Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “It’s all over Private Eye. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought Janey’d come to her senses,” said Rupert, pouring him a large drink. “Christ, if you’d have told Helen every time I’d had a bit on the side, she’d be back in America. Probably doesn’t mean a thing to Janey. She’s just a bit bored.”

  “With one bounder, she was free,” said Billy miserably. “She’s been so cheerful in the last three weeks. She was so down before, I thought it was because the book was going well. It must have been Kevin. What the hell do I do?”

  “Punch him on the nose.”

  “I can’t, at £50,000 a year. Very expensive bloody nose.”

  “Find another sponsor.”

  “Not so easy. I’m not the bankable property I was two years ago.”

  “Rubbish. You’re just as good a rider. You’ve just lost your nerve.” Rupert looked at his watch, “Aren’t you supposed to be making a speech in London?”

  Billy went white, “I can’t.”

  “You bloody well can. Don’t want to go ratting on that. They’ll say you’ve really lost your nerve. I’ll drive you up.”

  Billy somehow survived the lunch and making his speech. Paranoid now, he imagined all the audience there looking at him curiously, wondering how he was coping with being cuckolded. The journalist in the front row had a copy of Private Eye in his pocket.

  Even worse, that evening he and Janey had to go to some dreadful dance at Kev’s golf club in Sunningdale. Billy didn’t say anything to Janey. He had a faint hope, as he had when he was a child, that if he kept quiet and pulled the bedclothes over his head, the nasty burglar might assume he was asleep and go away. Janey, he noticed, didn’t grumble at all about going, as she would have done once, and looked absolutely ravishing in plunging white broderie anglaise.

  She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. All the men were gazing at her and nudging Kev for an introduction. Billy wondered how many of them had read Private Eye, and proceeded to get drunk.

  Enid Coley was made of sterner stuff. Having tried to fill up Janey’s cleavage with an orchid and maidenhair fern wrapped in silver paper, which Janey rudely refused to wear, she waited for a lull in the dancing. Then she walked up to Janey, holding a glass of wine as though she was going to shampoo her hair, and poured it all over Janey’s head.

  “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” demanded Billy.

  “Ask her what she’s been doing,” hissed Enid. “Look in my husband’s wallet, and you’ll see a very nice picture of your wife. Since you’ve been away she’s been seducing my husband.”

  “Shut up, you foul-mouthed bitch.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that. If you weren’t so drunk all the time, you might have done something to stop it.”

  Taking Janey, dripping and speechless, by the hand, Billy walked straight out of the golf club. It was not until they were ten miles out of Sunningdale that she spoke. “I’m sorry, Billy. When did you know?”

  “I read Private Eye at the station.”

  “Oh, my God. Must have been terrible.”

  “Wasn’t much fun.”

  “Beastly piece, too. I wasn’t sacked. I resigned. Kev, in fact, was rather chuffed. He’s never been in Private Eye before.”

  Billy stopped the car. In the light from the streetlamp, Janey could see the great sadness in his eyes.

  “Do you love him?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s so macho and I’m so weak. I guess I need someone like him to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

  “He’s hardly been doing that recently,” said Billy. “Look, I love you. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left you so much, or let us get into debt, or been so wrapped up in the horses. It must have been horrible for you, with no babies, and struggling to write a book on no money. I’ll get some money from somewhere, I promise you. I just don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  On Monday, Kevin Coley summoned Billy. “I’ve had a terrible weekend. I haven’t slept a wink for worrying,” were his opening words.

  “I’m so sorry. What on earth’s the trouble?” asked Billy.

  “I knew I had to break the news to you that I can’t go on sponsoring you. My only solution is to withdraw.”

  “Pity your father didn’t do that forty years ago,” said Billy.

  Kevin missed the joke; he was too anxious to say his piece. “The contract runs out in October and I’m not going to renew it. You haven’t won more than £3,000 in the last six months. I’m losing too much money.”

  “And fucking my wife.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then I tried to hit him,” Billy told Rupert afterwards, “but I was so pissed I missed. He’s talking of sponsoring Driffield.”

  “Oh, well,” said Rupert, “I suppose one good turd deserves another.”

  Winning the World Championship had transformed Jake Lovell into a star overnight. Wildly exaggerated accounts of his gypsy origins appeared in the papers. Women raved about his dark, mysterious looks. Young male riders imitated his deadpan manner, wearing gold rings in their ears and trying to copy his short, tousled hairstyle. Gradually he became less reticent about his background and admitted openly that his father had been a horsedealer and poacher and his mother the school cook. Sponsors pursued him, owners begged him to ride their horses. His refusal to turn professional, his extreme reluctance to give interviews (I’m a rider, not a talker) all enhanced his prestige. The public liked the fact that his was still very much a family concern, Tory and the children helping out with the horses. Fen, under Malise’s auspices, won the European Junior Championship in August, and, although still kept in the background by Jake, was beginning to make a name for herself.

  Most important of all, Jake had given a shot in the arm to a sport that, in Britain, had been losing favor and dropping in the ratings. The fickle public like heroes. The fact that Gyppo Jake had trounced all other nations in the World Championship dramatically revived interest in show jumping.

  Wherever Jake jumped now, he was introduced as the reigning World Champion, which was a strain, because people expected him to do well, but also increased his self-confidence. For the rest of the year, and well into the spring, he and Macaulay stormed through Europe like Attila the Hun, winning every grand prix going. Two of his other novices, Laurel and Hardy, had also broken into the big time. Laurel, a beautiful, timid, highly strung bay who started if a worm popped its head out of the ground in the collecting ring, was brilliant in speed classes. Hardy, a big cobby gray, was a thug and a bully, but had a phenomenal jump. Both were horses the public could identify with.

  But it was Macaulay they really loved. While other riders changed their sponsors and were forced to call their horses ridiculous, constantly changing names, Macaulay remained gloriously the same, following Jake around without a lead like a big dog, nudging whoever presented the prizes and responding with a succession of bucks to the applause of the crowd.

  In November, Jake was voted Sportsman of the Year. Macaulay came to the studios with him and exceled himself by sticking out his cock throughout the entire program, treading firmly on Dudley Diplock’s toe, and eating the scroll that was presented to his master. For the first time, the public saw Jake convulsed with laughter and were even more enchanted.

  Enraged by his humiliation in the World Championship, and the appalling publicity he received over selling Macaulay to the Middle East, Rupert decided to up sticks for a couple of months. Loading up six of his best horses, he crossed the Atlantic and boosted his morale by winning at shows in Calgary, Toronto, Washington, and Madison Square Garden.

  Helen had always sighed wistfully that her parents had never had the opportunity to get to know their grandchildren. Rupert took her at her word. Flying the whole family out, plus the nanny, he dumped them in Florida with Mr. and Mrs. Macaulay, while he traveled the American circuit and “enjoyed himself,” as Mrs. Macaulay pointed out sourly. Staying with her pare
nts with the two children shattered one of Helen’s illusions. Even if things got too bad with Rupert, she could never run home to Mummy anymore. The whole family were glad to get back to Penscombe in November.

  Two weeks after Rupert left for America, Billy had gone on a disastrous trip to Rotterdam, where he had fallen off, paralytically drunk, in the ring and sat on the sawdust, laughing, while one of his only remaining novices cavorted round the ring, refusing to be caught. The English papers had been full of the story. Billy got home to find that Janey had walked out, taking all her clothes, her manuscript, Harold Evans and, worst of all, Mavis. Billy had stormed drunkenly round to the flat, where she was living with Kev, and tried to persuade her to come back. She had goaded him so much, and become so hysterical, that finally he’d blacked her eye and walked out with Mavis under his arm.

  A week later he received an injunction from Janey’s solicitors accusing him of violent behavior and ordering him to stay away. Next day, The Bull, who’d been lackluster and off form for weeks, had a blood test. Not only was he anemic but had picked up a virus, said the vet, and should not be jumped for three months.

  Billy took refuge in the bottle, selling off his novices and pieces of furniture to quiet his creditors, and to buy more whisky, refusing to see anyone. He also sacked Tracey, because he couldn’t afford to pay her anymore. She refused to go. No one else could be permitted to look after The Bull. She’d live on her dole money, she said, and wait until Billy got his form back.

  Rupert was shattered, when he got home, to find Billy in such a state. Typically, whenever he’d spoken to Rupert on the telephone from America, Billy had pretended things were all right and he and Janey were ticking along. Now, sitting in a virtually empty cottage, surrounded by empty bottles, he had gone gray and aged ten years. Immediately, Rupert set about a process of, as he called it, re-hab-Billy-tation, ordering Helen to get Billy’s old room ready at Penscombe, packing Billy off to an alcoholics’ home to dry out, and searching for a new sponsor.

  Helen, while sorry for Billy, could not help being secretly delighted. She had never really approved of Janey. Now with Billy back in the house, they would have fun together like the old days.

  But it was not the same. It was like sending your son off to the wars all youthful, glorious, and confident in his plumed uniform, and having him come home in the royal blue suit and red tie of the wounded, hobbling around on a stick. Billy talked incessantly about Janey, Mandryka, and his failures. He didn’t drink anymore. He was quiet, sad, and pathetically grateful. Helen once again marveled at Rupert’s kindness and gentleness.

  One evening in early December, when she’d been talking to Higgins the gardener, Helen heard shouting from the indoor school. Peering around the door, she found Billy walking around the willful eight-year-old bay thoroughbred named Bugle, which Rupert had picked up in America. Unable to get a tune out of him, Rupert had handed him over to Billy. Now he was haranguing Billy because of his reluctance to take Bugle over a line of jumps, all well over five foot.

  Billy was shivering like a whippet on a cold day. “I simply can’t do it yet, Rupe,” he groaned. “Give me a few more weeks.”

  “Get moving and get over those bloody jumps,” yelled Rupert. “This is not a holiday camp.”

  “Oh, Rupert, don’t force him,” Helen began.

  “And you can bugger off,” said Rupert, turning on her furiously.

  Helen retreated to the drawing room and tried to read the Times Literary Supplement. Twenty minutes later, Rupert walked into the room, ashen and trembling even more than Billy had been.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Helen, in horror.

  Rupert poured himself three fingers of neat whisky which he drained in one gulp.

  “He jumped them,” he said. “He jumped them beautifully and all clear, half a dozen times. I’m sorry I shouted at you, but I just can’t afford to let him see how scared I am for him.”

  The problem was to find Billy a sponsor. Janey’s departure, the failure of the horses, and the heavy drinking had been so widely publicized that Billy would have to show himself in the ring, sober and successful, before anyone would come forward.

  “You can ride for me for the rest of the year,” said Rupert.

  “I have my pride,” said Billy, “and I’ve bummed quite enough off you and Helen.”

  Billy made his comeback at the Olympia Christmas show, not the best occasion to return, with the merrymaking and hell-raising, and the memories it evoked of both Lavinia Greenslade and Janey. All the other riders and grooms were very friendly and welcomed him. But he knew that, behind his back, they were saying how much he’d aged, that he’d lost his nerve and would never make the big time again.

  Never had he been more desperate for a drink than half an hour before the first big class. Rupert, who’d been watching him like a warder, frog-marching him away from the bars, had just been called away to do a quick television interview. Tracey was walking Bugle around the collecting ring. Inside the ringside bar, Billy could see Christmas drinkers knocking back doubles, slapping each other on the back, guffawing with laughter. Surely one drink wouldn’t hurt, one quick double to steady his nerves. If he was this strung up, he’d transmit his fears to young Bugle. Rupert gave him pocket money now. Easing his last fiver out of his breeches pocket, he was just going into the bar when a voice said, “Hello, Billy. How lovely to see you back.”

  For a second he didn’t recognize the plumpish but ravishingly pretty girl, with the long, light brown hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon, like the young Mozart.

  “It’s Fen, Fenella Maxwell. How are you?” Stepping forward, she kissed him on both cheeks. “Are you in the next class?”

  He nodded.

  “So am I. Malise has persuaded Jake to let me jump. I’m absolutely terrified.”

  “Makes two of us,” said Billy, still staring at her.

  “Rupert says you’re riding a super new horse.”

  “Yup, he’s super, all right. Whether I’ll be able to get him around is another matter.”

  Suddenly they were surrounded by a group of ecstatic teenagers. “It’s Fen,” they screamed, pushing Billy out of the way. “Can we have your autograph? How’s Desdemona?”

  As she signed their books, with a new and rather flashy signature which she’d been practicing during the long journeys in the lorry, she saw Billy sliding away.

  “Here,” she said to the teenagers, “don’t you want his as well?”

  The teenagers looked inquiringly at Billy, then politely handed him their books.

  “Who’s he?” muttered one of the teenagers, as they wandered off, examining Billy’s signature more closely.

  “Billy someone,” said her friend, also examining the autograph. “Didn’t he used to ride The Bull?”

  “He’s the best rider in England,” Fen shouted after them.

  Billy shook his head ruefully. Fen tucked her arm through his. “I told you it was high time you came back,” she said. “Let’s go and walk the course.”

  The course seemed enormous. Billy sat in the riders’ stand clutching a Coke and wondered how the hell the riders could coax their horses over such enormous fences. To Rupert’s intense irritation, Jake Lovell jumped a beautiful clear on Macaulay, as did Fen on Desdemona.

  “That yard simply can’t put a foot wrong at the moment,” said Malise. “High time you were back to redress the balance, Billy.”

  Despite the heat and stuffiness of the arena, Billy began to shiver. He could feel his white shirt drenched beneath his red coat. In the old days, there had been excitement and nerves, not this cold, sickening sensation of leaden nausea. Could everyone see? As he mounted Bugle, he noticed two young riders with Jake Lovell haircuts, swapping stories. Once they had looked up to Billy and would certainly have watched him jumping on a new horse. Now they nodded briefly, carrying on with their conversation.

  He jumped one practice fence and, nearly falling off, left it at that. Oh God, they wer
e calling his number. Rupert’s face swam in front of him.

  “I think I’ve got a sponsor interested. A Victor Block from the Midlands. He’s the Cutie Cup Millionaire; makes bras and corsets. You may have to change Bugle’s name to Cutie B-Cup, but he’s worth a lot of bread and he’s up in the stands, so don’t have three stops at the first fence.”

  “If I ever get to the first fence,” said Billy in a hollow voice.

  “For Christ’s sake, hurry up, Billy,” snapped the collecting ring steward. “Don’t spend so long in the bar next time.”

  As he rode into the ring, panic assailed him. He should never have agreed to ride. The saddle was hard and unfamiliar, his legs felt cramped and powerless, refusing to meet the leather and blend into it, his hands on the reins were numb and heavy, without any flexibility. In the old days he’d fallen into the rhythm of any horse’s stride. Now he humped along like a sack of cement.

  “And here comes Billy Lloyd-Foxe on Dougall. Se-uper, absolutely se-uper, to see you back, Billy. Let’s all give Billy a big hand.”

  The applause, albeit tentative, unnerved the inexperienced Bugle. The first fence loomed up higher and higher. Desperately Billy tried to balance himself, hands rigid on the reins, interfering with the horse, pulling him off his stride. Bugle rapped the pole; it swayed but didn’t fall.

  “Oh, God,” groaned Tracey, her nails digging into her palms. “Oh, don’t let him be over the hill.”

  “Is this the bloke you want me to sponsor?” asked Victor Block. “Doesn’t look much cop to me.”

  “You wait,” said Rupert, trying not to show his desperate anxiety.

  Bugle approached the second fence, battling for his head. Billy felt the horse steady himself, judge the height, rise into the air and, making a mighty effort, twist over the fence.

  “Forgive me,” said Billy in wonder, sending up a prayer of thankfulness.

  Now his hold on Bugle’s neck was relaxed, the bay’s pace increased, covering the churned-up tan with long lolloping strides. Suddenly, Billy felt the blessed sustaining confidence start to come back. Fence after fence swept by. He was riding now, helping rather than hindering. Bugle was jumping beautifully. Billy’s heart swelled in gratitude. He was oblivious of the cheering gathering momentum. He took off too far away from the wall, but it flashed, oxblood red, beneath him and Bugle cleared it by a foot.