hand briefly on her shoulder as he passed.
Before Rannaldini could stop her, Kitty had fled from the box, clattering down the grey stone steps, shoving her way through the boiling cauldron of crowd.
‘What ’appened, me darlin’?’ asked an Irishman.
‘Arfur’s dead, broken his neck,’ sobbed Kitty. It seemed to take hours to battle her way round the paddock, where Arthur had shambled so jauntily only half an hour ago. Barging into the changing room, she pushed past jockeys in various stages of undress and some with just coloured towels round their hips, but all utterly shocked as they looked on helplessly.
Lysander sat huddled in a chair, his head in his hands. Rupert in a mad rage was yelling at him.
‘You fucking bloody idiot goofing off like that. If you’d kept him straight, he’d never have crashed into the rails. Why didn’t you bloody listen to me?’
‘Shut up, Rupert,’ yelled Kitty back. ‘It weren’t Lysander’s fault.’
Lysander looked up. His face was a chaos of tears, blood and mud.
‘Oh, Kitty, I let him down.’
‘No, you didn’t, my lambkin.’ Kitty flung her arms round Lysander’s frantically shuddering body, cradling his head against her breasts. ‘You rode the most wonderful race in the world. They forget winners in a week, but Arfur’ll be remembered for ever. He won really. His great ’eart just gave out.’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ roared Rupert. ‘He broke his fucking neck.’
‘How d’you know it was that, you great bully?’ screamed Kitty. ‘It might have been his ’eart, or his legs givin’ out, and then he broke his neck fallin’ into the rails. There hasn’t been a post-mortem. It’s all right, pet, it wasn’t your fault.’ She clung to Lysander trying to warm him and still his sobs.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ A chill had entered the room, a waft of Maestro mingled with the stench of sweat and antiseptic. Beneath his icy calm, such was the gale force of Rannaldini’s fury that the jockeys drew back.
‘Do you want to make a complete fool of yourself?’ he hissed at Kitty, then nodding icily at Rupert. ‘Sorry about the horse. It was bad luck to lose like that. Come, Kitty, you are needed in the box. We have guests to entertain.’
Lysander looked up in bewilderment.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, hanging on to Kitty in anguish. ‘Please don’t leave me.’
Clamping Kitty’s arm like a vice, Rannaldini almost dragged her out of the changing room. On the way they passed David Hawkley.
‘Where’s Lysander?’
‘In there. Please look after ’im,’ begged Kitty. ‘He needs you so badly.’
For a second, David took her rough, frozen hands.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, yes,’ sobbed Kitty. ‘But I should ’ave lighted a candle for Arfur as well.’
Only when they were outside among the crowds did Rannaldini let rip a lethal lava of invective, far worse than any of his screaming tantrums to the London Met. Hypnotized by his frenziedly yelling mouth, his black- maddened flashing eyes, sickened by the smell of frying hamburgers and the animal reek of wet sheepskin coats all round her, Kitty started to sway. Suddenly she crumpled and was sent flying by a fractious crowd, deprived of the result they wanted and pushing through to watch the next race. As she was trampled underfoot she lost consciousness.
Desolately empty of Arthur, Rupert’s lorry rolled back to Penscombe. In respect of such a death, the curtains had been drawn along Penscombe High Street. The streamers, bunting and flags had been put back in their boxes. For once Charlie the bookmaker was heartbroken to make a killing. Everyone had got to know and love Arthur as he’d shambled along the lanes. At The Goat and Boots, where he had stopped for his daily pint, the champagne had gone back to the cellar.
Stony-faced, the stable-lads and girls unloaded the remaining horses. Taggie tried to comfort an inconsolable Tab, who lay on her bed, sobbing, Arthur, Arthur, over and over again.
Sacked by Rupert, Lysander was so deranged with grief he had to be given a shot by the course vet. Now crashed out at Magpie Cottage where he’d been put to bed by his father, he lay curled up with a watchful, worried Jack in his arms. Having tidied up the mess as best he could, David made himself as comfortable as possible in an armchair and waited for his son to wake.
Unable to sleep, Rupert padded down to the yard to check Pridie, who was a bit stiff, but would live to despatch any opposition another day. But he seemed cast down at the loss of his wise old friend. None of the horses would get any sleep with that Shetland keeping up such a din.
Hardly able to bring himself to go into Arthur’s box, Rupert found Tiny crouched in a far corner, the picture of furious hysterical desolation.
‘Come on,’ said Rupert gently, stretching out a hand, then hastily withdrawing it as Tiny let out a squeal of misery and lunged at him.
Bloody minded when unhappy, just like me, thought Rupert.
63
Having got rid of his guests, Rannaldini remembered his role of faithful, loving husband and rolled up to see Kitty where she had been kept overnight at Rutminster Hospital. He was greeted by Dr Benson, who was in an excellent mood having had a thousand pounds each way on Male Nurse.
‘How is she?’ asked Rannaldini, as James drew him into Matron’s office for a drink.
‘Shaken and a bit bruised for a start, she needs rest and she shouldn’t lose any more weight. Been overdoing things.’
‘Anything else the matter with her?’ asked Rannaldini irritably, thinking of the New York job where Kitty would need all her energy.
‘Well, this should be champagne,’ said James handing Rannaldini a glass of red. ‘Kitty’s pregnant. Congratulations.’
‘About three months, I’d say.’ James smiled happily. ‘Best thing that could happen to her. Been longing for a baby since you two got married. Endured all those tests. Always felt inadequate when all your other wives dropped children so effortlessly. Sweet girl, worth ten of all the rest, if you don’t mind my saying.’ Then, seeing Rannaldini’s utterly bleak expression, ‘Don’t need me to tell you, women need a lot of love at times like this.’
‘But we’re probably moving to New York next month.’
‘No problem. Just see you’re well insured, dear boy.’
Rannaldini was a seriously rattled man. He was furious at not winning the Gold Cup and at the very public humiliation of Lysander and Kitty clinging to each other in front of Rupert and all those jockeys. He needed Kitty as never before to smooth the path for him if he were to conquer New York and tame the toughest orchestra in the world — but not with a squawling brat around.
He left his glass of red. He needed a clear head.
‘You’re right, James,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘Kitty is a wonderful girl. I ’ate being without her. Eef I wrap her in cotton wool, can I take her ’ome this evening?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ James was delighted by this unexpected display of affection.
Following Rannaldini into Kitty’s little room where she lay whiter than her pillow, he was further gratified to see Rannaldini take Kitty’s hand and stroke her forehead.
‘My darleeng, you’re coming ’ome with me so I can look after you.’
There was no way he was going to leave her vulnerable in hospital with Lysander Hawkley on the prowl.
Leaping and pirouetting in delight, Lassie greeted her mistress when they got back to Valhalla. Rannaldini
