Riders

by Jilly Cooper

Malise, walking beside him, winced at the French marigolds, clashing with purple petunias and scarlet geraniums in the pots on either side of each jump. How could the French have such exquisite color sense in their clothes and not in their gardening?

  A couple of English reporters sidled up to them. “Did you really pull a knife on Rupert, Gyppo.”

  “Bugger off,” said Malise. “He’s got to memorize the course. Do you want a British victory or not? That’s tricky,” he added to Jake, looking at the distance between the parallels and the combination. “It’s on a half-stride. The water’s a brute. You’ll get hardly any run in there. You’ll need the stick.”

  “Macaulay never needs a stick,” said Jake through frantically chattering teeth. The sheer impossibility of getting Snakepit, let alone President’s Man, over any of the fences paralyzed him with terror.

  Rupert walked with Colonel Roxborough, wearing dark glasses, but no hat against the punishing Brittany sun. He seemed totally oblivious of the effect he was having on the French girls in the crowd. The German team walked together, so did the Americans. Count Guy, in a white suit made by Yves St. Laurent, was the object of commiseration. Over his great disappointment now, he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. At least he didn’t have to jump five rounds in this heat and his horses would be fresh for Crittleden the following week.

  In the collecting ring, Ivor Braine had been cornered by the press and was telling them, in his broad Yorkshire accent, that he was convinced Jake had been brandishing a knife because the steaks were so tough.

  “I wish Saddleback Sam had made it,” said Humpty for the thousandth time.

  Driffield was busy selling a horse at a vastly inflated price to one of the Mexican riders.

  “Wish it was a wife-riding contest,” said Rupert. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at Mrs. Ludwig, although I would draw the line at Mrs. Lovell.”

  Once again he wished Billy were there. He’d never needed his advice more, or his silly jokes, to lower the tension. Obviously drunk at ten o’clock in the morning, Billy had already rung him to wish him luck.

  Rupert had asked after Janey. Billy had laughed bitterly. “She’s like a wet log fire. If you don’t watch her all the time, she goes out.”

  Next week, reflected Rupert grimly, he was going to have to take Janey out to lunch and tell her to get her act together.

  Despite the lack of a French rider in the final, all the publicity had attracted a huge crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat or an inch of rope unleaned over anywhere. Malise sighed. If there was a British victory, all the glare of bad publicity of the feuds between riders might be forgotten. He watched Rupert, cool as an icicle, putting Snakepit over huge jumps in the collecting ring. Jake was nowhere to be seen. He was probably being sick again.

  At two o’clock, each of the four finalists came on, led by their own band. Ludwig came first, to defend his title on the mighty Clara, yellow browband matching the yellow knots in her plaits. Her coat was the color of oak leaves in autumn, her huge chest like a steamer funnel. Unruffled by the crowd, her eyes shone with wisdom and kindness.

  Then came Dino on the slender President’s Man, who looked almost foal-like in his legginess. The same liver chestnut as Clara, he seemed half her size. Dino lounged, totally relaxed in the saddle, like a young princeling, his olive skin only slightly paler than usual, hat tipped over his nose, as though he was taking the piss out of the whole proceedings.

  Then Rupert, eyes narrowed against the sun, the object of whirring cameras and cheers from the huge British contingent, motionless in the saddle as the plunging, eyerolling Snakepit shied at everything and fought for his head.

  And, finally, Jake, his set face as white as Macaulay’s, who strutted along, pointing his big feet, enjoying the cheers.

  Like a council of war, the four riders lined up in front of the president’s box, the bands forming a brilliant scarlet and gold square behind them. Les Rivaux can seldom have produced a more breathtaking spectacle, with the flags, limp in the heat, the scarlet coats, the plumes of the soldiers, the gleaming brass instruments, the grass emerald green from incessant sprinkling, the forest, which seemed to smoulder in its dark green midgy stillness, and in the distance the speedwell blue gleam of the sea. The bands launched into the National Anthem, each crash of cymbal and drum sending Snakepit and President’s Man cavorting around in terror. Macaulay and Clara stood like statues at either end of the row.

  Fen, body aching from grooming, fingers sore from plaiting, her red T-shirt drenched with sweat, waited for Macaulay to return to the collecting ring. She was far more nervous than usual. She had a far bigger part to play. With the three other grooms she would spend the competition in the cordoned-off part of the arena and change Jake’s saddle onto each new horse. Nearby was Dizzy, braless and ravishing in a pink T-shirt, her newly washed blond hair trailing pink ribbons. One day I’m going to look as good as her, vowed Fen. Then she squashed the thought of her own presumption and had another look at the vast fences. How absolutely terrifying for Jake. The field emptied, large ladies bustled round with tape measures, checking poles for the last time.

  “I’ve bet a hundred on Campbell-Black,” said the colonel in an undertone to Malise. “I reckon it’ll be a jump-off between him and Ludwig, with the American third and Lovell nowhere. He simply hasn’t got the nerve.”

  Helen, seeing the riders in their red coats, was reminded of the first day she’d met Rupert out hunting.

  “Dear God,” she prayed, “please restore my marriage and make him win, but only if you think that’s right, God.”

  Tory, in the riders’ stand, with Darklis and Isa, prayed the same for Jake, but without any qualification.

  “I wonder when Daddy’s going to be thick again,” said Darklis.

  Then a hush fell as in came Ludwig. As he rode past the president’s box and took off his hat, the rest of the German team, who’d all been at the champagne, rose to their feet, shooting up their hands in a Heil Hitler salute, to the apoplexy of Colonel Roxborough, who went as scarlet as his carnation.

  The only sound was the snort of the horse, the thunder of hoofs, and the relentless ticking of the clock. Girding her great chestnut loins, a symbol of reliability, Clara jumped clear.

  Malise lit a cigar. “At least we know it’s jumpable,” he said.

  Dino came in, talking quietly to the young horse.

  “That’s a pretty horse,” said Malise.

  And a pretty rider, thought Helen, who was sitting near him.

  Being so much slighter, President’s Man seemed to go twice as fast. Dino’s thrusting acrobatic style and almost French elegance and good looks soon had the crowd cheering. He also went clear.

  Then came Rupert, hauling on the plunging Snakepit’s mouth, hotting him up so he fought for his head all the way around. By some miracle of timing and balance, he too went clear, and Snakepit galloped out of the ring, giving two colossal bucks and nearly trampling a crowd of photographers under foot.

  “God help those who come after,” sighed Malise.

  “I’m not taking a penny less than £30,000,” said Driffield.

  Fen gave Macaulay a last-minute pat and a kiss.

  “Good luck. Remember you’re the greatest, and remember what you’ve got to avenge.”

  Jake looked suddenly gray. “I can’t go in.”

  “Yes, you can. You’re doing it for Macaulay and Miss Blenkinsop.”

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you are not. Keep your mouth shut and off you go.”

  “Numero Quatre,” called the collecting ring steward irritably.

  Jake rode into the ring, obviously quite untogether. He might never have been on a horse in his life. He had the first fence down; and the second he took completely wrong, Macaulay stumbled and nearly came down on the hard ground. Then he hit the third.

  Twelve faults. He’s been nobbled, thought Tory in despair.

  “He’s blown it,” drawled Dino.

>   “Oh, my God,” said Fen. In anguish she watched the tenths of seconds pirouetting on the clock as Jake pulled Macaulay up to a standstill, stroked his neck, spoke to him, and started again.

  “Can’t even ride his own horse,” said Rupert scathingly. “It was a freak he got to the final anyway.”

  “He’s bound to get time faults,” said Colonel Roxborough.

  Jake set off again in a somewhat haphazard fashion and cleared the rest of the ten fences, but never really connected all the way round, notching up three and a half time faults.

  He shook his head as he rode up to Fen.

  “A great start, huh?”

  “Competition’s young, you wait,” she said, giving Macaulay a lemon sherbet. Then, when Jake had dismounted, she removed the saddle, which had to be put on Snakepit, the horse Jake was riding next.

  “You’ve got three minutes to warm him up,” she said, looking at her watch.

  “Needs cooling down, if you ask me.”

  Ludwig’s groom came over to collect Macaulay, who went off looking very put out, turning his head continually to gaze back reproachfully at Jake. Jake went up to Snakepit, who flattened his ears and rolled his eyes.

  “Now you’ll get your comeuppance,” Dizzy hissed at him.

  In the roped-off arena, Macaulay did several wild jumps, nearly unseating Ludwig. He didn’t like the discipline of the German rider. He went into the ring, a mulish, martyred expression on his white face.

  “Look at the old moke,” giggled Fen. “Isn’t he lovely?”

  Despite his disapproval, however, Macaulay gave Ludwig a good ride and went clear.

  “Interesting what that horse can do when it gets a proper rider on its back,” said Rupert.

  Dino went in on Clara. He was very nervous and gave Clara very little help, but each time he put her wrong she was so well trained she got him out of trouble, rising like a helicopter off her mighty hocks.

  Jake didn’t want to watch Rupert on President’s Man. He was getting acquainted with Snakepit. He spent several minutes rubbing his ears, smoothing his sweating, lathered neck, talking to him softly, and giving him pieces of sugar. Faced with the challenge of a new horse, he was too interested to be nervous.

  Next minute he was up, determined not to hang on the horse’s mouth. He went on talking to him. Snakepit was so short in front it was like sitting on the edge of a cliff, a cliff that might crumble any minute and turn into an earthquake. He rode quietly round for one of the two minutes left, stroking and still talking, then put him over a jump, letting him have his head. Suddenly, Snakepit seemed to sweeten up.

  “What d’you reckon?”

  “Very good,” said Fen. “Must be a nice change for him, like a weekend on the Riviera after working in a factory.”

  Cheers from the ring indicated Rupert had gone clear on President’s Man, urging him on by sheer brute force and driving power. The horse, however, was upset.

  Jake rode Snakepit into the ring. Snakepit tugged at the bridle and found no one hauling him back, so he stopped pulling and gave Jake one of the easiest rides of his life.

  As they came to the upright Jake, out of sheer nervousness, hooked him up a stride too short, but Snakepit, reveling in his newfound freedom, made a mighty effort and cleared the fence easily.

  “Bloody hell,” said Rupert. “He’d have stopped if I’d done that to him.”

  “Looks a different horse,” said Malise in a pleased voice. Having insisted that Jake was selected, he was desperate for him to ride well.

  The colonel grunted. “Still going to win my bet.”

  At the end of the second round everyone was clear except Jake, who was on fifteen and a half faults. The crowd was beginning to get bored. They wanted trouble, crashes, upsets, and falls. It was Ludwig’s turn to ride Snakepit.

  “I vas in two brains vether to ride heem. I’ve got a vife and children,” said Ludwig to Jake, “but after your round, I doubt if I’ll have any trouble wiz him.”

  Snakepit, however, thought otherwise. He didn’t like the harsher, more rigid style of the German, who, like Rupert, wouldn’t give him his head. He deliberately knocked down the upright and kicked out the second part of the combination.

  Rupert had no trouble going clear on Clara.

  Jake, who was warming up President’s Man, couldn’t resist having a look at Dino on Macaulay.

  “The American chef d’equipe told him to give Mac a good whack at the water,” said Fen gleefully, “and Dino’s neglected to take off his spurs, too.”

  “Jesus, it’s like riding a charging elephant,” muttered Dino to himself. “Hasn’t he got any brakes?”

  Macaulay lolloped crossly into the ring, with a mulish expression on his face. “I’m not a seaside donkey giving rides,” he seemed to say, as he ran out at the upright. Then, having been given a clout with the bat, he jumped it, then proceeded to bring the wall tumbling down.

  “Joshua at the battle of Jericho,” said Fen. “Oh goodie, Dino’s whacked him again.”

  Coming down to the water Macaulay ground to a halt, them jumped the small brush fence with no effort at all, landing with a huge splash in the middle of the water, absolutely soaking Dino. Then he put his head down and started to drink. The crowd, particularly the Lovell children, screamed with laughter.

  Dino finished the course and rode out grinning. “I didn’t expect an impromptu shower,” he said to his teammates.

  “That round’s probably lost him the championship,” muttered Fen. “He’s a good loser.”

  President’s Man was frightened, puzzled, and muddled. Having been broken and trained by Dino, he’d seldom carried other riders. But now he liked the gentle hands and the caressing singsong voice of the man on his back. Trying to imitate Dino’s acrobatic style, Jake managed to coax a beautiful clear out of him.

  “Bloody hell,” said Dino, shaking his head. “You’d figure Manny’d want to avenge me after what Macaulay did to me.”

  It was the start of the last round. The excitement was beginning to bite, the crowd had woken up.

  “This is a gymkhana event,” grumbled Colonel Roxborough. “I’d never have let my Baskerville Boy go in for this.”

  “Rupert’s on zero, Ludwig’s got eight faults, Dino eleven, Jake fifteen and a half, but he’s got the easiest round to come,” said Malise, who was busy with his calculator.

  Ludwig rode in first on President’s Man. The young horse was really tired and confused now. He had jumped his heart out for three clears and he’d had enough. Like Snakepit, he preferred the gentleness of his last rider. Despite brilliant tactics from Ludwig, he knocked up eight faults.

  “Glory alleluia,” said Fen, rushing up to Jake as he mounted Clara, “Ludwig’s got half a fault more than you now.”

  Riding Clara was like driving a Lamborghini. With the slightest touch of the leg she seemed to surge forward. Jake had never known such acceleration. He felt humble to be riding such a horse. The crowd were growing restless again. With three clears under his belt, Rupert was obviously going to walk it.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Fen with a total lack of sympathy. “Snakepit’s carting Dino.”

  Snakepit, thoroughly over the top, galloped around the ring, taking practically every fence with him, notching up twenty-four faults.

  “Actually he did bloody well to stay on,” Fen conceded, as Snakepit carried him unceremoniously out of the ring.

  “I think I’ve won my bet,” said Colonel Roxborough.

  “Looks like a British victory,” said Malise, wishing he felt more elated.

  “Rupert used to own that horse,” said the colonel smugly. “He’ll find him a piece of cake.”

  Macaulay thought differently. Rupert had decided not to warm Macaulay up. The horse had already jumped three rounds and anyway, when Rupert had gone up to him, Macaulay had promptly flattened his ears, given a furious squeal of rage and recognition, and struck at him like a cobra. Rupert only just jumped out of the way in time.
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  “Don’t look,” said Fen to Jake. “It’ll only upset you. Concentrate on Clara.”

  “I think Rupert needs our help,” said Colonel Roxborough.

  Humpty, Malise, Driffield, Colonel Roxborough, Dizzy, and Tracey all stood round Macaulay’s head, holding on to his bridle for grim death as he stood at the entrance to the arena.

  They blocked Macaulay’s view as Rupert got onto his back, but he knew instantly. He seemed to tremble in terror, his ears glued to his head, his eyes seemed all whites in a white face.

  But with six of them hanging on, he could do nothing.

  “In you go,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Good luck.”

  They all jumped away as Macaulay shot forward. The moment he got into the ring, he went up on his hind legs, huge feet shadowboxing, his white face suddenly a mask of malevolence. Then he came down.

  “Oh, look,” said Fen in ecstasy. “He’s not going to fail us.”

  Taking no notice of Rupert’s brutally sawing hands, Macaulay went into a rodeo act, bucking and bucking and cat-jumping and circling in the air, frantic to get Rupert off.

  “He ought to join the Royal Ballet,” said Fen.

  Ivor’s mouth was open so long a fly flew in. Even Driffield stopped selling his horse.

  “Do something,” said Helen frantically to Malise. “He’s going to kill him.”

  “With any luck,” muttered Fen.

  “Dear God,” said Jake in misery, “I should never have subjected Macaulay to this.”

  It was amazing that Rupert stayed in the saddle so long. Macaulay’s mouth was bleeding badly now, bits of red foam flying everywhere. It was quite obvious to the crowd that the great black horse, like a maddened bull, had only one aim in life—to get the rider off his back.

  Rupert plunged his spurs in and brought his whip with an almighty thwack down on Macaulay’s quarters.

  “You can’t shift me, you black bugger,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh-la-la, quelle domage,” said Fen happily. “Oh, bien fait, Macaulay.”

  Dino shot her a sidelong glance. “You’re being kind of unsporting,” he drawled, as a final maddened buck sent Rupert flying through the air. It was lucky he let go of the reins. A second later, Macaulay had jammed on his brakes and swung round in pursuit. Rupert had never run so fast in his life. As he dodged behind the wall, Macaulay followed him, squealing with rage, teeth bared. The crowd were in an uproar.