The Dark Horse Read Online Free PDF Page A

pots of violets, lilies, carnations or chrysanthemums the gardeners set along the verandah; but for all the chaos Scattergold Hall was a happy place and many more people would have been glad to come if John had let them.
    Mother Morag found him on the drive; Gog and Magog had let her in without demur, the Sikh gateman saluted her, and she was able to thank John in the name of the Sisters and of Solomon for the shoeing.
    â€˜Oh, that!’ said John.
    â€˜Yes, that. Not only generous but imaginative,’ and Mother Morag said, ‘As I am here, may I call on Mrs Quillan?’
    â€˜Mrs Quillan?’ The name seemed to give him almost a shock. Then, ‘Of course,’ he had said. ‘Dahlia will be delighted,’ and took her into the house. ‘I don’t suppose,’ Captain Mack, the veterinary surgeon, told Mother Morag afterwards, ‘that an English lady had ever been in that house before.’
    â€˜I’m not exactly an English lady,’ said Mother Morag. ‘I’m a Sister,’ and that was how Dahlia, in her simplicity, welcomed her except, ‘If I had known you were coming I should have dressed, m’n?’ but the ‘m’n’ was said laughingly.
    â€˜I’m glad you didn’t. I feel more at home.’ Dahlia wore heel-less embroidered slippers and a loose wrapper that gave a plentiful view of her warm peach and brown skin; her hair was loose on her shoulders. Mother Morag guessed that Dahlia dressed for an occasion could be a disaster but fortunately Dahlia had no ambitions except to make every creature, two-legged or four-legged, who came into her orbit, happy and comfortable, from the John she adored, through babies, children, horses, pet lambs, cats, mynah birds, Gog and Magog of course but, just as much, the pariah bitch who at that moment was having puppies under the verandah table, and she said to Mother Morag, ‘This iss verree nice,’ – a chi-chi accent is usually shrill, Dahlia’s was soft. ‘And here, too, just in time, is our good friend, dear Captain Mack.’
    The bitch under the verandah table was being helped, or hindered, by four of the bandar-log squatting down beside her. They were worried. ‘Mumma, it’s hurting her. It’s hurting her terribly.’
    â€˜She’ll soon be better. See, Sandy has come, m’n.’ Dahlia soothed them and, to Mother Morag, ‘Captain Mack is a verree good friend to us.’
    â€˜And to us,’ said Mother Morag.
    The big red-haired freckled Scotsman was the official veterinary surgeon to the Turf Club, but he would turn out for a suffering pariah bitch as he would have to one of the Quillan, or any owner’s, valuable blood horses, ‘and as he does often for us,’ said Mother Morag. For the Sisters it was the heartbreaking problem of dogs and cats. Not many of the old men and women, Indian, Eurasian, European, who came to the Sisters had pets, the struggle for their own survival had been too hard to allow that, but there were a few and, ‘I’m sorry we can’t have your Moti,’ – ‘Moti’ meant a pearl – ‘or Toby or Dinkie,’ Mother Morag had to tell them. ‘We once had a poor bedraggled peacock,’ she said. ‘Bunny took him, and we have mynah birds. Fortunately we can take birds.’
    â€˜But we’re not an animal shelter.’ Sister Ignatius believed that if there had to be something painful, it was better if it were dealt with quickly, which often meant brusquely.
    â€˜But, Sister, I have had him for ten years. Couldn’t you? For me? Mother, Sister, please. He would be just one.’
    â€˜He wouldn’t. He would soon be one of twenty.’
    Mother Morag would try and explain. ‘You see, if we have one, we have to have all. I’m sorry,’ – but it was Captain Mack who tactfully took Moti or Toby or Dinkie away and usually did not send in a bill.