The Dark Horse by Rumer Godden Page A

pay – and blow it during their few days in Calcutta, thought John. Why not? Their fares home were paid.
    In contrast to their sloppiness, this little man was spruce in a clean shirt with a celluloid collar such as John had not seen for years, a waistcoat with a silk watch chain – probably made for him by his wife or admirer, thought John – cord breeches, box-cloth leggings and worn but brilliantly polished boots; those boots sent John back on a wave of almost unbearable nostalgia to his father’s stable yard and the standards he knew now he had lost.
    There was even the inevitable cloth cap, touched respectfully by the finger of one hand; the other hand held the big horse with an authority that kept the Indian grooms back.
    â€˜You must be from Mr Traherne.’ Emotion always made John terse.
    â€˜Yes, sir. The name is Mullins. Ted Mullins.’
    â€˜And I’m John Quillan. I train for Mr Leventine.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, and this is Dark Invader.’
    If Ted had expected eulogies he did not get them. John Quillan walked slowly round Dark Invader, appraising the horse as closely as Ted had appraised him. ‘Certainly fills the eye,’ was all he said, exactly as Peter Hay had done. That was too much for Ted and, in his turn, he said what he had told Peter. ‘He’s a bloody lovely hoss, sir, and such a gentleman with it.’
    The horse was not the only gentleman. ‘Would it be in order with you, sir, if I walked the Invader home?’
    John noted the use of the word ‘home’; evidently Ted’s appraisal had ended in approval, but John had to hesitate. ‘It’s a longish walk, all of three miles.’
    â€˜Good. After tramping round and round them decks the Invader’ll feel a bit strange. He’s used to me.’
    â€˜Of course, but… would you just walk with him?’
    Ted flushed. ‘You mean out here an Englishman shouldn’t be seen leading a hoss?’ He was nettled.
    â€˜It’s a question of prestige, yes, but not yours,’ said John. ‘I’m thinking of Sadiq and Ali who will be Dark Invader’s grooms – we call them “syces” out here. Sadiq is waiting to take charge and if he doesn’t… well, there would be a loss of face.’
    â€˜I see, sir. Would he – Mr – is it Saddick, sir? Would he mind if I walked along?’ asked Ted.
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    Ted never forgot that first walk in Calcutta.
    Sadiq was a head taller than Ted, the turban he wore making him seem even taller. He was burly – would have made two of Ted, dark with a fierce upturned moustache and prominent brown eyes with curiously yellowed whites, so that they reminded Ted of snail shells; already they were looking at Dark Invader with the pride of a mother in her first-born son and Ted had to swallow and turn his head away.
    â€˜You’ll need a hat,’ John Quillan was saying. ‘That cap’s no good. The sun is hot even though it’s October. Perhaps you bought a topee at Port Said?’
    â€˜Didn’t think it was worth it, sir, seeing as I’m going straight back.’ John noticed, too, that Ted’s face was white.
    â€˜Sure you want to walk? All right, I expect I have a topee in the car – my wife puts one in.’
    A second groom had joined Sadiq on the off-side. Dark Invader led the way, the other Quillan horses coming behind but, even with the stiffness that came from the weeks of being boxed, his great stride soon outpaced them. ‘Him fast.’ Sadiq prided himself on his English.
    â€˜Ji-han!’ the other groom panted as he tried to keep up. Ted was glad to see neither of them jerked on the reins. He put a restraining hand on Dark Invader’s bridle. ‘Steady, boy, steady.’
    â€˜S-steady. S-steady.’ The s’s hissed through Sadiq’s teeth.
    Their way led, at first, through streets lined with one-, or two-, or three-storeyed houses,