Riders

8

“Jesus, Tommy,” he said a quarter of an hour later, as a huge black horse with a white face clattered out of the stable, tugging a helpless, terrified trooper on the end of a rope, “are you trying to sell me an elephant?”

“He’s a good horse,” said Tommy. “Jump the Harrods building with all four feet tied together.”

Going up to the plunging animal, ignoring its rolling eyes and snapping teeth, Tommy caught the other side of the head collar. Together, he and the trooper managed to steady him.

“Come and have a look,” he said.

From a safe distance, Helen watched Rupert’s practiced hands moving over the horse, running down a leg here, picking up a hoof there, examining his teeth, looking at him from front and back.

“Lovely courageous head,” said Tommy, dodging hastily sideways to avoid a diving nip.

“What’s his background?”

“Dam was an Irish draft mare, father was clean bred, won a few races in Ireland. We got him from Jock O’Hara.”

“Doesn’t usually miss a good horse,” said Rupert, walking around him again.

“His wife was having a baby at the time. He was a bit more distracted than usual.”

“And he’s being discharged? What’s wrong with him?”

“Well, quite honestly, he’s a bit of a bugger; run away with nearly every trooper in the regiment, fidgets on parade, breaks ranks, naps on duty, and won’t obey orders.”

Rupert laughed. “And you’re suggesting I buy him?”

“You could always sort out difficult horses and I promise you he can jump. He carted a trooper in the King’s Road last week. A milk float was crossing the road; old Satan stood back on his hocks and cleared it by inches. Several witnesses saw him. That has to be some horse.”

“Okay,” said Rupert, taking off his coat, “tack him up.”

A trooper stood nervously in the center of the indoor school, waiting for Rupert’s orders. Tommy and Helen, to her relief, watched from the gallery. At first, Satan walked around as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth; only his eyes rolled and his tail twitched. His white face and the one white sock that came above knee and hock gave him a comic appearance. Rupert pushed him into a canter; with his huge stride he circled the school in seconds. Then, suddenly, the horse seemed to gather itself together and, as they rounded the top end, he humped his back in a series of devastating bucks which would have unseated any rodeo rider.

Helen gave a gasp, putting her hands over her eyes.

“It’s all right,” said Tommy. “He’s still there.”

“Okay,” said Rupert to the trooper, “put all the fences up to four foot six.”

Tommy got out a silver cigarette case and handed it to Helen, who shook her head. “Watch this,” he said.

As Satan bucketed towards the upright, Rupert put him at exactly the right spot and he cleared it by a foot. It was the same with the parallels.

“Put them up to five foot six,” said Rupert.

“Known Rupert long?” asked Tommy.

“No,” said Helen, “and it won’t be much longer at this rate,” she added nervously as Satan thundered towards the upright, then put in a terrific stop. The next moment Rupert was beating the hell out of the horse.

“Poor Satan,” murmured Helen.

Rupert turned him again. Satan cleared the upright, then, careless, stargazing at some pigeons in the roof, he rapped the parallel so hard that only Rupert’s immaculate riding held him together and saved them both from crashing to the ground.

“Put it up to six foot,” said Rupert to the white-faced trooper.

“Crazy,” agreed Tommy, “but he always liked riding something over the top.”

This time Rupert cantered down quietly and Satan cleared the upright with several inches to spare. Rupert pulled him up. Coming out of the school the horse appeared positively docile. Sliding off, Rupert reached for his coat pocket which was hanging on the door and, taking out a packet of Polos, gave a couple to Satan, who looked at him suspiciously, then ate them, curling his upper lip in the air.

“I think we’ll get along,” he said. “I’ll buy him, Tommy. You’ll discharge him as uncontrollable, will you? And I’ll have a word with Colonel Cory up at Melton Mowbray.”

Helen was ashamed how much the sight of Rupert mastering that huge, half-wild horse had excited her. He might not have heard of François Truffaut or Kandinsky, but when it came to horses he was obviously a genius. Suddenly, she felt a spark of pure envy; however much she slaved at her novel, she could never display such joyful, spontaneous talent as Rupert.

The sun was going down now, firing the barracks windows. Dog walkers were hurrying home from the park. As Rupert sorted out the details of the sale with Tommy, Helen did her face yet again. She turned on the car radio and found the middle movement of Schumann’s piano concerto. Listening to the rippling, romantic music she looked uneasily at the pile of mail on the backseat. Many of the envelopes were mauve, or peppermint green, or shocking pink. Someone had addressed a letter: “To Rupert Campbell-Black, the handsomest man in England.”

And so he was, thought Helen, as he walked back to the car, Badger at his heels. He looked very happy.

“That is one hell of a good horse. I reckon I could take him to the Olympics if he doesn’t kill me first. Let’s go and have a drink at my mother’s house.”

“That’d be nice,” said Helen. Privately, she didn’t feel quite up to meeting Rupert’s mother. She’d have to talk out of the corner of her mouth to hide the drink fumes.

Rupert listened to the piano concerto for a minute. “I suppose this is the sort of music you like?”

“Yes,” said Helen. “Are your parents happily married?”

“Yes,” said Rupert.

“How lovely,” said Helen.

“But not to each other. My mother’s on her third marriage. My father on his fourth.”

“Were you very traumatized when your parents split up?” she asked.

Rupert looked surprised: “Not at all. I stayed with Mummy and Nanny.”

“But you must have had endless replacement parents?”

“What?”

“Stepmothers and — fathers.”

“Oh, legions.”

“Weren’t they very unkind to you?”

“I was very unkind to them. I was a little sod when I was young. They got their own back by never taking me out when I was at school.”

“So you never went out?” said Helen, her eyes filling with tears.

“Nanny came down by train occasionally and brought me fruit cakes. I spent most leave-outs and a lot of the holidays with Billy’s family.”

“What about Adrian?”

“Oh, he was my mother’s darling — far too delicate and sensitive to go to boarding school.”

Rupert spoke without bitterness or self-pity. He was not given to introspection and never considered anything his parents had done might have affected his behavior in life.

Helen, who’d studied psychology, felt differently. Still hazy and emotional from an excess of champagne, she was flooded with compassion for poor, poor Rupert. Parents who’d never loved him, stepparents who neglected him, a mother who preferred his younger brother. No wonder he felt the need to beat other riders all the time; and to seduce women to bolster his self-confidence; then, unused to a loving relationship, break it off the moment things became heavy. I could change him, she thought expansively. I could arrest the rake’s progress and show him what real love is like.

Rupert’s mother lived in one of those large white Georgian houses looking onto an emerald green railed-in square. The garden was filled with grape hyacinths, scillas, and white daffodils. An almond tree was already scattering pink petals on the sleekly shaven lawn. Every window was barred. Rupert opened the door with several keys and sprinted in to switch off the alarm.

“Well, your mother certainly won’t get burglarized,” said Helen.

“No, but you’re just about to, my treasure,” said Rupert under his breath.

They went into the drawing room. As Rupert switched on the lights, Helen gave a cry of pleasure.

“What an exquisite room.”

There were pale primrose walls and carpets, old gold watered silk curtains, and sofas and armchairs covered in faded pale blue and rose chintzes. Two tables with long, pale rose tablecloths were covered in snuffboxes. The walls were covered in portraits of handsome arrogant men and beautiful women, their faces lit up by fat strings of pearls. Orchids in pots added to the exotic atmosphere. On the draped grand piano were photographs — one of Rupert’s mother as a deb and others of several men in uniform who were presumably replacement fathers. There was also a picture of Rupert on a horse being handed a cup by Princess Margaret. What caught the eye was a photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful youth, very like Rupert, but more fragile of feature.

“That’s my kid brother,” said Rupert. “What d’you want to drink?”

Helen shook her head. As Rupert poured himself a large glass of brandy, Helen caught sight of a study next door, the walls lined with books, all behind grilles.

“May I look?”

“Of course. Most of those on the left are first editions.”

Helen gave a cry of excitement: “Why, here’s Keats’ Endymion, and Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, and Mansfield Park. Oh, wow! Your mother must be a very cultured woman.”

This seemed to amuse Rupert. “She’s never read any of them.”

“But that’s awful. Is there a key?”

“Somewhere, I expect.”

She got to her feet reluctantly. On the study desk was a huge pile of letters.

“Doesn’t your mother open her mail either?”

“It’s a family failing.”

“Will she be home soon?”

“She’s not here,” said Rupert, draining his glass of brandy. “She’s in the Bahamas escaping from the tax man.”

Helen looked at him, appalled.

“I must go. If I’d known she wasn’t going to be here, I’d never have come.”

“You haven’t come yet, sweetheart,” said Rupert softly, taking her in his arms, “but you soon will, I promise.”

She was almost overwhelmed by the warmth and sheer power of him, so different from Harold Mountjoy, who’d been a bit of a weed.

“No,” she yelped.

“Yes,” said Rupert into her hair. “You need some material for your ‘narvel.’ ”

“You shouldn’t have pretended your mother was here.” She struggled to get away from him.

“I didn’t. Anyway, all’s fair in love and war and I don’t imagine it’s going to be war between us,” and he bent his head and kissed her. For a few seconds she kept her lips rigid, then, powerless, she found herself kissing him back, her hands moving up to the sleek, surprisingly silky hair.

Rupert pulled her down on the faded rose pink sofa.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a moment since I first saw you,” he said. He was running his hands over her back now, assessing the amount of underwear, planning where the next assault should come from. There were no clips on the gray dress which would have to come over her head, which might frighten her if removed too soon. Over her shoulder he met the jovial eyes of one of his forebears. “Atta boy,” he seemed to say.

“No,” said Helen, trying to prise off the hand barnacled over her left breast.

“You’re repeating yourself, angel. You must realize I’m unfixed, like your landlady’s tomcat.”

Through her dress he expertly undid her bra with his left hand. The thumb of his right hand began to strafe her nipple.

“No, I’m not like that.”

“Like what?” whispered Rupert. “D’you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, unopened like those first editions?”

Helen burst into tears. At first she was crying so hard, Rupert couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then the first storm of weeping gave way to shuddering sobs and gradually the whole story came pouring out. How respectable her family were, what a terrible shock it had been when she became pregnant by a married man and flunked her finals. How her parents had been real supportive sending her to Europe to get over it all.

“This afternoon you appeared to be getting over it very well,” said Rupert. “Perhaps I should send your father a bill. What did you say this married man was called?”

“Harold Mountjoy.”

“Should have been called Mount Helen.”

Helen sniffed. “He’s a very distinguished writer,” she said reprovingly. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of his work.”

“You must know I haven’t heard of anyone,” said Rupert.

“I loved him,” said Helen. “I thought he loved me. But he only wrote once. He forgot Christmas, my birthday, Valentine’s Day.”

“Mothering Sunday?” asked Rupert, grinning.

“The pregnancy was terminated,” said Helen with dignity.

“I promise I won’t let you get pregnant,” said Rupert gravely.

“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be treated like a sex object.”

“Because you object to sex?”

“Oh, don’t be so flip,” wailed Helen.

Rupert got out a blue silk handkerchief and wiped away the mascara that was running down her cheeks. He had enough experience of women to realize that if you backed off and were kind and considerate on a first occasion, they dropped into the palm of your hand on the next.

More important, he suddenly felt terribly tired. Phenomenally strong, he could go for long periods without sleep, but he realized that, apart from a two-hour marathon in the four-poster with Gabriella on Friday night, he hadn’t been to bed for three days. He had to drive home to Gloucestershire that night, a dealer was coming to see him first thing in the morning, and he wanted to buy Satan quickly before the Army started producing all kinds of red tape. He also had a string of novices to take to an indoor show the following evening.

“All right,” he said, getting to his feet, “go home to your narvel. Let me put on a jersey and I’ll drive you back to your coven.”

Helen felt absolutely miserable, convinced that she’d lost him. The sun had set and the trees and the houses, losing their distinctive features, were darkening against a glowing turquoise sky. Rupert didn’t speak on the way to Regina House, nor did he say anything about taking her to Crittleden. Let her work up a good lather of anxiety, he thought. Helen got lower and lower. Perhaps he was hurt by her saying she couldn’t sleep with him because she didn’t love him, but she felt it was just too soon.

All the lights were on in Regina House as they drew up. A blackbird was singing in a nearby plane tree. Helen sat for a second, overwhelmed with anticlimax and despair, tears about to spill over again. The women’s movement was always urging one to be assertive and make the running, but in practice it wasn’t easy.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a choked voice. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time.”

Rupert yawned.

“On the contrary, sweetheart, it was me intending to give you a hard time.”

He got out of the car, but before he could open the door for her she had scrambled out, standing up so they faced each other a foot apart.

“Good night,” he said brusquely, intending to get back into the car and drive straight off.

But suddenly the bells of a nearby church, carried by the west wind, drifted through the muzzy gray twilight. Rupert shivered, suddenly reminded of the desolation of Sunday nights at school, summoned by bells to Evensong, followed by cold ham and bread and marge for supper, and everyone else coming back feeling homesick from days out with their parents. Rupert had never really had a proper home to feel sick about.

“I w-will see you again, won’t I?” she stammered.

Her face, with its vast, brimming, mascara-smudged eyes, had lost all its color in the dusk. He took it in his hands.

“Of course you will, my little red fox. I’ve let you escape this time, but I’ll get you in the end. Try and go to ground, you’ll find the earth blocked; disappear down another earth, I’ll get the terrier men to dig you out.”

His white teeth gleamed. As he bent and kissed her, Helen trembled with fear and longing.

“Don’t listen to Nige,” he said, getting back into the car. “He’s not my greatest fan. I’ll ring you later in the week about Crittleden,” and he was gone.

Helen stood in the twilight, listening to the bells, thinking about weddings and the attraction of opposites.

Rupert drove down the M4 thinking about Satan. He toyed with the idea of stopping off at the Newbury turn to see a married girlfriend whose husband was away, but he was too tired. At Exit 15 sleep overcame him and the moment he was off the motorway he pulled into a layby, climbed into the back, and, hugging Badger for warmth, fell asleep.

The Frogsmore Valley is considered by many to be the most beautiful in the Cotswolds. On either side, fields, checkered by pale stone walls and dotted by lush woodland and the occasional farm, fall steeply down to jade green water meadows, divided by the briskly bustling Frogsmore stream.

At the top of the valley, curling round like a horseshoe, lies the ancient village of Penscombe. Here, for the past hundred and twenty years, the Campbell-Blacks had made their home, alternately scandalizing and captivating the local community by their outrageous behavior. On Rupert’s twenty-first birthday, a month before he came out of the Army, his father, Edward Campbell-Black, had made over to him the house, Penscombe Court, and its surrounding two hundred acres. The motive for this altruistic gesture was that Edward had just further scandalized the community by leaving his wife and running off with the beautiful Italian wife of one of his Gloucestershire shooting cronies. On reflection too, Eddie decided he was bored with running the estate at a thumping loss, and his beautiful Italian prospective bride decided that neither of them could stand the bitter west winds which sweep straight off the Bristol Channel up the Frogsmore Valley to howl round Penscombe Court throughout the winter. So they decamped permanently to the South of France.

Young Rupert further scandalized the community by moving back into the house with his friend Billy Lloyd-Foxe and a floating population of dogs and shapely girl grooms. Even worse, hellbent on making the place profitable, Rupert promptly dug up the famous rose garden and the orchard, built stables for thirty horses, turned the cricket pitch, where the village used to play regularly, into a show-jumping ring, and put up an indoor school beyond the stables to buttress them from the bitter winds.

Gradually over the next four years, the chuntering subsided as Rupert and Billy started winning and were frequently seen on television clearing vast fences and being awarded silver cups by members of the Royal family. Journalists and television crews came down and raved about the charms of the village and the valley. Suddenly Penscombe had two local heroes and found itself on the map.

Penscombe Court was, fortunately, situated on the north side of the valley, half a mile from the end of the village, so any late-night revelry was deadened by surrounding woodland and didn’t keep the village or the neighboring farmers awake too often. Rupert was generally considered capricious and arrogant, but Billy, who loved gossip and spent a lot of time in the village shop and the pub chattering to the locals, was universally adored. Any inseparable friend of Billy, it was felt, couldn’t be all bad; besides, the locals had known Rupert since he was a child and had seen stepparents come and go with alarming regularity and, being a tolerant and generous community, felt allowances should be made. They also realized that Rupert, like the rest of his family, was indifferent to public opinion, so that their disapproval would not make a hap’orth of difference.

Just before midnight Rupert woke up from his nap in the layby and set off for home. He never saw the signposts to Penscombe’s without a leap of joy and recognition. As he drove along the top of the south side of the valley, Badger woke up and started snuffling excitedly at the crack of an open window. Ahead in the moonlight gleamed Penscombe’s church spire. Although it was after midnight, Rupert looked across to the north side and cursed in irritation to see half the lights in the house blazing. Billy must have gone to bed plastered without switching them off.

As he stormed up the drive through the chestnut avenue planted by his great-grandfather, he could see the pale green leaves opening like parachutes. Behind white railings, three dozing horses in New Zealand rugs blinked as he passed. The car crunched on the gravel in front of the house. There was a great baying and yapping. As Rupert opened the front door, two Jack Russells, a Springer spaniel, a yellow labrador, and a blond mongrel with a tightly curled tail threw themselves on him in delight, growling and fighting each other. Finally they all started rubbishing Badger, jealous because he’d been the one to go on a jaunt. Rupert kicked them gently out of the way. His suitcase was still lying in the hall where he’d left it that morning. In the drawing room the fire was going out, Sunday papers half-read and a pile of entrance forms lay scattered over the sofa. One of the dogs had shredded his hunting tie on the rug in front of the fire.

“Jesus,” said Rupert, slamming the door shut.

In the kitchen he found Billy trying to read Horse and Hound, clean the brown tops of a pair of black boots, drink whisky, and fork oysters out of a tin, all at the same time.

“Hi,” he said, looking up. “How did it go? Have you joined the Antis?”

Billy was not a handsome young man, for his nose was broken and his sleepy dark brown eyes were seldom visible because they were always creased up with laughter, but he had a smile that could melt the Arctic Circle. Rupert, however, was not in a mood to be melted.

“This place is a tip,” he snapped, pointing to the sink which was piled high with plates, glasses, and dog bowls. “Can’t you even put things in the dishwasher?”

“It’s full,” said Billy calmly.

“Or in the dustbin,” went on Rupert, pointing to the empty tins of dog food and milk cartons littering the shelf.

“That’s full too,” said Billy.

“And one of your dogs has crapped in the hall.”

“It was one of your dogs,” said Billy without rancor. “Anyway, I’ve been bloody busy.”

“Drinking my whisky and reading the Sunday papers.”

“The hell I have. By the way, there’s a nice piece about you in The Observer.”

“What did it say?”

“Oh, some sycophantic rubbish about you being the best rider in England.”

“Don’t try to placate me, and why’s the telephone off the hook?”

“To stop Bianca, and Gabriella, and goodness knows who else ringing up.”

Rupert replaced the receiver. Five seconds later the telephone rang.

“See what I mean?”

Rupert picked it up. Both of them could hear squawking. Putting the receiver in a nearby cupboard, Rupert shut the door.

Billy grinned: “Anyway, I repeat, I’ve been bloody busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Taking care of the entire yard single-handed. I’ve even sold a couple of horses for you.”

“How much d’you get?”

“Ten grand for Padua and eight for the gray with the ewe neck.”

“Not enough,” said Rupert, looking slightly mollified.

“Never is for you, and I worked everything we’re going to need tomorrow. Admittedly I was so hungover first thing I saw four ears every time I looked down a horse’s neck.”

He speared up another oyster. “And I think I’ve sorted out why The Bull keeps stopping. He’s terrified of water.”

“So am I,” said Rupert, “unless it’s got whisky in it.”

He picked up the bottle and, not finding any clean glasses in the cupboard, poured it into a teacup.

“Where the hell was Diane today?”

“Said she’s got the curse, soldiered on for a couple of hours, then collapsed into bed.”

“Rubbish,” said Rupert. “She had it a fortnight ago. She’d have stayed working if I’d been here. And Tracey?”

“It’s her day off.”

“And Marion?”

“Gave in her notice and flatly refused to work. She was pissed off because you forgot to take her to some party on Saturday night. She’s been ringing Sits Vac in Horse and Hound all day and left them deliberately lying on the table for us to find.”

He handed the magazine to Rupert.

“ ‘Cheerful, capable groom,’ ” read out Rupert incredulously. “Cheerful! Christ! She’s about as cheerful as Blackpool lights during a power cut. ‘Experienced girl groom required for hunters and stud work. Opportunity to further breeding knowledge.’ She doesn’t have anything to learn about breeding either. Oh hell, let her go, I’m fed up with her tantrums.”

“You cause most of them,” said Billy reasonably. “You know perfectly well that Mayfair and Belgravia, not to mention The Bull and Kitchener, will all go into a decline if she leaves. And we can’t afford that at the beginning of the season.”

He held out his glass for Rupert to fill up.

“And just remember how tremendous she is with customs men. They’re so transfixed by her boobs they never bother to even glance at our papers.”

“Are you after her or something?” said Rupert.

“No, my heart belongs entirely to Mavis,” said Billy, looking down at the blond mongrel who was now curled up on his knee, slanting eyes closed, head resting on his collarbone.

“Oh, all right,” said Rupert. “I’ll go and see her in a minute.”

“She’ll be asleep by now.”

“Not her, she’ll be tossing and turning with desire and frustration.”

From the pantry next door the washing machine was thundering to a halt. Wiping the boot polish off his hands onto Mavis’s blond coat, Billy set her gently down on the floor. Opening the machine, he removed a tangle of white ties, shirts, breeches, socks, and underpants and threw them into the dryer.

Rupert looked disapprovingly round the kitchen which was low-beamed with a flagstone floor and a window looking over the valley. A bridle hung from a meat hook; every shelf seemed to be covered with spilling ashtrays and unopened bills.

“We must get a housekeeper. I’m fed up with chaos.”

“It’s pointless,” said Billy. “You’d only employ pretty ones, then you couldn’t resist screwing them and they’d get bolshy. Mrs. Burroughs is coming in the morning. She’ll tidy the place up.”

“I want it straight on weekends. Perhaps we ought to get Nanny back.”

“She’d have a heart attack at the goings-on. Perhaps you ought to get married. Wives are supposed to do this sort of thing. How was your redheaded Anti?”

“Interesting. Very uptight.”

“Not the easy lay you expected?”

“You’ve put your finger on the spot,” said Rupert, draining his whisky, “which is certainly more than I did. She’s rather sweet, but frightfully intense; kept wanting to talk about books and the theater.”

“Must have taxed your brain. Are you going to see her again?”

“I might. I don’t like unfinished business. By the way, I bought a bloody good horse today from the barracks. No one was about, so Tommy let me try him on the Q.T. Never seen a big horse so good in front. Despite his size he jumps like a pony. Need some sorting out though.”

“Don’t make me tired. I’ve done enough sorting out for one day,” said Billy, picking up the yellow mongrel. “Mavis and I are off to bed. See you in the morning.”

“I’ll go and placate Marion,” said Rupert.

He went upstairs, brushed his teeth and his hair, then took the dogs out.

At the end of the lawn two black yew trees crouched like great gelded tomcats. Behind the house rose the wood, stretching for half a mile. Four vast Lawson cypresses rose in front of the bare beech trees like spires of a cathedral. Moonlight flooded the valley, silvering the lake and blanching the first daffodils. On the opposite side a car driving along the top towards Penscombe lit up the trees lining the road like a firefly. Rupert felt his heart expand with pride and love. This was his home and his land to do what he wanted with. He must keep on winning to keep it going, to make it better and better.

The dogs weaved about lifting their legs on rosebushes and young trees. From the stables he could hear the occasional snort and stamp, and resisted the temptation to go and wake the horses up. As he expected, the light was still on in Marion’s flat over the tackroom. He shut the dogs in the house. Marion took a long time to answer the door. She was pale and puffy-eyed, but nothing could disguise the voluptuousness of her body, nor the length of leg revealed by the clinging nightshirt with the baleful figure of Snoopy on the front.

“What d’you want?” she asked in a choked voice.

“You,” said Rupert.

“Bastard.” Snoopy rose and fell as her breast heaved.

“That’s no way to address one’s boss.”

“You’re not my boss anymore. I’ve given in my notice. Didn’t Billy tell you?”

“Yes,” said Rupert moving towards her and putting a hand between her legs. “And I haven’t accepted it.”

“Don’t touch me,” she sobbed.

But as he splayed out his fingers and increased the pressure she collapsed into his arms.