The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [43]
‘Funeral horses?’ said Freda, eying the satiny flanks of the wicked-looking animals.
On great occasions, the soldiers explained, the death of military leaders, the laying to rest of Dukes and Princes, the Queen’s horses, glossy black, pulled the gun carriage with the coffin on top.
‘Of course,’ said Brenda, remembering the death of Churchill. She looked discreetly at the rounded bellies, trying to ascertain what sex they were.
‘Are they ladies or gentlemen?’ she whispered to Freda. ‘I can’t see.’
‘Geldings,’ pronounced Freda, though Brenda was no wiser. ‘You can’t have stallions at a state funeral …’
‘Why ever not?’ asked Brenda.
‘They’re too fruity – it stands to reason. They might go wild and stampede down the Mall dragging the coffin at breakneck speed.’
‘How awful,’ said Brenda.
‘They’re very carefully trained. In Vienna it was an art in itself.’
Freda spoke as if she knew all about it, though in truth she had only ridden once, and that on a donkey at Whitby Bay when she was six years old.
The soldiers, young boys from country districts with soft burring accents, ate pieces of salami and crusts of bread washed down by the wine. In return, unasked, they offered the two women and one of the men a ride on the horses.
‘Oh, no,’ said Brenda instantly, ‘I couldn’t possibly – honestly. Thank you very much all the same.’
She stepped backwards, as if fearing they would fling her into the air by force and strap her in the saddle like some sacrifice to the gods of war. The workers, having been picked once in their lives by Mr Paganotti, hung back, not expecting to be chosen again. Vittorio made a token attempt to stand back for Salvatore, but it was not serious, and he and Rossi mounted. Freda, her delicate back forgotten, flung down her sheepskin coat and was hauled by two soldiers on to the large gelding, the plump curves of her purple calves echoing the rounded swell of the horses. Admiringly the men watched her swaying under the sky, her peach face shimmering amidst the golden strands of her blown hair. Vittorio, the red jumper giving him a military air, rode at her side. The soldiers mounted their own beasts, the long guiding reins streaming out behind them, and began to canter slowly away from the pitch. Last went Rossi, hair clustered in damp ringlets upon his brow, bumping like a schoolboy across the neck of his horse. They rode through the air, level with the distant hills and the black fingers of the thorn trees, and Freda held an imaginary crop in her hand and tilted her chin imperiously at the sun. She was Catherine of Russia at the head of her regiment; she was Lady Barbara riding beside the young squire. Vittorio could not take his eyes from her: she was so majestic, so splendidly rooted to the black horse. She knew he was looking at her. She parted her lips, and a dimple appeared in her left cheek, and she thought, just at this moment we are one, you and I, only a little lower than the angels. They swept in a wide arc around the park, the scent of the firs mingling with the sweat of the horses, and turned at the curve of the timber fence, bending low to avoid the branches dipping in their path.
As they flashed past the beginning of the beech wood, Vittorio thought he saw someone in a peaked cap and a mackintosh running along an avenue of trees. For a second he imagined it was the Irish van-driver, but he remembered that Freda had said he had long since made for home.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Freda graciously, as the horses stopped once more at the oak tree. ‘It was so nice.’ And she slid, light as a feather, it seemed, to the green grass and stood patting the nose of her horse.
Her knees began to tremble, her thighs ached; she had not realised how tightly she had gripped the belly of the saddleless animal. Exhilarated and unsteady on her feet, she smiled with childish satisfaction at Vittorio and said gaily to Brenda: ‘Oh, you should have come. It was beautiful. It was so beautiful.’
They sat on the ground