by Jilly Cooper
“Too fast,” said Billy in anguish. “He’s going to hit it.”
Helen shut her eyes, listening to the thundering hooves, waiting for the sickening thud of falling poles and the groans of the crowd. Instead there was a mighty roar of applause. Helen opened her eyes.
“Ouch,” said Billy.
Looking down, Helen realized she’d been gripping his arm.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Be my guest. Brilliant round, wasn’t it?”
“Wonderful.” Helen watched a delighted Rupert letting his rein go slack and walking Belgravia out of the ring, slapping his lathered neck, pulling the ginger ears with joy. Belgravia’s coat, dark, bronzed, and shiny with sweat, looked like uncooked liver.
“That puts me in joint second, which means £500, but there are still fifteen to go,” said Humpty.
Helen noticed the arrogant way Rupert ignored the cheers. Sliding to the ground, he patted the horse once more and turned towards the riders’ stand. Stopped by admirers on the way, in an exultant mood, he was prepared to sign autographs.
“Once you get a clear, people realize it can be jumped and you’ll probably get a lot more,” said Billy. “If I watch any more rounds I’ll start getting the heeby-jeebies.”
He lit another cigarette. Mavis closed her slanting eyes to avoid the smoke.
“How long has your mount suffered from hydrophobia?” asked Helen.
“What?” Billy looked alarmed.
“Been frightened of water.”
“Oh, ever since I had him. I think he might have nearly drowned in some tiny river when he was a foal because it really scares him. Last week I managed to get him over a six-foot stream at home, but he trembled for ages afterwards. I just don’t know how he’ll go today. He’s such a good horse,” he went on, his face lighting up. “So kind, and such a trier, he’ll get himself into all sorts of trouble rather than duck out, and he’s so bright. Over and over I put him wrong and he just brakes at the last moment and sails over, and he’s so cheerful, never moody, and so gentle, a child could lead him up to London on a piece of string like a little dog.”
Helen smiled. “I think Mavis is getting jealous,” she said.
“Oh, Mavis knows she’s my favorite dog, and there goes my favorite girl,” said Billy, as a blonde with a pink and white complexion on a gray horse waited to go into the ring.
“Look at her bloody father telling her to give it a whack at the water, and her mother telling her not to. Poor girl’s in such a muddle. I could sort her out,” he said longingly. “Good luck, darling,” he called down. Lavinia looked up, waved her whip, and smiled. Her parents looked simply furious.
How nice he is, thought Helen, and he’s Rupert’s best friend. There couldn’t be much wrong with Rupert if he inspired friendship like this. In anguish, Billy watched poor Lavinia, after a nervous, tentative round, meet the same fate as the Frenchman, flying through the air into the water.
“At least she won’t have to wash her hair before she goes out with you this evening,” said an amused voice. It was Rupert. He was eating an ice cream.
“Congratulations,” said Helen.
“Bloody well done,” said Billy.
“That should wrap the whole thing up,” said Rupert, shooting a sideways glance at Billy. “Don’t imagine there’ll be any more clears.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Billy. “I’ve still got to jump. Oh, look at poor darling Lavinia coming out in tears.”
“She looks like a seal,” said Rupert. “She may just be dwipping water, not cwying. Lavinia,” he added to Helen, “can’t say her Rs.”
“It was a good round until she came to the water,” protested Billy.
“That girl couldn’t ride in a taxi with the door shut,” said Rupert. “They ought to pay her disappearance money.”
Billy got up. “Can you hold Mavis for me?” he asked Helen.
“Good luck,” said Rupert.
As he went downstairs the dog whined and strained after him.
“Shut up,” snapped Rupert. Mavis gave him a cold stare, then climbed onto Helen’s knees and settled down with a sigh of deep martyrdom.
Helen, though not wild about dogs, was grateful for the warmth. Seeing she was shivering, Rupert put his red coat round her shoulders. The heat still left from his body was like a caress. Riders kept returning to the stand, many of them on twelve faults. Everyone congratulated Rupert. He was in tearing spirits until Malise Gordon came over and sat down on his other side. Rupert was about to introduce Helen when Malise said, “Not a bad round, but a bit hit and miss.”
Rupert’s lips tightened, his face suddenly expressionless.
“Belgravia could do with a lot more work on the flat,” went on Malise, “and a lot less corn.”
“He never felt in any danger to me,” said Rupert coldly.
“You were very lucky at the gate, and at the rail after the bank, and you came in much too fast at the triple. That’s a good horse, but you won’t get him out of trouble every time.”
Rupert stared stonily ahead.
“We ought to be thinking of him in terms of the Olympics or the World Championships,” said Malise in a slightly more conciliatory tone.
“Belgravia’d be the ideal horse,” said Rupert, relenting slightly, too. “In the World Championship,” he explained to Helen, “the four finalists have to jump each other’s horses. Belgravia’s such a sod, no one would have a hope on him.”
“Hardly cricket,” said Malise.
“ ’Course it isn’t,” said Rupert insolently. “I thought we were talking about show jumping.”
“By the way,” asked Malise, “have you come across a rider called Jake Lovell? He’s been jumping on the northern circuit. I think he’s very good.”
Rupert paused for a second. “No. Is he good enough to make the British team?”
“He will be in a year or two.”
“You’d do much better with Billy,” said Rupert quickly.
“Billy has yet to convince me he has the killer instinct,” said Malise, standing up. “I’ll probably see you at Grania’s.”
Helen could see exactly why he and Rupert struck sparks off each other.
Down in the collecting ring Billy went up to Lavinia Greenslade and commiserated with her.
“Same thing’s bound to happen to me,” he said. He was just about to ask her out when her mother came up. “Wish you wouldn’t call out to Lavinia just as she’s going into the ring,” she snapped. “Completely put her off her stroke.”
“Sorry,” muttered Billy.
Winking at Lavinia, he walked over to The Bull, who whickered with joy and stuck his nose inside Billy’s coat. Built like an oak tree with a vast girth, short, wide-apart well-shaped legs, and surprisingly small feet, it was the wide forehead and rather small eyes that made him look like a bull. The wide blaze down his forehead gave him an added appearance of placid contentment.
“How is he?” he asked Tracey.
“Gorgeous,” said Tracey. “Always is. Didn’t Rupert jump champion?”
Billy rode off, trying to control his nerves. Rupert had been so cockahoop, he felt needled into producing something better. Other riders, having finished jumping, were all too ready to offer him advice. But it was no good listening to other people at this stage; he’d only get muddled. Over the years he’d schooled himself to tackle the problem by himself. In the ring you were on your own.
The German number two rider, Hans Schmidt, came out. An Irish rider was next, then Billy.
“How did you get on?” he asked Hans.
“Von stop at zee vater,” said the German despondently, “and zee gate and zee wall down, puts me in second place viz Ludvig and Humpty.”
“Bloody good,” said Billy.
“Zee Bull looks vell, put on a lot of condition.”
“Thanks,” said Billy.
The collecting ring steward called his number. Good lucks came from all round. Billy was very popular.
As he waited for the Irishman to come out, a little girl bent over and stroked The Bull’s nose.
“Good luck, Bull,” she said shyly.
Billy smiled and thanked her, wishing the butterflies in his stomach would go away. He couldn’t even remember which fence to jump first. The Bull, however, showed no such fears, striding out briskly, ears pricked, tail up, merry eyes sparkling, taking everything in.
“Take your hat off, Billy,” whispered a ring steward.
The crowd roared with laughter as Billy started and hastily whipped off his hat, damp curls sticking to his forehead. Malise stopped talking to Grania Pringle in the president’s box.
“I want to watch this round,” he said. “Must say The Bull looks marvelous.”
“More than can be said for Billy,” said Grania. “He’s pea green.”
“Take it slowly,” Billy told himself over and over again. If you can go clear, even with time faults, you’ll be second. “You’re the best, you’re the best,” he whispered to The Bull as he leaned forward and started cantering as the Klaxon went.
The Bull bucketed over the first three fences, giving huge scary leaps with inches to spare, then he settled down, trundling merrily along, little legs going like pistons, meeting everything just right.
“God, that horse has improved,” said Malise, as he flew over the double. “Billy’s really been working on him.”
Helen held her breath as The Bull scrambled up the bank which, after much use, was extremely slippery. On the top Billy steadied him. Just for a second The Bull looked dubious. The crowd crossed their fingers in case he stepped back, which would have constituted a stop, costing Billy three faults, but he popped over, tobogganed down the other side, and took a huge jump out over the tiny rail, snorting with disapproval, ears flat, tail swishing.
“Didn’t enjoy that,” laughed Humpty. “Look at his old tail going. Who did you say his dam was, Rupert?”
“Probably a cow,” said Rupert.
Helen giggled.
The combination, three good solid fences, held no fears for The Bull.
“He’s faster than you,” said Humpty with some satisfaction.
“I know,” said Rupert coldly.
Now it was only the water, and the final triple. Turning The Bull, Billy thundered down, his red coat like a spot of blood against the dappled crowd.
“Come on, Billy,” howled Rupert.
Ahead Billy saw the water glinting as wide and as blue as the Serpentine. On each side huddled the photographers, waiting for the third ducking.
“Go on, go on,” Billy whispered, “you’re a star, you can do it, we can do it.”
He felt The Bull tense. He’s probably thinking it’s twenty feet deep, thought Billy. Just for a second the horse hesitated. Then suddenly he seemed to relax and put his trust in Billy.
“If you think it’s okay,” he seemed to say, “let’s give it a whirl.” People who were close swear to this day that The Bull closed his eyes. Standing back, he took a mighty leap off his hocks, soaring about six feet in the air, and landed three feet beyond the tape on the other side. People claim it was the longest jump they had ever seen. As he landed, the ring erupted in a bellow of cheers: “Go on, Billy, you can do it, go on.”
He had only the triple to jump and that had caused no problems to anyone. But to the crowd’s amazement, Billy suddenly pulled The Bull up, hugging him, patting him, running his hand up and down his mane, and telling him what a king he was.
“You’ve got one more fence to jump,” yelled the photographers.
“You’ve missed the last fence. Go back. You’ve still got time,” shouted the ring steward who’d reminded him to take his hat off.
“I know,” said Billy, and, raising his whip to the judges to show he was retiring, he cantered slowly out of the ring in front of the stunned crowd.
Rupert met him in the collecting ring, absolutely white with rage.
“Bloody maniac, what the fuck are you playing at? You’ve just chucked away £1,000 or £750. It was only you and me in the jump-off.”
“I know,” said Billy, “but he was so frightened, and he jumped the water so bravely, I thought I’d call it a day, so he could remember how good he’d been.”
Rupert looked at him incredulously. “You must be crazy.”
Billy slid off The Bull, burying his face in the brown shiny shoulder, hugging him, patting his chest.
“Good boy, clever boy.”
Rupert suddenly realized Billy’s eyes were filled with tears. Tracey rushed up and, removing the rug which she’d been wearing round her shoulders for warmth, put it over The Bull.
“What happened?” she said in concern. “Did he hurt himself?”
Billy shook his head.
“No,” he said in a choked voice, undoing a packet of Polos, all of which he gave to The Bull. “I was so pleased with him, winning didn’t seem to matter anymore.”
Rupert sighed. “I’m afraid Malise Gordon will feel differently,” he said. “I hope you realize you’ve blown your chances of going to Rome.”
He put an arm round Billy’s shoulders. “All the same, it was a bloody good round. You were up on the clock on me.”
Marion came up with Belgravia. “They want you in the ring, Rupert.”
As Rupert rode off to collect his first prize, Billy turned to Tracey.
“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it.”
“ ’Course you should. He’s got years ahead. Look how pleased he is.”
The next minute they went slap into Malise, who took Billy and The Bull aside.
“That was a bloody silly thing to do,” he said.
Billy hung his head.
“I’m sorry, but it’s the first time he’s ever jumped water and it was such a tremendous jump.”
“Well, don’t do it again.” Malise patted The Bull. “I must say he looks terrific. So don’t get carried away and overjump him in the next three weeks. I’ll certainly be needing him for Rome, if not for Madrid.”
Billy looked up incredulously.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t go blathering it around to everyone, but I’d like you to bring him to Rome.” He gave The Bull another pat and stalked off.
“Whatever did he say to you?” said Tracey. Then, seeing there were tears in Billy’s eyes again, “Did he bawl you out?”
“No, yes, no, I don’t know,” said Billy in a dazed voice. “I think I’ll ride The Bull back to the stable myself.”
After winning a major competition, Rupert was usually in a manic mood. But today he felt that Billy had somehow stolen his thunder. Malise Gordon’s remarks had niggled him. He resented the implication that Belgravia’s win had been a matter of luck. If Billy hadn’t pulled The Bull up in that stupid fashion, Rupert would have been able to prove Malise wrong by trouncing Billy in the jump-off against the clock. Anyway, he’d like to see Malise or anyone else controlling Belgravia. And all that fuss about dressage, it was no more than bloody Come Dancing.
He was further irritated that Billy, despite having chucked away £750 prize money without a thought, was behaving as though Malise had kissed him under the mistletoe. Rupert loved Billy, but he was constantly irked by Billy’s hazy assumption that the Lord or Rupert Campbell-Black would provide. Like many generous people, Rupert liked to have the monopoly of the expansive gesture. Billy’s £750 could have gone a long way towards repainting the yard. It never occurred to Rupert that Billy might have beaten him.
After the competition, the heavens opened and journalists and other riders crowded into Rupert’s caravan to get out of the rain. But after drinking Rupert’s health in Rupert’s champagne out of the huge silver cup he had just won, they were far more interested in talking about The Bull’s amazing jump and Billy’s retirement. Rupert loved Billy, but he did not like playing second fiddle. He might have been indifferent to public adulation, but he liked it to be there, so he could be indifferent to it.
Leaving them all gassing together, he took half a bottle of champagne into the shower. As the drumming of raindrops on the caravan roof drowned the noise of the hot water, he was gripped by the lust that always overwhelmed him after a big class. Normally he would have screwed Marion in the back of the horse box, but he doubted if she would oblige with a quickie with Helen around. Anyway, he didn’t want Marion; he was amazed by his violent craving for Helen. He must get her into bed soon. Only that could restore his amour propre and remove the ache from his loins. He’d already told Billy to find somewhere else to shack up for the night as he needed the caravan for Helen and himself. But, although he knew she was hooked on him, he was by no means sure she was going to be a pushover. He’d have to make her jealous. He knew Grania Pringle would oblige.
Helen, in fact, was feeling absolutely miserable. She knew Rupert was busy, that this was his world, but he had this ability to be all over her one moment and virtually oblivious of her the next. Since he’d won the cup, he’d been completely withdrawn. And now all these people were guzzling his drink, talking shop, and ignoring her. Only the German, Hans Schmidt, who had rather mad arctic blue eyes, had made any attempt to chat her up.
But he hadn’t seen any of the German movies she so admired and when she got him on to writers it was even worse.
“I just adore Brecht,” she said with enthusiasm.
“I too am a great admirer of breasts,” said Hans, brightening perceptibly and gazing at her bosom.
“No, Brecht, the writer.”
“Ya, ya,” said Hans. “Small breasts, big breasts, it’s quite all right viz me for zee ladies to like other ladies’ breasts.”
Helen went pink and hastily started talking about Gunther Grass. She thought she was making progress. The German seemed most interested until he suddenly said, “Vot is zis grass? Is it some kind of hay which Rupert feed his horses?”
