Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Redrawn the near side hock. Chap simply hadn’t got it right.”

  “But you can’t tamper with the work of great artists,” said Helen, appalled.

  “I can, when they can’t draw,” said Rupert.

  Although he insisted on buying her a completely new wardrobe, making her look, he’d told Billy, like the aristocrat she plainly isn’t, on the whole he approved of the changes she made to the house. But he drew the line at mats under glasses to stop the drink rings, and he tore down the net curtains in the first-floor bedrooms and the downstairs loo, and he threw all the artificial flowers she bought to brighten up the dark hall into the boiler.

  Their worst row was triggered off, however, when Helen introduced discs into the lavatory cisterns to disinfect the water and dye it blue. Rupert came roaring into the kitchen, one of the blue discs in his hand, dripping dye all over the floor.

  “What the fuck is this?” he howled. “Have you gone mad? Are you trying to poison my dogs?”

  “They shouldn’t drink out of the john,” screamed Helen. “Then they go and lick everyone. It’s disgusting. They’ve got water bowls in the kitchen, and a water trough, and a lake in the garden. Why do they bother with the john?”

  “Because they always have. I’m not having you introducing any more of your dinky little American ideas. It’ll be chiming doorbells and musical lavatory paper next. I want the water clear by the time I get home, and if any of the dogs get ill, I’ll report you to the RSPCA.” And he stormed out, slamming the door. Helen and Mrs. Bodkin removed the blue discs.

  Poor Helen tried and failed to impose gracious living on Billy and Rupert. She yearned for candlelit dinners with the silver out, damask napkins, intelligent conversation, and lingering over coffee and liqueurs. But, looking after horses, there was no guarantee what time Rupert and Billy would get in. After three attempts at boeuf en croute that turned out tougher than a tramp’s boots, Helen found out that all they really wanted was sausages and mash, or Irish stew on their knees, slumped in front of the television. Usually they argued across the program about the day’s events, or some horse they were thinking of buying. Rupert bolted his food, hardly noticing what he ate. She was often tempted to offer him Chappie and Winalot. Often they were so tired, they fell asleep in the middle of a meal.

  But however much Rupert fell asleep over the television, he always woke up and wanted sex when they went to bed, and again in the morning, and often popping in, if he wasn’t at a show, in the middle of the day. “I’m happy as long as I’m mounted,” he used to say, “and you’re so compulsively ridable, my darling.”

  If they ever had a row, Rupert had to make it up because he wanted to sleep with her. If she found his demands excessive, and she frequently didn’t achieve orgasm herself, she never said so. But after nearly a year she still grabbed a towel when he walked into the bedroom and found her naked. She always locked the lavatory door, and she only really liked sex if she’d just had a bath. She was embarrassed by his unashamed delight in her body. She still couldn’t convince herself that he really enjoyed doing those things he insisted he liked doing long enough to make her come, so she often wriggled away pretending she had, then felt desperately ashamed of faking. But she found him irresistible and she needed his constant assaults as evidence that he still doted on her.

  For there was oodles of competition. Wherever they were, girls ran after Rupert, clamoring for his autograph, mobbing him at parties, even pulling hairs out of his horses’ tails as souvenirs, until they were almost bald. And although she got kudos, wherever she went, as Rupert’s beautiful wife, and there was a great feeling of mutual congratulation in being such a handsome couple, it was Rupert people really wanted to see.

  Marion troubled her too. She longed for Rupert to sack her (as he was always threatening to do) but was too tactful to say anything. But she remembered Marion’s reddened eyes, particularly after their wedding. She tried to be particularly nice to the girl, giving her a beautiful black cashmere jersey for her birthday, which Marion never wore, and was constantly urging Rupert to ask her to dinner and suggesting handsome young men to meet her. But Marion politely refused and kept her distance, gazing at Helen with the hostile somber eyes of a prisoner of war.

  Billy explained to Helen that Marion was so good with the horses that it was worthwhile putting up with her moods. Billy was such a comfort. He’d offered to move out when Helen and Rupert got married, but neither of them could bear to lose him. After all, he and Rupert had been inseparable since they were eight, and they were business partners, and Rupert needed someone to talk horses with. As the weeks passed Helen decided Billy was simply the nicest person she’d ever met. He was so kind, funny, easygoing, and, she flattered herself, just a tiny bit in love with her. If she had a row with Rupert, Billy stuck up for her. If Rupert was irritable because the horses were going badly, she could dump on Billy, knowing she wasn’t being disloyal, because Billy understood Rupert and loved him, at the same time as knowing all his faults. It was a very happy arrangement. Billy obviously wasn’t serious about Lavinia Greenslade and wouldn’t get married for years.

  Rupert sometimes complained of being gentrified, but he and Billy soon found it a boon that the house was run like clockwork, that their suits and red coats were always back from the cleaner’s, that there were always enough clean white shirts, ties, and breeches, that their boots were mended, that the house was ordered and tidy, that entry forms were filled in, that fan mail was answered, and endless requests to speak or open fêtes and supermarkets were politely refused by return of post.

  This left Rupert and Billy to concentrate on the horses, which they certainly needed to do. The three-day week brought extra costs. Petrol prices in particular shot up. There were forecasts of economic doom for years to come, and, with the Socialists coming to power, there was more chilling talk of a wealth tax, which would cripple Rupert’s income. It became increasingly vital to win and win. And they did. There was no doubt that since Rupert married Helen he and Billy had calmed down, and were now both regular fixtures in the British team.

  So now Helen, on the eve of leaving for Rome and Madrid, gazed out on the green valley. She was really looking forward to the trip. For the first time she felt she could leave the house without the workmen doing something frightful. She loved going abroad, picking up antiques and pieces for the house, visiting galleries and museums, learning new languages. Also it meant a holiday from all the dogs in the bed, and as Rupert was far less famous abroad they weren’t constantly besieged by groupies (or “Rupies” as Billy called them). And Malise Gordon was there. She always enjoyed spending time with him. They often went to galleries and museums together when they were away, making Rupert slightly edgy. He was jealous of something that Malise and Helen shared that he couldn’t give her, so he continually mocked it.

  Helen turned back to all the beautiful clothes Rupert had bought her. She realized above all that it was important to him that other men admired and fancied her, but like Meissen china in a glass case, the admiration had to be kept at a distance. Last year in Rotterdam, when a rather inebriated Dutchman asked her to dance in a nightclub, it had only been Billy’s half nelson that had stopped Rupert knocking him across the room. A slightly more persistent admirer at one of the Dublin Horse Show balls had been less lucky and ended up with a fractured jaw.

  15

  Jake Lovell rode across his fields at a leisurely pace. When he came to a hedge or a wall he popped the gray gelding over it, but he was in no hurry. He’d already worked all the novice horses that morning, and the Grade A horses were having a rest after a three-day show. Besides, it was a beautiful day and the cuckoo was yelling its head off in the hazel wood nearby. Wolf, Jake’s shaggy adoring lurcher, was chasing rabbits but never letting his master out of his sight for very long, and Jake wanted to think.

  It was nearly five years since he had married Tory, and Granny Maxwell had given them the Mill House at Withrington. And although there had b
een years of hard work and struggle, Jake knew they had been the happiest in his life. The Mill had been in a dilapidated state when they moved in, but gradually he and Tory had painted the rooms, and gradually they had scraped together enough money to pull down the old stables and build new ones, so they now kept a dozen horses.

  There had been terrible setbacks. Two Mays ago he’d been selected to ride for Great Britain for the first time, but the day he was due to leave, Africa stepped on a rusty nail, which put her out of action for several months. One of the young novices, a really promising gray thoroughbred, had jumped out of its field, escaped onto the motorway, been hit by a lorry, and had to be destroyed. Then, as Tory had inherited the bulk of her capital by then and Africa was out of action, Jake had spent rather too much money on a top-class horse to fill the gap, which had broken its leg and had to be put down at the first show he took it to.

  Things had not gone according to plan in other directions either. At the start of their marriage, Tory had worked as a secretary to a local solicitor, her salary being the main contribution that had saved her, Jake, and the horses from starvation. For months they seemed to live on pork pies and baked beans bought with her luncheon vouchers. But within a year and a quarter she was pregnant, and in July of the following year she produced a son. They called him Isa, short for Isaac, after Jake’s lost gypsy father, and Jake, who’d been very apprehensive, not particularly liking children and feeling most unready to be a father, found himself utterly besotted with the child. Perhaps it was because little Isa was his only blood relation, or because the boy was so beautiful, with his huge black eyes and white blond hair; or because he was so sturdy and merry and placid and seemed positively to thrive in a cold damp house, and being permanently carted from show to show in a carrycot.

  Jake was also pleasantly surprised to find how easy it was to be married to Tory, who was the ideal show-jumper’s wife. She never made him feel guilty if he were late back from shows or up all night tending a sick horse. When he came in she always provided him with good food, a sympathetic ear, and sex if he wanted, but was never offended if he didn’t. She understood his terrible nerves before big classes, and why often, if he were sorting out his relationship with a particular horse, he could be withdrawn and taciturn. She coped with all the paperwork, paying bills, and sending off entry forms. When they married, she’d been terrified of horses, but Jake had helped her to overcome this, and although she’d never be much good as a rider, she soon picked up the rudiments of feeding and looking after a string, fussing over each animal as if she was its mother. So all the horses were happy and the yard ran like clockwork even when he was away.

  She was also passionately proud of everything he did and nailed up every new rosette with joy, so a whole wall of the tackroom was now covered. Most important of all, she understood that his character was like a stray dog’s rescued from Battersea dogs’ home. Constantly moving from one show to another satisfied some nomadic gypsy wanderlust in his blood, but he only felt safe doing this knowing he had a safe, loving home to come back to. Like many wanderers, only by going away would he test that home would still be there when he returned.

  Two years before he had had a special stroke of luck. He had gone to a horse sale in Warwick, not one of his favorite pastimes. He tried not to be anthropomorphic about horses, but sales always reminded him of the children’s home. All those horses, bewildered, frightened, displaced, often coming from cosseted homes or, after years of hard work, to be sold to the knacker’s yard, or to people who didn’t know how to look after them, or who would abuse their willing natures.

  The mare he’d been tipped off about went for more than he could afford, but suddenly he heard a horse squealing his head off. Get me out of this horrible place, he seemed to be saying. Wandering down the horse lines, Jake found a half-starved, dirty, flea-bitten gray gelding, standing about 16.3, with a walleye, big feet, a coarse head, huge ears flapping like a mule’s, and ribs sticking out like a plate rack. He had to be the ugliest horse Jake had ever seen. He was obviously starving. But Jake looked at his teeth and was surprised to see the horse was only six or seven. He looked a hundred, but his legs were clean and strong, and when he was petted and scratched behind the ear, he stopped screaming and accepted Jake’s attention with obvious pleasure.

  “What’s his history?” Jake asked the dealer who trotted him up and down.

  “Some old nutter bought him as a pet for his wife, who had one foot in the grave anyway. They called him Sailor. One day the horse stopped suddenly in the yard and she fell off, catching her head on the mounting block, and croaked two days later. The old nutter was heartbroken, but too mean to have the horse put down, so he left him in a tiny yard, virtually starving him to death.

  “Finally the old nutter died. When they discovered his body, they found the horse. The only thing he had to drink out of was a rusty bucket, with two inches of rainwater filled with dead wasps. As you can see, it’s a case for the RSPCA, but you can’t prosecute a dead man.”

  For a second, Jake felt choked with rage.

  “Poor old sod,” he said stroking the ugly gray head, “had a bad time, have you?”

  He had to pay £150 in order to outbid the horsemeat dealers, which he could ill afford at the time. Once home, he stuffed Sailor full of food and, during the day, turned him out with Africa. After three months he took him hunting and had one of the best days of his life. Sailor still looked like nothing on earth—it was always impossible to get any condition on him—but he could jump anything you put him at and keep going all day. And Jake experienced a surge of excitement he had not felt since he first jumped Africa.

  Jake had had many arguments with Granny Maxwell because he refused to overface his horses and did not bring them on fast enough. But there was no need to bring Sailor on slowly. By the end of the next season he had been placed in every class he entered and had lifted himself to Grade A. The Northern show jumping fraternity, who were a hard-boiled bunch, not easily impressed, laughed at Sailor when they first saw such an extraordinarily unprepossessing horse, but stayed to pray once they had seen him jump.

  He was also the cleverest horse in the yard and, when he was bored, would unbolt his stable door and wander over to the house, putting his flea-bitten head in through the kitchen window, hoping for an apple or a piece of chocolate—always milk, he wouldn’t touch plain—but just as happy with a petting. He never strayed beyond the yard. It was as though he couldn’t believe his luck in having found a good home. He was also the gentlest horse, devoted to Africa, and Wolf the lurcher, and Tory’s Jack Russell, Horace, who could lead him in from the fields tugging at the head-collar rope with his teeth. He was also a marvelous babysitter. Tory found she could leave baby Isa in Sailor’s box, playing round the manger, clinging onto Sailor’s legs and often pulling himself up by the horse’s rather skimpy tail. If he fell over and cried, Sailor would nudge him gently, breathing on him, until he laughed and got up again.

  Today, on this ravishing day, Jake was hacking Sailor round the fields just to check that all the fences were safe. He had a feeling things were at last coming good for him. Africa was fit again and jumping like a kangaroo. She had won two big classes in Birmingham last week, even beating the mighty Humpty Hamilton against the clock, and Sailor had been placed three times. It had helped this year that he could at last afford to take on a full-time groom, a girl called Tanya, who was as good at riding as at stable management. The idea was that Jake could now concentrate on schooling and competing, but he still found it hard to delegate, believing that no one understood or could look after his horses as he could.

  Over the past four years he had traveled the Northern and Midland circuits, never venturing South, because it was expensive in petrol, because he hated staying away from home for the night, and because some niggling fear told him that he and his horses weren’t yet quite ready to beat the hell out of Rupert Campbell-Black.

  Rupert had never been far from his thoughts, however
. He had watched him obsessively whenever shows were televised, and read every word about him in the papers, as one outrageous scrape followed another. In fact Jake suspected he had only been picked for the team the May before last (when he’d had to drop out because Africa was unfit) because Rupert and Billy had both been dropped for hell-raising in Paris, and then later getting into some frightful fight at the Royal Plymouth.

  Soon afterwards, as though realizing he’d gone too far, Rupert had suddenly married a gorgeous American redhead, who seemed to have had a dramatic effect on his behavior. Gone were the days of womanizing and wild drinking. Rupert appeared less and less often in the gossip pages and more and more on the sports pages, cleaning up at shows all over Europe, appearing as a regular fixture in the British team, and even being tipped as a Probable for the Olympic Games the following year. Jake gnashed his teeth. He had a feeling that Rupert was pulling further and further away from him, that he would never catch up now.

  Still, it was too nice a day to worry about Rupert. Ahead, flanked by pale green willows, he could see the Mill House, its ancient red brick weathered to strawberry roan, tossing its shaggy mane of white roses, which no one had time to prune. It was a long low house. He, Tory, little Isa, and Tanya the groom lived on the left-hand side. The right contained the old mill, with its storerooms and huge stone wheel which, fifty years before, had been turned by a fast-rushing stream which still hurtled under the house, through the garden, and eventually into the River Trent.

  Behind the house, hidden from view, were the stables, and beyond that a ring of oak trees with huge acid green lichened trunks, which protected them all from the vicious north winds.

  Jake’s ambition this year was to build an indoor school. There were too many days in winter, with the dark mornings and long nights, or when it was frosty, wet, or slippery underfoot, when it was impossible to work the horses outside. He’d eaten into Tory’s capital so much, he’d have to get a loan from the bank. But ever since the three-day week and the Socialists coming to power and the economic gloom, the banks had clamped down and were lending money only at colossal interest. He didn’t want to sell more shares at the moment, as they’d have nothing to fall back on and nothing to secure any further borrowing they might need.