by Jilly Cooper
Billy spent the rest of the week at the International, feeling horribly restless, praying the girl from the Golden Lion might turn up. After Lavinia, he’d vowed he’d never let another girl get under his skin, and here he was, moping around again. Even in the excitement of setting out for Colombia, he was unable to get her out of his mind.
In the weeks leading to the Olympics, Jake Lovell sank into deep depression. Then, unable to face the razzmatazz and hysterical chauvinism of the actual event, he flew off to the Middle East to try and find Macaulay. He had located the sheik, but when he got there, after a lot of prevarication, he discovered that Macaulay had indeed blotted his copy book by savaging the sheik himself, and had been sold on less than six weeks before to a dealer who kept no records and couldn’t or probably didn’t want to remember where Macaulay had gone.
Jake went to the British Embassy, who were very unhelpful. With a big oil deal going through, they didn’t want to rock the boat. After repeated nagging, they sent Jake to Miss Blenkinsop, who ran a horse rescue center in the capital, and, as far as Jake could see, was a constant thorn in the authorities’ flesh, as she waged a one-woman battle against appalling Middle Eastern cruelty and insensitivity towards animals.
Miss Blenkinsop was a gaunt, sinewy woman in her late fifties, totally without sentimentality, and with the brusque, rather de-sexed manner of someone who has always cared for animals more than people.
She gave Jake a list of sixty-odd addresses where he might find the horse.
“Hope your nerves are strong. You’ll see some harrowing sights. Arabs think it’s unlucky to put down a horse, so they work them till they drop dead, and they don’t believe in feeding and watering them much either. Horse has probably been sold upcountry. You’ve as much chance of finding him as a needle in a haystack, but here are all the riding schools and the quarries, the most likely spots within five miles of the city. I’ll lend you one of my boys as interpreter. He’s a shifty little beast, but he speaks good English, and you can borrow my car, if you like.”
For Jake it was utter crucifixion. He was in a bad way emotionally anyway, and he had never seen such cruelty. Like some hideous travesty of Brook Farm Riding School, he watched skeletons, lame, often blind, frantic with thirst, shuffling around riding school rings, or tugging impossibly heavy loads in the street or in the quarries, being beaten until they collapsed, and then being beaten until they got up again.
For five days he went to every address Miss Blenkinsop had given him, bribing, wheedling, cajoling for information about a huge black horse with a white face, and one long white sock. No one had seen him. Sickened and shattered, he returned every night to his cheap hotel where there was no air-conditioning, the floors crawled with cockroaches, and drink was totally prohibited. As the coup-de-grâce, on the fifth night, he couldn’t resist watching the Olympic individual competition on the useless black and white hotel television. As Billy rode in, the picture went around and around, but sadistically, it held still for Rupert and Revenge, who produced two heroic rounds to win the Bronze. Ludwig got the gold on his great Hanoverian mare, Clara; Carol Kennedy, the American number one male rider, got the silver.
Black with despair and hatred, Jake went up to his cauldron of a room and lay on his bed smoking until dawn. He had nearly run out of money and addresses. Today he must go home empty-handed. Around seven, he must have dozed off. He was woken by the telephone.
It was Miss Blenkinsop. “Don’t get too excited, but I may have found your horse. He’s been causing a lot of trouble down at the stone quarries.” She gave him the address.
“If it is him, don’t bid for him yourself. They’ll guess something’s up and whack up the price. Give me a ring and I’ll come and do the haggling.”
At first Jake wasn’t sure. The big muzzled gelding was so pitifully thin and so covered in a thick layer of white dust as he staggered one step forward, one step back, trying to shift a massive cartload of stone, that it was impossible to distinguish his white face or his one white sock. Then the Arab brought his whip down five times on the sunken quarters, five black stripes appeared and with a squeal of rage, Macaulay turned and lunged at the driver, showing the white eye on the other side.
That’s my boy, thought Jake with a surge of excitement. They’ll break his back before they break his spirit.
Miss Blenkinsop had a hard time making the Arab owner of the quarry part with Macaulay. Although vicious, he was the strongest horse they’d ever had and probably still had six months’ hard labor in him, but the price the hideously ugly Englishwoman was offering was too much for him to refuse. He could buy a dozen broken-down wrecks for that.
When Jake took Miss Blenkinsop’s trailer to collect him, Macaulay was too tall to fit in. So Jake led him very slowly back through the rush-hour traffic.
Macaulay twice clattered to the ground with exhaustion, and several times they narrowly missed death as the oil-rich Arabs hurtled by in their huge limousines. But Macaulay displayed no fear, he was beyond that now, and most touchingly, he seemed to remember Jake from the time he’d treated his lacerations after Rupert’s beating-up in Madrid. When Jake came to fetch him, his lackluster eyes brightened for a second and he gave a half-whicker of welcome.
That night, after he had made the horse as comfortable as possible, Jake had supper with Miss Blenkinsop. She drew the curtains and produced an ancient bottle of Madeira. After two glasses, Jake realized he was absolutely plastered. After Arab food, the macaroni cheese she gave him seemed the best thing he had ever eaten.
Jake always found it difficult to express gratitude, in case it was construed as weakness.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he finally mumbled.
“Don’t bother,” said Miss Blenkinsop. “Do something about it. Spread the word when you get back to England. We need cash, not sympathy, and a law banning the exporting of all horses to the Middle East.”
“If I can get Macaulay back on the circuit,” said Jake, “the publicity for you will be so fantastic, the money’ll start flooding in.”
“He’s in a very bad way. Think you’ll be able to do it?”
Jake shrugged. “He’s young. My grandmother cured a mare with a broken leg once, bound it in comfrey and she went on to win four races. I’m going to have a bloody good try.”
For a second he stared at his glass, miles away, then he said, “I had a horse called Sailor once. He was near death when he arrived, but he did pretty well in the end.”
Even when Jake and Macaulay got back to England, the news that Great Britain had won the team silver medal, Billy clinching it with a brilliant clear, didn’t upset him very much.
24
Kings, they came home. After a grueling thirty-hour journey from Colombia to Stansted Airport, The Bull and Revenge, accompanied by Tracey and Podge, had a good night’s sleep at Colonel Roxborough’s yard. Next day they drove the horses in the lorry to Heathrow to meet Rupert and Billy. They had quite a wait, because of scenes of hysterical excitement at the airport. Press and television cameras were everywhere; police had to keep back the huge crowd. Britain hadn’t notched up that many medals at Colombia not to be very proud of her show-jumping bronze and silver.
At last, they all set off for Penscombe, at around four o’clock in the afternoon, in tearing spirits, sharing several bottles of champagne on the way. Tracey was soon laughing like a hyena. Only Podge was sad. In a couple of hours she would have to give most of Rupert back to Helen, but there’d be other shows, she tried to tell herself. Outside Cirencester, Rupert was stopped by a policeman for speeding, who solemnly got out his notebook, then asked for their autographs. Every time people saw their lorry with the lettering “Rupert Campbell-Black and Billy Lloyd-Foxe, Great Britain” they started cheering. Even Rupert was thrown by the welcome as they neared home. As they entered Chalford there were crowds all along the route, cheering, waving British flags, and holding up placards saying “Well done, Billy and Rupert.” “Three cheers for The Bul
l and Revenge.”
Rupert looked at Billy. “Shall we ride home?”
Billy nodded, too moved to speak.
The horses were still tired, but delighted to be out of the lorry and in familiar territory. The Bull proceeded to stall and stall in the middle of Chalford High Street to the delighted screams of the crowd and the photographers.
And they were cheered all the three miles home, Rupert and Billy riding in front, followed by Tracey and Podge in the lorry, hooting victory salutes on the horn. Two miles out, Henrietta, one of the junior grooms, arrived with an ecstatic Badger and Mavis, red, white, and blue bows attached to their collars. Billy scooped up Mavis onto the saddle in front of him, where she ecstatically licked his salty face. After that, The Bull had to guide himself home because Billy needed one hand to clutch Mavis and the other to wipe his eyes. The Bull didn’t care. With garlands of flowers round his massive neck, he must have put on a stone between Chalford and Penscombe with all the sweets, carrots, and sugar that were fed him along the route.
To Rupert, Penscombe had never looked so lovely as on that golden September afternoon, with the valley softened and blurred by a slight blue mist, and great pale cream swathes of traveler’s joy. There was the weather cock glinting on Penscombe church. And suddenly towards them came the village band, sweating in their red tunics, playing “Land of Hope and Glory” somewhat out of tune.
“This is really too much,” said Billy, half laughing and half crying, as the band shuddered to a straggly halt in front of them, then turned round, striking up “Rule Britannia” to lead them in. The village was decked out like a Royal wedding: every house had put out the flags, a huge streamer stretched across the village street saying “Welcome Home Our Four Heroes.” Photographers ran along the pavement, snapping as they went. By the War Memorial the mayor was waiting for them. Shaking them both by the hand, he read a speech of welcome that Revenge tried to eat. Rupert was looking everywhere for Helen. Can’t even bother to come and meet me, he thought, savagely.
And suddenly, there she was on the pavement, in a yellow sleeveless dress, holding Marcus in her arms, looking apprehensive and not at all sure of her reception. In an instant, Rupert was off Revenge and kissing her passionately, but not too hard in case he squashed Marcus, and the photographers went crazy.
“Show us your medals, Rupe,” they yelled.
So Rupert, ultracasual, got them out of his hip pocket and hung them round Marcus’s neck. But when he tried to pick up the baby and cuddle him, Marcus arched his back rigidly and started to yell, so Rupert handed him back to Helen. Helen looked up at Rupert incredulously. Hilary had spent so much time putting the boot in that she had imagined some devil would roll up. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, even after a long drive and an even longer flight. As he came through those hysterically cheering crowds, laughing and joking, he seemed like a god again. It was only just coming home to her, the magnitude of his achievement.
She picked up the bronze and the silver medals and examined them wonderingly.
“You made it, you honestly made it. Oh, Rupert, I missed you so much,” and suddenly she knew she was speaking the truth as she realized she’d kept him at a distance since she got pregnant, and maybe it was her fault.
“Did you?” said Rupert, his face suddenly serious.
“Horribly. Can we really try and spend some time together, and make a go of it?”
Rupert kissed her again. He felt ridiculously happy.
“As long as you give Thrillary the bullet.”
Helen looked disapproving, then giggled. “We’re not quite so close. She is rather overly directive.”
“She’s more of a male bloody chauvinist pig than I am,” said Rupert.
Next day, after all the excitement, Billy was ashamed to find himself overwhelmed with a feeling of restlessness and anticlimax. After checking the horses, he decided to give himself a day off and spent most of the morning opening mail. As a result of his silver medal, there were countless offers of free stud nuts, tack, rugs, breeches. A lorry manufacturer was offering him a large sum of money to do a press campaign. Several television companies were waving fat fees to make films of his life.
“I shall have to turn professional,” he told Miss Hawkins, their secretary, half-jokingly.
Perhaps the depression was caused by the fact that everyone in the world seemed to have written to congratulate him—except that wonderful girl he’d seen at the Golden Lion. He hoped each letter might be from her, but as he didn’t know her name he couldn’t identify her anyway. For the thousandth time, he kicked himself for not being more forceful at the time.
“Some man from the press named Jamie Henderson’s written to ask if he can come down and interview you,” said Miss Hawkins. “I penciled in next Sunday. I thought you could take him up to the pub for lunch, as he’s coming all the way down from London. It’s the only day you’ve got really. You’ll be off to Athens, Portugal, and Germany the next day.”
She was highly delighted that Billy was for once getting as much attention as Rupert. “His lordship still in bed?” she went on in surprise. “Are those two having a second honeymoon?”
When his depression didn’t lift in the days that followed, Billy thought it might well be due to the fact that Rupert and Helen suddenly seemed to be madly in love again. Helen had agreed to get a nanny; Rupert had agreed to come home more often, and for them to do more things together. Billy was happy that they were happier, but it only emphasized his own isolation. What was the point of being a conquering hero if you didn’t make any conquests?
The Sunday Jamie Henderson was due, Billy rose early because it was so hot, worked all the horses that needed it, then hacked The Bull out because it was such a beautiful day. The stream at the bottom of the valley was choked with meadowsweet, and as he rode home he could hear Badger howling at the church bells.
As part of their new togetherness campaign, Helen and Rupert were just leaving to go out to lunch with Marcus as Billy walked in through the front door.
“We’ll be at the Paignton-Lacey’s,” said Helen, “so you and this press man will have the house to yourselves. There’s no need to lunch out. There’s cold chicken and potato salad in the larder, and I’ve washed a lettuce. All you’ve got to do is pour French dressing over it. And don’t leave the butter in the sun,” she added.
“This baby needs more luggage than a horse,” said Rupert, tramping out to the car with a blue plastic chamber pot in one hand, a packet of disposable nappies in the other, and several bottles under his arm. “One never gets enough to drink at the Paignton-Laceys’.”
Billy took the carrycot from Helen and put it in the back. As he waved them off to the accompaniment of Marcus yelling and Vivaldi on the car radio, Rupert looked at him and raised his eyes to heaven.
Billy had a bath and put on a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. He was nervous, for he never knew what to say to reporters. Sitting outside with a jug of Pimm’s, he read the Sunday papers, which were still full of Olympic news. There was a nice picture of him in the Sunday Express, and a piece in the Telegraph with a headline about Rupert’s shadow coming out of the shadows. He was pleased about that, too. He took off his shirt; might as well try to top up his Olympic tan.
In no time at all he seemed to have finished the jug. The valley looked even more beautiful now. The apples were reddening in the orchard, the dogs panted on the lawn, insects hummed in the Michaelmas daisies. September was such a lovely month; why wasn’t there someone here to share it with him?
He watched an emerald green Volkswagen pause on the road running along the top of the valley towards Penscombe. He looked at his watch; Jamie Henderson was late.
The doorbell rang, followed by a frenzy of barking. Then a voice said, “All right, down. I’m a friend, not a foe.”
Billy went down into the hall. After the dazzling sunshine it took a few seconds before he could distinguish the figure in the doorway. Dressed in white hot pants and a red shi
rt, her hair streaked by the sun, her long, long legs and body rising up to the wonderful breasts, like a trumpet, stood the girl from the Golden Lion.
“I’ve brought you some freesias,” she said. “They should have been sweet Williams.”
Billy opened his mouth and shut it again.
“I must be dreaming,” he said slowly. “Please don’t let me wake up.”
She came towards him and gave him the gentlest pinch on his bare arm. “You’re awake all right. Didn’t I promise we’d meet again?”
“I know, but I never believe in good fortune. Come through to the kitchen and I’ll get you a drink. I made a jug of Pimm’s, but I drank it all waiting for some boring reporter who’s supposed to be interviewing me.”
“That’s me.”
“I don’t expect he’ll take long. What did you say?”
“That’s me—Janey Henderson.”
“Oh, my God, our secretary put down Jamie. I was expecting a fella. Are you really a journalist?”
She nodded and turned her palms towards him. “Look, I’ve got pen marks on my hands.”
He got an apple, some cucumber, and an orange, and started chopping them up. Janey admired the broad mahogany-colored back.
“You’re very brown. I suppose that was Colombia. Congratulations by the way, I watched you on telly.”
“Wasn’t me, it was The Bull. I was so shit-scared, my mind went a complete blank. He just trundled me around. Just getting some mint.” He stepped out of the kitchen windows, raided the herb bed, and came back.
“Look, I can’t believe this. Are you really a journalist?”
Janey grinned. “Rather a good one.” She took the mint from him and started to strip off the leaves and put them in the jug.
“Oh dear,” said Billy. “Should I have heard of you?”
