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Newbury last week, when it failed to finish in the first half-dozen when a heavily backed favorite.
    Is Josephine losing her magic touch that had won her such respect as well as numerous big prizes? With the Cheltenham Festival now only five weeks away, can we expect a repeat of last year’s fantastic feats, or have the Kauri horses simply flattered to deceive?
    Gordon Rambler had pulled no punches. He went on to speculate that Mrs. Kauri might be overtraining the horses at home, such that they had passed their peak by the time they reached the racetrack. It would not have been the first time a trainer had inadvertently “lost the race on the gallops,” as it was known, although I would be surprised if my mother had, not after so many years of experience. Not unless, as the paper said, she had lost her magic touch.
    But she hadn’t lost her touch for shouting. I could hear her upstairs in full flow, although I couldn’t quite make out the words. No doubt my stepfather was suffering the wrath of her tongue. I almost felt sorry for him. But only almost.
     
     
    I decided it might be prudent for me to get out of the house for a while, so I went for a wander around the stables.
    The block nearest the house, the one over which Ian Norland lived, was just one side of three quadrangles of stables, each containing twenty-four stalls, that stretched away from the house.
    When my mother had acquired the place from her first husband there had been far fewer stables, laid out in two lines of wooden huts. But by the time my father had packed up and left nine years later, my mother had built the first of the current redbrick rectangles. The second was added when I’d been about fifteen, and the third more recently in what had once been a lunging paddock. And there was still enough of the paddock remaining to add a fourth, if required.
    Even on a Sunday morning, the stables were a hive of activity. The horses needed to be fed and watered seven days a week, although my mother, along with most trainers, still resisted the temptation to treat Sunday as just another day to send strings of horses out on the gallops. But that was probably more to do with having to pay staff double time on Sundays rather than any wish to keep the Sabbath special.
    “Good morning,” Ian Norland called to me as he came out of one of the stalls. “Still here, then?”
    “Yes,” I said. Surely, I thought, I hadn’t implied anything to him the previous afternoon. “Why wouldn’t I still be here?”
    “No reason,” he said, smiling. “Just . . .”
    “Just what?” I asked with some determination.
    “Just that Mrs. Kauri doesn’t seem to like guests staying overnight. Most go home after dinner.”
    “This is my home,” I said.
    “Oh,” he said. “I suppose it is.”
    He seemed slightly flustered, as if he had already said too much to the son of his employer. He was right. He had.
    “And how is Pharmacist this morning?” I asked, half hoping for some more indiscretion.
    “Fine,” he said rather dismissively.
    “How fine?” I persisted.
    “He’s a bit tired after yesterday,” he said. “But otherwise, he’s OK.”
    “No diarrhea?” I asked.
    He gave me a look that I took to imply that he wished he hadn’t mentioned anything about diarrhea to me yesterday.
    “No,” he said.
    “Does he look well in his eyes?” I asked.
    “Like I said, he’s just tired.” He picked up a bucket and began to fill it under a tap. “Sorry, I have to get on.” It was my cue that the conversation was over.
    “Yes, of course,” I said. I started to walk on, but I stopped and turned around. “Which stall is Pharmacist in?”
    “Mrs. Kauri wouldn’t want anyone seeing him,” Ian said. “Not just now.”
    “Why on earth not?” I said, sounding aggrieved.
    “She just wouldn’t,” he repeated. “Mrs. Kauri doesn’t like anyone snooping round the yard. Won’t even allow the owners to see their own horses without her there to escort