moving his stubby fingers across the watch chain that is a dull gold weight on his vest.
Once in the loft building Hencher lights the torch. Presses the switch with his thumb but keeps the torch down, is careful not to shine the beam toward the exact spot where he knows the man is standing. Rather lights himself with the torch and walks ahead into the dark. He is smiling though he feels sweat on his cheeks and in the folds of his neck. The loft building smells of creosote,the dead pollen of straw, and petrol. He cannot see it, but he knows that to his left there is a double door, closed, and beside it, hidden and waiting within the darkness, a passenger car stately with black lacquer and a radiator cap identical to that on the van. If he swings the torch, flashes it suddenly and recklessly to the left, he knows the light will be dashed back in his face from the car’s thick squares of polished window glass. But he keeps the beam at his heel, walks more and more slowly until at last he stops.
“You managed to get here, Hencher,” the man says.
“I thought I was on the dot, Larry … good as my word, you know.”
“Yes, always good as your word. But you’ve forgotten to take off your cap.”
Hencher takes it off, feels his whole head exposed and hot and ugly. At last he allows himself to look, and it is only the softest glow that his torch sheds on the man before him.
“We got the horse, right outside in the van … I told you, right outside.”
“But you stopped. You did not come here directly.”
“I did my best. I did my bloody best, but if he wants to knock it off, if he wants to stop at home and have a word with the wife, why that’s just unfortunate … but no fault of mine, is it, Larry?”
And then, listening in the direction of the car, waiting for a sound—scratch of the ignition key, oiled suck of gear-lever—he sees the hand extended in front of him and is forced to take hold of it. One boot moves,the other moves, the trenchcoat makes a harsh rubbing noise. And the hand lets go of his, the man fades out of the light and yet—Hencher wipes his face and listens— once in the darkness the footsteps ring back to him like those of an officer on parade.
He keeps his own feet quiet until he reaches the yard and sees the open night sky beginning to change and grow milky like chemicals in a vat, and until he sniffs a faint odor of dung and tobacco smoke. Then he trudges loudly as he can and suddenly, calling the name, shines the bright torch on Cowles.
“Pissed off, was he,” says Cowles, and does not blink.
But in the cab Hencher already braces the steering wheel against his belly; the driver’s open door swings to the movement of the van. Cowles and the jockey and stableboy walk in slow procession behind the van, which is not too wide for the overgrown passage between the row of stalls, the long dark space between the low stable buildings, but which is high so that now and again the roof of the van brushes then scrapes against the rotted eaves. The tires are wet from the dampness of tangled and prickly weeds. Once, the van stops and Hencher climbs down, drags a bale of molded hay from its path. Then they move—horse van, walking men—and exhaust fumes fill empty bins, water troughs, empty stalls. In darkness they pass a shovel in an iron wheelbarrow, a saddle pad covered with inert black flies, a whip leaning against a whited post. Round a corner they come upon a red lantern burning beside an open and freshly whitewashed box stall. The hay rack has been mended,clean hard silken straw covers the floor, a red horse blanket lies folded on a weathered cane chair near the lantern.
“Lovely will fetch him down for you, Hencher,” says Cowles.
“I will fetch him down myself, if you please.”
And Lovely the stableboy grins and walks into the stall; the jockey pushes the horse blanket off the chair, sits down heavily; Cowles takes one end of the chain while Hencher works with the other.
They
Once in the loft building Hencher lights the torch. Presses the switch with his thumb but keeps the torch down, is careful not to shine the beam toward the exact spot where he knows the man is standing. Rather lights himself with the torch and walks ahead into the dark. He is smiling though he feels sweat on his cheeks and in the folds of his neck. The loft building smells of creosote,the dead pollen of straw, and petrol. He cannot see it, but he knows that to his left there is a double door, closed, and beside it, hidden and waiting within the darkness, a passenger car stately with black lacquer and a radiator cap identical to that on the van. If he swings the torch, flashes it suddenly and recklessly to the left, he knows the light will be dashed back in his face from the car’s thick squares of polished window glass. But he keeps the beam at his heel, walks more and more slowly until at last he stops.
“You managed to get here, Hencher,” the man says.
“I thought I was on the dot, Larry … good as my word, you know.”
“Yes, always good as your word. But you’ve forgotten to take off your cap.”
Hencher takes it off, feels his whole head exposed and hot and ugly. At last he allows himself to look, and it is only the softest glow that his torch sheds on the man before him.
“We got the horse, right outside in the van … I told you, right outside.”
“But you stopped. You did not come here directly.”
“I did my best. I did my bloody best, but if he wants to knock it off, if he wants to stop at home and have a word with the wife, why that’s just unfortunate … but no fault of mine, is it, Larry?”
And then, listening in the direction of the car, waiting for a sound—scratch of the ignition key, oiled suck of gear-lever—he sees the hand extended in front of him and is forced to take hold of it. One boot moves,the other moves, the trenchcoat makes a harsh rubbing noise. And the hand lets go of his, the man fades out of the light and yet—Hencher wipes his face and listens— once in the darkness the footsteps ring back to him like those of an officer on parade.
He keeps his own feet quiet until he reaches the yard and sees the open night sky beginning to change and grow milky like chemicals in a vat, and until he sniffs a faint odor of dung and tobacco smoke. Then he trudges loudly as he can and suddenly, calling the name, shines the bright torch on Cowles.
“Pissed off, was he,” says Cowles, and does not blink.
But in the cab Hencher already braces the steering wheel against his belly; the driver’s open door swings to the movement of the van. Cowles and the jockey and stableboy walk in slow procession behind the van, which is not too wide for the overgrown passage between the row of stalls, the long dark space between the low stable buildings, but which is high so that now and again the roof of the van brushes then scrapes against the rotted eaves. The tires are wet from the dampness of tangled and prickly weeds. Once, the van stops and Hencher climbs down, drags a bale of molded hay from its path. Then they move—horse van, walking men—and exhaust fumes fill empty bins, water troughs, empty stalls. In darkness they pass a shovel in an iron wheelbarrow, a saddle pad covered with inert black flies, a whip leaning against a whited post. Round a corner they come upon a red lantern burning beside an open and freshly whitewashed box stall. The hay rack has been mended,clean hard silken straw covers the floor, a red horse blanket lies folded on a weathered cane chair near the lantern.
“Lovely will fetch him down for you, Hencher,” says Cowles.
“I will fetch him down myself, if you please.”
And Lovely the stableboy grins and walks into the stall; the jockey pushes the horse blanket off the chair, sits down heavily; Cowles takes one end of the chain while Hencher works with the other.
They
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