Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Well, lie down then.”

  Within seconds of stretching out on the tiny bed in the attic room over the stables, Jake was asleep.

  The second round was much tougher. The temperature was up in the nineties, turning the Olympic stadium into a furnace. The horses having been warmed up, and jumped, and put back in the stables, thought that work was over for the day and couldn’t understand why they were being pulled out again. Most of them were already tired.

  Even the vast crowd seemed depleted, as spectators, escaping from the punishing heat, watched the competition on the closed-circuit televisions scattered round the halls.

  Biting her nails, Fen watched rider after rider fighting their way through a forest of obstacles. Ludwig had worked Clara too hard in the interval and the great mare knocked up a cricket score.

  Jake, having been woken up, was warming up Hardy as Mary Jo entered the ring. From the arena he could see the stands heaving as the spectators stampeded to get back to their seats and cheer on their heroine. Mary Jo was on four faults. Jake listened to the roars of applause growing to a crescendo, which must have been heard all the way to New York. Then there was a silence, and a terrible groan. Four faults, that meant she was on eight, then the cheers started again, rising and rising once more. He must concentrate on Hardy. Then suddenly there was a deafening bellow, which sent Hardy into a frenzy, despite the cotton wool in his ears.

  Looking up at the stadium, Jake could see hats being thrown in the air, rising up above the back of the stand like popped corn. Unless Carol or Wishbone or the Nigerian went clear, Mary Jo had got her gold. There was no way Jake could catch her. The cheering went on and on, until finally Mary Jo came out of the tunnel, wiping away the tears, then disappearing into a shrieking crowd of well-wishers.

  Carol Kennedy, on eight, went next and again was unlucky. He was jumping cleanly and steadily when the shadow of a helicopter above fell across the first element of the double, making it difficult to judge the distance. The gallant Scarlett O’Hara knocked down both elements, but otherwise went clear. The crowd were in ecstasy, stamping their feet, crying: “Yoo-hoo-hoo.” Carol was now on sixteen faults, with an excellent chance of the silver.

  In rode Rupert. It was only a miracle that he could even get the bronze. He was still in a white-hot rage, determined to go clear and show everyone how the course should be jumped. Obviously terrified out of his wits, eyes rolling, frothing blood at the mouth, Rocky went clear until he came to the triple going away from the collecting ring, when he began to slow down. Rupert lifted his whip. Rocky took off too soon, and sent triple, horse, and rider flying. Rupert hung on to the reins and appeared unhurt, but it was several seconds before he could mount the panic-stricken Rocky, who, thoroughly unsettled, proceeded to notch up a further eight faults.

  “Bad luck,” said Wishbone, who was waiting to go in. But Rupert ignored him, riding straight past him with a pale, dangerous face. Wishbone had had enough whisky in the interval to give him courage, but rather too many for perfect judgment. He knew it was his last chance at a medal. The Irish didn’t have enough riders here to make up a team, but he loved his old horse, and would dearly have loved to go home with a medal, so he crossed himself and prayed fervently to the Virgin Mary as he rode into the ring. The Virgin Mary was listening. Gently she guided horse and rider around the ring. Wishbone jumped like a man inspired, with only one fence down, putting him into second place.

  The crowd erupted. Wishbone had entertained them with his antics for many years now. He was a very popular rider. They cheered and cheered. Ireland had got the silver, but America had the gold and bronze.

  “They seem to have completely forgotten that there’s still Jake and that Nigerian to jump,” said Fen furiously.

  “Are you all right?” she said to Jake. “It must be much worse when there’s so much at stake.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If he got four faults he got the bronze; if he went clear, the silver. That was the message bleakly spelled out. With the crowd making such a din, there was no way he could get Hardy to concentrate.

  “Take his cotton wool out,” he said to Sarah.

  “Are you sure?” she said, horrified. “He’ll freak out.”

  Malise came up and gave Hardy a last pat. “They’re obviously not going to shut up,” he said. “I’d go in. Just trust to your instincts.”

  If I get a medal, thought Jake as he waited, watching the mouthing ecstatic faces, I’ll get £75,000 a year from Boyson. He thought of Tory and the children watching at home. He thought of Helen, whom he’d been so foul to earlier.

  “Go in, please,” said the ring steward in his coral blazer.

  From then on Jake thought about nothing but Hardy. Riding slowly to the center of the arena, he turned to the President’s Box, where the president, who loved horses, sat with Prince Philip and Princess Anne, and he removed his hat to the judges, showing the sudden pallor on his suntanned face. Then he spoke to Hardy and Hardy put one foot forward and bowed low to the Prince and the Princess and the president and the crowd burst into ecstatic, charmed applause. They’d got their gold; they could afford to be generous. There was no way this gypsy and his tricks could beat their Mary Jo.

  “Isn’t that darling?” said Helen to Mrs. Macaulay.

  Jake looked up at the cool, snow-tipped mountains beyond the stadium and the great blocks of faces watching him, and calmly he replaced his hat and waited for the crowd to settle.

  Gradually the cheering decreased to a sizzle of excitement, like fat in a chip pan. Jake touched the Union Jack on his saddle cloth, then the tansy in his breast pocket. Hardy stood as still as a rock for once. He had heard the crowd in all its noise and glory, and it hadn’t harmed him.

  “Stupid exhibitionist,” said Rupert to Ludwig.

  “Pity not to have any clears,” said Dudley Diplock.

  Finally, when there was no sound at all except the clicking of cameras and the insect hum of a 100,000-strong crowd trying to be quiet, Jake kicked Hardy into a canter. Neither of them looked a bit tired. It was almost as though they were jumping an exhibition round. As they cleared the first two fences, then the third, then bounded joyously over the water, the crowd realized Hardy was enjoying himself and started to cheer and stamp and clap him on.

  “They really like me,” Hardy seemed to be saying, as he picked his feet up and really bucketed over the hot dog with a jaunty whisk of his tail.

  “This is the fence I hated last time,” he seemed to say, slowing up at the oxer. “You like it this time, listen to the applause,” said Jake, as Hardy flew over like a swallow.

  “He’s a bit slow,” said Fen, sitting beside Malise on the edge of the riders’ stand.

  “Yes,” said Malise, “but what a round; sheer poetry. Come on, Jake.”

  As if Jake heard them, he stepped up Hardy’s pace, and came storming over the combination. Now it was the last double.

  “I can’t look,” said Fen. She waited, head in her hands for the sickening thud of poles. She heard a gasp, a long pause, an ecstatic scream from Helen on her right, and then a mighty roar of applause.

  “He’s done it, the only clear,” shouted Malise, throwing his panama in the air. It fell and was trampled underfoot before he could even be bothered to retrieve it.

  The crowd held their breath as everyone calculated. Jake glanced at the clock. He was just within the time. Even if the Nigerian went clear, he’d got the bronze. Dropping Hardy’s rein on his neck, he raised both hands to heaven in a double salute and rode out through the cheering channel of spectators, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Fucking marvelous,” screamed Fen, tears pouring down her cheeks, as she hugged Malise, his wet face glistening too in the bright sun.

  “This is the most amazing turnup for the books,” Dudley Diplock was gibbering from the commentary box. “No one ever thought Gyppo Jake would make it back to the big time. This is little short of a miracle.”

  “Let’s go and
congratulate him,” said Malise and Fen simultaneously, but Helen was too quick for either of them. Jumping over the row in front, she rushed out and down the steps and, red hair flying, she rushed to meet Jake.

  “Oh darling, darling, darling,” she said, seizing his hand.

  Jake looked down at her. Color in his face now, dazzlingly happy, handsome as never before, all efforts at impassivity gone.

  “We did it,” he said incredulously. “We really did it,” and in the euphoria of winning, he bent down and kissed her, and she kissed him back, clinging on to him.

  In the riders’ stand, trapped by the crowd, Fen’s eyes met those of Mrs. Macaulay.

  “Your brother-in-law,” said Mrs. Macaulay accusingly.

  “Yes,” said Fen, equally accusingly. “My sister’s husband.”

  From the right she saw Rupert, white with rage descending on Jake and Helen. Fortunately, at that moment Sarah, in floods of joyful tears, and the rest of the British grooms swarmed round Jake and Hardy. Instantly they were joined by Wishbone and the American and German teams, who were all patting him on the back and showering him with congratulations. Count Guy arrived with a magnum of Krug.

  From then on, everything was a daze. Jake was terribly glad to see Malise looking so happy, and Fen jumping up and down, and he was both pleased and sorry when he heard the poor Nigerian, the last to jump, had been unable to cope with the strain and had knocked up twenty faults, which meant Jake had the silver and Wishbone the bronze.

  Everywhere he turned there were photographers and people reaching forward to pat Hardy.

  “I can’t think why he isn’t biting everyone,” crowed Sarah. “Now he’s a medalist, he’s obviously turned over a new leaf.”

  The jumps were cleared and the huge Clydesdales dragged on the winners’ podium. Together, Mary Jo, Jake, and Wishbone rode into the ring, followed by their three grooms. Sarah got a special cheer for her beauty and her red, white, and blue hair. Then the grooms took the horses as the riders mounted the podium. Jake found it difficult not to laugh as the girls carrying the boxes of rosettes, like flag-sellers, came out with their ludicrously stiff, wide-apart-

  legged walk.

  He bowed his head as the president’s wife hung the silver medal round his neck, touching it immediately, checking it was real. He thought his heart would burst with the wonder of the whole thing. Mary Jo was crying unashamedly as the three flags climbed up the flagpole and the band played the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Wishbone had no handkerchief, and had to blow his red-veined nose on his shirttail.

  “Well done,” said Prince Philip, shaking them all by the hand, but particularly Jake. “Only clear round,” he added. “You must feel very proud.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jake was so dazed with emotion, he was glad to get back to Hardy, who was so festooned with long-tailed rosettes he could hardly see through them. He wanted to stay with him afterwards but he was swept off to a press conference. By the time the reporters had finished with Mary Jo, Jake had consumed at least a bottle and a half of champagne.

  “Pity you didn’t get a gold, Jake,” said the Los Angeles Times.

  “Frankly I’m bloody glad to have the silver. Being a gypsy, traditionally I cross people’s palms with it. It’s the right medal for me.” Everyone laughed.

  “All the same,” he went on, looking at the forest of cameras and notebooks and tape recorders, “it’s a pity Dino Ferranti had to pull out, or Mary Jo and I might easily have been a rung lower.”

  “Do you think there’s any reason you did so well?” asked the Daily Telegraph.

  “I had a good backup team,” said Jake, and proceeded to thank everyone from the family to Malise, to the nurses and doctors at the Motcliffe.

  “What are your plans for the future?” asked the New York Times.

  “I’m going to ring my wife and then go and get plastered.”

  Dudley fought his way through the huge crowd of fans waiting outside. “Congratulations, Jake. Brilliant, brilliant performance. We’ve kept a line open for you in the commentary box. We’d like to televise you breaking the news to Tory, if we may.”

  “You may not,” said Jake. “One doesn’t often ring up one’s wife to say one’s got a silver. Some things should be done in private.”

  Going into the commentary box, he slammed the door. “Can I put a person-to-person call through to Mrs. Lovell?” he said, picking up the telephone.

  “Certainly, Mr. Lovell,” said the switchboard girl. “Congratulations.” He got through incredibly quickly.

  “Oh Jakey, oh Jakey,” Tory was laughing and crying so much he could hardly hear her. “It’s so wonderful. You both were so wonderful. The whole village have been here watching it. They’ve drunk us out of house and home and now they’re having the most terrific party. We’re all so proud of you.”

  “Hardy was your baby,” said Jake. “You sorted him out for me.”

  “He jumped so brilliantly; and when he bowed; and the only clear too. Speak to the children.”

  “How much did you win?” asked Isa.

  “Can you take me to Disneyland?” said Darklis.

  Jake asked if he could speak to Tory again. “I miss you,” he said. “D’you want to fly out for the team event?”

  “Oh, I’d love to. Can we afford it?”

  “I think so, now,” said Jake.

  “Boyson just rang by the way,” said Tory. “He said you’d kept your side of the bargain, he’d be keeping his. Oh, listen, listen, can you hear?” she said in a choked voice. “They’re ringing the church bells, oh Jakey, it’s two o’clock in the morning. No one’s asleep. They’re cheering and dancing in the street, and the pub’s open, and they’re ringing the bells in your honor. Listen!”

  Down the wires, Jake could hear the faint peal. He was so moved he couldn’t talk anymore. “I’ll ring tomorrow,” he said. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” said Tory.

  “Everything all right?” said Fen as he came out of the box, wiping his eyes.

  He nodded. “Absolutely marvelous. They’re ringing the church bells.”

  Perhaps it’ll be all right after all, thought Fen.

  59

  They gave him a ride in a police car, sirens blaring, to get him back to the Olympic village.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jake at the gates, feeling dazedly for his security chain. “I seem to have mislaid it.”

  “All right, Mr. Lovell, we know who you are,” said the security guard. “Congratulations.”

  The other British athletes were euphoric.

  “Well done,” said Sebastian Coe and Daley Thompson, hammering him on the back.

  The weight lifters hoisted him shoulder high and carried him around the village. Everyone bought him drinks. Jake looked in the mirror in the little room as he changed to go out to dinner. He found his security chain where he’d left it, around his neck, under his shirt.

  “You are a superstar,” he said, jabbing his finger at his reflection, pleased that the two pointing fingers met every time, proving he wasn’t drunk. He wished he could go out quietly and celebrate with Sarah and Fen; he didn’t want the strain of behaving well. He wished Tory was here to share in the triumph, but he had never before known such personal happiness.

  Determined not to betray his devastating disappointment, Rupert was in no mood for a victory celebration. He had wanted to leave show jumping in a blaze of glory, moving smoothly from the gold medalist’s podium into politics and, possibly, Amanda’s arms. Now, the months of training and abstinence had gone for nothing. And although Rocky had jumped like a pig with chilblains, and Rupert had beaten the hell out of him afterwards, a small voice inside told him it was not Rocky’s fault.

  When he had got back from Las Vegas, with the torn-up pieces of Amanda’s letter in his pocket, he shouldn’t have stayed up half the night talking to people at Suzy’s dinner party. He was thirty-one, not eighteen anymore. Finally, letting himself into the bedroo
m at two in the morning and finding Helen breathing specially deeply, pretending to be asleep, Rupert—king of the catnappers—had been unable to sleep himself, lying awake and thinking about Amanda.

  Now he was expected to go out and celebrate that little jerk’s freak silver. Malise had rocketed him after the competition.

  “These things happen with horses and the less said about your cock-up today the better. Now we’ve got to go all out for the team gold. You’ve got six days to get Rocky together, and I want you on parade at half-past nine tonight.”

  “What for?”

  “To celebrate Jake’s silver.”

  “I’ve got a previous engagement,” said Rupert coldly. “I’m taking Helen and her mother to Ma Maison.”

  “That’s where we’re all going.”

  “Cost a bomb,” snapped Rupert. “Hardly imagine the Olympic fund will stretch to that.”

  “It’s already been paid for,” said Malise, not without a certain quiet pleasure which he afterwards regretted. “Garfield Boyson rang from England and guaranteed the bill in advance.”

  Rupert’s face took on that curiously dead expression that boded trouble. Garfield Boyson had already approached Rupert; in fact he was the only sponsor Rupert would have been prepared to work with. If Boyson had picked up his bills for the next two years, he would have been able to slack off and only enter for the big prestigious competitions, gradually devoting more and more time to politics. And now Jake had pinched the sponsorship from under his nose.

  “I thought you weren’t going to drink until after the team event,” said Helen as Rupert, hair still wet from the shower, but already dressed in a gray striped shirt and white trousers, poured himself four fingers of whisky.

  “Hasn’t done me much good so far,” said Rupert, adding a splash of water from the washbasin. “Need something to get me through what’s obviously going to be a fucking awful evening.”

  Helen tried very hard to curb her elation. Rupert had told her Boyson was footing the bill this evening, which meant Jake must have got the sponsorship, which in turn must mean he could now afford to leave Tory and marry her.