with the drinks and a packet of crisps.
“I don’t know why I’ve been telling you all these things,” said Tory. “You’re the one who needs cheering up. But you’re such a good listener.”
“I get plenty of practice. When you’ve got to take stupid women on long rides you develop a listener’s face. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re listening.”
Tory’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said humbly, starting to eat the crisps. “I didn’t mean to bore you.”
“You haven’t,” he said irritably.
“Who taught you to ride?” she asked.
“My father. He put me on a pony almost before I could walk.”
“How long ago did he die?” said Tory.
“I don’t know that he’s dead.”
Tory looked startled.
“He was a gypsy. He met my mother when he was hop-picking on part-time work. Her father was the keeper at the big house. He tried to settle down with my mother and get a steady job, but it was like caging a lark. One day, the wanderlust became too strong, so he walked out when I was about eight years old.”
“You must have missed him.”
“I did.” The third pint of beer had loosened his tongue and the world seemed a more hospitable place.
“So did my mother. She cried a lot, behind locked doors, and my grandfather went through all the photograph albums cutting my father’s picture out of the family groups.”
“So you might suddenly bump into him one day?”
“I doubt it,” said Jake, although he never passed a gypsy encampment or a fairground without having a look.
“Was he very good-looking?”
“My mother thought so. Two years after he left she waved me off to school and said she’d be in to cook the school dinner later. Then she put some cushions in front of the gas oven and that was that. All I remember is that all the masters and boys were particularly put out because we were supposed to be having treacle pudding that day.”
He suddenly glared at Tory, whose eyes had filled with tears. What the hell was he telling the soppy cow all this for? He hadn’t talked about his mother for years.
Tory couldn’t bear it. He’d lost his mother and his father and now he was going to lose Africa.
“Do you think Bobby Cotterel will really sell her?” she asked.
“ ’Course he will; doesn’t give a damn about her. He was grumbling the other day because Mrs. Wilton was threatening to put up the livery fees.”
The pub was filling up now and becoming noisy and clamorous. Tory looked at an obscene, pink pile of sausages, greasily glinting under a cover on the bar. How lovely to see food and for once not feel hungry.
“What will you do if Africa goes?”
“Get another job.”
“Around here?”
“No, up north probably. I doubt if Mrs. Wilton will give me a reference.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” said Tory, aghast. “I mean—it’s so cold up north. I must go to the loo.”
She had difficulty negotiating the way to the Ladies’, cannoning off tables and cricketers like a baby elephant.
Oh, hell, thought Jake, as she narrowly missed a flying dart, she’s pissed.
Tory collapsed onto the loo and realized with the shock from the cold slab under her bottom that the seat cover was still down. She lifted it up. If I can manage to go on peeing for over twenty seconds, Jake will take me out again, she said to herself. By wriggling she made it last for twenty-two.
When she found she had put her bag in the basin and washed her hands over it, she realized she was very tight. She couldn’t bear Jake to go away. She pressed her hot forehead against the mirror. “Gypsy Jake,” she murmured to herself.
Then it became plain that she must buy Africa. She had the money. Jake could pay her back, or she could be the owner and he the jockey. She had visions of herself in a big primrose yellow hat, leading Africa into the winner’s enclosure with two mounted policemen on either side. She was a bit hazy about what went on in show jumping. She looked in the telephone directory,
“I don’t know why I’ve been telling you all these things,” said Tory. “You’re the one who needs cheering up. But you’re such a good listener.”
“I get plenty of practice. When you’ve got to take stupid women on long rides you develop a listener’s face. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re listening.”
Tory’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said humbly, starting to eat the crisps. “I didn’t mean to bore you.”
“You haven’t,” he said irritably.
“Who taught you to ride?” she asked.
“My father. He put me on a pony almost before I could walk.”
“How long ago did he die?” said Tory.
“I don’t know that he’s dead.”
Tory looked startled.
“He was a gypsy. He met my mother when he was hop-picking on part-time work. Her father was the keeper at the big house. He tried to settle down with my mother and get a steady job, but it was like caging a lark. One day, the wanderlust became too strong, so he walked out when I was about eight years old.”
“You must have missed him.”
“I did.” The third pint of beer had loosened his tongue and the world seemed a more hospitable place.
“So did my mother. She cried a lot, behind locked doors, and my grandfather went through all the photograph albums cutting my father’s picture out of the family groups.”
“So you might suddenly bump into him one day?”
“I doubt it,” said Jake, although he never passed a gypsy encampment or a fairground without having a look.
“Was he very good-looking?”
“My mother thought so. Two years after he left she waved me off to school and said she’d be in to cook the school dinner later. Then she put some cushions in front of the gas oven and that was that. All I remember is that all the masters and boys were particularly put out because we were supposed to be having treacle pudding that day.”
He suddenly glared at Tory, whose eyes had filled with tears. What the hell was he telling the soppy cow all this for? He hadn’t talked about his mother for years.
Tory couldn’t bear it. He’d lost his mother and his father and now he was going to lose Africa.
“Do you think Bobby Cotterel will really sell her?” she asked.
“ ’Course he will; doesn’t give a damn about her. He was grumbling the other day because Mrs. Wilton was threatening to put up the livery fees.”
The pub was filling up now and becoming noisy and clamorous. Tory looked at an obscene, pink pile of sausages, greasily glinting under a cover on the bar. How lovely to see food and for once not feel hungry.
“What will you do if Africa goes?”
“Get another job.”
“Around here?”
“No, up north probably. I doubt if Mrs. Wilton will give me a reference.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” said Tory, aghast. “I mean—it’s so cold up north. I must go to the loo.”
She had difficulty negotiating the way to the Ladies’, cannoning off tables and cricketers like a baby elephant.
Oh, hell, thought Jake, as she narrowly missed a flying dart, she’s pissed.
Tory collapsed onto the loo and realized with the shock from the cold slab under her bottom that the seat cover was still down. She lifted it up. If I can manage to go on peeing for over twenty seconds, Jake will take me out again, she said to herself. By wriggling she made it last for twenty-two.
When she found she had put her bag in the basin and washed her hands over it, she realized she was very tight. She couldn’t bear Jake to go away. She pressed her hot forehead against the mirror. “Gypsy Jake,” she murmured to herself.
Then it became plain that she must buy Africa. She had the money. Jake could pay her back, or she could be the owner and he the jockey. She had visions of herself in a big primrose yellow hat, leading Africa into the winner’s enclosure with two mounted policemen on either side. She was a bit hazy about what went on in show jumping. She looked in the telephone directory,
Similar Books
