Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Good idea,” said the publishing friend. “Make a nice change from all this feminist rubbish pouring off the presses. Take in the lot: divorcées, adulterers, house husbands. Is the post-permissive male better in bed? Make it as bitchy, funny, and as contentious as possible. I’ll give you a £21,000 advance.”

  Tight after lunch, Janey went back to Pardoe and handed in her notice.

  “You’ll be back,” he said. “If you ever finish that book, which I very much doubt, I might serialize it.”

  “I doubt it,” said Janey, “because you’ll certainly be in it, and you’ll be too vain to sue.”

  Janey was not that worried about how long she’d take over the book. Her father had supported her mother. Why shouldn’t Billy support her? Billy came back from Hamburg to be told Janey had resigned, but was being paid a big advance to write a book.

  “I’m going to be a proper wife, like Helen,” she went on.

  Billy said he preferred improper wives and, although he liked the idea of her living in the woodcutter’s cottage, like Little Red Riding Hood, he did hope too many wolves wouldn’t turn up dressed as grandmothers. He was also slightly alarmed that, along with the £50,000 bill from the builders, there was a tax bill for £10,000 and Janey’s VAT for £3,000. Suddenly there didn’t seem to be anything to pay them with.

  “Give the bills to Kev,” said Janey, airily. “That’s what he’s there for.”

  But all worries about money were set aside with the excitement of moving in and the furniture looking so nice on the stone floors and lighting huge log fires in the drawing room and cutting back the roses and honeysuckle which were still in flower and darkening the windows. Then there was the bliss of waking up in their own bed in their own room, looking through the lime trees at the valley. How could they not be happy and prosper in an enchanted bower like this?

  Janey missed Billy when he started going off to shows without her, but she was enjoying getting things straight, and it was heaven not having to get up at five o’clock in the morning to drive off over mountain passes or break down on icy roads. The winter that followed was very cold, and the wind whistled past their door straight off the Bristol Channel, but Janey merely turned the central heating up to tropical and thought idly about her book. The muse must not be raped; she must be given time to yield her secrets.

  Rupert missed them both terribly when they moved out. All the fun seemed to have gone out of the house. He was making heroic attempts to be a good husband and Helen was trying equally hard to be more sexy. But when you were feeling sick and heavy with pregnancy, it wasn’t easy. Badger missed Mavis most of all, and spent days down at the cottage whenever Rupert was away. When Rupert arrived to fetch him, he would lie in front of the fire in embarrassment with his eyes shut, pretending that, because he couldn’t see Rupert, he wasn’t there.

  As an ingratiating gesture, Janey invited Kev and Enid Coley to her first dinner party. The huge china poodle was unearthed from its home in the cellar, dusted down, and put in its place of honor in the drawing room. Unfortunately, Janey had sprayed oven cleaner all over the inside of the cooker the day before and had forgotten to wash it off, so when she removed the duck from the oven, the kitchen was flooded with toxic fumes and the duck was a charred wreck, the size of a wren. So everyone screamed with laughter and Billy was sent off to Stroud to get a Chinese takeout. Just as well, perhaps. When Billy checked the mustard Janey’d put on the table, he discovered it was the horses’ saffron anti-fly ointment.

  “Janey’s very attractive,” commented Enid Coley on the way home, “but I’m not sure she’s a homemaker.”

  By the time Christmas came, things were very tight. The Bull bruised a sole before the Olympia show and Billy didn’t have a single win with the other horses. He sent a Christmas card to his bank manager and decided he’d have to tap his parents, who’d invited them down for Christmas.

  “Only for a couple of days,” Janey told Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe, firmly. “We can’t really leave the horses.”

  The visit was not a success. Janey, who always left shopping until the last moment, was forced to spend an absolute fortune on Christmas presents, which shocked Billy’s frugal parents, who gave them a hideously ugly piece of family silver, instead of the check they had anticipated.

  The Lloyd-Foxes lived in a house called The Maltings, which was so cold that Janey couldn’t bring herself to get up until lunchtime, and then only to hog the fire. Billy’s mother was not tactful. She came back incessantly to the subject of babies. It was so sad at bridge parties not to be able to boast of a little Lloyd-Foxe baby in the offing. She was so pleased dear Helen was being sensible and having a second child.

  “I’ll iron Billy’s shirts for him,” she said, coming into the bedroom and picking them off the floor. “I know how he likes them, and I’ll make you an apple pie to take back to Gloucestershire. He so loves puddings.”

  “She’ll get it in her kisser if she doesn’t shut up,” muttered Janey.

  Out of sheer irritation, Janey left her room like a tip, with the fire on, and didn’t bother to make the one bed they’d slept in, out of the two single beds. Billy was the only form of central heating in the house. And as, at noon and six o’clock, Janey moved towards the vodka, Billy’s mother’s jaw quilted with muscles. She was very tired with cooking and she could have done with a little help and praise from Janey. Finally, on Boxing night, Billy asked his father for a loan.

  Mr. Lloyd-Foxe hummed and hawed and said it had been a bad year with the squeeze and, although he had twenty thousand to spare, he had divided it between Billy’s sisters, Arabella and Lucinda.

  “I feel they need it more than you and Janey do, as you’re both working.”

  Janey didn’t even bother to kiss her mother-in-law good-bye, and it was only after they’d left that Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe discovered Janey had painted the letter “L” out of the The Maltings sign on the gate.

  After Christmas the bills came flooding in. Billy, who’d never paid a gas or telephone or electricity bill in his life, had no idea they’d be so high. He also read his bank statement, which was infinitely more scarlet after Janey’s Christmas shopping spree.

  “Did you honestly spend £60 on that cushion for my mother?”

  “Pity I didn’t hold it over the old monster’s face,” said Janey.

  The tax man and the builders were also hustling for payment. Another shock was that the £21,000 advance on the manuscript was divided into three: £7,000 on signature, £7,000 on delivery, and £7,000 on publication.

  “How soon do you think you’ll deliver?” asked Billy.

  The original date had been March, but Janey, who’d made only a few random notes, said there wouldn’t be a hope before the summer, which meant that autumn publication was very unlikely.

  Janey had no idea, either, of the astronomical cost of running and traveling a string of horses, nor was she any good as a backup team. She kept forgetting to post entry forms, which meant Billy drove two hundred miles to a show to find he wasn’t eligible to compete. Often, fast-talking got him in, sometimes, it didn’t. Billy was one of the best riders in England, but he was not a natural jockey, like Rupert. He had to work at it and keep schooling his horses to get really good results. Nor did Janey understand Billy’s temperament: that he lacked self-confidence, and needed to be kept very calm before a big class. Rows and requests for money sapped his concentration. He needed to distance himself and, with a lovely wife in a warm bed at home, he tended to spend less time in the indoor school at night and to get up later in the morning.

  In March, he came home from a three-week trip abroad. He’d missed Janey desperately and deliberately rang her at Southampton to say he’d be home in time for dinner, adding, rather plaintively, that he hadn’t eaten all day. As he settled the horses at Rupert’s, a marvelous smell of boeuf bourgignon drifted out of the kitchen, and he wondered if Janey would be cooking something nice for him. As he came up to the front door he tripped over a pile of milk bo
ttles. The place stank of cat, not rabbit stew, and as he took the last finger of whisky to the sink to fill the glass up with water, he found it full of dirty dishes. The dishwasher had broken, explained Janey; the man hadn’t come to mend it yet. As he went back into the drawing room, he noticed the drink rings on the Georgian table Helen had given them as a wedding present. The place looked rather as Penscombe used to before Helen came and tidied it up. Somehow, these days, mess got on his nerves. He had had a bad week, hardly in the money at all. He tried to ignore the pile of brown envelopes unopened on the hall table. There was no more whisky; only vodka, but no tonic.

  “Drink it with orange squash.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. I forgot to get anything in, and it was too late by the time you rang. Let’s go out.”

  “Too bloody expensive. I’ll have some cornflakes.”

  Billy’s stomach was churning painfully. He wondered if he were getting an ulcer. He had an early start in the morning. He went upstairs; the hot cupboard was bare, and there was nothing in his drawers.

  “Have I got any clean shirts or breeches?”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Janey, clutching her head, “I left them in the launderette in Stroud. The washing machine’s up the spout, too.”

  “What time do they open?”

  “About eight-thirty.”

  “I’ve got to leave at six.”

  “I’m sorry, darling, truly I am. Look, give me your breeches and shirts and I’ll wash them by hand. Then we can dry them in front of the fire, and I’ll get up early and iron them.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll borrow some from Rupert. I’m only away for a couple of days this time.”

  “I’m desperately sorry,” said Janey, suddenly catching sight of two unposted entry forms in her out-tray and shuffling them under a pile of papers. “I’m going to mix you a nice drink.”

  After two glasses of vodka and orange squash, which didn’t taste so bad after all, Billy felt fortified enough to open the brown envelopes.

  “Janey, darling,” he said, five minutes later, “we shall simply have to pull our horns in. These bills are frightful.”

  “Can’t you take a trip to Château Kitsch? Harold Evans caught a finch in the herb garden today and came in with his mouth full of chives and parsley. He’s also got a liver complaint.”

  Billy looked up, alarmed. “Have you taken him to the vet then?”

  Janey giggled. “No, he’s complaining there’s not enough liver.”

  Billy grinned, but was not to be deflected.

  “Sweetheart, we must try and cut down. We don’t need a swimming pool. We simply can’t afford the deposit, or even less, to pay for it when it’s finished.”

  Janey pouted. “It’ll be so nice for you to flop into the pool when you come back from shows.”

  “There’s only about three months a year warm enough to do that in Gloucestershire.”

  “I’ve been trying to economize. Mrs. Bodkin’s got flu, and I took her a bunch of daffodils without leaves today, because they were twenty p cheaper.”

  “But we haven’t been really living it down, have we? There are five half-opened tins of cat food gathering mold on top of the fridge and Mavis really doesn’t need half a chicken every day. She’s getting awfully fat.”

  “Well, Badger often drops in for lunch. You know how Helen starves those dogs.”

  “I think we ought to cut down Mrs. Bodkin to half a day a week,” said Billy, ignoring Janey’s frown. “And give up Miss Hawkins. You could do my fan mail.”

  “Do your fan mail?” said Janey, outraged. “What about my fan mail?”

  “Just for a little, till we get straight.”

  Janey started to get angry and hysterical. “I’ve got to finish this book. It’s got to be handed in by July. I haven’t got time for anything else. I’m writing every day. I get up at eight and I’ve only just finished this evening. Stupid not to grab inspiration when it takes you.”

  She didn’t point out that most of that day had been spent drinking coffee, and later whisky, with one of the builders. After all, she rationalized, she had to get the rough-trade view for her book somehow.

  “I know, darling,” said Billy soothingly. “All I’m saying is that we must not do any more to the house at the moment.”

  “Go to Kev,” said Janey, emptying the last of the vodka into his glass. “Kev will provide, the great ape. I’m going to make you some scrambled eggs.” She went towards the kitchen. “I say,” she popped her head round the door a moment later, “Helen gave me a chapter of her novel to read today.”

  “Any good?”

  “She can’t write ‘Bum’ on a wall. She said, ‘Janey, I want you to be real honest with me,’ which meant she wanted me to lie convincingly. She told me a much funnier thing today. She’s got frightfully thick with the new vicar, and evidently when Rupert flew back from Geneva for the night last week, he found the vicar holding a Lenten meeting in the drawing room, with everyone, including Badger, meditating with their eyes shut.”

  Billy laughed. “Rupe told me.”

  He wandered into the kitchen, trying not to notice the mess or the way Janey threw the eggshells into a huge box, where they joined about a hundred other eggshells. That must account for the odd smell. He picked up a jar of coffee on the dresser and looked at the price. “Christ, coffee’s expensive. I’m going to drink liquor in future.”

  Janey came and put her arms round him: “I do love you,” she said. “Don’t worry about money, I’ve got a lovely bottle of St. Emilion.”

  After three huge vodkas and a bottle of St. Emilion, the problem didn’t seem so bad. Billy would ride with panache, Janey would write like a maniac while he was away. They would soon get out of their mess.

  Spring came, more longed-for than ever after the hardness of the winter, and the woods were filled with violets, anemones, primroses, and birdsong. Chaucer’s people thought about pilgrimages; Janey thought about new clothes. The wild garlic made her feel homesick for drunken lunches in Soho. She knew marriage to Billy was far more precious and durable, but she missed the jokes and the gossip. She lived on the telephone to her mother. She was finding it increasingly difficult to buckle down to her book. She was used to the weekly clapping of journalism, the steady fan mail, people coming up to her at parties and saying, “You were a bit near the knuckle last week.”

  In the country, there was no second post, no Evening Standard, no Capital Radio; she found it difficult to get used to the slow rhythms. Gloucestershire was a soporific county and she found herself falling asleep in the afternoon. She had her fallopian tubes blown, which was not really painful, but affected her more than she expected. She sank into despondency; and to premenstrual tension was added postmenstrual depression, when she found she wasn’t pregnant.

  One afternoon Billy’s mother dropped in with a bridge friend. The cottage looked awful. There was no cake, only some stale bread, no jam, and a teapot already full of leaves. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe followed her into the kitchen.

  “Any news?” she asked. Janey shook her head, but was so upset that she burnt the toast.

  “What a beautiful view,” said the bridge friend, looking out of the window.

  “The only views I like these days,” said Janey, “are my own.”

  The bills poured in. Janey’s tax bill arrived and Billy realized that, as her husband, he was liable for an extra £15,000, with a further £3,000 owing to VAT-man.

  Every time Janey went shopping, wherever she looked, baby clothes seemed to be mocking her. She seemed to be alone in a world of mothers. She took her temperature and wrote it down on the back of a Christmas card every day, and Billy was supposed to leap on her when her temperature went up. But invariably she’d mislaid the card or Billy wasn’t there on the right day.

  In May, Helen gave birth to a daughter, whom they called Tabitha. Rupert was present at the birth, and although to Helen, he seemed to spend more time making eyes over h
is white mask at the pretty nurses, and seeing how all the machinery worked, he was at least present if incorrect. And from the moment he set eyes on Tabitha and she opened her Cambridge blue eyes, Rupert was totally enchanted. She was indeed the most angelic baby. She gurgled and laughed, and, almost immediately, she slept through the night; and, if she woke, it was Rupert who got up without a murmur, displaying a sweetness and patience Helen had never seen before.

  Where Rupert was concerned, it was the great love affair of the century. Here was someone he could love unstintingly, and who adored him back. Later her first word was “Daddy,” and, when she took her first steps, they were towards Rupert. And almost before she could walk she screamed to be put on a pony, and screamed even louder when she was lifted off. Rupert would do anything for her, bathing her, playing with her for hours, watching as she slept, plump, pink-cheeked, blond, and ravishing in her cot. Delighted at first with Rupert’s delight, Helen gradually became irritated by it, drawing even closer to Marcus, who couldn’t understand, at two, why his father didn’t dote on him and bring him presents and cuddle him on his knee. As a result, when Rupert wasn’t around, he would punch and pinch little Tab and fill her cot with toys. One day Rupert caught him trying to suffocate Tab with a pillow and gave him a backhander which sent him flying across the room. Two hours later, Marcus had one of his worst asthma attacks. He recovered, but by that time Rupert had moved on to another show.

  The christening upset Janey very much. She was a godmother, but it was such a tribal affair, such a ritualistic celebration of fertility. All the Campbell-Blacks were there in force, going into ecstasies over such a ravishing baby. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe sent Tab a beautiful silver mug. Janey got drunk afterwards and spent all night in floods of tears. Billy was in despair. “We’ve only been married a year and a half, darling. I’ll see a doctor. It might be my fault.”

  30

  All the riders were now revving up for the World Championship, which was being held at Les Rivaux in Brittany in July. Only six British riders would be selected to go. Considering Billy a certainty, Kevin Coley had reserved a big tent at Les Rivaux and was intending to make a party of it, flying out all his important customers for a jolly.