by Jilly Cooper
Fen felt her stomach getting hollower and hollower. The jumps looked huge. The first fence was as big as Epping Forest.
“Please, God, let me not have three refusals, let me not let Dandelion down.”
“Oh, here comes Tory,” she said as Jake helped her saddle up Dandelion. “She went to a dance last night but I don’t think she enjoyed it; her eyes were awfully red this morning.”
Jake watched the plump, anxious-faced Tory wincing over the churned-up ground in her tight shoes. She didn’t look like a girl who enjoyed anything very much.
“Did you have a nice lunch? I bet you had strawberries,” shrieked Fen, climbing onto Dandelion and gathering up the reins. “I’m just going to put Dandelion over a practice fence.
“This is my sister, Tory,” she added.
Jake looked at Tory with that measure of disapproval he always bestowed on strangers.
“It’s very hot,” stammered Tory.
“Very,” said Jake.
There didn’t seem much else to say.
Fortunately, Tory was saved by the microphone calling the competitors into the collecting ring.
“Mr. Lovell, I can’t get Stardust’s girths to meet, she’s blown herself out,” wailed Patty Beasley.
Jake went over and gave Stardust a hefty knee-up in the belly.
Fen came back from jumping the practice fence. Immediately Dandelion’s head went down, snatching at the grass.
“You pig,” squealed Fen, jumping off and pulling bits out of his mouth. “I just cleaned that bit. Where’s Mummy?” she added to Tory.
“Going over the garden with Lady Dorothy,” said Tory.
“She must be bored,” said Fen. “No, there she is over on the other side of the ring.”
Looking across, they could see Mrs. Maxwell standing beside Sally Ann Thomson’s mother, while Colonel Carter adjusted her deck chair.
“Colonel Carter stayed last night,” said Fen in disgust. “I couldn’t sleep and I looked out of the window at about five o’clock and saw him go. He looked up at Mummy’s bedroom and blew her a great soppy kiss. Think of kissing a man with an awful, droopy mustache like that. I suppose there’s no accounting for tastes.”
“Fen,” said Tory, blushing scarlet. She looked at Jake out of the corner of her eye to see if he was registering shock or amusement, but his face was quite expressionless.
“Number Fifty-eight,” called out the collecting ring steward.
A girl in a dark blue riding coat on a very shiny bay mare went in and jumped clear. Some nearby drunks in a Bentley, whose boot groaned with booze, hooted loudly on their horn.
“How was her ladyship’s garden?” asked Colonel Carter.
“I think I was given a tour of every petal,” said Molly Maxwell.
“You must have been the fairest flower,” said the colonel, putting his deck chair as close to hers as possible. “My people used to have a lovely garden in Hampshar.”
The radio personality, Dudley Diplock, having mastered the microphone, was now thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Here comes the junior champion for Surrey,” he said. “Miss Cock, Miss Sarah Cock on Topsy.”
A girl with buckteeth rode in. Despite her frenziedly flailing legs the pony ground to a halt three times in front of the first fence.
“Jolly bad luck, Topsy,” said the radio personality. “Oh, I beg your pardon, here comes Miss Sarah Cock, I mean Cook, on Topsy.”
A girl on a heavily bandaged dappled gray came in and jumped a brisk clear round.
Next came Sally Ann Thomson.
“Here’s my little girl,” said Mrs. Thomson, pausing for a moment in her discussion of hats with Mrs. Maxwell. “I wonder if Stardust will go better in a running martingale.”
Stardust decided not and refused three times at the first fence.
“We really ought to buy her a pony of her own,” said Mrs. Thomson. “Even the best riders can’t do much on riding-school hacks.”
Mrs. Maxwell winked at Colonel Carter.
Round followed round; everyone agreed the standard was frightful.
“And here we have yet another competitor from Brook Farm Riding School: Miss Patty Beasley on Swindle.”
Swindle trotted dejectedly into the ring, rolling-eyed and thin-legged, like a horse in a medieval tapestry. Then, like a car running out of petrol, she ground to a halt in front of the first fence.
Jake raised his eyes to heaven.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
Swindle’s third refusal was too much for Patty’s father, who’d bought breeches specially to attend the show. Rushing across the grass he brandished a shooting stick shouting, “Geron.” Terrified, Swindle rose like a stag from the hard ground and took a great leap over the brush fence, whereupon Patty fell off and burst into tears.
“Another competitor from Brook Farm Riding School eliminated,” said Dudley Diplock.
“Teach them to fall off there, don’t they?” said a wag.
The crowd guffawed. Jake gritted his teeth. He was aware of Tory standing beside him and, sensing her sympathy, was grateful.
“It’s your turn next,” said Jake, going up to Fen and checking Dandelion’s girths. “Take the double slowly. Everyone else has come round the corner too fast and not given themselves enough time. Off you go,” he added, gently pulling Dandelion’s ears.
“Please, God, I’ll never be bad again,” prayed Fen. “I won’t be foul to Sally Ann or call Patty a drip, or be rude to Mummy. Just let me get round.”
Ignoring the cries of good luck, desperately trying to remember everything Jake had told her, Fen rode into the ring with a set expression on her face.
“Miss Fenella Maxwell, from Brook Farm Riding School,” said the radio personality. “Let’s have a round of applause for our youngest competitor.”
The crowd, scenting carnage, clapped lethargically. Dandelion, his brown and white patches gleaming like a conker that had been opened too early, gave a good-natured buck.
“Isn’t that your little girl?” said Mrs. Thomson.
“So it is,” said Molly Maxwell, “Oh look, her pony’s going to the lav. Don’t horses have an awful sense of timing?”
The first fence loomed as high as Becher’s Brook and Fen used her legs so fiercely, Dandelion rose into the air, clearing it by a foot.
Fen was slightly unseated and unable to get straight in the saddle to ride Dandelion properly at the gate. He slowed down and refused; when Fen whacked him he rolled his eyes, swished his tail, and started to graze. The crowd laughed; Fen went crimson.
“Oh, poor thing,” murmured Tory in anguish.
Fen pulled his head up and let him examine the gate. Dandelion sniffed, decided it was harmless and, with a whisk of his fat rump, flew over and went bucketing on to clear the stile, at which Fen lost her stirrup, then cleared the parallel bars, where she lost the other stirrup. Rounding the corner for home, Dandelion stepped up the pace. Fen checked him, her hat falling over her nose, as he bounded towards the road-closed sign. Dandelion, fighting for his head, rapped the fence, but it stayed put.
I can’t bear to look, thought Tory, shutting her eyes.
Fen had lost her hat now and, plaits flying, raced towards the triple. Jake watched her strain every nerve to get the takeoff right. Dandelion cleared it by inches and galloped out of the ring to loud applause.
“Miss Fenella Maxwell on Dandelion, only three faults for a refusal; jolly good round,” coughed the microphone.
“I had no idea she’d improved so much,” said Tory, turning a pink, ecstatic face towards Jake.
Fen cantered up, grinning from ear to ear.
“Wasn’t Dandelion wonderful?” she said, jumping off, flinging her arms round his neck, covering him with kisses, and stuffing him with sugar lumps.
She looked up at Jake inquiringly: “Well?”
“We could see half the show ground between your knees and the saddle, and you took him too fast at the gate, but not bad,” he
said.
For the first time that day he looked cheerful, and Tory thought how nice he was.
“I must go and congratulate Fen,” said Mrs. Maxwell, delicately picking her way through the dung that Manners had not yet gathered.
“Well done, darling,” she shrieked in a loud voice, which made all the nearby horses jump. “What a good boy,” she added, gingerly patting Dandelion’s nose with a gloved hand. “He is a boy, isn’t he?” She tilted her head sideways to look.
“Awfully good show,” said Colonel Carter. “My sister used to jump on horseback in Hampshar.”
Mrs. Maxwell turned to Jake, enveloping him in a sickening waft of Arpège.
“Fen really has come on. I do hope she isn’t too much of a nuisance down at the stables all day, but she is utterly pony-mad. Every sentence begins, ‘Jake said this, Jake says that’; you’ve become quite an ogre in our home.”
“Oh, Mummy,” groaned Fen.
Jake, thinking how silly she was and unable to think of anything to say in reply, remained silent.
How gauche he is, thought Molly Maxwell.
The junior class, having finished jumping off, were riding into the ring to collect their rosettes.
“Number Eighty-six,” howled the collecting ring steward. “Number Eighty-six.”
“That’s you, Fen,” said Tory in excitement.
“It couldn’t be. I had a refusal.”
“You’re fourth,” said Jake, “go on.”
“I couldn’t be.”
“Number Eighty-six, for the last time,” bellowed the ring steward.
“It is me,” said Fen, and scrambling onto Dandelion, plonking her hat on her head, and not wearing a riding coat, she cantered into the ring, where she thanked Miss Bilborough three times for her rosette. Success went to Dandelion’s head and his feet. Thinking the lap of honor was a race, he barged ahead of the other three winners, carting Fen out of the ring and galloping half round the show ground before she could pull him to a halt in front of Jake. He shook his head disapprovingly.
Fen giggled. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if Africa got one too?”
3
The afternoon wore on, getting hotter. The Lady Mayoress, sweating in her scarlet robes, had a bright yellow nose from sniffing Lady Dorothy’s lilies. The band was playing “Land of Hope and Glory” in the main ring as the fences for the open jumping were put up, the sun glinting on their brass instruments. Mrs. Thomson and Mrs. Maxwell moved their deck chairs to the right, following the sun, and agreed that Jake was extremely rude.
“I’m going to have a word with Joyce Wilton about it,” said Molly Maxwell.
“Horse, horse, horse,” said Mr. Thomson.
“I can never get Fen to wear a dress; she’s never been interested in dolls,” said Molly Maxwell, who was still crowing over Fen’s rosette.
“I’m pleased Sally Ann has not lost her femininity,” said Mrs. Thomson.
“It’s extraordinary how many people read The Tatler,” said Mrs. Maxwell.
“Mrs. Squires to the judges’ tent,” announced the address system.
“Miss Squires, Miss Squires,” snapped the hairnetted lady judge, stumping across the ring.
“Wasn’t Dandelion wonderful?” said Fen for the hundreth time.
Tory could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts and down her ribs. She’d taken off her red jacket and hung her white shirt outside, over the straining safety pin.
Competitors in the open jumping were pulling on long black boots, the women tucking long hair into hairnets and hotting up their horses over the practice fence. With £100 first prize there was a lot of competition from neighboring counties. Two well-known show jumpers, Lavinia Greenslade and Christopher Crossley, who’d both jumped at Wembley and for the British junior team, had entered, but local hopes were pinned on Sir William’s son, Michael, who was riding a gray six-year-old called Prescott.
Armored cars and tanks had started driving up the hill for the dry shoot and the recruiting display. Soldiers, sweating in battle dress, were assembling twenty-five pounders in ring two.
“Christ, here comes Carter’s circus,” said Malise Gordon to Miss Squires.
“Hope he can keep them under control.”
“My chaps have arrived,” said Colonel Carter to Mrs. Maxwell. “I’m just going to wander over and see that everything’s all right.”
Jake gave Africa a last polish. Tory, noticing his dead white face, shaking hands, and chattering teeth, realized how terrified he was and felt sorry for him. He put a foot in the stirrup and was up.
If only I weren’t so frightened of horses I might not be frightened of life, thought Tory, cringing against the rope to avoid these great snorting beasts with their huge iron feet and so much power in their gleaming, barging quarters.
The band went out to much applause and, to everyone’s dismay, came back again. Jake rode up to Tory and jumped off.
“Can you hold her for a minute?” he said, hurling the reins at her.
He only just made the Gents’ in time.
Looking into the deep, dark dell of the Elsan, and catching a whiff of the contents, he was violently sick again. He must pull himself together or Africa would sense his nerves. Mrs. Wilton wouldn’t find out; the kids could cope in the gymkhana events for half an hour by themselves. He’d be all right once he got into the ring. He’d walked the course; there was nothing Africa couldn’t jump if he put her right. He leant against the canvas and wondered if he dared risk another cigarette.
Tory was not happy. Excited by the microphone and the armored cars and the crowds, Africa pulled and fretted as she jogged up and down.
“Thanks very much,” said Jake, taking the horse from her.
Tory looked at his white face and chattering teeth and felt so sorry for him. “I get just the same before dances,” she blurted out.
Jake smiled slightly.
“Take your partners for the torture chamber,” he said, mounting Africa again.
He rode very short, almost jockey length, crouching over the mare like a cat, settling down into the creaking leather. Africa, a netted cord of veins rippling under her shining coat, tugged at the reins, now this way, now that. Trying to catch Jake out, she danced over the grass, shying at the tea tent, the ladies’ lavatory, the flags. Jake didn’t move in the saddle.
Christopher Crossley, the good-looking boy on the chestnut with four white socks, cantered past, startling Africa, who bucked and swished her tail. Jake swore at him.
“Jake rides lovely, doesn’t he?” sighed Fen.
Even Tory’s uncritical eye could see that he rode wonderfully lightly; his hands hardly touched Africa’s mouth. Taking her away from the crowd, he popped her over a couple of practice fences.
Colonel Carter sat down beside Molly Maxwell, announcing that his chaps were itching to get started. At that moment a competitor on a huge gray paused in front of them to chat to some friends. The gray promptly stuck out its penis. Mrs. Maxwell caught the colonel’s eye and giggled.
“Aren’t horses rude?”
The colonel gave a bark of embarrassed laughter. Mrs. Maxwell found she couldn’t stop giggling. Tears were making her mascara run.
The band was playing a selection from The Merry Widow.
“Delia, oh Delia,” sang Colonel Carter, brushing his khaki leg against her silken thigh.
“Will you be able to get out again this evening?” he asked.
Molly stopped giggling with a little hiccup. “Oh, Tory’ll babysit. That’s one way she’s useful. Oh dear, I don’t mean to be bitchy.”
“You never say an unkind word about anyone.”
No, thought Molly, perhaps I don’t.
The colonel looked at his watch.
“Half an hour to blast off,” he said. “I hope Malise Gordon gets his finger out.”
There were nine jumps in all: a brush fence, a stile, a gate, parallel bars, the road-closed sign put up to a nasty five foot, another brush with a pole on
top, a water jump which had been drained by various dogs, a wall, and a triple.
The two stars, Lavinia Greenslade and Christopher Crossley, stood side by side slightly apart from the other competitors.
“The jumps are much too low and flimsy,” said Lavinia. “Bound to be loads of clear wounds. We won’t get away for at least an hour and I did want to look in at Henwietta’s dwinks’ party.”
“Not much competition anyway,” said Christopher, adding to the groom, who was holding his horse, “Cindy, can you adjust that bandage?”
The first competitor trotted out, an enormously fat girl with a huge bosom.
“Give herself a couple of black eyes every time she jumps with those boobs,” said Christopher.
The girl went clear.
“I told you there were going to be loads of clear wounds,” said Lavinia petulantly.
“I can’t see, I can’t see,” said Fen in a shrill voice.
“You come through here then,” said a man on a shooting stick, making a gap in the crowd through which Fen dragged a desperately embarrassed Tory to the ropes.
A chestnut came in, ridden by a boy with a big nose who jabbed his horse in the mouth over every fence.
“Jumps well,” said Tory.
“Horse does,” said Fen. “Rider should be shot. Bloody hell,” she added as he went clear. The man on the shooting stick who’d let Fen through looked at her with less indulgence.
Lavinia Greenslade was next, the gray peering seductively through the long forelock of its mane, Arab ears curling upwards like eyelashes.
“Her father spends a fortune on her horses,” said Fen. “That one was third at the Horse of the Year Show last year.”
Sure enough, the gray bounced serenely round the course like a Ping-Pong ball, followed by Sir William’s son, who also went clear.
To the course builders’ relief a man came in on a horse wearing so much leather it looked like a bondage victim and proceeded to demolish the course completely. Fear traveled through the collecting ring and for a dozen rounds no one went clear. The wall, the principal bogey, had to be laboriously rebuilt each time.
