Дик Фрэнсис - High Stakes

‘Fine,’ Charlie said, smiling broadly.

‘The caravan is one they hire out for horse shows and exhibitions and things like that. It’s fitted out as a sort of office. No beds or cookers, just a counter, a couple of desks, and three or four folding chairs. Owen and I will load it with all the things you’ll need before he takes it to Reading.’

‘Great.’

‘Finally there’s the big van for Owen. I’ll bring that here tomorrow and put the shopping in it. Then we should be ready.’

‘Here,’ said Bert. ‘How’s the cash, like?’

‘Do you want some, Bert?’

‘It’s only, well, seeing as how you’re hiring things left right and centre, well, I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to hire a car for me too, like. Because my old banger isn’t all that bleeding reliable, see? I wouldn’t like to miss the fun because of a boiling bleeding radiator or some such.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Much safer.’ I went back to the sitting-room, fetched some cash, and gave it to Bert.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I don’t need that much. What do you think I’m going to hire, a bleeding golden coach?’

‘Keep it anyway.’

He looked at me dubiously. ‘I’m not doing this for bread, mate.’

I felt humbled. ‘Bert... Give me back what you don’t use. Or send it to the Injured Jockeys’ Fund.’

His face lightened. ‘I’ll take my old boss down the boozer a few times. Best bleeding charity there is!’

Charlie finished his sandwich and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. ‘You won’t forget the sign-writing, will you?’ he said.

‘I did it today,’ I assured him. ‘Want to see?’

We trooped down to the workshop, where various painted pieces of the enterprise were standing around drying.

‘Blimey,’ Bert said. ‘They look bleeding real.’

‘They’d have to be,’ Charlie nodded.

‘Here,’ Bert said, ‘seeing these makes it seem, well, if it’s all going to happen.’

Charlie went home to a bridge-playing wife in an opulent detached in Surrey and Bert to the two-up two-down terraced he shared with his fat old mum in Staines. Some time after their departure I got the car out and drove slowly down the M4 to Heathrow.

I was early. About an hour early. I had often noticed that I tended to arrive prematurely for things I was looking forward to, as if by being there early one could make them happen sooner. It worked in reverse that time. Allie’s aeroplane was half an hour late.

‘Hi,’ she said, looking as uncrushed as if she’d travelled four miles, not four thousand. ‘How’s cold little old England?’

‘Warmer since you’re here.’

The wide smile had lost none of its brilliance, but now there was also a glow in the eyes, where the Miami sun shone from within.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t miss this caper for the world.’ She gave me a kiss full of excitement and warmth. ‘And I haven’t told my sister I’m coming.’

‘Great,’ I said with satisfaction; and took her home to the flat.

The change of climate was external. We spent the night, our first together, warmly entwined under a goosefeather quilt: more comfortable, more relaxed and altogether more cosy than the beach or the fishing boat or my hotel bedroom on an air-conditioned afternoon in Miami.

We set off early next morning while it was still dark, shivering in the chill January air and impatient for the car heater to make an effort. Allie drove, concentrating fiercely on the left-hand business, telling me to watch out that she didn’t instinctively turn the wrong way at crossings. We reached the fruit stall on the A34 safely in two hours and drew up there in the wide sweep of car-parking space. Huge lorries ground past on the main route from the docks at Southampton to the heavy industry area at Birmingham; a road still in places too narrow for its traffic.

Each time a heavy truck breasted the adjoining hill and drew level with us, it changed its gears, mostly with a good deal of noise. Allie raised her voice. ‘Not the quietest of country spots.’

I smiled. ‘Every decibel counts.’

We drank hot coffee from a thermos flask and watched the slow grey morning struggle from gloomy to plain dull.

‘Nine o’clock,’ said Allie, looking at her watch. ‘The day sure starts late in these parts.’

‘We’ll need you here by nine,’ I said.

‘You just tell me when to start.’

‘Okay.’

She finished her coffee. ‘Are you certain sure he’ll come this way?’

‘It’s the best road and the most direct, and he always does.’

‘One thing about having an ex-friend for an enemy,’ she said. ‘You know his habits.’

I packed away the coffee and we started again, turning south.

‘This is the way you’ll be coming,’ I said. ‘Straight up the A34.’

‘Right.’

She was driving now with noticeably more confidence, keeping left without the former steady frown of anxiety. We reached a big crossroads and stopped at the traffic lights. She looked around and nodded. ‘When I get here, there’ll only be a couple of miles to go.’

We pressed on for a few miles, the road climbing and descending over wide stretches of bare downlands, bleak and windy and uninviting.

‘Slow down a minute,’ I said. ‘See that turning there, to the left? That’s where Jody’s stables are. About a mile along there.’

‘I really hate that man,’ she said.

‘You’ve never met him.’

‘You don’t have to know snakes to hate them.’

We went round the Newbury by-pass, Allie screwing her head round alarmingly to learn the route from the reverse angle.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Now what?’

‘Still the A34. Signposts to Winchester. But we don’t go that far.’

‘Right.’

Through Whitchurch, and six miles beyond we took a narrow side road on the right, and in a little while turned into the drive of a dilapidated looking country house with a faded paint job on a board at the gate.

I had chosen it from an advertisement in the Horse and Hound because of its location, to make the drive from there to the fruit stall as simple as possible for Allie, but now that I saw it, I had sinking doubts.

There was an overall air of life having ended, of dust settling, weeds growing, wood rotting and hope dead. Exaggerated, of course. Though the house indoors smelt faintly of fungus and decay, the proprietors were still alive. They were two much-alike sisters, both about seventy, with thin wiry bodies dressed in jodhpurs, hacking jackets and boots. They both had kind faded blue eyes, long strong lower jaws, and copious iron grey hair in businesslike hairnets.

They introduced themselves as Miss Johnston and Mrs Fairchild-Smith. They were glad to welcome Miss Ward. They said they hoped her stay would be comfortable. They never had many guests at this time of year. Miss Ward’s horse had arrived safely the day before and they were looking after him.

‘Yourselves?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Certainly, ourselves.’ Miss Johnston’s tone dared me to imply they were incapable. ‘We always cut back on staff at this time of year.’

They took us out to the stables, which like everything else were suffering from advancing years and moreover appeared to be empty. Among a ramshackle collection of wooden structures whose doors any self-respecting toddler could have kicked down, stood three or four brick-built boxes in a sturdy row; in one of these we found Black Fire.

He stood on fresh straw. There was clean water in his bucket and good-looking hay in his net, and he had his head down to the manger, munching busily at oats and bran. All too clear to see where any profits of the business disappeared: into the loving care of the customers.