Unfortunately both Marina and I said ‘I was’ at the same instant into the sudden small silence.
‘Really?’ said Jenny sarcastically. ‘Collided with each other, did we?’
Thankfully, Anthony arrived at that moment and the matter was dropped.
Sir Anthony Wingham, Baronet, was something in the city, something in banking. I never had been sure what, nor cared. He had inherited pots of cash which is why, I thought cynically, he had proved so attractive to my ex- wife.
Introductions were made and, as usual, Anthony was distinctly cold towards me. I couldn’t think why. On our brief and infrequent meetings, he tended to treat me as the enemy. Jenny and I had been separated for many years before she had met him and, whilst it was true that we had actually divorced in order for her to be free to marry, he had absolutely not been the cause of our break-up so I found his attitude somewhat odd. I certainly did not reciprocate it and shook his offered hand with a smile.
The coldness he showed me was more than made up for by the warmth and concern he showered on Marina.
‘My dear girl,’ he said in a most caring tone, ‘what dreadful bad luck.’
That won’t endear him to Jenny, I thought, and I was right. Jenny glared at him.
It transpired that they had always been coming to lunch but Charles had forgotten. Mrs Cross, habitually one step ahead of her employer in domestic matters, had laid the table for five and I found myself seated next to Jenny, opposite Anthony.
It was not a memorable occasion with dull, forced conversation. True sentiments were unspoken but communicated, nevertheless. Only Marina had no previous form in this family.
Inevitably, in such circumstances, the discussion tended to be predictable and about Marina: where do you live? what do you do? brothers and sisters? and so on. What I really wanted to ask Jenny and Anthony would have been more interesting: how much is your house worth? how much do you earn? how’s your sex life?
‘Where did you study?’ Anthony asked Marina.
‘I was at high school in Harlingen in the Netherlands. That’s my home town in the Friesland province, in the north, near the sea. Then I went to university in Amsterdam. I did my doctorate at Cambridge.’
That shut Jenny up.
‘And you?’ Marina asked back. So diplomatic.
‘I went to Harrow and Oxford,’ replied Anthony. It rolled off his tongue, a much-repeated couplet.
‘Harrow?’ asked Marina.
‘Yes, Harrow School. It’s a boarding school in north-west London. I went there when I was thirteen.’
‘So young to be away from home,’ said Marina.
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I went away to boarding school when I was eight.’
‘Didn’t your mother hate you going?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He paused. ‘I think she was too busy doing good works for charities or going off to the West Indies for the sunshine. I remember being happier at school than I was at home.’
So sad.
‘Harrow,’ I said. ‘I know someone who was at Harrow. But he’s younger, so he’d have been there after you.’
Anthony took that as an insult. ‘I keep in touch with the old place,’ he said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘George Lochs,’ I said. ‘But when he was at Harrow he was called Clarence Lochstein.’
Anthony thought for a while.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Neither name rings a bell.’
‘How would I find out about his time at school?’ I asked.
‘Not still doing that stupid investigating, are you?’ said Jenny.
‘Now, now, Jenny,’ said her father. ‘You know perfectly well that Sid does very well at it and he is much respected in racing circles.’
Jenny didn’t actually say so but I could read from her expression that respect in racing circles didn’t rate very highly with her. I was sure that she must have read somewhere about Huw Walker, and also about my having found his body at Cheltenham, but I was equally sure that she wouldn’t say so in case it was interpreted by Anthony or Charles as her still having some interest in me or in what I did for my living.
‘You could always contact the old boys’ association,’ said Anthony, bringing us back to Harrow. ‘They have a resident secretary at the school, chap called Frank Snow. He’s a retired housemaster and there’s nothing worth knowing about Harrow that he doesn’t know.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll give him a call.’
Anthony suddenly looked somewhat irritated with himself, something to do with collaborating with the enemy, no doubt.
Finally, after soup, roast beef and then apple crumble, the lunch was over. Jenny had not failed to notice that Mrs Cross had cut my roast beef into fine strips that I could eat in single-mouthful portions, and that my Yorkshire puddings had been mini ones. She had said nothing, just rolled her eyes and smiled. But I knew that smile. It was more to do with irritation than with humour.
My injuries had been one of the major factors in our lost love.
Steeplechase jockeys get injured. It is an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of the job. Horses do fall over. Sometimes they fall because they get too close to a fence, and sometimes they fall because they stand off too far from one. Occasionally they trip over other fallen horses that are already lying on the ground, and every so often they simply stumble on landing. The reasons may be varied but the outcome is pretty similar. Half a ton of horseflesh travelling at up to thirty miles an hour crashes to the ground and the jockey goes down with the ship. Eating grass at half a mile a minute becomes an occupational hazard, along with the bruises and the broken bones, the dislocating shoulders and the concussions.
Jenny found she couldn’t live with both the deprivations required to keep my riding weight down, and the need to pick up the pieces when things didn’t go to plan. Looking back, the injuries were always the catalyst for rows.
*
Marina and I made our escape soon after lunch, as we had planned.
Jenny came out to my car as I was loading our last few things.
‘How did we ever come to this?’ she said.
‘To what?’ I asked, but I knew.
‘To trading insults whenever we meet, to scoring points over one another.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ I said. ‘Are you happy?’
She hesitated. ‘Mostly. Are you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very.’
‘Good, I’m glad. Life with Anthony is more predictable than with you.’
‘Less exciting?’
‘Yes, that too. If you call spending nights on hospital sofas exciting.’
We laughed. We laughed together. Something we hadn’t done for a long time.
Marina, Charles and Anthony came out of the house.
‘Take care of yourself,’ Jenny said. She stroked my arm, the real one.
‘Take care of yourself, too.’ I gave her a kiss on the cheek and, just for a moment, there were tears in her eyes.
Marina gave Charles a hug, which seemed to embarrass him somewhat.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘This was just what I needed. I can go back now and face the world.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Charles. ‘Come whenever you want.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
Anthony gave her a peck on the cheek and Jenny didn’t seem to mind one bit. I shook hands with them both.
‘Thank you again, Charles.’
He waved a hand.
I drove away. In the end, I was thankful that we hadn’t avoided Jenny and Anthony.
