Дик Фрэнсис - Decider

Dart said with deceptive amiability, ‘Isn’t there some rule in the set up of this company that says all board meetings are open? I mean, all shareholders may attend.’

‘Rubbish,’ Keith said.

Forsyth said, ‘Attend but not interrupt. Not speak unless asked.’

Ivan’s voice drowned his son’s. ‘We’ll have to read the articles, or whatever.’

‘I did,’ Forsyth said. No one paid any attention.

‘It never mattered before,’ Conrad observed. ‘The only shareholders besides Father and Aunt Marjorie were Mr Morris, and of course before him, Madeline, and... er... Mrs Perdita Faulds.’

‘Who exactly is Mrs Perdita Faulds?’ Rebecca demanded.

No one replied. If they knew, they weren’t telling.

‘Do you,’ Dart asked me directly, ‘know who Mrs Perdita Faulds is?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘We’ll find her if necessary,’ Marjorie declared, making it sound ominous. ‘Let’s hope we won’t have to.’ Her malevolent gaze swept over Keith, warning him. ‘If we have to remove a director, we will find her.’

On the brief list of shareholders that Roger had shown me, Mrs Faulds’ address had been care of a firm of solicitors. Messages to the lady would no doubt routinely be relayed, but actually finding her in person might take ingenuity. Take a professional bloodhound, perhaps. Marjorie wouldn’t blink at that, I guessed, if it suited her.

It also occurred to me that if she were so certain the mysterious Mrs Faulds would vote as Marjorie wanted, then Marjorie, at least, knew who she was. Not really my business, I thought.

Conrad said, with a show of taking a grip on the meeting, ‘Well, now that we have directors, perhaps we can make some firm decisions. We must, in fact. We have another race meeting here next Monday, as you know, and we cannot ask Marjorie indefinitely to be responsible for authorising everything. There was a lot Father used to do that none of us know about. We simply have to learn fast.’

‘The first thing to do is sack the Colonel and stupid Oliver,’ Rebecca said.

Conrad merely glanced at his daughter and spoke to the others. ‘The Colonel and Oliver are the only people at present who can keep this place running. We need, in fact we rely entirely, on their expertise, and I intend to go on consulting them over every detail.’

Rebecca sulked angrily. Marjorie’s disapproval grew vigorous runners in her direction, like a rampant strawberry plant.

‘I put forward a motion,’ Ivan said surprisingly, ‘that we continue to run the races as before, with Roger and Oliver in their normal roles.’

‘Seconded,’ Marjorie said crisply.

Keith scowled. Conrad, ignoring him, made a note on a pad in front of him. ‘The Board’s first decision is to continue without change, for now.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I suppose we ought to have a secretary to write the minutes.’

‘You could use Roger’s secretary,’ I suggested.

‘No!’ Rebecca jumped on it. ‘Everything we said would go straight to bloody Roger. And no one asked you to speak. You’re an outsider.’

Dart launched into verse, ‘Oh wad some power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us, an’ foolish notion.’

‘What?’ Rebecca demanded.

‘Robert Burns,’ Dart said. ‘To a Louse.’

I smothered the least appearance of a laugh. No one else seemed to think it funny.

I said to Rebecca mildly, ‘You could reposition the women jockeys’ changing room.’

‘Oh really?’ She was sarcastic. ‘Exactly where?’

‘I’ll show you. And,’ I went on speaking to Conrad, ‘you could double the take in the bars.’

‘Ye gods ,’ Dart said comically, ‘what have we here?’

I asked Conrad, ‘Are there already detailed plans for new stands?’

‘We’re not having new stands!’ Marjorie was adamant.

‘We must,’ Conrad said.

‘We sell the land,’ Keith insisted.

Ivan dithered.

‘New stands,’ Rebecca said. ‘New management. New everything. Or sell.’

‘Sell, but later,’ Hannah repeated obstinately.

‘I agree,’ Forsyth nodded.

‘Not in my lifetime,’ Marjorie said.

When the meeting broke up, it became apparent why it had been held impersonally on the racecourse, as none of the people attending lived with any of the others.

They walked out as individuals, each in a seeming barbed-wire enclosure of self righteousness, none of them anxious to acknowledge my continued presence.

Only Dart, halfway out of the door, looked back to where I stood watching the exodus.

‘Coming?’ he said. ‘The fun’s done.’

With a smile I joined him by the door as he thoughtfully looked me over.

‘Care for a jar?’ he said and, when I hesitated, added, ‘There’s a pub right outside the main gates that’s open all day. And, frankly, I’m curious.’

‘Curiosity’s a two-way street.’

He nodded. ‘Agreed, then.’ He led the way downstairs by a different route than the one I’d come up, and we emerged into an area, within the paddocks and near the unsaddling enclosures, that had been crowded with people on the race day but now contained only a number of parked cars. Into each car a single Stratton was climbing, none of the brothers, offspring or cousins grouping for friendly family chat.

Dart took it for granted and asked where my car was.

‘Down there.’ I pointed vaguely.

‘Oh? Hop in, then. I’ll drive you.’

Dart’s car, an old dusty economical runabout, was standing next to Marjorie’s chauffeur-driven blackly-gleaming Daimler, and she lowered her rear window as she glided slowly away, staring in disbelief at my acceptance by Dart. Dart waved to her cheerfully, reminding me vividly of my son Alan’s similar disregard of the power of dragons, a lack of perception as much as a matter of courage.

Car doors slammed, engines purred, brake lights went on and off; the Strattons dispersed. Dart put his own car into gear and steered us straight to the main entrance, where a few forlorn looking individuals were slowly walking up and down bearing placards saying ‘BAN STEEPLECHASING’ and ‘CRUELTY TO ANIMALS’.

‘They’ve been here trying to stop people coming in, ever since that horse died here last Saturday,’ Dart observed. ‘The woolly-head brigade, I call them.’

It was an apt enough description, as they wore a preponderance of knitted hats. Their placards were handwritten and amateurish, but their dedication couldn’t be doubted.

‘They don’t understand horses,’ Dart said. ‘Horses run and jump because they want to. Horses try their damnedest to get to the front of the herd. Racing wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for horses naturally busting their guts to get out in front and win.’ The grin came and went. ‘I don’t have the instincts of a horse.’

But his sister had, I thought.

Dart by-passed the demonstrators and drove across the road into the car park of the Mayflower Inn opposite, which looked as if it had never seen Plymouth let alone sailed the Atlantic.

Inside, it was resolutely decorated with 1620 imitation memorabilia, but not too bad for all that. Murals of pilgrim fathers in top hats (an anachronism) and white beards (wrong, the pilgrims were young) were reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln two hundred years later, but who cared? The place was warm and welcoming and had at least tried.

Dart bought us two unadventurous half-pints and put them carefully on a small dark oak table, settling us into wooden armed, reasonably comfortable old oak chairs.

‘So why,’ he said, ‘did you come?’

‘Eight shares in a racecourse.’