Part 52 (1/2)

'Of course you are, love. It wouldn't be the same for Tremayne if you weren't there. He dotes on you. John can take you. And,' his eyes brightened mischievously with reawakening energy, 'I know who'd love to use my ticket.'

'Who?' his wife demanded. 'Erica. My sainted aunt.'

CHAPTER 14.

The Lifetime Award to Tremayne was the work of a taken-over, revitalised hotel chain aiming to crash the racing scene with sponsors.h.i.+p in a big way. They, Castle Houses, had put up the prize for a steeplechase and had also taken over a prestigious handicap hurdle race already in the programme for Sat.u.r.day.

The cash on offer for the hurdle race had stretched the racing world's eyes wide and excited owners into twisting their trainers' arms so that the entries had been phenomenal (Dee-Dee said). The field would be the maximum allowed on the course for safety and several lightweights had had to be balloted out.

As a preliminary to their blockbuster, Castle Houses had arranged the awards dinner and subsidized the tickets so that more or less everyone could afford them. The dinner was being held on the racecourse, in the grandstand with its almost limitless capacity; and the whole affair, Mackie had told me, was frankly only a giant advertis.e.m.e.nt, but everyone might as well enjoy it.

Before we went we met in the family room, Tremayne pretending nonchalance and looking unexpectedly sophisticated in his dinner jacket: grey hair smooth in wings, strong features composed, bulky body slimmed by ample expert tailoring. Perkin's jacket by contrast looked a shade too small for him and in hugging his incipient curves diminished the difference between the sizes of father and son.

Gareth's appearance surprised everyone, especially Tremayne: he made a bravado entrance to cover shyness in a dinner jacket no one knew he had, and he looked neat, personable and much older than fifteen.

'Where did you get that?' his father asked, marvelling.

'Picked it off a raspberry bush.' He smiled widely. 'Well, actually, Sam said I was the same height as him now and he happened to have two. So he's lent it to me. OK?'

'It's great,' Mackie said warmly, herself shapely in a s.h.i.+mmering black dress edged with velvet. 'And John's jacket, I see, survived the plunge into the ditch.'

The ditch seemed a long time ago: two weeks and three days back to the lonely silent abandoned struggle in the attic, to the life that seemed now to be the dream, with Sh.e.l.lerton the reality. Sh.e.l.lerton the brightly-lit stage; Chiswick the darkened amphitheatre where one sat watching from the G.o.ds.

'Don't get plastered tonight, John,' Tremayne said. 'I've a job for you in the morning.'

'Do you know how to avoid a hangover for ever?' Gareth asked me.

'How?' I said.

'Stay drunk.'

'Thanks a lot,' I said, laughing.

Tremayne, happy with life, said, 'You feel confident riding Drifter now, don't you?'

'More or less,' I agreed.

'Tomorrow you can ride Fringe. I own a half-share in him. He's that five-year-old in the corner box. You can school him over hurdles.'

I must have looked as astonished as I felt. I glanced at Mackie, saw her smiling, and knew she and Tremayne must have discussed it.

'Second lot,' Tremayne said. 'Ride Drifter first lot as usual.'

'If you think so,' I said a shade weakly.

'If you stay here a bit longer,' Tremayne said, 'and if you ride schooling satisfactorily, I don't see why you shouldn't eventually have a mount in an amateur race, if you put your mind to it.'

'Cool,' Gareth said fervently.