by Jilly Cooper
“Not you,” he said. “I was talking to an earlier model.”
Malise went with Rupert to the emergency room. He lay stretched out in the ambulance, his face gray-green, sweat beads drenching his forehead and upper lip, cursing quietly to himself the whole way. Just to look at the horrible angle of his arm made Malise feel sick.
“At least it’s not fractured,” said the doctor, after the X-ray. “Pretty straightforward to put back. You’ll just be out of action for a few days.”
Malise and Rupert exchanged glances. Rupert turned to the doctor.
“I don’t want an anesthetic.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Malise.
“I don’t need one. How did they manage before they had chloroform? I don’t want my reflexes fucked up for tomorrow.”
“You’re not jumping tomorrow,” said Malise.
“What other alternative do we have?”
“Appealing to Jake to come back.”
“If he shows his face within fifty miles of the show ring he’ll end up in here as well,” said Rupert. “In the morgue.”
“Have you any idea how painful it will be without an anesthetic?” said the doctor.
“Yes,” said Rupert. “Our doctor at home put it back for me once when I was out hunting. I carried on for the rest of the day.”
“You were younger then,” said Malise.
“This is the second time,” said the doctor.
“I know,” said Rupert, throwing back his head and clenching his teeth. “Come here, sweetheart,” he added to the beautiful nurse who was gazing at him with pity and admiration, “and hold my hand.”
He was about to say he expected he’d do it a third time, but as the doctor got to work he fainted.
“At least the pain should take my mind off my erring wife,” he said when he came around. But despite repeated shots of morphine, he had never known such agony.
At five o’clock Malise called a press conference: “The British team is down to three riders. One of them, Rupert Campbell-Black, has been very seriously injured today but is determined to ride tomorrow. I want to make one more appeal to Jake Lovell to think seriously about coming back. Great Britain needs him. Rupert has agreed there will be no reprisals.”
Fen’s night was scarcely better than Rupert’s. She had thought that now Dino had reappeared, everything would be easier. But she found herself even twitchier. Had he really been there at all? Did he really love her and want to marry her? She felt bitterly ashamed of the resentment she felt that he’d gone to look after Tory. If he really loved you, mocked a voice, as she got dressed at four o’clock in the morning, he wouldn’t have been able to tear himself away. She’d been miserable for so long, she couldn’t adjust to happiness. In a few hours she was going to face the worst ordeal of her life and she felt quite unprepared to cope with it. She must get herself into the right frame of mind. But Enrico had gone off her as soon as he’d got her into bed. Might not Dino?
“Tell me how stupid I am,” she said to Lester the teddy bear, as she tied her tie.
But Lester didn’t answer.
“Have a nice day,” she said to him as she left the room. “It’s more than I shall have.”
Malise was standing by the car. Ivor was already in the back, looking green. “I slept like a log,” he said in a surprised voice.
“Lucky you,” said Fen.
The press surged forward.
“Any news from Jake?”
“Nothing,” said Malise bleakly. “We shall only be fielding three riders. It’s too late for him to declare now.”
Rupert was glad when the night was over. He’d always assumed he would be able to withstand torture; now he wasn’t sure. He wondered if the doctor had trapped a nerve when he’d put the shoulder back.
At five-thirty he had a bath. The hot water helped to relax him, but after a quarter of an hour he found he couldn’t get out. The slightest move to raise himself produced absolute agony in his shoulder. Another half hour passed, as he slumped between each thwarted attempt. He was terrified of slipping. With his left foot he pulled out the plug, waiting for the enamel surface to dry, so he might have more grip. It must be getting on for six-thirty. They’d be walking the course in an hour. He’d have to yell for Suzy, who probably had a hangover and wouldn’t wake up. He was almost sobbing with pain and frustration. If only he could crawl to the bedroom, he could give himself another shot of morphine. Then he heard the doorbell go, then again. He made another attempt to get out. Then he heard Suzy’s door open.
“Suzy,” he croaked. Then he heard voices in the hall.
Probably Malise, wondering where the hell he was.
“He’s not in his room, so he must be in the bath,” Suzy was saying sleepily.
Thank God he hadn’t locked the door. Suzy banged on it.
“Someone to see you, Rupe.”
“Who the hell is it?” he said.
“It’s me,” said a blissfully familiar voice, and there in the doorway stood Billy.
For a second Rupert gazed at him, dumbfounded.
“Christ, do I ever need you!” he said in an unsteady voice.
“I know. I’m terribly sorry about Helen.”
“No, to get me out of this bloody bath,” said Rupert. “But give me a shot of morphine first. It’s on the chest of drawers in my bedroom.”
The sting of the needle entering his shoulder was the most wonderful sensation he could imagine.
“How the hell did you manage to get out of Janey’s clutches?” he asked.
Billy grinned. “I told her that sometimes water was thicker than blood.”
“Draw’s good,” said Malise. “We’re fourteenth out of sixteen.”
All the other riders were tremendously sympathetic and friendly.
“They can afford to be,” said Rupert. “They think we’ve had it.”
“Who are the favorites?” asked Fen.
“Americans, Germans, Swiss,” said Rupert. “We’re about a million to one. I’ve put a monkey on.”
“Don’t let Fen see any of the papers,” hissed Malise. “They’ve all crucified Jake.”
“Good,” said Rupert. Then, shooting a sidelong glance at Malise, he said, “It’s not the winning that matters, it’s the being taken apart.”
It was a tremendous boost to the British team to see Billy.
“Can’t you jump?” said Ivor.
“I’m going to sit in the commentary box with Dudley,” said Billy, “and be wildly partisan.”
“At least you’ll get the names right,” said Fen.
“I’m glad you think so, Fiona,” said Billy. “How’s Rupe bearing up?” he added in an undertone.
“He won’t talk about either Helen or Jake except to make the odd flip crack. He probably will with you. I think he’s going through hell, but I can’t quite work out if it’s violent possessiveness or murdered pride, or whether he’s suddenly realized he loves her.”
At seven-thirty they walked the course. Everyone agreed it was the biggest ever built in show jumping. Fen could walk straight underneath the parallel without bumping her head. Close up, for the first time she realized how huge the fences were.
“Can’t think why they don’t stage the Olympic swimming contest in the water jump,” she said.
Ivor’s mouth was open wider than ever. “It’s even worse than the individual.”
In front sauntered the American team. In their white short-sleeved shirts and breeches, showing off their mahogany suntans, long bodies, and thoroughbred legs, laughing and exuding quiet confidence, they looked as though they’d been fed on peaches and T-bones all their life. The crowd gave them a colossal cheer of encouragement as they passed. The German team looked equally together as they goose-stepped out the distances. But for the first time Fen felt there was real solidarity among the British team.
The arena was like an oven already. By the time I go in, thought Fen, it’ll be turned up to Regulo 10.
�
�That’s going to cause the most trouble,” said Malise, looking at the fence constructed in the shape of a huge brown derby hat. “It’s so unfamiliar, you’ll have to ride them really hard at it; then there’s that big gate immediately after.”
“At least they’ve scrapped the hot dog,” said Ivor, in relief. “All these flowers are giving me hayfever.”
Rupert broke off a frangipani and gave it to Fen.
“You’ll be had up for demolishing the course even before you start,” she said.
Malise was right. The derby fence upset everyone. Ludwig, the German pathfinder, expected to go clear, was nearly brought down by it, and knocked up sixteen faults.
“Roll on ze next Olympics,” he said ruefully, as he came out of the ring. “I am very bored of being ze good loser.”
Canadian, Australian, Italian, and French riders all came to grief. Jesus the Mexican had a punishing fall. The first American rider, Lizzie Dean, came in and cleared the derby, but ran slap into the gate and had eight faults at the combination.
“I can’t watch anymore. My self-confidence is in tatters,” said Fen. “The only good thing about this competition is Billy doing the commentary. He keeps saying “Hooray” every time a foreign rider kicks out a fence.”
“You’ll be jumping in three-quarters of an hour,” said Malise. “Better go and warm Hardy up. By the way, some flowers arrived for you. They’re in the tackroom.”
He allowed himself a small smile as Fen bolted the 400 yards to the stables. The flowers were two dozen pale pink roses and the card inside said, “To darling Fen, Good Luck, I love you, Dino.”
“How the hell did they get them delivered here?” she said.
“Carol Kennedy bought them,” said Sarah. “He promised Dino he’d make sure you got them. Stop grinning like a Cheshire cat. This is no time to be worrying about the opposite sex.”
“Having got these,” said Fen, putting them in a bucket of water, “I can now stop worrying about it.”
Because they were fielding only three riders, the British team started jumping with the second riders of the other teams. Among these, Hans Schmidt only had a couple of poles down for eight faults and Mary Jo came in and showed everyone how to do it, with a glorious clear.
“That should encourage Ivor,” said Fen, who had jumped off Hardy for a second to watch him.
Ivor rode in blinking. Not a seat was empty. After Mary Jo’s gold earlier in the week, and her clear now, the huge crowd was at fever pitch.
“I always enjoy Ivor’s intellectual approach to the sport,” said Rupert, from the shade of the riders’ stand. “Now Ivor has removed his hat, will he ever find his head again?”
After Tuesday’s fiasco, Ivor started well and rode with colossal determination. The sailboat, the derby, the high gate, the huge wall, the massive blue water jump caused him no trouble at all. Then he unaccountably stopped twice at the parallels.
“That’s that then,” said Rupert. “Let’s go and have a screw, Dizz.”
“For God’s sake get your bat out, Ivor,” Billy was yelling in the commentary box, to the startled delight of the viewers. “One more stop and the whole team’s eliminated.”
Scarlet in the face, as if by telepathy, Ivor pulled his whip out of his boot, in which it was tucked, and gave John half a dozen hefty whacks.
“Good God,” said Malise.
The picture of injured pride, John heaved himself over the parallel, and, swishing his tail in rage, proceeded to go clear, except for bringing down the middle element of the combination.
“Absolutely marvelous. Well done, Ivor,” said Billy, excitedly from the commentary box. “Do you know, he only paid £1,000 for that horse?”
“Ten faults, plus one time fault. That’s not at all bad,” said Malise.
Fen knew she should have some inner tap which could turn off all outside excitement and leave her icily calm. On Desdemona she’d always jumped best when she was angry. But Hardy needed to be kept serene. He seemed a little tired after his medal-winning adventures on Monday, which would at least make him jump more carefully and not start ducking out of his bridle. Following Jake’s lead, she had removed the cotton wool from his ears and let him go to the entrance of the arena, so he could watch the preceding round. It was both inspiring and daunting. Carol Kennedy went clear, to colossal applause, which meant the Americans were on twelve faults at the end of the third round, and could probably scrap Lizzie Dean’s round. The Tarzan howls and the waving American flags had Hardy hopping all over the place.
“The time is incredibly tight,” said Malise. “Don’t waste any of it in the corners. But remember, the important thing is to get round at all costs. If you’re disqualified we’re out.”
“You do say the cheeriest things,” said Fen.
“Good luck,” said Rupert.
Fen felt the butterflies going berserk in her stomach, as the terror finally got to her.
“I can’t face it,” she said in panic. “I simply can’t jump in front of all those people.”
“Yes, you can,” said Rupert, putting his good left hand up to squeeze her thigh. “Come on, darling, you’ll float over them. Hardy’s done it all before. Leave it to him.”
“Are you sure?” Suddenly she looked terribly young.
Rupert smiled. “Quite sure.”
Out in the arena there was nothing like it. Nothing like the fear and the exposure in that blazing white hot heat, watched by 200,000 eyes and millions and millions of television viewers.
Billy, who by now was well stuck into the whisky, admired the slender figure in the black coat, her blond hair just curling under her hat, one of Dino’s pink roses in her buttonhole.
“This is certainly the most beautiful girl rider in the world,” he said. “Riding Hardy, with whom her brother-in-law, Jake Lovell, did so brilliantly on Monday to get the silver medal. Now come on, darling.”
“I told you not to mention Jake,” hissed Dudley, putting his hand over the microphone, “and don’t call Fiona ‘darling.’ ”
The relief of the bell stopped all thought process. Suddenly Fen’s nerves vanished.
“It’s you and me, babe,” she whispered to Hardy as he cleared the first four fences without any trouble, kicking up the tan, following the hoofprints of earlier riders. She steadied him for the derby. He didn’t like it, then decided he did and took a mighty leap, clearing it by a foot. The yell of the crowd distracted him, the heat haze above the gate made judging the distance difficult. Fen asked him to take off too early, he kicked out the fence, and then toppled the wall after that, hurting himself, eyes flashing, ears flattened, tail whisking like an angry cat.
Now she’ll go to pieces, thought Malise in despair.
But Fen held him together and drove him on, picking her way over the obstacles, not touching any of them.
“Look at him,” said Sarah in ecstasy. “He’s really, really trying.”
Coming up to the last fence, Hardy started showing off and gave a huge kick back. The crowd laughed. He kicked back again. Lazily whisking over the last fence, he gave it an almighty clout. For a second the pole shuddered, trembled on the edge, then fell back into the cup.
“God is on our side after all,” said Malise.
“Bloody good,” said Rupert, as Fen slipped off the huge horse, flinging her arms round Hardy’s neck, and taking back all the beastly things she’d ever said about him.
“Until the next time,” said Sarah.
Now the last riders in each team had to jump. Peter Colegate, riding instead of Dino, knocked up a surprising fifteen faults, so his was the round the Americans dropped. Hans Schmidt went clear.
The round, however, the world was waiting for was Rupert’s. Fen straightened his tie and did up one brass button of his red coat which was draped over his damaged right shoulder: “Are you okay? Does it hurt horribly?”
“Yes, but I’ve just had another shot; I’m so spaced out I’ll probably carry Rocky over the fences with one finger.”<
br />
Not by a flicker, as he rode into the ring, did Rupert betray his awareness that every camera in the world was trained on him to see what the effect had been of Helen pushing off. If the press had gone to town on Jake that morning, it was without Rupert’s help. He had refused to say a word to them.
He held the reins lightly in his left hand. He carried no whip. The crowd, seeing that he was coming in to jump the most punishing course in history with one arm in a sling, roared their approval and encouragement.
Dropping his reins, he removed his hat. His blond hair glittered golder than any medal. The pain was agonizing. Even the gentlest pop in the collecting ring had jolted his shoulder unbearably, but none of this showed in his face.
Rocky was a gallant and kind horse. Something was different today; perhaps it was the sympathetic, almost helpless way Rupert had jumped him earlier; perhaps it was because for once his master wasn’t carrying a whip. Suddenly there was an expression of deep responsibility on Rocky’s handsome, golden face.
“I will take care of you today,” he seemed to be saying. “Just to make you feel a sod for all the times you’ve beaten me up in the past.”
Over the first two fences Rupert had the greatest difficulty balancing himself, then he settled in. Rocky was jumping carefully, only clearing each fence by an inch or so. Now he was thundering down to the water—and over. Now he was over the derby and the gate, now turning for the huge three-part combination.
“Undoubtedly Rupert is the best rider in the world,” shouted Billy jubilantly in the commentary box. “Look at the power of those leg muscles; he isn’t even shifting in the saddle. Go on, Rupe, go on.”
For a miraculous moment it looked as if he was going to go clear; then Rocky trailed a leg at the last fence and, unlike Fen, brought it down. Out he rode to almost the biggest cheer of the day.
Billy bolted out of the commentary box to congratulate him. “Wait,” wailed Dudley. “There are still the Japs and the Portuguese to jump.”
“That was absolutely brilliant,” said Billy, rushing up to Rupert. “God knows how you did it.”
