by Jilly Cooper
Now all the grooms were getting their charges ready for the last event, the Radio Rentals Grand Prix. Fen, with both Sailor and Revenge to do, had her work cut out. Cries of “Give me the body brush,” “Anyone seen my sponge?” “Christ, they’re calling us already,” were coming from all sides.
“In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan,” sang the loudspeaker. Now the band was playing “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho” for the pony club demo. Rupert and Billy sat side by side in the riders’ stand, their long legs up on the backs of the seats in front, watching Grumpy.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” said Rupert smugly. “She’s coming out with me tonight.”
“How old is she?” asked Billy.
“Sixteen, or so she claims.”
“Shouldn’t be playing Grumpy, she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat,” said Billy, as Tiffany Bathgate cantered by, ponytail swinging. “I’ll report her to the district commissioner.”
“She’s bringing Dopey with her,” said Rupert. “Meeting me at the flat. Just imagine having the two of them.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” snapped Billy.
“Why don’t you come too?”
“I’m going to the party afterwards. I must talk to Lavinia. She’s been avoiding me all week. Her parents are wild about Guy because he’s a count.”
“A cunt,” said Rupert.
“That too,” said Billy.
“I wonder if Greenslade père realizes Guy hasn’t a bean,” said Rupert. “He needs the Greenslade cash to keep his place going in France. ‘I cannot afford to ’eat the underrooms,’ he told me last night. Do you think I should give Helen an English setter puppy for Christmas?”
“No,” said Billy.
Snow White and her entourage cantered out of the ring, with Grumpy blatantly grinning at Rupert, as the arena party put the finishing touches to the jumps for the Grand Prix. Now the rose red curtains which parted theatrically to admit each competitor were clashing with the scarlet coats of the riders, as they walked the course to a jazzed-up version of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
The collecting ring was very hazardous. Belgians crashed their horses over the jumps crying “Numero Huit, Numero Sept” to their grooms and discussing where they were going for dinner. Rupert was having a row with an Irish rider (nicknamed Wishbone, because of his long bow legs) because they had both tried to jump the upright at the same time.
Fen walked her two horses around the outside, keeping out of trouble, Sailor calming Revenge, who looked as beautiful as Sailor looked ugly. Fen was still shaking from her first encounter with her mother and Colonel Carter since she left home. As owners, they’d come to the show to watch Revenge. Molly had been “absolutely livid” with Bernard when she discovered he’d spent £5,000 on a horse for Jake, behind her back. She’d denied him her bed for more than a month. But gradually she was beginning to appreciate the kudos of being a winning owner. Everyone was tipping Revenge as an Olympic probable. Molly was already planning her wardrobe for the next games in Colombia the following August. She enjoyed sitting in the riders’ stand and talking about “My horse” in a loud voice. Molly was also very relieved that Fen appeared to have totally lost her looks.
Certainly it had been Jake’s show. Africa, Sailor, and Revenge had all won big classes. You couldn’t get into the lorry for silver cups. Sailor grew in popularity, the crowd were wild about the “Old Mule,” with his mangy tail and his drooping head, who caught fire in the ring. Whenever he left the lorry now Jake was mobbed by autograph hunters. And Fen told him someone had written “I love Jake Lovell” on the wall of the Ladies’, and underneath lots of people had written “Me, too.” Joanna Battie had interviewed Jake for the Chronicle, gushing over his romantic gypsy looks. Jake pretended to disapprove, but secretly he was delighted and had reread the piece several times. He had even been interviewed by Dudley Diplock as he came out of the ring. The fact that he hardly got a word out didn’t seem to matter. He smiled, and when Jake smiled publicly, which was about once every five years, the world melted.
The bell rang, the riders left the arena. In the distance you could still hear the mournful cry of the men on the gate trying to flog programs to last-minute arrivals. The arena was flooded with light for the television cameras. As Rupert mounted Belgravia, he spat out his chewing gum.
“I want it,” said a besotted teenager, rushing forward. A deafening cheer lifted the roof off as Rupert rode into the ring.
I can’t help it, thought Fen. He’s vile, but he is attractive. Rupert jumped an untroubled clear and rode out as Ivor Braine rode in. The collecting ring steward, who had a headache from drinking too much at lunchtime, was shouting at late arrivals.
“I’m going to report Rupert Campbell-Black to the BSJA for calling me a fart,” he grumbled. “And you’re late, too,” he said to Humpty, who was supposed to be jumping next.
“Get out of my way then, you little fart,” said Humpty. “You’re a worse nagger than my wife.”
Humpty also went clear.
Billy, waiting to jump, felt near to suicide. Lavinia was still avoiding him. Now Count Guy was in the collecting ring, crashing over the practice fence, pretending not to understand the collecting ring steward, who was now castigating him for being late.
“That man is a preek,” he drawled to Lavinia, as he rode towards the rose red curtains.
“Bonne chance, my angel,” said Lavinia, blowing him a kiss.
Count Guy’s dark brown stallion, however, took a dislike to the curtains and shied into a group of officials in pinstripe suits, dislodging for a moment the complacency of their smooth flushed faces, as they scuttled for cover. Then with a flurry of Gallic expletives, Guy rode into the arena and proceeded to lay waste the course.
“Oh, bad luck, darling,” said Lavinia as he came out, shrugging dramatically, reins dropped, palms of both hands turned to heaven.
“Fucking frog,” muttered Billy as he passed him on the way in. But he was so upset, he jumped badly and notched up twelve faults.
“I’ve got a splinter,” grumbled Marion.
Ignoring her, Rupert went back to the riders’ stand to watch the rest of the rounds. As he listened to a group of German riders chattering behind him, his thoughts contentedly drifted towards Tiffany Bathgate who, with her dumpy friend, would at this moment be washing themselves (as well as they could in the Olympia showers) for him. There were two bottles of champagne in the flat fridge. Perhaps he should offer them a proper bath when they arrived. Goodness knows where that might lead.
The next moment the two girls were forgotten, as Jake and Revenge came in, jumping unevenly but very impressively. Revenge was fooling around between fences, but when he jumped he really tucked his legs up.
I want that horse, thought Rupert grimly. He’s got everything I like: brains, temperament, good looks.
He was suddenly aware that the woman on his right was making a lot of noise.
“Do you remember me?” she said, turning to Rupert.
“I never forget a face like yours, but I’m terrible at names,” said Rupert. It was his standard reply.
“I’m Molly Carter, Maxwell that was. Tory, my daughter, was doing the season in 1970. You were such a deb’s delight. All the mums were in love with you, too.”
“Tory. Of course I remember. Very shy, treated every man as if he was going to chuck snowballs with stones in at her.”
“She married Jake Lovell, you know. It was a bit of a shock at the time, but he’s done awfully well.”
“Helped by Tory’s money, of course,” said Rupert.
“Oh, of course. He’d never have made the grade without her.” She gave a little laugh. “And my husband’s been helping him out recently.”
“Really,” said Rupert, his brain beginning to tick.
“Revenge is our horse.”
Not by a flicker of a muscle did Rupert betray how interested he was. “Your horse?”
“Jake was short of cash last June and desperate
to buy Revenge in a hurry. Some other buyer was after him, so Bernard put up the money. I was livid at the time, but he seems rather a good investment. Won twice as much as he cost already. Jake is rather maddening, though.”
“Yes?”
Under Rupert’s blue gaze, Molly was becoming indiscreet.
“He could have won a lot more, but Jake keeps retiring the horse because he doesn’t want to push him. Feels he’s not ready to jump against the clock.”
“Rubbish,” said Rupert. “When a horse is as good as that you’ve got to press on.”
“Really?” said Molly. “Oh, do look, the Princess has arrived. I love her dress.”
Everyone stood up with the usual clattering of seats. The band played the National Anthem. Round followed round, but only Ludwig and Jake on Sailor jumped clear.
“Helen’s having a baby in March,” said Rupert, getting to his feet. “So we’re not going out much, but we must all have dinner sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” said Molly, giving him their telephone number. “Bernard usually goes to London on Wednesday morning to see his stockbrokers, but I’m always there.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Rupert pointedly.
Molly smirked to herself as he walked down the steps. She’d always thought Rupert was most attractive. Nice that she hadn’t lost her touch.
Six riders had to jump off. Jake took one look at the course. For an indoor arena with limited space it was enormous, ending up with an upright of five feet eight inches.
“I’m not jumping Revenge,” he said to Colonel Carter.
“Don’t be bloody silly, man. There’s £4,000 at stake.”
“I don’t care. It’s too much to ask an inexperienced horse. He jumped a beautiful round earlier. Let’s leave it at that.”
The colonel looked thunderous.
“Only tell how good he is if you have a go.”
“He’s had a tough week.”
Molly’s face was twitching. “I think you’re being very foolish, Jake. I’ve just been talking to Rupert Campbell-Black, Bernard, and he said he’d certainly jump Revenge against the clock.”
“All the more reason for me not to,” snapped Jake.
“Quite right,” said Fen crossly. “He’s a young horse; set him back months if he lost his confidence.”
“Really, Fenella,” said Molly, “no one asked your opinion.”
Rupert rode past on the way into the arena.
Stupid pratt, he thought, listening for a second to the splendid row.
“That bloody little man,” whispered Molly to Rupert, “he’s absolutely refusing to jump him.”
Rupert shrugged. “Well, you know what I feel.”
“He’ll be sixth anyway,” said Jake. “That’s £500. I said I’d train him my way. You’ll have to lump it.”
Rupert rattled everyone by setting a virtually unbeatable time of 29.3 seconds.
“Such a good rider,” said Molly to Colonel Carter and, lowering her voice, “You’ve no idea what sense he talked.”
No one could beat Rupert’s time. Ludwig was a second slower, Lavinia had a fence down, Humpty couldn’t catch him, nor could Hans Schmidt.
“I think that’s £4,000 in the bag,” said Rupert to Billy. “I might even take the girls to Annabel’s.”
Jake felt sick. Looking at the six jumps he wondered how the hell he could beat Rupert’s time. Then, when he came to the rustic poles, where everyone else had gone round the wall, he cut in from the other side, jumping the fence sideways as he turned. The crowd gave a shout and, suddenly aware of a knife-edge finish, bellowed him home. He cleared the last fence and looked at the clock. He’d done it. A fifth of a second faster than Rupert. He hugged Sailor, who gave three huge bucks, nearly unseating him. The crowd went mad.
“Well done, my friend,” said Ludwig, clouting Jake on the back. It was his biggest win yet. Everyone—except Rupert, Molly, and Colonel Carter—surged forward to congratulate him.
The arena was now pitted with holes like a beach after a hot bank holiday. Several women in fur capes and ball dresses carrying rosettes and the huge silver cup walked out, tiptoeing to avoid any droppings as the winners came in, Jake riding Sailor and leading Revenge. The Princess smiled and said she’d been following Sailor’s career and she was sorry she hadn’t got any Polos, and hadn’t Revenge jumped well? Jake felt very happy.
Back in the collecting ring the yuletide spirit was relentlessly reasserting itself. Two Welsh cobs were being harnessed to a sleigh which was being loaded up with Christmas trees by a man in a red coat. Helen’s old admirer, Monica Carlton, in a tricorn hat and a frockcoat, was putting on a false mustache.
The band played “All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor,” as Sailor cantered the lap of honor under the spotlight, as proud as a butler with the family silver. Jake went deliberately slowly, knowing that Rupert would have difficulty holding Belgravia.
“For Christ’s sake, get a move on,” snarled Rupert, cannoning into him.
It’s all very well, thought the colonel darkly, Jake gets £4,000 plus £250 out of that. I get a measly £250.
Rupert came out of the ring, looking at his watch. Tiffany Bathgate would be at the flat in half an hour; he’d better step on it. Then he glanced across the collecting ring and his blood froze, for, picking her way towards him, very pale but unspeakably beautiful, a fur coat hiding any trace of pregnancy, was Helen. As usual, she made everyone else look commonplace. Rupert was off Belgravia in a second, handing him to Marion, taking Helen in his arms.
“Darling, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault,” she said.
“No, it was mine,” said Rupert, holding her against him, his brain racing.
Looking down, he saw how the fox fur coat set off the red hair and the huge eyes that were already filling with tears.
“I missed you so much,” she said, “I nearly went to the apartment and waited for you as a surprise.”
Rupert felt dizzy with horror. That would have been a fine welcome for Tiffany Bathgate and Dopey.
“What would you like to do?” said Rupert, his ingenuity working overtime. “There’s a party, if you’re not too tired, then we could have some supper.”
Anything to keep her away from the flat until the coast was clear.
“I’m a bit tired, but I don’t want to be a party pooper.”
“I’ll just go and see what Billy’s plans are,” said Rupert. “Have a word with Malise. And here’s Humpty and Ivor. I won’t be a second.”
“Hello, stranger,” said Humpty, kissing her. And as they all gathered round to welcome her, she suddenly realized how nice they were and how wrong she’d been to build them up as obsessed, insensitive monsters.
Rupert went over to Billy, who had just bought himself a treble whisky from the bar.
“Helen’s arrived.”
“I saw. Fine mess you’ve got yourself into. I don’t know why you’re looking so cheerful.”
“I love my wife,” said Rupert blandly. “Look, you must go and wait at the flat and divert those schoolgirls. Take them out to dinner, explain that Helen’s turned up.”
“Why the fuck should I? I must talk to Lavinia.”
“The party’ll go on for hours. She’ll be much more receptive after a few drinks. Look, I’ll pay. But I promised Tiffany a night out (and in) so be a love and give them a whirl, and tell Tiffany to keep herself on ice for the next time.”
Billy looked mutinous.
“You don’t want to ruin my marriage,” pleaded Rupert. “You can’t upset Helen at this stage. She oughtn’t to be under any stress with the baby coming.”
Billy sighed. “Okay, I’ll intercept them, then take them straight back to wherever they are staying and come on to the party.”
Billy was knocked sideways by the smell of warm scented flesh, newly washed hair, and radiantly expectant youth. The two girls were bitterly disappointed, and also well below the age of consent. Tiffany slipped up later by saying she would
be doing her “O” levels in two years’ time. In the end, Billy was too kind to dump them. He gave them a slap-up dinner with lots of champagne, most of which he drank himself, and when he saw Tiffany dolefully looking at her gold watch, said,
“It wasn’t an excuse, honest. Helen really did turn up.”
“You will give him my phone number, won’t you?” she said.
Back at Olympia, lights had been turned out in the stables. Horses dozed in their loose boxes. An egalitarian Christmas drunk was running up and down, pinching hay out of Belgravia’s hay net and distributing it among horses that hadn’t got any.
The party was soon well under way. This year Humpty was acting as host; everyone turned up at his caravan with bottles. Predictably, Driffield arrived with a bottle of Airwick.
“Thought you needed it, Humpty,” said Driffield, splashing whisky into his glass. “Place smells like a wrestler’s armpit.”
Heavy drinking stepped up the high jinks. For his officious behavior during the week, the collecting ring steward was dumped in the water trough. Later, a pretty waitress from the Olympia Bar, well primed by the rest of the British and German teams, asked Humpty if she could actually meet Porky Boy. She’d heard he liked Maltesers and she’d specially bought some. Only too happy to show off his favorite asset, a blushing Humpty led her off to Porky Boy’s box, followed at a safe distance by the other riders. The waitress looked into the box first.
“Oh dear,” she said, turning to Humpty, “he seems to have shrunk.”
Rushing forward to defend his beloved, Humpty discovered to his horror that instead of Porky Boy, one of the gray Shetland ponies that had pulled Snow White’s wedding coach was calmly guzzling Porky Boy’s hay. For a second Humpty was speechless.
