Riders

by Jilly Cooper

She stood up, pirouetted round, and collapsed onto the bed again.

  “And I regret to tell you I lost my virginity. And it’s no point going to look for it at the Loshed Property Offish; it’s gone for good. One should be in the hands of an eckshpert the first time, don’t you think? ‘I jumped seven foot two this afternoon, so it’s but a tiny leap into your ancient four-poster, Mr. Minister,’ I said.”

  Billy felt a great sadness.

  “You little slut,” said Rupert slowly. “You just picked him up and went to bed for a sixty-thousand-lire shirt.”

  “Better than nothing, which I’d have got from you lot. Anyway,” said Fen, suddenly furious. “If I’m a slut, what the hell d’you think you are, going to parties, picking up awful typists, and all those horrible things you said about Helen? How can you behave like that when you’ve got a beautiful wife and lovely children? You’re the most immoral man I’ve ever met.”

  There was banging on the next-door wall. Someone shouted in German.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Fen, banging back again.

  Her eyes lit on the brandy. “I want another drink.”

  Billy got to his feet. “You’ve had enough,” he said flatly. “Come on, get to bed. I’ll help you undress.”

  Fen swayed away from him. “No, no, I can’t be undressed twice in an evening.” Then she swayed back towards him.

  “Darling Will-yum, don’t look so sad. True love will suddenly come to you as it hash to me.” She stood on tiptoe trying to kiss him, but the effort was too much for her. She collapsed back on the bed and passed out.

  “It’s not funny,” said Rupert.

  “I know it isn’t,” said Billy.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Rupert, as Billy started unbuttoning the shirt.

  “Shame if she puked over her Pucci,” said Billy.

  “Lovely body,” said Rupert. “Reminds me of Saville Minor. I suppose we can’t take advantage?”

  “No, we can’t,” said Billy, tucking her into bed.

  Through nightmares of pain and torture—was someone acupuncturing her brain with red hot pokers?—Fen could hear bells. They must be ambulance bells, taking her to hospital to die.

  But it was the telephone. She reached out, dropped it, and picked it up.

  “Morning, Fen, sorry to wake you,” said a brisk voice. “Have you had a good night?”

  “Yes,” she croaked.

  “Congratulations, anyway, on your first cap. Driffield’s out. You’ll be jumping today.”

  “I what?” stammered Fen in horror.

  “Makes you speechless, does it?” Malise laughed. “See you down at the stables in about an hour. Then we can put Macaulay over a few practice fences.”

  Fen put the telephone down and groaned. She got up, rushed to the loo, and was sick.

  “Why doesn’t someone turn down those bloody bells?” she croaked. “They can’t be Christians to make a din like that.”

  Her breeches, which she’d taken to the launderette the previous day, were still hanging over the balcony. She winced with pain as she opened the shutters. The sunlight hit her like a boxing glove. She staggered back to the bed and, picking up the telephone, dialed Billy’s number.

  “Billy, it’s Fen—I think. Get me an ambulance.”

  He laughed. “Is it that bad?”

  “I’ve never known pain like it.”

  “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

  He found her white and shuddering. “Here lies one whose name is writ in Krug,” she moaned. “Take me to the nearest pharmacy and tell me the Italian for Alka-Seltzer. I’ve got to jump, Billy. More likely, to jump over that balcony.”

  “Drink this. It’s disgusting, but it should help.” He handed her some Fernet Branca in a toothmug.

  “Ugh, it is disgusting. I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you’re not. Keep your head up, take deep breaths.”

  “Do you think there’s any hope of the arena party going on strike?” said Fen.

  Billy looked at the bruises on her thighs, wondering if they were the result of amorous pinches from the minister of arts. Fen seemed to read his thoughts and blushed. “I got them falling off Macaulay.”

  She was not helped by a sudden heatwave hitting Rome. As she tottered the course beside Billy three hours later, the temperature was in the nineties. The sun seemed to be beating down only on her head. There was no shade. The colored poles danced before her eyes.

  “Where did you go last night, Fen?” said Griselda bullyingly, as they examined a vast wall.

  “I don’t remember the name, but I had shellfish,” said Fen faintly.

  “Hum,” said Griselda in disbelief.

  “This course is designed to make riders think every inch of the way,” said Malise, as they examined the huge water jump floating with water lilies, known as the bidet. “It’s going to take very accurate jumping. The stile’s only four and a half strides before the combination. Macaulay’ll probably do it in four, Fen. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine,” said Fen, clinging onto the wing of the fence. “It’s just the heat.”

  Poor kid, suffers from nerves as badly as Jake, thought Malise, looking at her green face.

  Eight teams came out for the Nations’ Cup. Fen, after the previous day’s triumph, got a rousing cheer as she rode in the parade, flanked by Rupert and Billy.

  The playing of each National Anthem seemed to go on forever.

  “It’s you, not our gracious Queen, that needs saving today,” said Rupert out of the corner of his mouth.

  Great Britain’s fortunes were varied. Rupert jumped an effortless clear which brought more rousing cheers—even from the most partisan crowd in Europe.

  Waiting, pouring with sweat, teeth chattering, wondering whether to be sick again, Fen felt too ill even to be pleased that Griselda had nearly fallen off at the bidet and had notched up twelve faults. She came out furiously tugging Mr. Punch’s head from side to side.

  Britain was in third place when Fen went in.

  “Go for a steady clear,” said Malise. “I’d like to drop Griselda’s round.”

  Fen felt like a Christian after the Roman emperor had made that terrible thumbs-down sign of death. Alone in the ring, under those towering stands which had just become a sea of faces, she could feel the lions stealthily padding towards her.

  Macaulay, who always felt a great responsibility for the rider on his back, understood that Fen needed help. Watching his earnest white face appearing over each jump, Billy realized he was taking Fen around. He was about to take five strides after the stile, then changed to four, bouncing easily over the combination, but causing Fen to lose a stirrup. Slowing fractionally so she could find it again, he rounded the corner. For a minute Fen looked perplexed, then she turned him sharp right towards the huge yellow wall. A million times afterwards she relived that moment. She seemed to hear a shout from the collecting ring, but it was too late. Gathering Macaulay together, she cleared the wall, then looked around in bewilderment for the next jump. In front, a triple was facing backwards with a red flag on the left. Excited officials were waving their arms at her; the crowd gave a groan of sympathy. And suddenly it dawned on Fen—she’d taken the wrong course.

  Head hanging, fighting back the tears, white-faced, she cantered out of the ring.

  “Fucking imbecile,” said Rupert.

  “You’ve ruined our chances,” said Grisel, her mouth full of hot dog.

  Fen slid off Macaulay, loosening his girths, giving him his lemon sherbets, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

  “Bad luck,” said Sarah, “you were going so well.”

  Malise came up. “I hope that won’t happen in the second round,” he said bleakly.

  “I must not cry, I must not cry,” said Fen, and fled to the loo, where she was sick for the fifteenth time that day.

  On her return, she found everyone more cheerful, particularly Mr. Block, Billy’s sponsor,
who’d flown out to watch the Nations’ Cup. Billy and Bugle had gone clear, bouncing over the fences like a jack-in-the-box. At the end of the first leg the Germans were in the lead, the Italians second, and the English and the Swiss tying for third place.

  Fen couldn’t face the riders’ stand. She sat on an upturned bucket, under the thick canopy of an umbrella pine, with her head in her hands. Macaulay, led by Sarah, came up and nuzzled her.

  “Poor old boy,” said Fen listlessly. “It’s bloody hot.”

  Macaulay looked longingly as an ice-cream seller came by.

  “Oh, get him one,” Fen told Sarah. “He deserves it.”

  At that moment Rupert came up, keeping his distance because Macaulay promptly rolled his eyes and stamped his foot threateningly. “I hope you’ll know better in future than to get plastered and seduced by geriatric wops,” said Rupert viciously.

  Already the sun was beginning to slant sideways through the pines, throwing treacherous shadows across the fences, particularly the parallel.

  On his mettle, Rupert jumped just as brilliantly in the second round. He was unlucky to hit the second pole of the parallel and notch up four faults. He came out in a furious temper.

  “Horse was going superbly, but he simply couldn’t see what he was jumping at the parallel. I’m going to object.”

  Nor did the Germans or the Italians fare any better. The unaccustomed hot weather and the punishing course were tiring them all out. Griselda finished her second hot dog and rode off into the ring.

  “How the hell can she stuff herself like that before a class?” said Fen.

  “Her nerve ends are so coated with fat they don’t function properly,” said Sarah. “Oh, whizzo, she’s fallen in the bidet. Look at her covered in water lilies.”

  “You’re being very unpatriotic,” reproved Billy. “She is on our side.”

  He put a hand on Fen’s forehead. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Not after that frightful cock-up.”

  He shrugged. “Happen to anyone.”

  Having fallen off, Griselda went on to notch up a further four faults.

  “Just get around this time. That’s all that matters,” said Malise, as Fen went in. She had never felt so ill in her life.

  “Keep the white flag on your left, keep the white flag on your left,” she said to herself over and over again.

  Somehow she got over the first seven fences, including the bogey parallel. But as she approached the combination a child at the edge of the crowd let go of her gas balloon and, with bellows of misery, watched it float out like a spermatozoa just in front of Macaulay. For a second he glanced at it, confused, put in a short stride, found himself under the fence and took a colossal cat jump which nearly unseated Fen. Losing her reins, but clutching onto his mane for grim death, she managed to stay on as he cleared the second element, but her foot went straight through the iron. His last huge leap over the final element completely unseated her and she went crashing to the ground, but, with her foot trapped, was dragged, bumping horribly, for several yards before Macaulay, realizing what had happened, jammed on his brakes. Two officials ran up and disconnected her. Blood was pouring from her nose onto her white shirt, tie, and breeches. Staggering to her feet, she looked dazedly round for Macaulay.

  “I must get back on; got to finish.”

  There he was, looking apologetic and worried. His white face seemed to come towards her and go away. Stumbling over to him, she tried to clamber on, but as he was 17.2 it was like climbing the Matterhorn.

  “Give me a leg up,” she screamed to the steward. “I’ll run out of time.”

  The stewards, in broken English, told her she mustn’t jump and looked desperately around for the first-aid man. Just as he came running on, she somehow managed to get her foot in the stirrup and heaved herself up, blood still streaming from her nose.

  Heedless to the cries to stop, she turned to the last row of jumps.

  “Get her out of the ring,” said Billy, as white as his shirt. “She’ll kill herself.”

  The crowds were screaming in horror. Fen had lost so much blood it seemed that she was dressed all in red. Somehow she cleared the next two fences. She looked around, bewildered and swaying. There was only the oxer left. Fortunately Macaulay took charge. He could see the collecting ring and he wanted to get back there as soon as possible. Trotting briskly around the oxer, with Fen clinging round his neck, he carried her carefully out of the ring.

  Malise, Billy, and Rupert rushed forward.

  “It’s only a nosebleed,” muttered Fen into Macaulay’s blood-soaked mane. “You were right about there only being four and a half strides between the stile and the combination.” As they lifted her off, she fainted.

  “Get an ambulance,” said Billy in anguish. “We must get her to hospital. I’m going with her.”

  “Don’t be so fucking silly,” said Rupert and Malise in unison. “You’ve still got to jump.”

  41

  They decided to keep Fen in hospital overnight. After they’d cleaned her up, it was found she was suffering only from a severe nosebleed and slight concussion. Later, when Billy turned up to visit her, he found her in a clean white nightgown, slumped in bed, red-eyed, with her swollen face turned to the wall.

  “Fen, it’s me, Billy.”

  “Is Macaulay all right?”

  “Blooming. I saw he got his five lemon sherbets. I’ve brought you these.”

  He held a bunch of yellow roses in front of her face.

  “Thanks.” She hunched up her shoulders, pulling the sheet up over her eyes. Billy put the roses in the washbasin and sat down on the bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She looked round, her eyes swollen with crying, her lips puffy and bruised where she’d hit the ground, her face covered in bruises.

  “Terrible.”

  Billy smiled. “You look as though you’ve just done ten rounds with Henry Cooper.”

  “It’s very kind of you to come and see me, but I want to be on my own.”

  “Just wanted to see if you were all right.”

  “Perfectly,” she snapped.

  Billy got to his feet. As he reached the door she gave a strangled sob. Billy sat down again and took her in his arms.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she wailed, burying her face in his shoulder. “Such an awful thing to do. But I was so fed up with being chaperoned and everyone treating me like a baby. In fact, a baby would have behaved with more responsibility. Getting eliminated twice in a Nations’ Cup, I’ve let you all down: Macaulay, Jake, Malise, all the team, Great Britain.”

  “Fen,” Billy stroked her hair, “can I tell you something?”

  “No, I want to talk. I lied to you last night. I was just boasting because I was drunk and fed up. Umberto, that’s the minister of the arts, was awfully sweet, but his boyfriend died two months ago and he misses him terribly. All he wanted to do was to talk about him. He did the talking. I was listening, and you tend to drink a lot when you’re listening. He didn’t lay a finger on me except for kissing my hand. But when I got back Rupert was so bloody censorious, just assuming I’d been behaving like a whore, after all he’d been up to—and I was jealous of you chatting up that beastly redhead—I just lost my temper. But I promise I didn’t sleep with him.”

  For a minute Billy couldn’t speak for relief.

  “So I don’t want Malise calling Umberto out, or anything.”

  “He’s hardly likely to after Umberto gave him a ticket to hear Placido Domingo,” said Billy.

  “Don’t make jokes,” sobbed Fen. “It’s not funny.”

  “So you’re still intacta.”

  Fen nodded dolefully. “Not much else to boast about, with cock-ups in every other direction.”

  “Except from Umberto.”

  “Oh, shut up,” sniffed Fen.

  Suddenly she realized he was still wearing boots and breeches spattered with her blood. He’d taken off his white tie and exchanged his red coat
for a dark-blue jersey with a hole in the elbow, but he’d forgotten to take off his spurs.

  “You came straight from the show. You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m sorry about your breeches.”

  “Fenella,” said Billy gently, “if you’d keep your trap shut for one second, I’ve got something for you.”

  He put his hand in his pocket, then dropped a red rosette and a little silver model of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus.

  “W-what’s this?”

  “We won.”

  “But how could we? Griselda was on twelve and I was eliminated.”

  Billy grinned. “The Germans went to pieces and I jumped another clear.”

  Fen opened her mouth and shut it again; then she flung her arms round his neck. “But that’s wonderful, and with Mr. Block watching. Oh, I’m so, so pleased.”

  “Malise is going round like the Cheshire cat that’s just wolfed the canary.”

  Fen picked up the rosette. “Is he still livid with me?”

  “On the contrary. He now thinks you were very brave to jump at all. Rupert told him you’d swallowed a bad oyster last night and soldiered on because there wasn’t anyone else to jump.”

  “Rupert did?” said Fen incredulously. “That was extraordinarily kind of him.”

  Billy laughed. “Rupert loves winning, so now Malise thinks you’ve been very plucky.”

  “I haven’t,” muttered Fen. “I’ve been an idiot.” She looked at the rosette again; it matched the spattered blood. “I had no part in getting this. I don’t deserve it.”

  “You deserved the one at the beginning of the week which Ludwig got, so this one makes up for it.”

  But the tears were starting again.

  “Angel, please don’t cry.” He pulled her into his arms again, letting her tears drench his shirt. He was so warm, so comforting and rocklike, she couldn’t bear him to go.

  A nun came in, saying time was up and that Fen ought to rest.

  Billy looked up. “Duo momenti, grazie.” He turned back to Fen. “I’ll come and collect you tomorrow morning.”

  “Could you bring me some clothes to wear, preferably a yashmak?”

  “And tomorrow night I’ll take you out to dinner and treat you like a grown-up.”