10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [39]
We were walking back towards the parade ring, where the horses were beginning to appear for the second race. She stopped abruptly from one stride to the next and faced me with frank hostility.
“Your father,” she said acidly, biting off each word as if she could crunch them to splinters of glass, “has stolen my purpose in life. It is I who should represent Hoopwestern in Parliament. It was I who was supposed to be fighting this election, and I’d have won it, too, which is more than your precious father will do for all his machismo.”
“He didn’t know you existed,” I said. “He was sent by the central party in Westminster to fight the by-election, if he could get selected. He didn’t set out to replace you personally.”
She demanded, “How do you know?”
“He told me. He’s been giving me a condensed course in politics since last Wednesday, when he brought me here as window dressing. He respects the way you feel. And, actually, if he had you on his side, and if because of that he did get elected, then maybe you could be as good a team with him as you were with Mr. Nagle.”
“You’re a child, ” she said.
“Yes ... sorry. But everyone here says how outstanding you are at work in the constituency.”
She made no comment, angry or otherwise, but began as before to study her race card, leaning on the parade ring rails as if at home.
After a bit she said, “What your father wants is power.”
“Yes.” I paused. “Do you?”
“Of course.”
Power stalked past us in the muscular rumps of fully grown steeplechasers, animals capable of covering ground at thirty miles an hour or more for distances of from four and a half miles: the length and speed of the Grand National. No animal on earth could better a racehorse for stamina and speed. That power ... that was power for me. To share it, guide it, jump with it ... oh, dear God, give me that power.
“Usher Rudd,” Orinda said, “do you know who I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Usher Rudd told my friend Alderney Wyvern—um, do you know who I mean by Alderney Wyvern?”
“Yes again.”
“Usher Rudd says George Juliard is not only lying about your being his legitimate son but maintains you are his catamite.”
“His what?” If I sounded bewildered, it was because I was. “What’s a ... a cat of mice?”
“You don’t know what he means?”
“No.”
“A catamite is a boy ... a prostitute boy lover.”
I wasn’t so much outraged as astonished. In fact, I laughed.
“Usher Rudd,” Orinda said warningly, “is a tireless researcher. Don’t take him lightly.”
“But I thought Paul Bethune was his sleaze target.”
“Anyone is,” Orinda said. “He makes up lies. He likes to destroy people. He’ll do it for money if he can, but if there’s no money in it he’ll do it for pleasure. He’s a butterfly-wing puller. Are you George Juliard’s legitimate son?”
“I look like him, a bit.”
She nodded.
“And he did marry my mother—in front of a lot of witnesses.” (Disapproving witnesses, but never mind.)
The news seemed not to please her.
“I suppose,” I said, “that you would prefer Usher Rudd to be right? Then you could have got rid of my father?”
“Alderney Wyvern says it will take more than an Usher Rudd fabrication. It’s a matter of finding a strong lever.”
She sounded fiercely bitter. Whatever Polly thought of my ability to understand unhappiness and release it, I felt lost in the maze of Orinda’s implacable grievances against my father.
“Someone took a shot at him,” I said.
Orinda shook her head. “Another lie.”
“I was there,” I protested.
“So was Alderney,” she said. “He saw what happened. George Juliard tripped on the cobbles and someone loosed a single shot out of high spirits and Juliard claimed it had been aimed at him! Utter rubbish. He’ll do anything for publicity.”
I thought: Orinda herself would never get under a car and unscrew a sump plug. However careful one might be, oil would run out before one could thrust a candle into the drain. Even if she knew how and where to unscrew the plug, engine oil and Orinda’s clothes couldn’t be thought of together in a month of canvassing.
Orinda needed glasses to read a race