Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  She turned in horror.

  “Oh, my angel, I’m so sorry.” She went over and put her arms round his shaking shoulders. “What happened?”

  “It was my fault. He missed his jerk, hit the top pole smack, got caught up in the rest of the poles, and that was that. It was horrible.” His face worked like a little boy about to cry. “He was such a great horse. I know he was bad-tempered, but he could be so brave.”

  “Come to bed,” she said gently. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Upstairs he rolled on top of her, took her perfunctorily, then immediately fell asleep.

  “There’s no choice,” said Billy, facing the ruins of his career next morning. “It’s The Bull for the World Championship. At least Kev’s keeping away and not breathing down my neck at the moment. Christ knows what he’ll say about Mandryka.”

  He was away the next two days, jumping the Grade B and C horses at Crittleden. Janey spent the second afternoon in bed with Kevin, where they did more talking than copulating. Billy, said Kevin, had been drunk in Aachen when he jumped Moggie Meal Dick. That was why he put the horse wrong at the fence where he broke his leg. Everyone was talking about it.

  He was gone long before Billy got home, giving Janey plenty of time to wash off scent and makeup, get back into her old clothes, and be sitting dutifully at her typewriter.

  “Good day?” she asked.

  “Not bad. Here’s The Tatler. Rupert gave it me. There’s a picture of Tab and Helen. I think Rupe’s bought up every copy, he’s so chuffed.”

  Billy went upstairs and changed into his dressing gown, secured with his old Harrovian tie; the belt had been lost years ago. As there was no sign of dinner, he poured himself a drink and then started opening the new pile of brown envelopes. He started to tremble. He knew Janey had been depressed about babies and probably needed to cheer herself up, but these bills for clothes were ludicrous. And how the hell could she have spent £50 at the hairdresser’s? She hadn’t even had a haircut. He poured himself another drink and sat down on the sofa.

  “Darling, we must talk about money.”

  Janey, however, was deep in The Tatler. “Oh look, there’s Mike Pardoe, and there’s Rupert’s mother. She is amazingly well preserved. She must be over fifty.”

  Billy tried again. “I’ve just been through the returned checks. The bank say they’re going to bounce anything more we submit. Soon, I won’t be able to feed the horses.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Janey in mock horror. “Of course the horses always come before everything else.”

  “How long d’you think it’ll be before the book’s finished?”

  “How can I tell? Oh, that is a sweet one of Tab, and Helen looks marvelous. She is so bloody photogenic. And there’s Caroline Manners. What an incredibly plain child.”

  “You said July, last time I asked.”

  “More likely October.”

  “So it won’t be published this year?”

  “Nope. Oh, look, Henrietta Pollock got engaged. Poor man.”

  Billy’s heart sank. He was hoping to keep the manager sweet by a promise of £14,000 by Christmas.

  He tried again. “We simply can’t go on like this. We’ve got an overdraft of £30,000. We owe the tax man twenty grand and the builders fifty grand and the VAT-man’s threatening to take us to court, and you spend £50 at the hairdressers, and £250 on clothes, expecting me not to notice. D’you take me for a complete fool?”

  “Not complete. Pity you pranged the car. Oh, there’s Ainsley Hibbert. She’s gone blond. Not a bad guy with her, too.”

  “Janey, have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

  “Yes, I have. We owe rather a lot of money: about £100,000, in fact. You’ll have to tap darling Mumsie, won’t you? She won’t let poor Billy starve.”

  Billy was having difficulty keeping his temper.

  “If the book’s not going to be finished yet, could you do some journalism, just to pay the more pressing bills?”

  Janey got up. “I must go and put on the parsnips.”

  “I don’t want any dinner. If you honestly think I can eat…”

  “It doesn’t seem to stop you drinking. Why don’t you go out and win something? It’s awfully boring being married to a failure.”

  Billy put his head in his hands.

  “Why d’you always try and make me feel small?”

  “You are small,” said Janey. “You told me you’d lost a lot of weight recently.”

  “For Christ’s sake, can’t you take anything seriously? If we really try, I know we can get straight.”

  “Borrow something from Rupert.”

  “He’s pushed himself, at the moment.”

  “Paying for the new indoor swimming pool,” said Janey, walking out of the room.

  Two minutes later Billy followed her, putting his arms round her. “Angel, we can’t afford to fight.”

  Janey laughed bitterly. “I should have thought that was the only thing we could afford to do.”

  The telephone rang. Billy went to answer it. “Oh, hello. Yes, I see. I quite understand. It was very good of you to let me know. Good luck, anyway.” Very slowly he put the receiver down; as he turned he seemed to have aged twenty years.

  “That was Malise. I’ve been dropped for the World Championships. He wanted me to know before I read it in tomorrow’s papers. They’ve selected Jake Lovell instead.”

  What, thought Janey, was Kev going to say, stuck with a tent in Les Rivaux and all his male customers revved up for a stag freebie full of Oh-la-las?

  33

  Although there was colossal prestige in being picked for the Olympics, it meant one competed only against amateurs. The competition the riders wanted to win almost more, therefore, was the World Championship, which took place every two years, midway between the Olympic Games, and which was open to amateurs and professionals alike. The championships were also considered more of a test of horsemanship, because in the last leg the four finalists had to jump a round on each others’ horses.

  As well, more and more show jumpers were forced to turn professional. “Vot is zee point,” as Ludwig told Dudley Diplock in an interview, “in competing at zee Olympics, when so many of zee best riders are banned, and only votching zee event on television?”

  It was with considerable trepidation, at 6:30 A.M. on a Tuesday in mid-July, that Jake set off with Fen and Tanya for Les Rivaux in the lorry, to take the ferry at Southampton. The lorry had been loaded up with hay, hard feed, and woodshaving bedding the night before. Tory was to follow later with the car, the caravan, and the children. Everything was planned to the last “t”—including a large jar of lemon sherbets for Macaulay. Even so it turned out to be a nightmare journey. The temperature was up in the eighties. Cow parsley along the motorway verges had given way to hog-weed, holding its flat disks up to a cloudy gray sky, through which the sun shone opaque like an Alka-Seltzer. Jake drove, Tanya map-read, Fen kept them both supplied with cups of black coffee.

  As they neared the coast, the sky darkened. At the port Fen lost the horses’ health papers and the entire lorry had to be turned out, before she found them where they should have been all the time, in the horses’ passports. By now, they had missed two ferries and the horses, picking up the vibes of anxiety, were stamping and restless. After a further delay, despite blackening skies and large, white-tipped agitated waves, the ferry decided to sail. A storm blew up in midchannel, bucketing the boat from side to side and throwing Fen’s new pony, the young and comparatively inexperienced Desdemona, into such a panic she nearly kicked the box out.

  Fen, having had repeated strips torn off her by Jake for losing the health papers, was further upset by two lorry-loads of little calves on the boat, mooing piteously, with their pathetic faces peering out between the slats. In turn, she went and tore a strip off their driver for not giving them any water.

  Finally, they reached the French port at seven o’clock and set off for Les Rivaux. Jake was going mad at being stu
ck behind juggernauts, but this was Fen’s first trip to France and she couldn’t contain a surge of excitement, as the sun came out and they drove past orchards, poplar-lined rivers, and a ravishing château, half-hidden by trees, its reflection glimmering in a lake. She was bitterly disappointed that her hero, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, hadn’t been selected. He’d bought her a drink at Westerngate; not that that meant much, for he’d been buying everyone drinks. But perhaps she might meet some handsome Frenchman at the World Championship who’d sweep her off to his château and make fantastic love to her behind peeling gray shutters. Her dreams were rudely shattered by a loud bang. The lorry swerved terrifyingly. Somehow, Jake managed to steer it into the slow lane and, despite frenzied screeching of tires from all sides, avoided a crash. They had blown a tire, causing the most frightful traffic jams, which resulted in apopleptic Frenchmen, no doubt missing their dinners, leaning continually on their horns, which did nothing to improve Jake’s nerves.

  Eventually, just as the breakdown van arrived and towed them onto the side of the road, a vast dark blue juggernaut with the familiar emerald green words “Rupert Campbell-Black, Great Britain” on the side, flashed past, blowing a derisive tantivy on the horn and making no attempt to stop and help.

  It was three o’clock in the morning, and many more cups of black coffee later, before they finally rumbled into the horse-box park to find, as a final straw, that two of their boxes had been appropriated by Rupert’s horses and a third by a horse belonging to someone named Dino Ferranti.

  “He’s the American Number Three,” said Jake.

  Fen loved Jake, despite having so many strips torn off her that she was practically fleshless. She knew this kind of hassle was the last thing he needed before a championship. He was all for putting the horses in other stables and sorting it out in the morning, but Fen, seething with protective indignation, was determined to drag Rupert’s new groom, Dizzy, out of bed.

  It wasn’t hard to find Rupert’s caravan, even though it was parked some way from the others under an oak tree. Every light was blazing and such sounds of laughter and revelry disturbed the hot summer night that even the stars looked disapproving.

  Throwing open the door, she found Rupert, Ludwig, and a languid very good-looking boy with streaked blond hair, lazy gray eyes, and an olive complexion playing strip poker. Dizzy, wearing only a G-string, was stretched out on one of the bench seats. Another beautiful dark-haired girl was sitting on Rupert’s knee, wearing one of his striped shirts and nothing else. Ludwig was down to his underpants, a riding hat, and one sock. The languid boy was just in jeans, and Rupert, who was off the drink and smoking a joint, was the only one fully dressed. They were all high as kites, laughing uproariously and half watching a blue film on the video, in which a plump redhead was doing unmentionable things to a supine Father Christmas.

  Having glanced at the film, Fen went crimson, and looked back at the table, hastily averting her eyes as one of the brunette’s breasts fell out of the striped shirt.

  “Bon soir,” said Rupert. “Asseyez-vous. It’s fifty pence in the back stalls.”

  “Come on, honey,” drawled the handsome boy in a strong Southern accent, his eyes crossing like a Siamese cat. “Come and sit on ma knee.”

  “No, you come and neck wiz me,” said Ludwig, getting to his feet and clicking his bare and socked heels together.

  “You’re all disgusting,” stormed Fen. “And what’s more,” she said, turning on Rupert, “you and some creep named Dino Ferranti have stolen our stables.”

  “Aw c’mon, honey, come over here,” said the American boy, holding out long, sunburnt hands.

  “Well, you’d better find somewhere else to put your donkeys,” said Rupert. “You haven’t met Dino Ferranti, have you?”

  “No, nor do I want to,” said Fen, losing her temper. “Look,” she screamed, waving the papers under Rupert’s nose, “numero quatrevingt et un, deux, trois, quatre. It’s as plain as the nez on votre visage.”

  “We didn’t realize they were your stables,” said Dizzy, pouting.

  “I suppose you’re too thick to read, like most of Rupert’s grooms.”

  “Temper, temper,” said Rupert.

  “You bloody well come and shift them. If you’d had the decency to stop and help on the motorway, we’d have arrived at the same time as you and there wouldn’t be this stupid muddle. I’ve never met anyone so deficient in team spirit.”

  “What d’you want me to do?” asked Rupert. “Start singing ‘Forty Years On’? Billy’s the singer, and he’s not been selected, thanks to your fucking brother-in-law.”

  Fen didn’t rise. She turned and went down the steps.

  “All right, if you won’t move your horses, I’ll let them out.”

  “Don’t play silly games,” snapped Rupert. “You’ll regret it. Come on, Dino, it’s your deal.”

  “Who’s that? She’s kinda cute,” drawled the American boy, taking a swig out of the whisky bottle and handing it to Ludwig.

  “Jake Lovell’s sister-in-law,” said Rupert.

  “Wass he like?”

  “Hell. He’s got a chip or, as my wife would say, a french fry on his shoulder. His lack of charm seems to have rubbed off on her.”

  Five minutes later, Dino lost the round and had to take off his jeans. Getting up to unzip his fly, he looked out of the window.

  “Beautiful night,” he drawled. “Moonlight’s bright as day. Look, there’s the Big Dipper. Ah don’t know if Ah’m imagining things, but Ah just saw a gray horse trotting past the window.”

  Ludwig got unsteadily to his feet and peered out.

  “It’s Snakepit and zee other horse,” he said. “Zee leetle Maxvell ees taken zem avay. You better pull zee thumb out, Rupert.”

  Dino Ferranti started to laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  In a flash, Rupert had tipped the brunette onto the floor and was out of the caravan, streaking across the grass in his bare feet.

  “Come back,” he bellowed to Fen.

  Fen trotted on, keeping a safe distance ahead of him. “Not till you promise to get your horses out of our stables.”

  Despite the month off drink and two miles jogging every morning, Rupert couldn’t catch up with her. His language deteriorated.

  “Tut-tut,” said Fen, “and in front of a lady, too. If you don’t promise, I’ll let them loose in the forest. They need a break. Can’t be much fun being owned by a revolting bully like you.”

  For five minutes, which seemed an eternity to Rupert, she cantered slowly ahead until she was under the dark brow of the forest.

  “Well?” she said.

  Rupert agreed. “All right, we’ll move them. Now give them back to me, you little bitch.”

  “And have you run me down? I’ll take them back and tie them up outside your stables.”

  “I’ll sue you for this.”

  “We could sue you for pinching our stables,” and making a wide circle, she galloped off, yelling over her shoulder, “I hope you sleep horribly.”

  For grooms there is no lying-in. Two and a half hours later, Fen had to stagger out of bed to feed and skip out the horses. Having not eaten the day before, after being sick on the boat, she felt desperately hungry. On the way back to the lorry for some breakfast, she bumped into Humpty’s groom, Bridie. After swapping notes about their respective horses, they decided to go and have breakfast together.

  “Going’s bloody hard,” said Bridie, gazing at the ground, which was splitting and cracking like a great brown jigsaw. “No sign of rain, either; not going to suit Lord Campbell-Black.” She lowered her voice. “He’s been overjumping all his horses. I saw them at Crittleden last week. They’d just come on from the Royal and from Aachen. Arcturus was lying down in his box, so exhausted I thought he was dead. It was sheer exhaustion. They haven’t had a break since January. Arcy can’t move unless he’s drugged up to the eyeballs. When the effect wears off he’s in agony.”

  “Who’s Rupert going to jump in
the Championship?”

  “Snakepit,” said Bridie.

  Fen groaned. “Trust Rupert to put in a sod.”

  “Needs two people in the stable, one to groom, one to keep an eye on him. He’s got a terrible cow kick. Already killed one of Rupert’s Jack Russells.”

  “Perhaps he won’t make the final.”

  “On current form he can’t fail.”

  They went into the breakfast tent. Fen was piling apricot jam onto her fourth croissant when Bridie asked her if she’d seen Dino Ferranti.

  “I met him briefly last night,” said Fen coldly.

  “Don’t you think he’s devastating?” sighed Bridie. “Those snake hips and those terrific shoulders, and that angelically depraved face. And he dresses so well.”

  “He was half-naked when I saw him,” said Fen.

  After that the whole story came out.

  Bridie looked at Fen in awe.

  “You didn’t let out Rupert’s horses?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And rode Snakepit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably didn’t play up because you weren’t frightened of him. Mind you, I think Rupert’s devastating, too. If he lifted a finger in my direction I’d go.”

  “I wouldn’t. I think he’s hell.”

  Four hours later Ludwig and Dino Ferranti, both in dark glasses and both with fearful hangovers not improved by the midday sun, tottered down to the stables to work their horses. They paused at the sight of Isa Lovell, not a day over six, cantering Macaulay round the practice ring.

  “Okay, Fen,” he shouted in a shrill Birmingham accent, “put it up,” and, cantering towards the upright, cleared five-feet three-inches without any trouble.

  Dino Ferranti had the puffy eyes of the heavy sleeper, but at this moment he couldn’t believe them.

  “Look at that!”

  “I’d rather not,” said Ludwig. “With kids zat good, I’m not going to be Vorld Champion much longer.”

  They stopped and watched for a few minutes, as the child put the horse over several more jumps.