Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  Dr. Benson, who was more than a little in love with Helen, was delighted to confirm her fears. “Baby’s hungry; needs more food.”

  Afterwards there was a stand-up row and Nanny packed her bags.

  Terrified of Rupert’s wrath, Helen rang up Hilary, who offered only praise.

  “Best thing you’ve ever done. Don’t let that MCP talk you around.”

  Later, Rupert walked into the nursery to find Helen changing a nappy and, with a look of horror, walked out again. Really, he was the most unrole-reversed guy.

  With a hand that trembled slightly, she powdered Marcus and rather clumsily put the disposable nappy inside the Harrington square. She fastened the two blue safety pins, tucked him into his cradle, and gave him a kiss. With a gurgle of contentment he fell asleep immediately, obviously not missing Nanny.

  Rupert was waiting outside.

  “Why the hell are you doing that? Is it Nanny’s afternoon off?”

  Helen took a deep breath.

  “I gave her notice this morning.”

  “You what?” thundered Rupert. “Where is she?”

  “Gone.”

  “You sacked Nanny without asking me?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” said Helen, losing her temper. “You’re never here, never take any interest in Marcus.”

  “Balls. I haven’t been away from home for more than a night since you had him.”

  “You’ve only been back three weeks,” screamed Helen, going into her bedroom.

  “You turned her out, just like that?”

  “She’s out of date.”

  “She was my Nanny and my father’s before that. We’re healthy enough. Can’t be much wrong with her.”

  “Why don’t you put her in the antiques fair then? I’m not having her upsetting Mrs. Bodkin and, anyway, Hilary figures for successful parenting…”

  “Don’t you quote that bloody dyke at me. Successful parenting, my arse, and who’s going to look after the baby now?”

  “He’s called Marcus, right, and I am. Most mothers do look after their kids, you know. I don’t want Marcus growing up caring more for Nanny than me, like you did.”

  “And how d’you intend to get away? It’s Crittleden next week, Rome the week after.”

  “Tory Lovell takes her baby with her.”

  “Christ, you should see it. Caravan festooned with nappies, Tory shoving distilled suede boot into some bawling infant, who spits it all out, then bawls all night, keeping every other rider awake.”

  “Well, I’ll stop at home then,” sobbed Helen.

  Suddenly from next door there was a wail.

  “Go and see to him,” snapped Rupert. “Now aren’t you sorry you sacked Nanny?”

  Fortunately Billy chose that moment to arrive back from Vienna, trailing rosettes, bringing Rupert’s horses, and panting to see the new baby, so the row was temporarily smoothed over.

  “What a little duck,” he said, taking a yelling Marcus from Helen. “Isn’t he sweet? Look at his little hands. No, shush, shush sweetheart, that’s no way to carry on, you’ll upset your mummy.”

  Amazingly, the next minute, Marcus shut up, gazing unfocused at Billy, enjoying the warmth and gentle strength.

  “Isn’t he a duck?” he said again.

  “You’d better take over as Nanny,” said Rupert with a slight edge in his voice. “Then we won’t have to fork out for an ad in The Lady.”

  Helen thought for the millionth time how glad she was Billy hadn’t married Lavinia Greenslade. He was such a comfort.

  “You will be godfather, won’t you?” she said.

  Billy blushed. “Of course, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to point him in a very Christian direction. Who else have you asked?”

  “Only my new friend Hilary, so far,” said Helen, shooting a defiant glance at Rupert. “I can’t wait to have you two meet. I’ll know you’ll enjoy her.”

  Every night for the next week they were woken continually by Marcus crying, driving Rupert to frenzies of irritation.

  “That’s my night’s sleep gone,” he would complain, then drift off to sleep two minutes later. Helen would get up, feed Marcus, soothe him to sleep, and lie awake for the rest of the night.

  In April, Billy and Rupert set off for Crittleden, leaving Helen and Marcus alone in the big house, except for one of the girl grooms, whom Rupert had insisted sleep in. Resentful of Rupert, Helen poured all her love into the delicate little boy. Thank goodness Hilary lived only a few miles away, so they spent alternate days together, discussing books, plays, paintings, their babies and, inevitably, Rupert.

  Jake Lovell was having his best year yet. His horses couldn’t stop winning. Revenge, brought in from grass, fat, mellow, and almost unrecognizable, was now fit and well muscled again. Even Jake realized his Olympic potential, but in four years’ time.

  Tory and Fen, however, were wildly excited when a form arrived for Jake asking him to fill in his measurements for an Olympic uniform, which included a blazer and trousers for the flight and the opening ceremony. Aware that forms had been sent to all the other possibles, Jake had no intention of tempting Providence by returning the form until his selection had been confirmed after Aachen. He was appalled when he discovered that Tory, with her usual efficiency, had filled in the form and posted it.

  Despite this tempting of Providence, the first Olympic trial at the Bath and Wells show went well. Both Sailor and Revenge jumped accurately and were only beaten by seventeen-hundredths of a second against the clock by The Bull. Humpty was fourth, Driffield fifth, Ivor Braine sixth, Rupert a poor seventh, not even getting into the jump-off. The rest were nowhere.

  Before the second trial in June at Crittleden, Jake was a good deal more edgy. Colonel Carter was never off the telephone, throwing his weight around, trying to organize Revenge’s career, until Jake lost his temper and told the colonel to get stuffed.

  More sinister, Jake noticed an unfamiliar missel-thrush singing in the willow tree nearest the stables, the day before they were due to leave for Crittleden. Jake chased it away, but it came back and went on singing. When he lived with the gypsies a missel-thrush had sung all day outside the caravan of the old gypsy grandmother. One day she was in rude health, the next she had died. Jake believed in omens. All day he worried about the children, Isa and little Darklis, who at thirteen months had grown into the most enchanting black-haired, black-eyed gypsy girl, the apple of Jake’s eye.

  He even went and fetched Isa from the playgroup himself. He didn’t tell Tory of his fears. They had decided not to bring the children to Crittleden, as Jake and Fen needed a good night’s sleep before the trial, and children around might be distracting.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind not coming?” Jake asked Tory.

  “I can watch you on television,” she said. “Anyway I’d be so nervous for you, I’d wind you up. I know you’re going to make it.”

  Jake hated leaving them all. Whenever would he get over this crippling homesickness every time he went away? As they left on the hundred-and-fifty-mile drive it was pouring with rain and the missel-thrush was still singing. It was even wetter and colder at Crittleden. Jake and Fen spent a lot of time blocking up holes in the horses’ stables.

  On the way to the secretary’s tent to declare for the next day, Jake bumped into Marion, fuming as usual with Rupert.

  “He’s only got Mayfair in the running now. He used the tack rail on Belgravia so much, one of his legs went septic, so he’s off for a fortnight. Rupert’s talking of using electrodes on Mayfair; the horse is a bundle of nerves.”

  “And Macaulay?” said Jake.

  “Sold on to an Arab sheik Rupe met playing chemmy at the Claremont. So he’s off to some Middle East hellhole, poor sod. You know what that means?”

  “Yes,” said Jake bleakly. “He’ll cart the sheik’s son and heir once too often and end up in the stone quarries. Can you get me the address?”

  Marion said she’d try, but Rupert had been
very cagey about this deal because Helen, who was in an uptight state, might be upset if she found out the horse had gone.

  “Not that she’s showing any interest in anything except Marcus at the moment.”

  Jake shook his head. “Why d’you stay with Rupert?”

  Marion shrugged. “I guess I’m hooked on the bastard, and at least I can make the lot of his horses a little easier.”

  All the next day the rain poured down like a waterfall. The riders put up the collars of their mackintosh coats and shivered. As he finished walking the course, Jake was accosted by a reporter from the local evening paper.

  “This is the toughest course ever built at Crittleden, Jake. Anything to say?”

  Jake kept walking. “I’m sorry I can’t talk to you before a class.”

  “But I’ve got a deadline,” wailed the reporter. “Arrogant sod,” he added furiously.

  But Jake didn’t hear, and when he passed Humpty and Driffield he barely nodded, trying to cocoon himself, to get a grip on his nerves. He found Fen holding Revenge and Sailor—three drowned rats. Sailor, who loathed the cold, looked more miserable and hideous than ever.

  “You okay?” he asked Fen.

  She nodded. “What’s the course like?”

  “Not okay,” said Jake. “Dead and holding. It’ll put five inches on all the fences.”

  Smug in the covered stands after a good lunch, the Olympic committee smoked their cigars and waited. Jake, who had a latish draw, watched one rider after another come to grief, which did his nerves no good. He noticed that the dye of his cheap red coat was running into his breeches. If he survived this ordeal, he’d bloody well buy himself a mackintosh coat.

  Only Porky Boy and The Bull went clear. Revenge went in at Number Twenty and, despite having to carry two stone of lead because Jake was so light, he jumped strongly and confidently, with only a toe in the water for four faults. Jake felt passionate relief that he wouldn’t have to jump again. But in one of the boxes, from which Colonel Carter would not emerge because Molly didn’t want her newly set hair rained on, Jake could see them both looking disappointed.

  Rupert went in next, jumping a very haphazard clear, and came out looking none too pleased; he was followed by Driffield, who, despite Olympic-level bellyaching beforehand, had only four faults.

  Sailor looked even more fed up as Fen took off his rug. But he nudged Jake in the ribs, as if to say, “I don’t like this any more than you do, so let’s get on with it.”

  “I heard Rupert saying it’s like a skating rink in the middle on the far side of the rustic poles,” said Fen, “so jump to the right.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jake, trying to stop his teeth chattering.

  “Your breeches look like a sunset,” said Fen.

  “Hope that’s not symbolic of my career,” said Jake.

  Sailor was cold and it took him the first four jumps to warm up. He gave Jake a seizure when he rapped the double very hard. But fortunately, though the pole trembled, it didn’t come out of the cup and Jake managed to steer him clear of the skating rink at the rustic poles. Although Jake was aware what a tremendous effort Sailor had to make at each fence, carrying so much lead, he completed the course without mishap.

  Jake’s heart filled with gratitude. What horse could be more gallant? As he patted him delightedly and gave him half a packet of Polos, he wondered if subconsciously he was holding back Revenge because he so wanted to take Sailor to Colombia.

  “Keep him warm and under cover,” he said to Fen and went off to check the jump-off course. He found all the clear-round riders having a frightful row with the Crittleden judges.

  “For Christ sake,” said Rupert, “we’ve gone clear. Isn’t that enough for the buggers? It’s like jumping out of quicksand.”

  “Porky Boy might easily slip,” said Humpty.

  “It’s a sod of a course,” agreed Billy.

  But the judges were adamant: the Olympic committee wanted them to jump again. This time Porky Boy had three fences down, Rupert and Driffield two and Jake and Billy one each.

  “Can’t ask us to go again,” said Billy, grinning at Jake. “At least that’s a grand in each of our pockets.”

  “Sailor’s finished,” said Jake. “Couldn’t even jump over a pole on the ground.”

  Billy nodded. “Don’t worry, they’re not that crazy.”

  But once again the Olympic committee, or rather Colonel Roxborough, who had once won a bronze medal, wanted a duel to the death.

  “Seems a bit extreme when Jake’s horse is carrying so much lead,” protested Malise. “They really are ghastly conditions.”

  “Could be just as ghastly in Colombia,” said the colonel. “Are we conducting an Olympic trial, or are we not? You couldn’t divide a gold medal.”

  Malise had to go down and tell Billy and Jake they had to jump again, knowing he must not transmit the grave doubts he felt.

  “I’m retiring Sailor,” said Jake.

  “Then you’ll scupper your Olympic chances,” said Malise. “Just take it very slowly.”

  Sailor was too exhausted even to look appalled as Jake rode him through the driving rain back into the collecting ring. Jake couldn’t bear to watch Billy, but he heard the subdued cheers as he rode out with twelve faults.

  Rain was dripping in a steady stream from Malise’s hat as he walked up to Jake.

  “Now, I mean it, take it really slowly.”

  “He’s got no bloody choice after what you’ve put him through,” snapped Fen.

  Malise knew he should have slapped her down, but she was speaking the truth.

  Jake hated having to ask Sailor to do it. He felt like a murderer as he cantered slowly into the ring. Tory must be watching at home and worried too. If only that bloody missel-thrush had shut up. Rain at fifty degrees was making visibility almost impossible.

  “I’m sorry, boy, I’m sorry.” He ran a reassuring hand down Sailor’s dripping gray plaits.

  There were only seven fences. Sailor managed the first and second, but the ground was so churned up that he slipped on take-off at the third, the wall, and sent all the bricks and nearly himself flying. It was like riding on a kitchen floor after you’ve spilt hot fat. Frightened now, Sailor knocked down the oxer and rapped the upright, which trembled, but as in the first round, didn’t fall. Perhaps they were in luck after all. Somehow he nursed Sailor over the rustic poles; now he was coming down to the combination. By some miracle, despite a nasty skid, he cleared the three elements. Now it was only the parallel. Ears flattened against the rain, tail swishing in irritation, Sailor looked for a second as though he was going to stop.

  “Go on, baby, go on,” muttered Jake.

  Sailor made a mighty effort, girding his loins, then with an extra wiggle, threw himself with a groan over the fence.

  Only eight faults. They had won. Despite the deluge, the crowd gave him a tremendous cheer as Jake pulled Sailor to a walk, patting him over and over again. Then just in front of the selectors’ box, like some terrible nightmare, Sailor seemed to stop, make an effort to go on, then physically shrink beneath Jake and collapse in the mud. Jake, whose good leg was trapped beneath him, took a few seconds to wriggle free. Scrambling up, covered in mud, he limped over to Sailor’s head, cradling it in his arms. Sailor just lay there. Then he opened his walleye, tried to raise his head, gave a half-choked knucker, and his head fell back.

  “Sailor!” whispered Jake. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’ll be okay in a minute. Where’s the vet?” he howled, looking around frantically at the horrified blur of the crowd.

  The next minute the vet ran onto the course through the torrent of rain, carrying his bag.

  “Quickly; it must be his heart; do something,” pleaded Jake.

  The vet opened Sailor’s eye and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s dead.”

  “He can’t be,” said Jake through pale trembling lips, “he can’t be, not Sailor,” and suddenly, his face crumpled and tears were mingl
ing with the raindrops.

  “Sailor,” he sobbed, kneeling down, putting his arms round Sailor’s neck, “don’t die, please, you can’t, don’t die.”

  In an instant the immaculate Crittleden organization swung into gear. The tractor and trailer were chugging through the mud from the collecting ring and the arena party ran on, putting eight-foot screens round Jake and the horse, and the loudspeaker started booming out music from South Pacific.

  The crowd stood stunned, not moving. Colonel Roxborough descended from the stands, Malise ran in from the collecting ring, but Fen got there first, flinging her arms round Jake and Sailor, cuddling them both, sobbing her heart out too.

  “Any hope?” asked Malise.

  The vet shook his head. “Heart attack, I’m afraid.”

  Fen turned round. “It’s your fault,” she screamed at Malise and Colonel Roxborough, “your bloody bloody fault. Jake didn’t want to jump him. Now what have you proved?”

  Malise went up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Awfully sorry, very bad luck, might have happened at any time.”

  “Don’t touch me,” hissed Fen, shaking him off. “You’re all murderers.”

  Malise went over to Jake, who was still cradling Sailor’s head in his arms, crying great strangled sobs. “It was the missel-thrush,” he kept saying over and over again. He seemed almost deranged.

  “Come on, Jake,” said Malise gently. “Bloody bad luck, but let’s get him out of the ring.”

  It took three of the arena party to pull Jake off, and the rest of them to get Sailor into the trailer.

  Half the crowd and all the grooms were in tears. The riders were visibly shaken. The organizers were in a tizzy about who’d won.

  “It’s in the FEI rules, Jake wasn’t mounted when he left the ring,” said Grania Pringle, who was about to present the prizes.

  “Then Billy’s got to get it,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Let’s get on with it, get people’s minds onto something more cheerful. Bloody good thing it happened today. Just think if he’d collapsed in Colombia. That’s what Olympic trials are for.”