For four months of the year Bengal’s cold weather, or winter, is halcyon, ‘for those with warm clothes,’ said Sister Ignatius. As November turned to December, when the string went down in the morning, mists swirled round the horses’ legs and lay so thick over the Maidan that John had difficulty tracking the course through his binoculars. By the time the horses had finished the evening parade, it was dusk, the brief Indian twilight called by the Bengalis ‘cow-dust time’, because it was then that the cattle were driven home; almost at once the light faded, it was night and all along the stalls hand lanterns were lit; though there was electricity, the syces needed the lanterns to look at hooves, and deep into the food tubs to see how much of the feed had been eaten or left. The horses were warmly rugged, then bedded down for the night. John issued extra blankets for the men.
He also sent a warm achkan, a long coat, to the Convent for Gulab. ‘We are issuing new ones for the men and I thought you could use this.’ He sent too a horse rug for Solomon. ‘You needn’t thank me. It’s patched.’ ‘Patched or not, it is a Godsend,’ wrote Mother Morag. The Sisters wore their long black cloaks and hoods made of sturdy French frieze when they went ‘collecting’, and for early prayer and Mass. ‘But I hardly like to wear mine,’ said Sister Mary Fanny, ‘when I think of the thousands… ’
‘Well, you’re not going to do them any good if you get bronchitis,’ said Sister Ignatius, and Mother Morag intervened, ‘To help people, Sister, you must keep reasonably well yourself,’ but she knew only too well what little defence a cotton shirt or a thin muslin sari or a toddler’s tiny jacket that only came just past the navel was against the chill and, for the ‘poorest of the poor’, she wondered which was worst – the heat or the deluges and dankness of the monsoon or the cold? But at least, for most, the sun was no longer an enemy; humans and beasts alike could bask in it at midday and in the afternoons; its light had a soft golden quality that enhanced the colours in everything from the scarlet and gold of the Viceroy’s Bodyguard to the delicate shades of the imported English annuals that flowered in the gardens of the – by Convent and Indian standards – rich. ‘Never thought to see sweet peas in In’ja,’ Ted said, as he had said of the violets.
It was a time of mixed flowers: in Calcutta’s Chinatown narcissi were sold in Chinese porcelain bowls filled with gravel and chippings; in the gardens, with roses, petunias and pinks, the tropical flowers Ted had marvelled at still bloomed and there were new ones: the pink and white sandwich creeper that festooned walls and gateways and on the stable’s lawn frangipani trees blossomed into their strange temple flowers that looked almost chiselled in the thickness of their petals, growing without leaves directly on bare thickened branches. Ted had never smelled anything like the headiness of their fragrance.
Unknown to him, Calcutta’s ‘season’ was in full swing. Though no longer the capital of India, it was still a city of importance with its own Governor, the Governor of Bengal, but in December and early January the Viceroy came from Delhi and the old Palace of Belvedere, with all the splendour of its marble terraces, sweeps of steps, its state rooms and park, was opened. On state occasions both sets of Excellencies drove out in four-horse landaus with postillions and an escort of Bodyguards. The roads were spread with sand to make the tarmac less slippery for the horses, so the gorgeous equipages whirled along almost soundlessly, leaving a memory of brilliant uniforms and glittering metal and a cloud of dust which, every year, brought an epidemic of ‘Calcutta’ sore throats.
It was now that the most important races were run, including the Viceroy’s Cup on Boxing Day. The All India Polo Tournament and the Golf Championships were held, and there were Balls, both at Belvedere and Government House; invitations were vied for. There were private Balls too: the Vingt-et-Un given by twenty-one of Calcutta’s promising young bachelors and the even more exclusive Unceremonials, the Senior or Burra-Sahib’s Ball. Invitations to these could not be vied for; guests were asked – or not asked.
It was a lively time – for a few. Wives and daughters arrived from England, Scotland, Europe or the hills. The men’s English suits and dress clothes were brought out from the airtight tin boxes where they had been stored to be safe from white ants and the mildew of the monsoon; though hung out in the sun, the lounge and morning suits, dinner jackets and ‘tails’ still gave out the scent of mothballs.
There were dinners, brunches on Sunday mornings after riding; often four or five cocktail parties had to be attended on the same night.
All this concerned John only over the racing. He could not bring himself to watch the polo. ‘Watch! You should be playing,’ protested Bunny. ‘You’re a six handicap man, for heaven’s sake!’ John did not answer and, ‘You would be welcome, John.’ Bunny was watching his friend’s face. ‘No, thank you, Bunny,’ and Bunny sighed.
Mother Morag was concerned because the canisters were filled to overflowing; in fact, they had to take extra ones because restaurants and hotels were crowded. ‘It’s welcome, of course, our people need it in colder weather,’ but she worried in case the extra load were too much for Solomon.
It concerned Ted and Dark Invader not at all. They stayed in their own world of the stables, racecourse and the track on the verge of Lower Circular Road that lay between them; among the natives they mixed only with the Sadiqs, Alis, Ahmeds and Khokhils who attended to their wants – Ted still persisted with Mr Saddick, Mr Ally, Mr Ar-med, Mr Cockle. He was invariably kind to Mr Ching and Sir Jemadar and the riding boys. Only once did Dahlia tempt him into the city, and that was to buy a gauzy Indian scarf, patterned in gold for Annette Traherne, and a length of tussore silk to make Michael a summer coat, Christmas presents sent home by one of the travelling lads on the boat he should have caught. ‘Ted never forgets anyone,’ said John.
‘What has happened to the children?’ Mother Morag asked John when, as had become a habit, on Sunday mornings, he fetched them and Dahlia from Mass. ‘What has happened?’
‘A little Englishman called Ted Mullins,’ said John.
Mother Morag had picked out Dark Invader at once from her window and noticed he was ridden by a small white man; noted, too, his stillness in the saddle compared to the riding boys, and his quiet authority when the big horse cocked his ears in curiosity or tried to swerve or break out of his walk and, thinking of that, she said, ‘What works with animals, works with children too.’
Ted had been scandalised by the bandar-log. ‘I never did,’ he could not help saying to John.
‘I know.’ John sounded helpless – and sad, thought Ted. ‘Nobody seems to be able to do anything with them. Mrs Quillan’s wonderful with babies, but… ’
Ted cleared his throat. ‘Seeing how with Mr Saddick and Mr Ally I’ve so little to do for the hoss… ’
‘You would like to try your hand on my monkeys?’
‘Well, sir, my wife was a school-teacher – miles above me, she was. She taught me – lots. So… if you and Mrs Quillan wouldn’t mind.’
‘Mind! We would be infinitely obliged but I doubt if you can even catch them.’
Ted did not say he had caught them already.
They had been attracted first by Dark Invader. ‘We have never had a horse like that’ – Ted noticed the ‘we’. Now and again he swung one of them up on the Invader’s back, but that was a privilege and Ted knew how to bestow his privileges. Then came a mutual respect for each other’s riding; they had come to echo their father’s reverence for Ted, and Ted had watched them schooling. Certainly know their business, he thought, but off the ponies! ‘Turned nine and ten and don’t know your tables! Seven and you don’t know your alphabet! Disgraceful!’ he told them and, as with Dark Invader and countless other horses, the stricter he was with them, the more they adored him. ‘Now stand up and begin: twice five are ten: three fives are fifteen.’ ‘CAT: RAT: BAT… Go on. You can read that easy.’
‘You’re sure they don’t come for nuts and bananas?’ said John.
‘Nuts and bananas!’ Ted said scornfully. ‘That’s just about what they had, begging your pardon, sir,’ and, ‘Stand up. Keep still. This is a hanky, see. You blow your nose on it, not on your fingers. Disgusting!’
It had culminated on a Sunday morning when he had met Dahlia on the drive, wearing a linen suit, stockings, high-heeled shoes and a hat; she was carrying a bag, parasol and gloves and was accompanied by the children dressed as their usual selves.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To church.’ Dahlia gave him her happy smile. ‘I am taking the children, m’n.’
‘Taking the children like that!’ Long ago memories of Sunday School came up in Ted; Sunday School, clean collars, being scrubbed even behind his ears, his nails inspected, and he was shocked. ‘To church like that!’
‘I do try,’ wailed Dahlia. ‘Their clothes are all laid out. Clean shirts and shorts and frocks. They have them all, my God, and clean socks and shoes, but they won’t… ’
‘Won’t they!’ To Ted, this was something far more important than the respect due to John and Dahlia as his superiors, to John’s expertise as a trainer. What would Ella have done? and, ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ he said to the bandar-log. ‘Wash faces and hands and knees, clean nails. Brush hair. Change into your clean clothes, be neat and tidy and come back ready, and I mean ready,’ said Ted.
John took Ted to the races; the Quillan stable had more than thirty runners that season, ‘So I’m here on business,’ said John. ‘Not as one of your groomed-up apes.’ Ted thought the ‘grooming-up’ very pretty, ‘like Ascot, it is,’ he said, but it brought him another pang. When Dark Invader won here, and Ted was sure he would, it was Sadiq who would lead him round the paddock, Sadiq who would attend him and Mr Leventine when Mr Leventine led him in. He, Ted, would have no part in it except to watch as he was watching now. John kept to the paddocks, the rubbing down sheds and the reserved stand which trainers and jockeys frequented. He accepted no invitations for iced coffee or tea. He had reason to be sour; Lady Mehta’s Flashlight running in the Viceroy’s Cup, was not even placed.
‘Never mind, Johnny,’ said Mr Leventine.
‘I do mind,’ said John shortly, ‘and I mind for Lady Mehta.’
‘She should never have bought Flashlight,’ Mr Leventine seemed basking in some warm secret thoughts of his own. He had no need to shake out his suits from airtight boxes, they travelled with him to Europe, or he bought new ones. Now he was impeccable in his usual pale grey from head to foot. ‘Like one of our state elephants,’ said Bunny. ‘He only needs some ornaments and tassels,’ but Mr Leventine had no need of tassels; with his rose in his buttonhole, he was perfectly contented.
Every morning too he braved the mist and appeared, the Minerva dropping him at the stands, from which he walked, ‘actually walked!’ said John, to join him, then stood, his binoculars trained on the striding figure of Dark Invader and the dot on his back that was Ted.
Mr Leventine had an appointment with Sir Humphrey Hyde in his Chambers. Sir Humphrey was not surprised – ‘I had guessed he wanted something.’ Now he leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his fingertips joined – he was a mannered judge – and said, ‘Well?’
The room with its littered table, bookcases filled with heavy, leather-bound books, its austere look, not of an office, but of a study of a particularly learned style, subdued Mr Leventine and, ‘It’s good of Your Honour to see me,’ he began.
‘Not at all. I’m here to see people,’ and the Judge said gently, ‘Sir Humphrey would be in order.’ Then, ‘I gather we are not on legal business.’
‘No, Sir… Humphrey. It’s a racing matter. Matter of a jockey who is here – name of Mullins. As I understand it, he had ridden a lot in England but now he has no licence, and I wondered if it would be possible to find out, on the quiet, how he really came to lose it – I have heard one side of the story and it seems he was blameless – and whether there would be any bar to his riding here?’
‘I could do that easily,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘One of the Jockey Club Stipendaries is an old friend of mine. I could send him a cable, but tell me about this man – Mullins, did you say? What is so special about him?’
‘You remember the new horse we spoke about in the Club the other night? Mullins came out with the shipment. He tells me he was Dark Invader’s groom at Lingfield and the other races.’
‘Ah! Dark Invader, the well-bred horse with the slightly questionable racing record.’
‘Mullins swears the horse is genuine at bottom. Only needs to be ridden in a style that doesn’t frighten him.’
There was a pause. Sir Humphrey was obviously searching the filing cabinets of his legally trained memory. Then, ‘Diamond Jubilee,’ he said. ‘His lad rode him in all his races.’
‘Exactly.’ Mr Leventine positively sparkled. ‘Diamond Jubilee, the King’s horse. Wouldn’t have that leading jockey, Mornington Cannon, at any price. Actually savaged him but, when they put up his lad, Jones, he won every race. The Two Thousand, St Leger, Derby, everything.’
‘I think I remember Mullins. Ted Mullins, wasn’t it?’ Sir Humphrey leaned back in his swivel chair. ‘If your Mullins and mine are the same, I owe him a good turn. I often had a bet on him when I was a young barrister and the nimble shilling was hard to come by.’
Mr Leventine smiled dutifully. He had no idea what a nimble shilling was, but it seemed Sir Humphrey was favourably inclined. Mr Leventine, though, thought it still necessary to press the point. ‘The important thing, Your Honour, I mean, Sir Humphrey, is to find out if he can race here.’
‘That I have understood.’ Mr Leventine was not sure if that was a rebuke or a reassurance. ‘I’ll find out for you with pleasure.’
Mr Leventine had to wait ten days, and Sir Humphrey did not summon him to his Chambers; they met, it seemed by chance, in the billiard room at the Club, but it was Sir Humphrey who challenged Mr Leventine to a game. It was not until they had finished and Sir Humphrey was carefully putting his cue away in the black japanned tube that carried his name in white letters that he said, ‘By the way, Leventine, good news. Your man is all right. Nothing against him. Could have had his licence back long ago but didn’t apply.’
‘So he could have a licence now?’
‘Certainly. He has only to apply with the necessary backing.’
‘We shall, but of course we shan’t be ready till next cold weather.’
‘Well, don’t go telling me any stable secrets,’ Sir Humphrey laughed, ‘and Ted Mullins is my man. Give him my compliments and tell him he used to carry my money twenty years ago.’
Mr Leventine ordered the Minerva and drove straight to Scattergold Hall to see John Quillan.
‘You mean I can ride again?’ asked Ted.
India is a land of timelessness and time had slipped past for Ted, immersed in his work with Dark Invader and the children.
The cold weather ended. February began to grow warm and Calcutta’s glory of flowering trees, the scarlet flowers of the silk cotton trees, the riot of orange and red of the gol-mohrs, the pink and white acacias, purple jacarandas, heralded the hot weather, too hot for pampered racehorses and Dark Invader was taken by Sadiq and Ali and led over the bridge of boats that spanned the Hooghly and through crowded streets to Howrah Station. There he was loaded into a massive horse-box with padded partitions and the railway trundled him majestically to the cooler low-lying hill town of Bangalore and the Quillan stables there. His ex-shipmates stayed behind, being already far enough forward in training to be entered among thinning fields for the last races of the Winter Season, but a few chosen ones went as well, including Flashlight, and a fidgety chestnut called Firefly that Lady Mehta had impetuously bought for fifteen thousand rupees after, by a fluke, it had won the King Edward Cup. ‘He won’t again,’ predicted John.
With the horses went, with reluctance, Gog and Magog, a yearly ritual. ‘Big dogs can’t stay down in the hot weather,’ John explained to Ted. ‘They wouldn’t survive.’ He did not say how much he missed them – his ‘mates’ he could almost have called them. It was part of the penalty of living in Calcutta.
Ted was in charge and would be in Bangalore to continue the patient day-in, day-out training and supervision and Ted took, too, the three eldest of the bandar-log to go to boarding school. ‘Poor school,’ said Bunny. John himself hardly knew his two sons in grey flannel shorts, grey shirts and jerseys, school ties – ‘Ties!’ said John – or his daughter in a blue pleated skirt, blue blouse with a sailor collar and a straw hat – ‘A hat!’
Dahlia wept but, ‘If you settles down and behaves proper,’ promised Ted, ‘I’ll take you out every Saturday and give you a sausage tea.’ Sausages had only entered their lives with Ted; though they could be bought tinned, they were out of Dahlia’s ken; to the bandar-log they were delectable.
Now, in late June, John had travelled down to see them, but, he had to own, more importantly to see Dark Invader and to bring Ted the application forms for him to sign. ‘You just sign here – and here – and here,’ John said.
When John had told Ted, the little man had got up from his chair, stared incredulously, swallowed, then walked to the office window and stood with his back to John for at least three minutes. Then, ‘You mean I can really ride again?’ As he turned, the blue eyes were wet.
‘Not only ride. You will be up on Dark Invader.’
‘Dark Invader!’ Ted sounded as if he were in a dream.
‘Yes.’ John was deliberately brisk. ‘You are being retained by Mr Leventine as his jockey – with an increase of pay, of course. You will bring the horses back in September and we start Darkie in October. The Alipore Stakes, I think, Class IV. Of course, he’ll run away with it, then we shall see what we shall see.’
‘We’ll see.’ Ted’s voice was firm now. Then, ‘May I ask you, sir – was it you who thought of this about my ticket?’
‘Not me. Mr Leventine.’
‘Mr Leventine! Did this for me!’
‘Wake up, Ted. Mr Leventine didn’t do it for you. He did it for himself. He doesn’t give favours away.’
That was true. Just before they had left for Bangalore, Mr Leventine, down on the racecourse, had called Ted aside. ‘You have been so excellent with the horse I should like to give you this,’ but Ted had backed away from the wad of notes.
‘Very kind of you, sir, but I don’t need nothing. It’s what you done for the Invader, sir, that counts.’
‘Not without you. I know. I have watched,’ and Mr Leventine said at his most beguiling, ‘Please, Mullins,’ but Ted still shook his head.
‘What am I to do with this then?’
‘Tell you what.’ Ted was still haunted by what he had seen on that journey from the docks, what he saw every day as he and Dark Invader crossed the road, and, ‘If you wants to make me happy,’ he told Mr Leventine, ‘give it to the R.S.P.C.A. for the ponies and buffaloes and oxes and – oh yes! – to them nuns where Mrs Quillan goes and they feeds the old. That would be something.’ Ted was carried away. ‘You’re so rich, sir. Think what you could give.’
‘Give!’ Mr Leventine’s voice rose with horror. ‘If I am rich it’s because my money is for use, to reward those who are worthy, not for derelicts,’ said Mr Leventine.
‘Not even for them what suffers through no fault of their own?’ Ted’s voice had changed too and was oddly stern. ‘Me and Ella, my wife, we had a donkey once, beaten almost to death it had been. We had four cats – strays covered with sores they was.’ Ted stopped. Then, ‘You rescued Dark Invader.’
‘Rescued? By no means. I bought him for my own advantage. I believe in that horse.’
‘And God bless you for that,’ said Ted. ‘But… ’ He looked at the notes again. ‘Give it to R.S.P.C.A., sir.’
Mr Leventine put the wad back in his pocket.
‘Suffer through no fault of their own.’ It had been a terrible hot summer in Calcutta; the rains were late in breaking, ‘which puts the Monsoon Meeting all out of gear,’ said John. ‘Which means there might be famine,’ said Mother Morag in dread – she had lived through two famines. Already the price of rice was high and peasants had begun flocking in from the villages, always an alarming sign. ‘They hope for work or food and there isn’t any.’ They swelled the lines waiting at the Sisters’ street kitchens. ‘I had hoped we could have opened another in Bow Bazaar,’ she had told the Community. ‘I’m afraid we can’t,’ and, ‘Thank God for our “collecting”,’ she said. ‘At least we can feed our people in the Home,’ but the collections had lessened. Few people went to restaurants in the heat and, ‘Solomon is so slow,’ said Sister Timothea. It was all the Sister said, but Mother Morag knew how punishing was ‘collecting’ in the heat, especially wearing the habit which, though in India made of white cotton, had not changed since the days of Thérèse Hubert: long-sleeve, high-necked, coming down to the ankles and finished by the close-fitting muslin coif, as worn by a Belgian peasant woman in the 1840s. ‘But that was in Europe,’ Sister Joanna had not quite learned the utter disregard of self. ‘This is India! Those starched white strings under our chins!’
‘They don’t stay starched for long,’ Mother Morag consoled her and laughed. ‘You should see yours now – spotted with gravy!’
‘From the curry canister. Ugh!’ It had been Sister Joanna’s turn that early dawn to help carry the canisters in. ‘Curry of all things! I must smell.’ As they talked they were still storing the food and she saw, when Mother Morag lifted her arms to set some sweet puddings on a high shelf out of the way of ants, how, when her sleeves fell back, the white skin of her arms was covered in scarlet from prickly heat and Sister Joanna was ashamed of her own small grumbling but, tactfully, all she said was, ‘I had better put on a fresh bonnet to go round the offices this afternoon, or I shall hardly impress the young men,’ and tried to laugh too.
It was, though, no joke. In these stifling nights sometimes the food had gone bad before Solomon and the cart reached home. No wonder – one night it was after two o’clock. ‘Well, it’s too hot to sleep anyhow,’ said Sister Ursule. ‘We might as well be up,’ but, ‘How long have we had Solomon?’ Mother Morag asked Sister Ignatius next day.
‘It must be ten or eleven years.’
‘And he wasn’t all that young when he came.’
‘No, he was a gift.’ Like the wise older Sister, Mother Morag knew that people do not give young horses away, and she looked thoughtfully at the dip in Solomon’s back, his legs that had thickened; though he still kept his high step, it was awkward and growing stiff. The hollows over his eyes were deep now and, in spite of Gulab’s grooming, his coat was rough. Mother Morag sighed and a pucker, what the Sisters called her ‘worry line’, showed between her eyebrows.
The rains broke, to the relief of everyone and everything. ‘You can almost hear the plants drinking,’ said Sister Barbara and, ‘I want to dance in the puddles,’ said young Sister Mary Fanny, as the bandar-log did up the road. There were brief furious deluges of almost vertical rain, then blue skies with piled up clouds that would presently burst again, but meanwhile the whole earth steamed as the water dried. Colours of grass, trees and flowers shone vivid and glistened in the washed light. The Convent, Scattergold Hall, all the old houses smelled dank; green stains appeared on the walls and mildew on shoes and books, anything leather, ‘including saddles and harness,’ said John.
Racing began on the Monsoon Track, sometimes run in a downpour when the jockeys wore celluloid motor-goggles and came in soaking, mud bespattered, their silks clinging to their backs. Few of the outside owners were there, not Lady Mehta, nor John’s Nawab, nor Mr Leventine. The Monsoon Meeting was casual, friendly; it was too hot for raincoats, so members sheltered under golf umbrellas to distinguish them from the crowd’s bazaar black ones. Everyone knew everyone else – except for John. For him, as for other trainers, the Monsoon was an anxious time; the early British had called it ‘the sickly season’, and it was sickly still. ‘I seem to do nothing but scratch one horse after another from a race,’ said John. Captain Mack was called out night and day.
‘Racehorses! What about humans?’ said Sister Ignatius. There were ‘ten-day fevers’: chills: pleurisy. The old people, even in the Home and under the Sisters’ care, died as easily as flies. ‘As soon as a bed is empty there are twenty waiting to fill it,’ and it was not only the old people; the babies died too, and children… Mother Morag was too harried to have time to think about Solomon.
Then it seemed to her only a matter of weeks, though it was almost three months, when, looking down from her window to watch John Quillan’s horses pass, she saw he had a greatly augmented line; augmented too, by horses of a different quality and, after them, kept well back as usual, because his stride outdistanced every other, the big dark horse she had noticed before and the little English rider she knew was Ted Mullins.
‘Nervous?’ asked John, but Ted gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Not with him.’
Ted had ridden in the first two of the Cold Weather Meetings, but not on Dark Invader. His first ride on the opening Saturday was Mr Leventine’s Pandora – the mare who had come out on the same ship, while Ching rode her companion Pernambuco. Pandora had won. On the second Saturday, at Ted’s suggestion, he and Ching changed mounts, Pandora had won again, while Ted rode Pernambuco into second place. The same afternoon, to Lady Mehta’s joy, he had brought Flashlight up to win the mile-long Jaisalmir Plate. ‘Up Quillans!’ Bunny was bubbling over with congratulations for his friend but, ‘Wait,’ said John. ‘The crux hasn’t come yet.’ The crux was the first appearance of Dark Invader.
As John had said, it was a Class IV race, ‘but there’s a huge field,’ he told Ted. ‘They have had to make two divisions.’ Dark Invader was in Division I with top weight, ‘but compared to the others you’re on a flying machine,’ John told Ted. ‘All the same,’ he added, ‘it’s often the cold-stone certainty that comes unstuck.’
‘He won’t,’ said Ted. Ted had weighed out, carried his saddle and number-cloths through the door and handed them to John. He, himself, was smart and dapper, his breeches made as a special order by Barkat Ali in Park Street. ‘I would have had them made in London if we could have been sure of the fit,’ Mr Leventine had said. Ted’s boots, though, had been sent out from Maxwell’s, copied from a pair he had worn in the old days. Mr Leventine’s colours were pink, with emerald hoops, and green cap, and were so bright they made Ted blink. ‘Pink for happiness, green for hope,’ Mr Leventine had explained but, ‘Hullo, Rosebud! Ain’t she sweet!’ jeered the other jockeys, but as the horses came into the paddock, there was no mistaking that Dark Invader, with his size, his blooming coat, was outstandingly the best-looking horse on the course; led by Sadiq, murmurs of admiration followed him as he walked round, and soon he had moved up to odds-on favourite.
As Ted was swung into the saddle he met Mr Leventine’s gaze, full of a confidence and belief that had not been given Ted since Ella died – he had to turn his own eyes away – but John Quillan still had his doubts and, walking beside Dark Invader as the horses moved out, again he gave Ted his anxious final orders: ‘Keep clear. If they crowd you, go for the outside rail. Remember you have twenty lengths in hand. Use them. Keep clear.’
Only once did Ted steal a look under his elbow at the tailing field behind him. Already two lengths clear, he took the inner rail and kept that distance, finishing, hard held, in a time that – sure as eggs is eggs, thought Ted – would take Dark Invader to Class III. ‘Exactly as we wished him to do,’ Mr Leventine beamed and even John was pleased.
It was a pattern set for the six races that followed, six that for Dark Invader were little more than training gallops; each time he got away to a good start and was never headed, which brought him from Class III to Class II. ‘As we expected,’ said Mr Leventine, rubbing his hands.
Mr Leventine did not live in one of Calcutta’s mansions which, to people who did not really know him, would have seemed suited to his wealth and ostentatious tastes. Mr Leventine detested waste and, ‘What would one man do with twenty rooms?’ he would have asked. One day he might marry but now he had no time; he had little time too for gardens, trees, lawns, and none at all for the hangers-on that always come with vast houses. He was perfectly content with a flat in a modern block on Park Street, but took the precaution of renting the flat above his so that he would not be annoyed by noise or other tenants. His two secretaries were allowed to live there, but had to walk about in socks or slippers and speak in whispers. He also rented the flat below, where he put his chauffeur, his car attendant and his personal bearers – it needed two to keep his clothes as he thought fit and, ‘I don’t want them smelling of servants’ quarters, of cooking and biris.’
Now in his library, he moved all his racing cups to a side table and kept his mantelpiece only for Dark Invader’s; already there were three, only of Indian silver it was true, but there was also a gilt quaich. He had to ask John to explain what the Scots drinking cup was. ‘A tassie,’ John had said, to tease him – Mr Leventine could not find ‘tassie’ in the dictionary. There was a two-handled goblet, sterling silver this time and, most handsome of all, a rosebowl. ‘You are coming up,’ said Bunny. Mr Leventine felt he could ask Bunny and, now and then, John to come and drink his excellent whisky. There was nobody else. One day, if Dark Invader succeeded, perhaps Sir Humphrey… but that was a dream. Meanwhile here was Bunny and, ‘You must keep a place for the gold one,’ said Bunny with his usual sunniness. Mr Leventine, superstitious to his backbone, almost said, ‘Hush,’ but, ‘He’s just doing what we expected,’ was all he said.
What no-one had expected was the impact of Dark Invader on the crowd. Though, after his first win, the odds offered on him would have made nobody’s fortune, the whole of racing Calcutta seemed to have taken him to their hearts. It was partly his size and his good looks, partly the way in which, once he had won, instead of coming in with his ears still intent, he let them flop as if to say, ‘That’s that,’ tucked in his chin modestly as if to say, ‘It’s nothing at all,’ and would not wait to nuzzle Mr Leventine’s pockets. He and Ted had swiftly become a legend and stories were told of how Darkie would race for no-one else, nor even let anyone ride or so much as mount him: of his extraordinary intelligence: his laziness – ‘He doesn’t bother to try at gallops. Why should he? He knows he can when it’s the real thing’: of his greediness and how the salty taste of Bengal straw had once induced him to eat his bedding and how he would have died of colic if Captain Mack had not dramatically saved him – this happened to be true and, after that, Dark Invader was bedded on tan-bark: of his exceptional docility and good nature – as long as he was not ridden by anyone else but Ted.
Ted had difficulty, not only on race days, but in the early mornings, of getting the Invader through the admirers who wanted to see and pat him. ‘Just like a matinée idol outside a stage door,’ said John. On race days he had to ask for a police escort and for every race Dark Invader was entered, there came, from the Public Enclosure and the frenzied dust-coloured crowds that lined the rails, a chant for Darkie. A mounted policeman, conspicuous in his white starched tunic and scarlet turban, would often have to turn his horse backwards to the people to let it kick out and drive them back from surging on to the course itself. As soon as Dark Invader appeared, the people would begin with single shouts as his great striding form showed clear of the field along the back stretch. ‘Darkee!’ ‘Darkee!’ they would call and then, as he came storming past the stands, they would break into a quick-fire rhythm, ‘Dark Invader, Dark Invader, Dark Invader.’
Mr Leventine would be out on the course to lead him in, Ted, in his over-brilliant silks, perched firmly on top, lifting his whip in shy salute. Dark Invader would tuck in his chin and lop his ears in acknowledgement of the applause before his search for tidbits and the crowd would grow wild.
‘Your horse seems to have become something of a personality,’ Sir Humphrey sought Mr Leventine out at the Club. ‘You know he’s now eligible for the Viceroy’s Cup?’
‘I know.’ Mr Leventine had a new dignity, while even John Quillan betrayed a fresh buoyancy. ‘I believe, Sandy,’ he said to Captain Mack at Scattergold Hall, ‘that the time is coming when you may have to eat your hat.’
‘Willingly,’ said Captain Mack. ‘What fun if Ted beats all the top-price English jockeys who’ll be brought out for the big races.’