Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Dear me,” said Rupert, looking over the half-door, “poor old Porky. You haven’t put him in the washing machine, have you? I’m sure his label said Hand Wash.”

  “You have been geeving heem too streect a diet, my friend,” said Ludwig. “ ’E ’as faded away.”

  “Perhaps Porky’s been using Pond’s Vanishing Cweam,” said Lavinia.

  Everyone screamed with laughter.

  Humpty exploded. “Who’s stolen Porky Boy?” he bellowed. “Someone’s stolen my horse. Don’t you all laugh at me. I’m going to call the police.”

  He was just dialing 999 in the nearest telephone box when suddenly Porky Boy emerged from behind a bank of wilting poinsettias, looking very put out at being deprived of his supper, and proceeded to rush back to Humpty straight through the stand of some enraged British Field Sports ladies, who were putting green rubber trousers into cardboard boxes.

  Humpty then jumped on Porky Boy and chased Rupert, Ludwig, and Hans round the stands and into the arena. Ivor Braine was happily getting drunk with Wishbone, the sandy-haired Irishman.

  “Get it down, lad, it’ll do thee good,” Ivor was saying, as he filled up the Irishman’s glass.

  Dudley Diplock was grumbling to Malise about the fact that they no longer televised the presentation of the prizes.

  “It’s what the public likes to see.”

  But Malise wasn’t listening. He was looking at Helen Campbell-Black, who was being pinned against a pile of straw bales by Monica Carlton, who was still wearing her mustache and tricorn hat.

  “Excuse me,” said Malise, and went over to rescue her.

  “Oh, shove off, Malise,” said Monica. “I get little enough chance to talk to this exquisite creature.”

  “So do I,” said Malise. She looks ill, he thought, and supposed it was the tired last months of pregnancy.

  Fortunately Monica soon got sidetracked by the pretty waitress.

  “Are you okay?” Malise asked Helen, slightly lowering his voice.

  “Fine,” she said brightly.

  “I like to take a fatherly interest in the wives of my team,” he said, in what he knew was an unnaturally hearty voice.

  “I wish Rupert would take a fatherly interest in our baby,” said Helen bitterly.

  “It’s probably jealousy,” said Malise, “and apprehension. He sees the looming challenge to his own identity and privacy. I know I felt the same, but I became positively doting once they arrived.”

  “I sure hope so,” sighed Helen.

  They watched Lavinia and Count Guy, arm in arm, working their way through the crowd towards them.

  “Like Lavinia’s new barnet?” asked Monica Carlton, twirling her mustache. “Pity she’s chucking herself away on that frog.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Helen, startled. “Is it serious?”

  “I think so,” said Malise.

  “Oh, poor Billy,” said Helen in distress. “I don’t think Lavinia would have been quite right for him, but then I don’t think anyone would be special enough for Billy.”

  “Might just be the making of him,” said Malise. “He’s too soft, too protected by your husband, drinks too much, too.”

  “We’re just going,” Lavinia said to Helen, adding fondly, “Guy doesn’t like parties over here because he hates not being able to talk Fwench, but I just wanted to intwoduce him.”

  “Ah, la belle Hélène,” said the handsome count softly.

  He took Helen’s hand, pressed it to his lips, then gazed into her eyes.

  “Everyone speaks of your great beauty, but none did you the justice. Now I understand why Rupert keep you hidden away.”

  “When’s your baby due?” said Lavinia, rather pointedly.

  And when Helen told them, Guy, not appearing to mind in the least not talking French, proceeded to express amazement that Helen was still so slim, and launched into a long dissertation on what she ought to eat, and how his Aunt Hortense had just had her sixth child, and how he hoped Helen would come and stay in his château when the next Paris show was on.

  “Must go and have a word with Jake Lovell,” said Malise.

  “I thought you wanted to aller, Guy,” said Lavinia petulantly. “We’re getting married,” she told Helen.

  “Oh I’m so pleased for you both.”

  “Come on, darling,” said Lavinia, dragging the reluctant Guy away.

  Helen wished she could go too. She was feeling absolutely shattered. Nearby, Wishbone was trying to sell Humpty an Irish horse.

  “But who’s he by?” Humpty kept saying.

  “Ah,” said Wishbone, smiling engagingly, “who would you like him to be by?”

  Malise found Jake in a corner, talking to Hans and Ludwig. Beside them Fen had fallen asleep on a hay bale.

  “That’s a very good horse of yours, Jake,” said Malise.

  “Vitch von?” said Hans Schmidt. “Zay are both top hole.”

  “Revenge,” said Malise. “You ought to be thinking of him in terms of the next Olympics.”

  “Not enough mileage,” said Jake flatly.

  “I disagree. I saw that horse when he was carting Annie Buscott all over the place. The improvement’s been remarkable.”

  Jake blushed slightly.

  “Olympics aren’t till September,” said Malise.

  “What about Sailor?” said Jake quickly.

  “Great Nations’ Cup horse, not sure if he’s Olympic stature. No, don’t look bootfaced. I know how you feel about Sailor, but his wind isn’t that good, and in a high-altitude country like Colombia, he won’t be very happy. Africa’s a great horse too, but I notice she likes soft going more and more these days. I only discovered this evening that Revenge is owned by your father-in-law.”

  “Taking my horse’s name in vain,” said Colonel Carter, who’d been eavesdropping. “Think he’s got Olympic potential?”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t rule him out.”

  “What are you going to do with him now?” Colonel Carter asked Jake. He’d had enough to drink to become bullying.

  “Turn him out for a couple of months. He needs a break.”

  “Well, don’t leave him out too long,” said Malise. “He needs the experience; but I congratulate you, Jake. He’s a credit to you. So’s she.” He looked down at the sleeping Fen. “Been watching her in the practice ring. Living with you full time, now, is she?”

  Jake nodded.

  “She’ll be knocking on the front door herself in a few years’ time,” said Malise.

  Jake made sure Fen was asleep, then said, “She’s a little cracker.”

  The party dragged on. Wishbone and Ivor were singing “Danny Boy” when Billy finally arrived at two in the morning. Rupert buttonholed him immediately. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” said Billy. “I’ve delivered them safely back. You can go home now.” He helped himself to the last four fingers of whisky with a trembling hand.

  “How was little Tiffany?” asked Rupert.

  “Upset; but not nearly as much as me. I’ve just seen Lavinia necking in the street with Guy de la Tour. She’s certainly out for the count.”

  “So will you be if you keep on drinking. Helen and I are off. Come with us.”

  “Did Lavinia say anything?” said Billy.

  Rupert looked at him straight. “Yes, I’m afraid she said she and Guy are getting married. Look, I’m sorry, but you can do better than her.”

  As Billy was leaving, he bumped into Malise.

  Seeing Billy’s face, Malise said, “Why don’t you come back to my flat for a cup of coffee?”

  “Terribly kind, but I think I’d rather be by myself.”

  “Are you sure? Where are you going?”

  “Don’t know really—bit of a shock—I was going to ask her to marry me, you see, when this Guy suddenly turns up.”

  He was very drunk, but despite the awful haircut and the missing front teeth, he had a stricken dignity. Tenners were falling out of his overcoat pockets.
Malise gathered them up.

  “My fancy dress winnings,” explained Billy.

  “I’ll look after them for you,” said Malise. “Come on, where are you staying?”

  “Addison Gardens, with Rupert.”

  As they passed the men’s lavatory, they could hear Ivor supervising Wishbone being sick. “Get it oop, lad, get it oop. It’s all right as long as tha’ knows the way it’s going.”

  “I’ll walk you up there.”

  “Please, I’d rather be alone,” said Billy.

  “All right,” said Malise. “Look, Lavinia’s a nice girl, and I can’t imagine she and Guy will last very long, if that’s any comfort to you. But I honestly think you can do much better than that. As Helen said earlier, you’re special.”

  Billy shook his head. “I loved her, but I suppose they’d have been frightful in-laws. Good night.”

  It was bitterly cold outside. Programs, crisp packets, streamers, old number cards, and wisps of straw were whipped round his feet by the icy wind.

  “In the bleak midwinter,” Billy sang, “frosty wind made moan.”

  His voice broke and tears poured down his cheeks as he set out unsteadily in the direction of Addison Gardens.

  22

  Back at the Mill House, good as his word, Jake turned his horses out for a rest. It pleased him to see them really enjoying their grass. Even Revenge dropped his belly like an old hunter. In February, a program was announced for Olympic possibles. The riders mustn’t overjump their horses and they must take part in the Olympic trials at the Bath and Wells show and Crittleden in June. The probable team would then be chosen for a trial over the huge, demanding fences at the Aachen show in Germany in July, after which the Olympic team—four riders and a reserve—would finally be selected.

  Officially, the Olympic committee told Jake, they were interested in both Sailor and Revenge. Unofficially, Malise rang Jake and asked him if, in the event of one of the other riders, say Rupert, being selected without a decent horse, would Jake be prepared to jump Sailor and lend Revenge to Rupert. The answer was an extremely curt negative. If Revenge made sufficient progress to be selected, over Jake’s dead body would he let anyone else ride him, particularly Rupert. Malise appreciated his sentiments and reported back to the Olympic committee, who felt somewhat differently. Colonel Roxborough, the chairman, master of the Westerham, a bronze medalist before the war, who’d never moved an inch to get any of his five wives, was not the only member who felt Jake was behaving in a thoroughly unsportsmanlike fashion. After all, Belgravia and Mayfair, who’d both been overjumped, were not as good as they used to be, and Macaulay, after a dazzling start, had suddenly lost form altogether.

  The committee were heartened, however, by Billy Lloyd-Foxe at last hitting top form. Trying to forget Lavinia, avoiding parties where he might bump into her and cutting down on his drinking, he had concentrated on his horses, with dramatic results. The Bull, and often Kitchener, were in the money at every show they went to, and both were regarded as Olympic possibles.

  Among the other possibles were Humpty, Driffield, Ivor Braine, and Lavinia de la Tour, who had married Guy in March. Billy managed to be abroad for the wedding, but sent them a king-size duvet as a wedding present, adding a wry little private note for Lavinia: “If I can’t spend the rest of my life lying on top of you, at least my present can.”

  As a newlywed, no doubt subjected to endless demands by Guy, Lavinia lost form. It was agony for Billy to see her with Guy on the circuit, but he found his heart didn’t ache quite so much if he was beating the hell out of both of them.

  In March, while Rupert was driving from Dortmund to Vienna, Helen went into labor. As his lorry was snowbound on a mountain road, no one managed to contact him for thirty-six hours. Flying straight back to Gloucestershire, he found that Helen had nearly died after a long and very difficult birth, and that the baby was in the intensive care unit. Seeing her paler than her white pillow, her red hair dark with sweat and grease, Rupert was overwhelmed with remorse. How could he have done this to her?

  “I guess Nanny was right about good child-bearing hips. I’m sorry, darling,” he said, taking her hand.

  Not by a single word did she reproach him, but he saw the hurt in her huge eyes and knew that his absence would be held against him later. As he sat with her in her private room, various doctors came and talked to him, and nurses popped in to have a gaze. Actually the sister in charge was frightfully pretty, but after three hours Rupert was rigid with boredom, and turned on the television. It was Benny Hill, who always made him laugh, but when he looked around and saw Helen was crying, he turned it off.

  He was delighted to have a son, particularly after his smooth and expensive GP friend, Dr. Benson, had turned up and assured him that both child and mother should pull through.

  “But I really think you should stick around for a bit, Rupe. She’s had an awful time and constantly called out for you.”

  “I appreciate your advice,” said Rupert coolly.

  “You can do better than that,” said Benson, equally coolly. “You can act on it, unless you want Helen to wind up in a bin.”

  Rupert rang Billy and told him he wouldn’t be coming to Vienna and would he bring back Rupert’s horses.

  “What’s the baby like?” asked Billy.

  “Got red hair, so we know it’s Helen.”

  Then Rupert sat down and wrote letters, putting baby Marcus Rupert Edward down for St. Augustine’s and Harrow. Looking at the tiny baby, with his sickly face like a howling lemon and the bracken-red stubble of hair, it seemed impossible that he would ever attain such heights.

  In the evening, Rupert went home to Penscombe and slept for fourteen hours, but after that scrupulously visited Helen every day. She seemed pathetically grateful for the attention, but was distressed that she was unable to breast-feed.

  “What the hell does it matter?” asked Rupert. “How do you think Cow and Gate became millionaires? I thought you wanted your figure back.”

  He was further irritated that Helen had struck up a friendship with another mother called Hilary Stirling. In her early thirties, Hilary denied her unquestionable good looks by wearing no makeup and scraping her dark hair into a bun. A passionate supporter of the women’s movement, a braless, undeodorized vegetarian, with unshaven legs and armpits, she had just had her second baby, Kate, named after Kate Millett, by natural childbirth—“A wonderfully moving experience,” she told Helen.

  Hilary’s husband Crispin, who appeared to do everything in the house—cook, clean, and look after Germaine (their first child)—had been present at the birth. He was very earnest, with long thinning hair and a straggly beard, and came to visit Hilary in hospital with Germaine, now age eleven months, hanging from his neck in a baby sling. Helen thought him extraordinarily unattractive, but at least, unlike Rupert, he had been caring and supportive.

  It suddenly seemed to Rupert that every time he rolled up to see Helen, bringing bottles of champagne, gulls’ eggs, smoked salmon, and armfuls of spring flowers from the garden, that Hilary was sitting on Helen’s bed, breast-feeding her disgusting baby and flashing her goaty armpits.

  Admittedly she was ultrapolite. “It’s so kind of Helen to let me take refuge in her private room, although we personally wouldn’t dream of using anything else but the NHS.”

  Admittedly, she immediately made herself scarce, despite Helen’s protestations. “I’ll leave you, dear. You see little enough of Rupert alone as it is. I’ll come back after he’s gone.” But every word was spat out with contempt.

  Helen thought she was wonderful.

  “She’s a very talented painter. Look at this little sketch she did of me this morning.”

  “Looks as if you’ve been peeling onions.”

  “Oh, Rupert, don’t be silly. She’s real clever too; got several degrees.”

  “And every one below zero,” snapped Rupert.

  In between visiting Helen, he had not been idle. He worked the novices and
kept up his search for an Olympic horse, which included dining with Colonel Carter and even forcing himself to flirt with the appalling Molly.

  After a fortnight, Helen was allowed home and baby Marcus was installed in Rupert’s old cradle, newly upholstered in white frills, in his beautiful buttercup yellow nursery, next to Rupert and Helen’s bedroom, with Rupert’s old Nanny, who had already settled in to look after him, sleeping in the room on the other side.

  Rupert thought this was insane.

  “How can Billy and I wander around with no clothes on if Nanny’s two doors down? Billy might easily come home plastered and wander into her room by mistake. The baby ought to be on the top floor with Nanny, like Adrian and I were.”

  “But I’d never see him,” protested Helen. “I want him near me. You can’t expect poor Nanny to stagger along the passage and down two flights of stairs every time he cries.”

  Helen grew stronger physically, but sank into postnatal depression. She had ears on elastic. Every time a lamb bleated out in the fields she thought it was Marcus crying and raced upstairs. Rupert had the lambs and ewes moved to another field out of earshot. But Helen was still impossibly jumpy. Rupert was hustling her to sleep with him again and was furious when, egged on by Hilary, she refused. A power struggle, too, was developing between her and Nanny. If Marcus cried in the night, often they hit head-on over the cradle, like shiny red billiard balls. Nanny insisted on putting Marcus in long white dresses and refused to have anything to do with disposable nappies. She also wanted a strict routine—you had to show the baby early on who was master. Helen, again egged on by Hilary and Mrs. Bodkin, believed that babies should be fed on demand and cuddled a lot. If they couldn’t sleep you took them into bed with you, whereupon Nanny launched into horrific tales about ladyships in the past who’d done the same thing and suffocated their babies.

  One day when Rupert was away Marcus wouldn’t stop crying, his frame wracked, his little lungs bawling the house down. How could such a tiny thing make so much noise?

  “Leave him. He’ll exhaust himself,” insisted Nanny.

  Helen, terrified of losing Marcus, and utterly fed up with this whiskery old boot hanging over him and calling all the shots, summoned the doctor.