For Kicks - Страница 27

I had a clear choice of scrubbing the paths or getting on the motor-cycle and going. Thinking firmly that I was being paid at least ten thousand pounds for doing it, I scrubbed; and Cass hung around the yard all day to watch that I didn't rest.

The lads, who had spent much of the afternoon amusing themselves by jeering at my plight as they set off for and returned from the cafe in Posset, made quite sure during evening stables that the concrete paths ended the day even dirtier than they had begun. I didn't care a damn about that; but Adams had sent his hunters back caked with mud and sweat and it took me two hours to clean them because by the end of that day many of my muscles were trembling with fatigue.

Then, to crown it all, Adams came back. He drove his Jaguar into the yard, climbed out, and after having talked to Cass, who nodded and gestured round the paths, he walked without haste towards the box where I was still struggling with his black horse.

He stood in the doorway and looked down his nose at me; and I looked back. He was superbly elegant in a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a silver- grey tie. His skin looked fresh, his hair well brushed, his hands clean and pale. I imagined he had gone home after hunting and enjoyed a deep hot bath, a change of clothes, a drink. I hadn't had a bath for a month and was unlikely to get one as long as I stayed at Humber's. I was filthy and hungry and extremely tired. I wished he would go away and leave me alone.

No such luck.

He took a step into the box and surveyed the mud still caked solid on the horse's hind legs.

"You're slow," he remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"This horse must have been back here three hours ago. What have you been doing?"

"My three other horses, sir."

"You should do mine first."

"I had to wait for the mud to dry, sir. You can't brush it out while it's still wet."

"I told you this morning not to answer back." His hand lashed out across the ear he had hit before. He was smiling slightly. Enjoying himself Which was more than could be said for me.

Having, so to speak, tasted blood, he suddenly took hold of the front of my jersey, pushed me back against the wall, and slapped me twice in the face, forehand and backhand. Still smiling.

What I wanted to do was to jab my knee into his groin and my fist into his stomach; and refraining wasn't easy. For the sake of realism I knew I should have cried out loudly and begged him to stop, but when it came to the point I couldn't do it. However, one could act what one couldn't say, so I lifted both arms and folded them defensively round my head.

He laughed and let go, and I slid down on to one knee and cowered against the wall.

"You're a proper little rabbit, aren't you, for all your fancy looks."

I stayed where I was, in silence. As suddenly as he had begun, he lost interest in ill-treating me.

"Get up, get up," he said irritably.

"I didn't hurt you. You're not worth hurting. Get up and finish this horse. And make sure it is done properly or you'll find yourself scrubbing again."

He walked out of the box and away across the yard. I stood up, leaned against the doorpost, and with uncharitable feelings watched him go up the path to Humber's house. To a good dinner, no doubt. An arm chair. A fire. A glass of brandy. A friend to talk to. Sighing in depression, I went back to the tiresome job of brushing off the mud.

Shortly after a supper of dry bread and cheese, eaten to the accompaniment of crude jokes about my day's occupation and detailed descriptions of the meals which had been enjoyed in Posset, I had had quite enough of my fellow workers. I climbed the ladder and sat on my bed. It was cold upstairs. I had had quite enough of Humber's yard. I had had more than enough of being kicked around. All I had to do, as I had been tempted to do that morning, was to go outside, unwrap the motor-cycle, and make tracks for civilization. I could stifle my conscience by paying most of the money back to October and pointing out that I had done at least half of the job.

I went on sitting on the bed and thinking about riding away on the motor-bike. I went on sitting on the bed. And not riding away on the motor-bike.

Presently I found myself sighing. I knew very well I had never had any real doubts about staying, even if it meant scrubbing those dreadful paths every day of the week. Quite apart from not finding myself good company in future if I ran away because of a little bit of eccentric charring, there was the certainty that it was specifically in Mr. P. J. Adams' ruthless hands that the good repute of British racing was in danger of being cracked to bits. It was he that I had come to defeat.

It was no good decamping because the first taste of him was unpleasant.

His name typed on paper had come alive as a worse menace than Humber himself had ever seemed. Humber was merely harsh, greedy, bad-tempered, and vain, and he beat his lads for the sole purpose of making them leave. But Adams seemed to enjoy hurting for its own sake.

Beneath that glossy crust of sophistication, and not far beneath, one glimpsed an irresponsible savage. Humber was forceful; but Adams, it now seemed to me, was the brains of the partnership. He was a more complex man and a far more fearsome adversary. I had felt equal to Humber. Adams dismayed me.

Someone started to come up the ladder. I thought it would be Cecil, reeling from his Saturday night orgy, but it was Jerry. He came and sat on the bed next to mine. He looked downcast.

Dan? "

"Yes."

"It weren't… it weren't no good in Posset today, without you being there."

"Wasn't it?"

"No." He brightened.

"I bought my comic though. Will you read it to me?"

"Tomorrow," I said tiredly.

There was a short silence while he struggled to organize his thoughts.

"Clan."

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry, like."

"What for?"

"Well, for laughing at you, like, this afternoon. It wasn't right… not when you've took me on your motor-bike and all. I do ever so like going on your bike."

"It's all right, Jerry."

"The others were ribbing you, see, and it seemed the thing, like, to do what they done. So they would… would let me go with them, see?"

"Yes, Jerry, I see. It doesn't matter, really it doesn't."

"You never ribbed me, when I done wrong."

"Forget it."

"I've been thinking," he said, wrinkling his forehead, 'about me main.

She tried scrubbing some floors once. In some office, it was. She came home fair whacked, she did. She said scrubbing floors was wicked. It made your back ache something chronic, she said, as I remember. "

"Did she?"

"Does your back ache, Clan?"

"Yes, a bit."

He nodded, pleased.

"She knows a thing or two, does my mam." He lapsed into one of his mindless silences, rocking himself gently backwards and forwards on the creaking bed.

I was touched by his apology.

"I'll read your comic for you," I said.

"You ain't too whacked?" he asked eagerly.

I shook my head.

He fetched the comic from the cardboard box in which he kept his few belongings and sat beside me while I read him the captions of Mickey the Monkey, Beryl and Peril, Julius Cheeser, the Bustom Boys, and all the rest. We went through the whole thing at least twice, with him laughing contentedly and repeating the words after me. By the end of the week he would know most of them by heart.

At length I took the comic out of his hands and put it down on the bed.

"Jerry," I said, 'which of the horses you look after belongs to Mr. Adams? "

"Mr. Adams?"

"The man whose hunters I've got. The man who was here this morning, with a grey Jaguar, and a scarlet coat."

"Oh, that Mr. Adams."

"Why, is there another one?"

"No, that's Mr. Adams, all right." Jerry shuddered.

"What do you know about him?" I asked.

"The chap what was here before you came, Dennis, his name was, Mr. Adams didn't like him, see? He cheeked Mr. Adams, he did."

"Oh," I said. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what had happened to Dennis.

"He weren't here above three weeks," said Jerry reflectively.

"The last couple of days, he kept on falling down. Funny, it was, really."

I cut him short.

"Which of your horses belongs to Mr. Adams?" I repeated.

"None of them do," he said positively.

"Cass said so."

He looked surprised, and also scared.

"No, Clan, I don't want none of Mr. Adams' horses."

"Well, who do your horses belong to?"

"I don't rightly know. Except of course Pageant. He belongs to Mr. Byrd."

"That's the one you take to the races?"

"Uh huh, that's the one."

"How about the others?"

"Well, Mickey…" His brow furrowed.

"Mickey is the horse in the box next to Mr. Adams' black hunter, which I do?"

"Yeah." He smiled brilliantly, as if I had made a point.

"Who does Mickey belong to?"

"I dunno."

"Hasn't his owner ever been to see him?"

He shook his head doubtfully. I wasn't sure whether or not he would remember if an owner had in fact called.

"How about your other horse?" Jerry had only three horses to do, as he was slower than everyone else.

"That's Champ," said Jerry triumphantly.

"Who owns him?"

"He's a hunter."

"Yes, but who owns him?"

"Some fellow." He was trying hard.

"A fat fellow. With sort of sticking out ears." He pulled his own ears forward to show me.

"You know him well?"

He smiled widely.

"He gave me ten bob for Christmas."

So it was Mickey, I thought, who belonged to Adams, but neither Adams nor Humber nor Cass had let Jerry know it. It looked as though Cass had let it slip out by mistake.