been as easy as that. And he was actually in sight of some of the other riders in front of him. He had been looking out for an open gate somewhere. But now he felt that perhaps he should finish the course.
This however he didn’t bring off. Something had happened to the horse. David’s seat was down on the saddle and staying there. He had just told himself this meant they had dropped to a canter, when the brute once more changed its pace and trotted quietly off on a diagonal. Presumably it had suspected some indignity in the proceedings and had decided to go home. David judged he’d better concur.
It was thus that, minutes later, he was really in a crowd at last – or rather above a crowd, since he hadn’t yet ventured to dismount. He’d been to such affairs frequently enough for the scene to be entirely familiar: rows of cars, resplendent or humble, which had disgorged picnickers around collations elaborate or simple; a line of bookies, who certainly wouldn’t make a fortune; a tote; a few marquees; a bar with barrels of beer; sundry opportunities to buy ice-cream. The sun was still shining; the rows of cars gleamed and sparkled; people moved about with a great sense of leisure, of relaxation, as if the last thing anybody meant to do was to attach much importance to whatever had brought them together. It was all easily and utterly English. And, above all, it was as safe as houses – or as safe as estate cars and horse boxes and tents labelled ‘Committee’ or ‘First Aid’. David sat his beautiful hunter as if it was the top of the world. Like DH Lawrence, he wanted to buttonhole people and insist with some urgency that he had come through. He was rather disappointed that – at first – nobody paid any attention to him.
He certainly wasn’t dressed for this part. But perhaps he passed very well for a groom or a stable boy. There was nobody to recognize him – unless, by any chance, Ian was really here, and had brought any of the crowd along with him… David leant forward and patted the horse’s neck in what he judged to be a convincingly professional way. He noticed that his finger was bleeding again – the finger that had been grazed by a bullet during the incredible flight from the Tor. And it did seem incredible now; he almost felt that, if it weren’t for these drops of blood, he would find it impossible to believe in the whole thing: that there had ever been a dead body, or a man with a clipped moustache, or even a hay wagon and two sinister men on motorbikes. In that sun-warmed saucer of stone on top of Knack Tor he had fallen asleep and dreamed a succession of alarming dreams prompted, perhaps, by the mild dangerousness of the previous night’s affair in Timothy Dumble’s car.
David’s mind was working in this irresponsible way when he saw somebody looking at him over the heads of the crowd. It was the man in knickerbockers.
11
There was nothing surprising in that. The place of their last encounter was, after all, no distance away. Nevertheless here was a disappointing discovery. The dream had obstinately cropped up again.
David slipped to the ground and walked off leaving the horse to look after itself. This was an action so excessively odd that it should have attracted general notice at once; and it was a sign that his reactions to events were now really becoming blundering and extravagant. That the man in knickerbockers couldn’t very well, in present circumstances, walk up and despatch him was a simple consideration that David’s mind just failed to get around to. He was dominated by the sense that he hadn’t yet escaped, after all; that the job, in fact, was yet to do. So he walked away in what he thought was an unobtrusive manner. Oddly enough, nobody protested – perhaps because the horse obligingly stayed put and so didn’t draw attention to itself. David climbed over a rope and edged himself into the small crowd milling around before the line of bookies.
It might
This however he didn’t bring off. Something had happened to the horse. David’s seat was down on the saddle and staying there. He had just told himself this meant they had dropped to a canter, when the brute once more changed its pace and trotted quietly off on a diagonal. Presumably it had suspected some indignity in the proceedings and had decided to go home. David judged he’d better concur.
It was thus that, minutes later, he was really in a crowd at last – or rather above a crowd, since he hadn’t yet ventured to dismount. He’d been to such affairs frequently enough for the scene to be entirely familiar: rows of cars, resplendent or humble, which had disgorged picnickers around collations elaborate or simple; a line of bookies, who certainly wouldn’t make a fortune; a tote; a few marquees; a bar with barrels of beer; sundry opportunities to buy ice-cream. The sun was still shining; the rows of cars gleamed and sparkled; people moved about with a great sense of leisure, of relaxation, as if the last thing anybody meant to do was to attach much importance to whatever had brought them together. It was all easily and utterly English. And, above all, it was as safe as houses – or as safe as estate cars and horse boxes and tents labelled ‘Committee’ or ‘First Aid’. David sat his beautiful hunter as if it was the top of the world. Like DH Lawrence, he wanted to buttonhole people and insist with some urgency that he had come through. He was rather disappointed that – at first – nobody paid any attention to him.
He certainly wasn’t dressed for this part. But perhaps he passed very well for a groom or a stable boy. There was nobody to recognize him – unless, by any chance, Ian was really here, and had brought any of the crowd along with him… David leant forward and patted the horse’s neck in what he judged to be a convincingly professional way. He noticed that his finger was bleeding again – the finger that had been grazed by a bullet during the incredible flight from the Tor. And it did seem incredible now; he almost felt that, if it weren’t for these drops of blood, he would find it impossible to believe in the whole thing: that there had ever been a dead body, or a man with a clipped moustache, or even a hay wagon and two sinister men on motorbikes. In that sun-warmed saucer of stone on top of Knack Tor he had fallen asleep and dreamed a succession of alarming dreams prompted, perhaps, by the mild dangerousness of the previous night’s affair in Timothy Dumble’s car.
David’s mind was working in this irresponsible way when he saw somebody looking at him over the heads of the crowd. It was the man in knickerbockers.
11
There was nothing surprising in that. The place of their last encounter was, after all, no distance away. Nevertheless here was a disappointing discovery. The dream had obstinately cropped up again.
David slipped to the ground and walked off leaving the horse to look after itself. This was an action so excessively odd that it should have attracted general notice at once; and it was a sign that his reactions to events were now really becoming blundering and extravagant. That the man in knickerbockers couldn’t very well, in present circumstances, walk up and despatch him was a simple consideration that David’s mind just failed to get around to. He was dominated by the sense that he hadn’t yet escaped, after all; that the job, in fact, was yet to do. So he walked away in what he thought was an unobtrusive manner. Oddly enough, nobody protested – perhaps because the horse obligingly stayed put and so didn’t draw attention to itself. David climbed over a rope and edged himself into the small crowd milling around before the line of bookies.
It might
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