Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Good luck,” said the wrestlers, when Jake collected Ivor. “For Christ’s sake, look after him.”

  “Good luck,” said the dour security guard at the end of the passage, smiling for the first time since they arrived. “Have a good day.”

  It was a good thing they started early for as the sun rose, pale saffron gilding the Santa Monica mountains, cars were already jamming the freeways, and a continuous stream of enthusiasts from every nation—but mostly America—clutching a selection of hats, thermos flasks, coolers, beer cans, sandwiches, transistors, and even portable televisions to sustain them during the long day, poured into the showground. Ticket scalpers were everywhere, and to get to the stables, the team had to fight their way through autograph hunters and people peddling Coca-Cola, chewing gum, hamburgers, hot dogs, and souvenirs.

  “If someone else offers me a poster of Dino I shall scream,” said Fen.

  By seven o’clock the stands were packed under a hazy, dove-gray sky, which indicated colossal heat to come. Many of the crowd didn’t know one end of a horse from another, but, bitten by Olympic fever, they wanted to see America notch up yet another gold.

  At seven-thirty, the riders and their chefs d’equipes walked the course, surging out over the rich brown tan. No one else, not even the press, was allowed into the arena. Royalty, however, brooked no such restrictions.

  “Morning, Dudley,” Prince Philip called to Dudley Diplock, who was hovering at the entrance. “Walked the course yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well come on, come on,” said the Prince, striding straight through the cordon of security guards, Dudley hopping after him.

  “Look at that crowd,” said Ivor, in a hollow voice.

  “Look at that course,” said Jake, as he gazed at the fences, whose massive size wasn’t remotely softened by a riot of trees and flowers.

  “Positively awesome,” breathed Carol Kennedy, as he looked at the combination. There were two unusual fences, one built with light and dark brown bricks in the shape of a hot dog and another designed like a boat with sails at either end instead of wings, with the horses jumping over the bows.

  “Holy Mother, that’s a turrible thing,” said Wishbone, looking at the hot dog.

  Even Rupert was curiously silent as they measured and remeasured the distances.

  “You’ve all jumped higher than this,” said Malise, as they gazed at the massive oxer.

  “But not every fence,” said Ivor.

  Fen suddenly felt overwhelmed with shame that she should have wanted Desdemona to jump this course. It was simply too big and she couldn’t see any way Hardy could get around. She felt horribly frightened for Jake. She wanted to be with him to bolster his confidence, but Malise told her to stick to the riders’ stand, and watch her eyes out for the first dozen or so rounds and pass back any advice.

  Jake, icy cold with chattering teeth, despite the heat, kept to himself and talked to no one. He had a very late draw, which was bound to tell on his nerves. Suddenly, he longed for Tory and her quiet sympathy and understanding, she who didn’t mind if he bit her head off. Just as he was going through the security check into the stables he heard a cry and Helen bore down on him. She looked ravishing in a white grecian tunic and a big white hat with the blue spotted scarf round the brim. A few yards behind her was a large handsome middle-aged woman with a bulldog jaw.

  “Darling,” Helen cried, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I just wanted to wish you luck and have you meet Mother.”

  Jake looked at her incredulously. “What?”

  “Meet Mother. I’ve told her so much about you.”

  “Don’t be so fucking stupid,” snapped Jake. “I can’t meet anyone at the moment,” and turned on his heel.

  Helen was stunned. “He’s a bit uptight,” she told her mother. “You can meet him later.”

  Everyone crowded into the riders’ stand to watch the first round. A hush fell over the arena. A ripple ran through the crowd as the first competitor came in. It was Hans Schmidt—his hat at its usual crooked angle, the jauntiness, belied by the determination on his face, Papa Haydn, the dark bay Hanoverian, totally under control. A groan went up from the German team, as he sent the second fence, a double of uprights, never a German forte, flying, then proceeded to hit the third fence and the fourth and, not getting up speed, had two toes in the water. Unnerved by such an uncharacteristically bad round, Papa Haydn demolished the sail boat and then the hot dog, took a pole out of the massive triple, which was sited away from the collecting ring, and hit the first element of the combination, for a final thirty-six faults.

  “And he is ranked number five in the world,” said Wishbone in a trembling voice.

  “First competitor nerves,” said Rupert.

  The strain of waiting for the course to be rebuilt told on Count Guy, who came next, and who came to grief at the third fence, managed to clear the water, but was going so fast he couldn’t pull up. He proceeded to kick out the sailboat, the hot dog, the massive oxer, and the two last elements in the combination. He was followed by a Japanese rider, who came in with a kamikaze attitude of finishing the course at all costs, and came out to loud cheers with an amazing total of fifty-five faults. One of the young Irish riders coaxed his ugly brown mare round on twenty-four to produce the best round yet. Dino’s replacement, Lizzie Dean, couldn’t carry the weight of expectation piled on her and notched up twenty faults.

  “It obviously walked better than it rode,” muttered Ivor, who was as green as one of Suzy Erikson’s avocados.

  The heat blazed down, getting more and more murderous, as Spaniards, Swiss, Italians, Canadians followed one another. If they weren’t unhinged by the course, they were distracted by the crowd who, every time anyone cleared a fence, uttered yoo-hoos and Tarzan howls, and yells of “Keep it up, keep it up.”

  Ludwig came in and roused a certain interest, when it was announced he had won the gold at the last Olympics, and had been second in the World Championship. Clara looked a picture of health as she trotted into the ring, long ears shining, taking in the huge crowd. It was soon obvious that she was on form, as she delicately picked her way around the course, clearing the sheet of blue water by a foot, but managing to slow up and become the first horse to clear the sailboat. The yells and cheers that greeted this achievement, however, completely unsettled her. She rattled the hot dog badly, crashed into the oxer, and kicked out the vast triple, finishing up with eight faults. All the other riders clapped sympathetically as Ludwig rode out, ruefully shaking his head. All the same, thought Fen, it’s the best round yet. Clear rounds were obviously going to be impossible to come by. She tried to remember exactly how Ludwig had tackled the sailboat so she could tell Jake. As she watched the Mexican named Jesus come hopelessly to grief, she felt sicker and sicker with nerves for him.

  Even worse, as Ivor went back to the stables to warm up John, someone moved up beside her and she found herself sitting next to Helen and Mrs. Macaulay.

  “This is Jake’s sister-in-law, Fenella,” said Helen. “This is Mother.”

  Fen and Mrs. Macaulay nodded at each other without warmth. Fen wondered if Helen had told her mother all about Jake. Helen looked at Fen’s uncommunicative profile.

  “Jake seems very uptight,” she said. “I tried to have him meet Mother.”

  “The only person he wants to meet at the moment is his maker.”

  “He does suffer terribly from anxiety,” said Helen.

  “He’s missing Tory,” said Fen. “He tried to ring her this morning, but all the lines were engaged.”

  “I thought it was very much a marriage of convenience,” said Helen stiffly.

  “Christ, no,” said Fen. “He’s mad about her. Look how berserk he got at Disneyland when Rupert made that crack about her being too fat.”

  “And he doesn’t play around?” Helen couldn’t resist asking.

  “Oh, no more than the average show jumper,” lied Fen airily. “You know what they’re
like. Too many opportunities to expect total fidelity, but he always goes back to Tory.”

  Seeing Helen’s twitching, anguished face, Fen decided she’d gone too far. I’ll go to hell for being such a bitch, she thought, but since Dino hasn’t turned up and I’m out of the Olympics, I’m in hell anyway; so what does it matter?

  “Oh look, here comes Mary Jo,” said Mrs. Macaulay. “I’m sorry, Helen, but that’s my girl. I refuse to root for Great Britain.”

  For five minutes the huge crowd, who’d been getting up and down all morning, halted their pilgrimage for food and drink. Cheered on by their fervor and hysterical enthusiasm, and her own passionate desire to win, Mary Jo and Balthazar went round for four faults, only hitting the hot dog, and going into the lead. Red as her red coat, grinning from ear to ear, throwing her hat in the air and catching it like a drum majorette, she galloped out of the ring, the crowd rising to applaud her.

  Unable to face Mrs. Macaulay’s smugness, Fen asked Helen to keep her place and went downstairs to encourage Ivor, who was jumping in a couple of rounds. God, it was hot. As though you’d gone to sleep and forgotten to switch off the electric blanket. The officials in their coral blazers and white panama hats sweated; the colored flags wilted against the snow-topped mountains.

  She reached Ivor as a poor little Swiss girl rode past, crying her eyes out, four years of hope shattered by three refusals at the first fence.

  Ivor didn’t fare much better. Stricken with stage fright, he rode like a novice. Nor was he helped by the announcement that here was Ivor Braine from Great Britain on the John. The crowd, thinking it hysterically funny that someone should call a horse by their name for the lavatory, went into guffaws of laughter and catcalls. Offended and thoroughly unsettled, John ground to three stops at the hot dog.

  “Oh no, John, no, John, no,” said Rupert, and went off to crash Rocky round the practice ring, as usual getting Dizzy to arrange the jumps on exactly the wrong stride, so Rocky hit every one and hurt himself.

  “Teach him to be careful,” said Rupert.

  A mighty roar from the arena indicated that Carol Kennedy had gone in and was about to jump.

  “Now that’s an attractive man,” said Mrs. Macaulay. “There’s something about American men.”

  “He’s gay, Mother,” snapped Helen.

  Despite being used to the frantic enthusiasm of American crowds, even Scarlett O’Hara was unnerved by the noise. She hit the hot dog, then looked as though she was going clear, but as she sailed over the last element of the combination, the crowd let out such a shout of jubilation that the mare assumed she had finished. It took all Carol’s skill to get her straight for the huge double and she toppled the last pole. Still, he was second on eight faults with Ludwig.

  “Isn’t he a prince?” said the girl behind Helen, as Rupert waited to go in. “I saw him on TV last night. You have to hand it to the British. They do have class.”

  Quality in every line, Rocky was easily the handsomest horse in the contest. Under the gleaming amber coat his muscles rippled like serpents, and as he danced into the arena, long ears cocked to the unfamiliar sights and sounds, the blend of explosive power with natural grace was unforgettable.

  “For Christ’s sake, take it steadily,” warned Malise.

  Rocky was the best horse in the contest, but he had never seen a crowd this big, nor heard so much noise, nor seen so many undulating rows of peaked caps, like a wriggling aviary.

  His forelegs were sore where Rupert had crashed him over the jumps. His tail switched angrily; he was horribly hot, fed up, and upset. As Rupert circled him twice to steady him, he humped his back and fought for his head.

  That horse is overfresh and insufficiently ridden in, thought Fen.

  Two minutes later, Rupert rode out of the ring with an incredible twenty-eight faults. Everyone in the riders’ stand and the commentary box was stunned.

  “Talk about the Rocky Horror Show!” said Fen under her breath. Then, horrified by her own lack of patriotism, she shot a sidelong glance at Helen and Mrs. Macaulay and was shattered to see neither of them was looking remotely upset.

  “Must go and find Jake,” she said, getting to her feet.

  “Wish him good luck,” said Helen. “Don’t forget to tell him,” she called after Fen.

  Wishbone was just about to go into the ring. Nearly forty, he’d had a grueling career, and everyone was taking bets on whether the drink or anno domini would get to him first. Today, despite three large whiskys, the heat didn’t seem to affect him or his big bay gelding, Christy Mahon. They too got eight faults.

  “Well done,” shouted Fen, as he came out of the ring. “Bloody good round.”

  She found Ivor, his face tearstained, in the deepest of glooms. “Where’s Jake?” she asked.

  “In the Gents, throwing up.”

  “He’s got to jump in twenty minutes. For God’s sake, go and get him.”

  Jake crouched over the lavatory, gazing miserably at the white bowl. Having had no breakfast and virtually no supper he was throwing up only bile now. He felt dreadful, shaking from head to foot. Oh God, he wished Tory was here.

  Someone was rattling the door. It was Ivor.

  “You okay, Jake?”

  Jake groaned.

  “Fen thought this might help.” Ivor passed a brandy under the door.

  “Take it easy,” said Malise’s voice. “In a few hours this’ll be all over.”

  “How soon have I got to jump?”

  “About four to go.”

  “Any clears?”

  “No—Rupe knocked up a cricket score,” said Malise bleakly.

  So it all depends on me, thought Jake.

  He drained the brandy. Amazingly, it seemed to calm his nerves and take the edge off his fears. Outside, he found Fen.

  “Now listen, they’ve all come unstuck at the hot dog. I think you ought to come off the corner earlier, giving Hardy a bit more time to size it up and take it in five strides.”

  “He seems to have got out of bed on the right side. He’s only given me one nip today,” said Sarah.

  Hardy was not a handsome horse, but his chubby dappled quarters and shoulders shone like polished pewter, his tail was whiter than the snow on the mountains, and his plaits, threaded with red cotton, were the neatest in the contest.

  For a second, Jake smiled at Sarah as she plugged both the horse’s ears with cotton wool. “You’ve done a good job on him,” he said. “He looks great.”

  “Good luck,” said Fen.

  “I don’t need to tell you this,” said Malise, “but all our hopes rest on you now.”

  Giving Hardy a clap on the rump, Jake went off into the tunnel. Fen just managed to make her seat beside Helen as Jake rode into the ring.

  “This is Jake, whom I was telling you about,” Helen said to her mother. “He nearly quit because he had such a frightful smash last year.”

  The crowd was tired. They had already sat through nearly three hours of jumping. They had seen all the Americans go and were already drifting away for their lunch.

  It’s actually happening, thought Jake, as he cantered towards the first huge fence. Feeling Hardy’s irritation at having his natural ebullience curbed, he let him have his head. Hardy bounded over, he cleared the next and the next, and with a whisk of his hind legs flicked over the water with inches to spare. He’s in top form, thought Jake joyfully. The sailboat caused him no problems. Following Fen’s advice, he then took a very sharp turn off the corner, and taking five strides, rather than everyone’s four, gathered sufficient momentum and bounded over the hot dog with ease.

  He was the first horse to clear this fence, which caused such screams of delight, excitement, and hysteria from the crowd that they pierced straight through the cotton wool in Hardy’s ears, temporarily unhinging him. Breaking into a gallop he crashed through the huge oxer and sent every brick of the wall flying.

  “Shit,” said Helen.

  “Helen Macaulay,” said her mother,
appalled.

  “I’ve been Campbell-Black for six years, Mother.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Fen decided she rather liked Mrs. Macaulay.

  Jake, meanwhile, had pulled Hardy almost to a standstill, stroking him and balancing him, the same way he had calmed Macaulay in the World Championship.

  “Silly bugger’s going to get time faults,” said Rupert.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” snapped Malise.

  Jake kicked Hardy into a canter, and proceeded to bounce over the rest of the course, riding out to deafening applause.

  “Well done. Marvelous,” said Malise, looking considerably more cheerful than he had ten minutes before. “You’ve saved the day. You’re on eleven.”

  Only three rounds followed, two of them hopeless, but the British hopes were slightly dashed when a Nigerian on a huge black gelding went round at a gallop, a broad grin on his face. Despite shooting out of the saddle at every fence, and reducing the crowd to fits of laughter, he managed to clear everything except the water and the hot dog.

  Malise got out his score sheet. “That’s Mary Jo on four, Carol, Ludwig, Wishbone, and the Nigerian on eight, and you on eleven, Jake,” he said.

  Then there was a grueling, three-hour interval before the second round. Twenty riders went through. Ivor was out, Rupert had just scraped in, Jake was fifth. There would be fewer jumps, but they would be harder.

  “Let’s go and have some lunch,” said Malise.

  “I’m going to stay behind and sort out Rocky,” said Rupert grimly.

  “Must try and keep Wishbone out of the whisky tint,” said Paddy, his groom. Ivor couldn’t speak for despair.

  “Rupert was overconfident. You were underconfident. It happens to the best people,” Malise told him.

  On the way to lunch Jake suddenly swayed, overcome by heat, lack of sleep and food, and a large brandy.

  “You won’t be jumping for at least three hours,” said Malise firmly. “Go and have a sleep on Sarah’s bed.”

  “Don’t be bloody silly,” said Jake, mopping his dripping forehead. “I couldn’t possibly sleep.”