The start of the Viceroy’s Cup was in front of the stands which made it more of an ordeal for jockeys and the starter; the business of getting nervous spirited thoroughbreds into line needed not only skill, patience and immense authority, but unquestionable fairness.
It was the greatest day of the whole racing year. Flags flew over the stands, and banks of potted flowers filled every corner, dahlias in garish colours, chrysanthemums – white, yellow and gold – and the blue of cinerarias. No lawns were ever greener, no ropes and rails whiter, and the track itself stretched like a wide emerald ribbon in the golden sunlight of the Bengal winter.
The Governor had arrived in state; after him, in greater state, the Viceroy, both in four-horse landaus, shaded by scarlet and gold umbrellas, and accompanied by the Lancers, their horses matched, white sheepskins on their saddles, pennons flying below glittering lance points, jackboots, red coats, white breeches immaculate, and dark faces bearded under a pride of turbans, starched in blue and gold; the whole noiseless on the grass, except for the clink of bits and chains and the creak of leather. There was a fanfare of trumpets in the royal salute while the Stewards stood in an array of grey morning suits, white carnations and white topees, which would presently be replaced by grey top hats.
The Members’ Enclosure was filled; the women’s dresses, hats and sunshades were worthy of Ascot or Longchamps but, for beauty and elegance, could not match the exquisite shimmering saris of the Indian women, nor the turbans of the visiting Princes. Bunny had a pink gauze one with an emerald in front, ‘Your colours,’ he told Mr Leventine, ‘happiness and hope. I’m not allowed to bet,’ Bunny said ruefully – he had lost a small fortune on racecourses and in casinos before he was twenty, ‘but I would have put twenty thousand on your Invader.’
‘If the bookie would have taken it,’ said John.
‘I could have put it on the Tote,’ but, ‘Don’t be too sure yet,’ said Mr Leventine. He was still superstitious and John added, ‘This is the crux – the first real test. Darkie won’t be able to gallop away with it as he has so far – not with this lot.’
It was time for the big race. The staircases were lined by the now dismounted Lancer bodyguards. There was no mistaking the importance of the occasion.
For the first time Ted was nervous. He had not been helped in the changing room. His stock would not come right; he pulled it off and gestured to the bearer for a new one. Then the jockeys who had ridden in the race before came in, unbuttoning their silks and putting on new colours, picking up saddles and weight cloths and taking turns on the scales, trying their weight. Among them were Streaky Bacon, Willie Hunt and three other English jockeys. Streaky paused when he saw Ted. ‘Hullo – here’s Father Christmas.’
‘Methuselah,’ said one of the others, but Streaky looked closer. ‘Seen you before. Weren’t you one of Michael Traherne’s strappers?’ He straddled the floor. ‘And what are you doing here, may I ask?’
‘Riding,’ Ted said briefly.
‘Riding for Quillan, Mr Leventine’s Dark Invader,’ put in one of the others.
‘Cor! The comeback of all time! Methuselah in person. Riding Dark Invader!’
‘Which is more than you can do.’ Willie’s voice came across the room, heartening Ted. ‘Remember Thursday morning,’ said Willie and Bacon turned away, but Ted saw him go into a huddle with his friends.
Ted had expected this. ‘Watch out for Bacon,’ John had said, but what Ted had not expected was the crawling feeling in his guts, the sudden cold sweat that broke out on his neck and hands. This was the first time Dark Invader had appeared since his encounter with Streaky. Ted was going to race with him and against him. Would there be trouble? Ted looked at the order on the race card. ‘Thank God I didn’t draw next to him.’
Ted fastened his silks, tucked them into his breeches, picked up his whip, saddle and weight cloth and went on to the scales for a final check.
They were singing at him now, a ribald version of ‘John Anderson My Jo’:
Now your brow is bald, Ted,
Your locks are like the snow,
But blessings on your frosty pow …
pow pow pow
‘Blessings! I don’t think,’ said Streaky Bacon.
Ted could almost feel the grizzle among the fair tuft on his head. He tried not to hurry as he pulled on his cap. His legs felt so clamped with terror that he seemed to swagger as he walked. If only there had not been the bad luck of Streaky’s appearance. If only Streaky had not got near Dark Invader. If only… He, Ted, had let John Quillan down. Would he let Mr Leventine down – Mr Leventine who had such trust in him? If… if… if. Then Ted remembered that Sister who had been leading Dark Invader. At parting she had said, ‘Oh, I do hope you’ll win.’ Then she had caught herself back. ‘I suppose one mustn’t pray for racing.’
‘Prob’ly not,’ Ted had said – he was not used to talking about praying, but in the strangeness of the Convent he had been led to add, ‘You can pray for the Invader and for me.’ Must have been out of meself, Ted had thought afterwards. What would Ella have said but, standing on the vegetable garden path, the young Sister had looked so appealing that, ‘If you will, my dear,’ Ted had said. The ‘my dear’ made it seem more paternalistic but, ‘Oh, I will. All of us will,’ she had said fervently and, ‘That’s the way for us to win,’ Ted had said.
Now a little knot seemed to form inside Ted. ‘If you’ve got the jitters, whatever you do, don’t pass them on to the Invader. He’s going to need all he’s got, so you forgets about your blinking self,’ Ted Mullins told Ted Mullins.
As the crowd watched, the first little brightly clad figures came through the door of the weighing room verandah and sat down on the bench. The judges in the Judges’ Box identified them. Blue bird’s eye, orange cap, that would be Quarterback, a grey five year old from Bombay. White, red sleeves, red cap – Backgammon, ridden by Streaky Bacon, the visiting crack brought out specially by the Rajah of Raniganj. Here was another, a chessboard effect, black and white checks, scarlet cap, Lady Mehta’s Flashlight. Then Volteface, red with brown sleeves and black cap. Then pink and green, green cap – a small man, even smaller than the others – Ted Mullins, famous with Dark Invader.
Quarterback, Backgammon, Volteface, Dark Invader, Flashlight. That made five but there were eleven runners; six more to come: Racing Demon, Postillion, Bezique, Tetrazone and Moonlighter. Last of all Ching, peacock jacket, white sleeves, white cap, having his first run in the Viceroy’s Cup on Greensleeves, owned by a syndicate and trained by John Quillan. At the bell they came into the paddock where the trainers were gathered while the grooms led the horses round and round.
Then came orders to mount, quick hands swung the little hard men in brilliant silks into absurd saddles. A last tug at girths and a look at stirrup leathers – Streaky’s powerful legs were tucked under him until he seemed almost to kneel on the horse’s withers. Dark Invader – ‘Hell of a horse,’ said someone in the crowd, but the little Mullins seemed to sit him quite calmly. On the grey, Quarterback, was a solid little chunk of a man, snub nose, blue jowl – the English jockey, Tim Stubbs – Quarterback was a hell of a horse, too. Then Flashlight, little head, little short ears, bit of white in his eye – a sporting print racehorse – and his English jockey Syd Johnson on top, white as a sheet and sweating. ‘He has a weight problem, poor devil,’ – then Willie Hunt with Racing Demon.
It was time for the parade. The horses gathered at the start, walked down in single file past the stands and crowds – it seemed half Calcutta was gathered on the far side of the rails – past the finish in order of the race card, Dark Invader five behind Backgammon and Streaky. Did he hear the cries of ‘Darkie!’ ‘Darkie!’ that came pitched louder than ever from the crowd? Then they came back, one by one, at a fast canter with a slap of the reins, a flutter of silk and the sweet smell of horses and bruised grass.
‘The one race I should really like to watch,’ said Mother Morag, ‘is this one. I, who thought I should never want to watch a race again.’ Dahlia felt the same. It was not only the dress she had seen at Hall and Anderson’s, silk in her favourite apricot with lace and the sweetest sunshade with a tassel, it was Ted and Dark Invader. ‘If we all could have gone, the children too.’ The bandar-log had, of course, gone down to the races with the spare syces who put them up on their shoulders, but Dahlia knew she had to stay at home.
Back at the start the stream of orders came from the Starter who had horses facing the wrong way, breaking out, sidling round. There was swearing, cries of, ‘No, sir. No,’ all plainly heard in the stands. Mr Leventine, sweating under the hat he had exchanged for his topee, mopped his forehead; his rosy face was growing purple. John’s was white. Never had Ted looked so small, hunched and old; Dark Invader never as big and as intimidating. Yet John noticed Ted’s easy seat, the quiet rein, the horse’s ears pricked. Dark Invader was eager. Eager! thought John, marvelling.
The gate went up. The Timekeeper pressed the button on the watch before the sharp bang of the rising barrier had time to reach him. The next moment the field surged past with thunder of hooves, shouts, a half-frightened curse as they raced for position on the first bend. In a matter of seconds the mass of manes, nostrils, faces half-glimpsed, resolved itself into a procession of strong quarters with the little taut white bottoms of the jockeys atop bobbing away into the distance.
‘They’re all there,’ said the Assistant Judge who had checked that nothing had been left at the post.
The Senior Judge began to read the race to the other judges. ‘Volteface leads, followed by Quarterback. Racing Demon and Dark Invader moving up on the rails.’
The field strung out along the back stretch, coloured beads sliding along above the whiteness of the distant rail, the white domes of the Victoria Memorial behind them. The Senior Judge’s voice, measured and calm, went on: ‘Racing Demon, Postillion, Quarterback, Backgammon, Volteface, Dark Invader, Bezique, Flashlight, Tetrazone, Moonlighter and Greensleeves.’ Then, ‘Same order. Moonlighter and Greensleeves tailing off.’
They were racing now three furlongs out, going faster, fighting for position, and then it happened. John, watching through his binoculars, drew a quick breath. On the Calcutta racecourse, the final bend is sharp before the short run in. ‘But I had seen,’ Ted told him afterwards. ‘Seen what them bunch had cooked up. All of them got together to look after me. Streaky, Joe, Syd Johnson, Tim, the lot – ’cept Willie. They knew it, that bend, and what they done was, they draws together to block it. All five of them. Strewth! For a flash I thought I’d have to pull him but he… as if I’d told him, he followed our pattern.’
‘Our pattern?’
‘What you told me first time, sir – go for the outer rail, only he did it hisself!’ John saw something dark swing clear of the mass of horses to take a line of its own, exactly on that outer rail. ‘Yes, went round the outside and, s’help me God, if he wasn’t so damn good they couldn’t catch us,’ said Ted.
The main body of the race came thundering down the straight as the Judge’s voice rose in excitement. ‘Backgammon, Volteface, Racing Demon,’ and, to the Timekeeper, ‘Get Backgammon’s number ready,’ but the dark horse on the outside was gaining ground and growing larger with every stride, bright colours, pink and green, pink and green, and the cries of ‘Darkie!’ ‘Darkie!’ grew to a roar. The calm voice never faltered. ‘Now it’s Dark Invader, Backgammon, Volteface – get Dark Invader’s number ready and hold it – Dark Invader, Backgammon, Racing Demon, Volteface.’ Then, in ringing tones of command, ‘One, Dark Invader, Two, Racing Demon, Three, Backgammon. Four and Five, Volteface and Postillion. Two lengths, half length, short head, short head. Right. Time?’ he asked the Timekeeper. ‘Three minutes, four and three-quarter seconds. Agreed? Right. Dark Invader.’
‘Dark Invader,’ and, with a rattle and squeak of unoiled pulleys, an attendant hoisted aloft the numbers of the first, second, third and fourth horses in the Viceroy’s Cup.
Mr Leventine gave a dinner at Firpo’s for forty people. His guests included Sir Readymoney and Lady Mehta, the Commissioner of Police, Bunny and Captain Mack who both left early ‘for another engagement’. John Quillan and Dahlia were asked but did not go. Sir Humphrey proposed the toast.
It was a banquet of eight courses in the Edwardian style, with hors d’oeuvres followed by turtle soup: then the local crayfish doing duty for lobsters and echoing Mr Leventine’s racing colours on a bed of green salad. Then quails, stuffed, on saddle-shaped pieces of toast and a guinea-fowl with almond sauce.
There was a needed pause for a sorbet, coloured appropriately pink and green, accompanied by brown Russian cigarettes before, with new energy, the diners attacked a saddle of lamb. Then came a gateau with a portrait of Dark Invader in chocolate icing and an enormous replica of the Viceroy’s Cup in golden foil which, cut open, revealed an ice pudding.
They finished with devils on horseback – bacon wrapped around a prune. ‘Don’t you think they’ll have had enough without that?’ asked John.
‘But it’s so suitable,’ wailed Mr Leventine and included it. The wines, beginning with dry sherry for the hors d’oeuvres, ran through Chablis, a Rudesheimer 1929, claret, Château Cheval Blanc, to champagne, Veuve Clicquot, ending with Madeira and brandy.
There was a band and a cabaret.
Ted gave a supper party on his verandah for the bandar-log. John and Dahlia were invited and came. The menu was sausages and ice-cream; for John and Dahlia there was whisky and champagne but, when Dark Invader was led round by Sadiq and Ali for the toast, it was drunk in sherbet by the children, Sadiq, Ali and Ted. The entertainment was fireworks which Bunny and Captain Mack were in time to help let off.
No-one seeing Mr Leventine rise in all the glory of his evening tails, white tie, diamond dress studs, his florid yet innocent happiness, could have suspected he had spent the evening in a battle – a battle with himself.
He had led in his winner to tumultuous applause and an uproar from the crowd. Ted’s face was screwed into a hundred delighted wrinkles. Dark Invader lopped his ears, inclined his head and looked calm and unembarrassed.
Later in the afternoon Mr Leventine was graciously given the golden Cup by the Viceroy and made an almost equally gracious speech, impeccably modest, paying tribute to John Quillan and Ted and Dark Invader himself.
Then he had made his announcement. Dark Invader, he said, would probably race again next winter, so ‘look out’, but he would then be retired and sent to stud, but not in England; here Mr Leventine gathered himself to his full size and extended his hand to Lady Mehta who was standing by him. The Stud would be here in India for the encouragement of Indian breeding and racing. A Stud newly built and run on model lines, a venture made possible by the co-operation of his, Mr Leventine’s, dear friends, Sir Prakash and Lady Mehta and – he extended the other hand to Bunny – His Highness the Maharajah of Malwa. The applause was tremendous, but Mr Leventine held up his hand for silence. ‘You will be glad to hear that with Dark Invader goes his inseparable other half, his jockey Ted Mullins, who will be our head stud-groom. No-one,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘can think of one without the other.’
No speech could have been more welcome, none more heartily endorsed. Mr Leventine would be in the company now of people, ‘People,’ he said reverently, and it was sure that he would be a Steward now.
When he left the racecourse, he had gone straight to the stables to see Dark Invader comfortably bedded down and warmly rugged; the Cup meant nothing to him except that he was tired. He only raised his head hoping for a tidbit – he still had a hankering for bread and salt – but Mr Leventine gave him the Kulu apples that had shocked Sister Ignatius, and large pieces of sugar-cane. There was a bonus of a hundred rupees for Sadiq, fifty for Ali – then Mr Leventine went to the annex to confirm his present to Ted.
‘I hope you are pleased. I should have asked you before I made that announcement,’ but Ted had heard no announcement; he had been too overcome and too full of pride in Dark Invader to listen to any speech, ‘except they all went on and on, it seemed to me, and I never heard such clapping.’ Now, ‘A stud!’ he said when Mr Leventine had explained and John endorsed it. Both John and Bunny were with Ted. ‘You… you, sir, are going to have a stud farm?’
‘Indeed yes.’ Mr Leventine waved his – now, to Ted, magic – hand. ‘Land has been bought, building commenced. It will be a model, financed by me, Sir Prakash and Lady Mehta and… and,’ he was not quite sure what title to give Bunny – Highness or just Maharajah. ‘And… ’
‘And me,’ said Bunny. ‘Yes, the P.P. are letting me put money in. They actually believe one of my ideas is sound – even my old Eminence does.’
‘And if we succeed,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘Mr Quillan may join us. It will not be a paltry stud.’
‘And you want me… as head groom?’ Ted could hardly say it.
‘Who else?’ Mr Leventine had reverted to his ‘who’. ‘Don’t forget who will be the first to stand at stud – Dark Invader.’
Ted had a sudden vision. Green grass and white-railed paddocks. Dark Invader, a portly, heavy-crested patriarch, and he, Ted, his companion to the end of his days. The whole, in the true tradition of visions and memories of childhood, suffused with golden sunlight. ‘Gor blimey!’ and, for once, Ted said aloud, ‘If only Ella could know.’
When Mr Leventine left to go home and dress for his banquet, the brief Calcutta twilight had come and gone; lights were twinkling across the Maidan with smaller pinpricks from the beggar camp-fires. This time of dusk always made him feel a little sad and lonely, as if something were lacking in his busy successful life, but not tonight, thought Mr Leventine. Surely not tonight, but, even half an hour later, dressed and standing as he liked to do in front of his library mantelpiece, it persisted. Dark Invader’s cups were safely rearranged, there had been no need for that moment of panic; three cups were on the left, the goblet, quaich and rosebowl on the right and, in the centre, the golden Cup on its slender graceful stem – the Viceroy had been generous. Tomorrow it would be taken to be engraved, but now the library lamps caught the gold, sending soft rays into Mr Leventine’s eyes. The Cup would go with him to the banquet where it would be put on a stand; he had thought of filling it with champagne and passing it round, ‘like a loving cup’, he had told John – ‘loving cup’ had sounded beautiful to Mr Leventine – but John had said he thought it might be ostentatious, another new word.
In all Mr Leventine’s life there had never been a more happy and successful day; then why should this annoying thought come up that something more was needed to complete it? That something was lacking? ‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ Mr Leventine told himself. ‘This is needless,’ and again as when, like his mother, he was being severe, he said aloud, ‘Casimir Alaric Bruce, this is non-sense,’ but, though he repeated that here, in his own opulent library, the feeling persisted. Worse, he knew what it was as surely as if another voice had told him! ‘The Stake money.’ ‘But it’s mine – I earned it!’ argued Mr Leventine. ‘Wasn’t it I who had the acumen, the courage?’ Undoubtedly, ‘and I need it’, but that truly was nonsense. That very morning Mr Leventine had rounded off an extremely cosy deal with Valparaiso – cosy was his word for the swelling of his already swollen bank account.
How the thought about the Stake money had come to him he did not know; perhaps it was those mean little beggar fires; perhaps because, passing the Convent, he had thought of Mother Morag and the Sisters, and had wondered if they were warm enough. He was almost sure not. ‘But what is that to do with me?’ he asked himself. ‘Look what they have extorted from me already.’
‘Not exactly extorted,’ said this other inexorable voice, and he could hear again what Mother Morag had told him: ‘Of course we would have given you Dark Invader back in the end. We just wanted to see if you were generous.’
‘And wasn’t it generous? That horse cost a thousand rupees, a thousand for a country-bred! – and I would have given the buggy as well. Is it my fault they refused it?’ But the refusal had stayed in his mind. ‘We couldn’t have that expensive buggy. We are Sisters of Poverty, poverty, Mr Leventine. The poor don’t have buggies, though they might have a cart for work.’ He winced as he remembered his drive in the cart. ‘Well, I have given a new cart. Enough – enough!’ said Mr Leventine and he clapped his hands – there were no bells in Mr Leventine’s flat; a servant, immaculate in white clothes with a golden cummerbund and gold band in his turban was always at hand to answer that clap, and, ‘Bring me a large whisky and soda,’ said Mr Leventine and lit a cigar.
The whisky made him more comfortable. The Stake money had certainly been earned. ‘Look what I have spent on that horse,’ but, ‘Not very much,’ the voice might now have been John Quillan’s. ‘You got him as a bargain. You said that yourself and, as it turned out, you got Ted Mullins too.’
‘Well, I have not been mean. I have given lavish presents.’
‘Were you trying to buy goodwill?’ That was a hard thought and Mr Leventine blinked almost as if tears had come into his eyes, and it was not entirely true. He had enjoyed choosing those presents, particularly the air-guns – he was sad about the air-guns – and in thinking about the people the presents were for, particularly Ted’s saddle, he had felt enormous pleasure; still more in telling Ted about the Stud, in seeing a gleam of real hope and enthusiasm in John Quillan’s eyes and in hearing Dahlia’s ecstatic, ‘Oh John! It would be so wonderful for the children.’ It made him, Mr Leventine, feel like a magician, the sort of feeling he had had when the old Sister had said, ‘Bless you,’ but, ‘It’s an infernal nuisance being a blessing,’ said Mr Leventine, ‘and so expensive.’
‘Sahib – it is almost eight o’clock. Car is waiting. Time to go.’ Relief filled Mr Leventine and he threw his cigar in the mock grate. His head bearer was holding his coat and white silk scarf, and the butler went to lift down reverently the golden Cup and its stand which he would take to the banquet. The Viceroy’s Cup, but the Stake money…
Mr Leventine saw the menu which had been propped beside the Cup, a gold embellished card with pictures of little horses:
His eyes strayed from the menu back to the golden Cup. ‘Have you ever been hungry, Mr Leventine?’ It was the voice of the Chief Commissioner whom he would meet in a few minutes.
‘Hell fire and damnation,’ cried Mr Leventine and, to the servants, ‘Wait,’ and he went to his huge writing desk and took out a cheque book.
‘Do you see what I see?’ asked Mother Morag.
She passed her hand over her eyes, then looked again, ‘Do you read what I read?’ she asked Sister Ignatius.
Sister Ignatius read and had to sit down suddenly.
After a stunned silence Mother Morag whispered, ‘Fifty thousand rupees!’ and, presently, ‘We can pay off the mortgage on the new infirmary,’ she said.
‘Perhaps we could install fans.’
‘Open that new kitchen.’
Next day, Sister Ignatius, who was not given to such things, cut out a newspaper photograph of Dark Invader and framed it in passe-partout. Mother Morag allowed her to hang it in the Chapel.