Jake stared at her, unsmiling. He had a curiously immobile face, everything in the right place, but without animation. The swarthy features were pale today, the full lips set in an uncompromising line. Slanting, secretive, dark eyes looked out from beneath a frowning line of brow, practically concealed by the thick thatch of almost black hair. He was small, not more than five foot seven, and very thin, a good jockey’s weight. The only note of frivolity was the gold rings in his ears. There was something watchful and controled about him that didn’t go with youth. Despite the heat of the day, his shirt collar was turned up as if against some imagined storm.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, looking down the row of loose boxes.
Suddenly her eyes lit on Africa.
“What’s she doing inside?”
“I brought her in this morning,” he lied easily. “She yells her head off if she’s separated from Dandelion and I thought you’d like a lie in.”
“Well, put her out again when you go. I’m not having her eating her head off.”
Despite the fat fee paid by Bobby Gotterel, thought Jake.
She peered into the loose box. For an appalling moment he thought she was going to peel back the rug.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilton,” shrieked Fen. “Come and look at Dandelion. Doesn’t he look smart?”
Distracted, Mrs. Wilton turned away from Africa.
“Hello, Fen, dear, you’re an early bird. He does look nice; you’ve even oiled his hooves. Perhaps you’ll bring home a rosette.”
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Fen gloomily. “Last time he ate all the potatoes in the potato race.”
“Phew, that was a near one,” said Fen, as Mrs. Wilton’s car, with the labrador’s head sticking out of the window, disappeared down the road.
“Come on,” said Jake. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”
Dressing later before he set out for the show, Jake transferred the crushed and faded yellow tansy flower from the bottom of his left gum boot to his left riding boot. Tansy warded off evil. Jake was full of superstitions. The royal gypsy blood of the Lovells didn’t flow through his veins for nothing.