the reliable Bamboo flew it and galloped on.

In the moonlight and by the flickering light of the torches Joe became aware of a drainage ditch to his left – something more than a drainage ditch – something more in the nature of a nullah. Deep. And widening. He also became aware of a horseman on his right, a horseman boring into him. His mount was a tall black waler, all of fifteen hands, Joe calculated, with a hogged mane and a banged tail. Big enough to eat Bamboo.

‘Bugger off, Bulstrode!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my pocket, you stupid sod! You’ll have me in the fucking ditch!’

Joe didn’t want to be in the ditch. It looked very dangerous. He pulled to his right and crashed into the encroaching Bulstrode and Bamboo staggered. He lurched away to the left towards the nullah and at the last minute, at the crumbling edge of this obstacle, the horse took off on neat feet, jumping obliquely. As a piece of trick riding it was impressive and any who saw it must have supposed that Joe was a considerable horseman but it was clever Bamboo. Taking the obstacle at a diagonal it was a jump of about twelve feet. The take-off was not good but, mercifully, the landing was sound and Joe found he had put the nullah between him and his pursuer.

Bulstrode slithered to a halt at the edge of the ditch and Joe galloped on, painfully aware that in order to rejoin the race he would have to jump the nullah once more. He rode on, unencumbered by other riders, keeping the next torch in sight. In some inexplicable way, the obstacle became shallower and wider and he was able at a point happily to splash across on to the other side and found himself, having cut off a wide corner, leading the field.

‘So exactly,’ he thought, ‘where I don’t want to be! Not with these drunken louts behind me!’

He touched Bamboo with a spur and the horse laid itself down to gallop. In a wide arc he took the last turn and with relief felt the solid ground of the maidan and with more relief saw the bobbing lights of the finish.

‘All right, Midge,’ he thought. ‘Get the kiss ready! Here comes Sandilands!’

And by five or six lengths he cantered in ahead of the field.

One by one the runners returned. Gasping, panting, horses with flared nostrils and foaming muzzles, jingling curb chains, they milled about. Already they all had stories that would become part of legend.

‘Look at that!’ said Smythe, pointing to a gash in his boot. ‘Know what that is? It’s your bloody spur, Johnny!’

‘Oh, it was you, was it? I’d have upset you if I could but I didn’t realise it was you!’

‘Who was that in the ditch?’ Joe heard somebody ask.

‘Bulstrode,’ said Prentice.

‘How the hell did he get there?’ said Joe. ‘He nearly had me in the ditch, blast him!’

‘So I noticed,’ said Prentice, accepting a light from a servant and drawing on a cigar.

‘Obliged to you, Prentice,’ said Joe.

‘Can’t have people putting guests of the mess in the ditch. The Greys have a certain responsibility of hospitality, after all.’

‘Melmastia?’ said Joe.

Prentice gave him a level glance. ‘Yes, if you like,’ he said.

Midge battled her way through the crowd to Joe’s side and, hopping beside him, put one foot on his toe, jumped, swung herself into his arms and, sweeping the night-cap off his head, kissed him firmly.

‘That’ll do, Minette,’ said Prentice and Midge slithered to the ground.

‘Well done, Commander,’ came the voice of Kitty. ‘I hear from Easton you ride like a Cossack!’

‘I had a very clever pony who got a very bad rider out of trouble!’

‘Never had much time for false modesty,’ said Kitty. ‘You did very well. The other runners are not exactly inexperienced, you know.’

There was a riff of drums and a distant voice said, ‘Supper is served, ladies and gentlemen!’

Joe was content to have upheld the honour of the Met. Glad to have carried Midge’s favour to victory. Glad to be alive. He sat on Bamboo for a moment looking over the heads of the company as they made their way across the verandah and into the brightly lit room to the supper table. His eye was taken by a silent figure standing in the lamplight in the doorway, a silent figure in green. Rifle green. Black badges of rank, a tanned face with the white stripe of a chin strap faintly visible and the blue and white ribbon of the Military Cross.

In a flurry, Midge erupted from the crowd and ran to this stranger.

‘Daddy!’ she shouted as she ran. ‘Daddy! There’s someone I want you to meet!’

Prentice turned and stood, it seemed, aghast, his face a mask of dismay and indeed of disbelief.

The young man took Midge by the hand, approached him and said, ‘You won’t remember me, sir, but we have met. Here. In 1910.’

Prentice collected himself and with great control said, ‘I remember you. I remember you very well, Templar.’

On the morning following the Manoli Dance, Joe woke to the conviction that he was getting too old for race-riding in the middle of the night. Stiff and unaccustomed muscles were reluctant to obey his commands and he sat up painfully with a groan, testing each limb in turn. His thoughts ran back over the incidents of the previous night and centred on gallant Bamboo, remembering with affection his convulsive diagonal jump over the drainage ditch. ‘If I’m aching,’ he thought, ‘what about Bamboo, I wonder? Not getting any younger either.’

He knew that the horse would have been in good hands but a temptation came over him to assure himself of this. Painfully he kicked himself out of bed, pulled on the first clothes that came to hand and stepped out into a silent Indian dawn. Silent, that is, except for distant sounds. A dog barked and the bark was picked up in faint chorus by others and died away into the distance. Somewhere a water wheel was turning with a rhythmic clank. A small child awoke with a cry, instantly hushed.