Riders

9

Helen found the next week extraordinarily trying. She could think of nothing but Rupert, which made sleep, work and very existence impossible.

In the evenings at Regina House she read endless love poetry and played Schumann’s piano concerto, being the only music she and Rupert had in common, over and over again, very quietly with her door an inch open, in case she missed the telephone ringing downstairs.

By day she had to put up with Nigel. He limped in after lunch on Monday with a black eye and two cracked ribs. She was appalled by his detailed account of the brutality of the beating up. But when he started describing how he’d been tied up and left naked behind a hedge she suddenly remembered Rupert’s remark about trussing a Christmas turkey and had to gaze out of the window so Nigel wouldn’t see her laughing. Fortunately, the self-obsessed Nigel mistook her shaking shoulders for sobbing.

She now realized how difficult it must have been for Juliet loving a Montagu while living in the Capulet camp. She found herself jumping and blushing scarlet as Nigel, who was suffering from acute telephonitis, exchanged lengthy indignation meetings on Rupert’s dreadful behavior with Dave and Paul and Maureen, and evidently every other saboteur in and around the country. There was brave talk of taking Rupert to court, but as the other Antis pointed out, Rupert, being as rich as Croesus, would employ the best lawyer in town and as Nigel had been letting down Rupert’s tires, witnessed by Rupert and Billy and later the groom, he was on weak ground.

“Even worse, Helen,” Nigel added, his piggy unblacked eye gleaming behind his thick spectacles, “R.C.B. appropriated my address book.”

“Oh dear,” said Helen, starting guiltily, “will he find any important numbers?”

“Crucial,” said Nigel sententiously. “That book contains the numbers of every resistance fighter in the UK, people who are believed to belong to the hunting fraternity, but who are really one of us and supply us with vital information. Fiona Westbury, the daughter of Saturday’s master, is a classic example, and the secretary of the Chairman of the British Field Sports, who’s been one of us for years. With that book in his hands, R.C.B. can smash our entire network. I’m sure he beat me up because he was so anxious to get his hands on it.”

“Rather like Watergate,” said Helen, again fighting a terrible desire to giggle.

As the week crawled by, she was filled with an increasing restlessness and sat at her typewriter playing he loves me, he loves me not with the raindrops cascading down the window from the incessant April showers, quite incapable even of typing “Dear Sir,” because the only sir who was dear to her still hadn’t rung.

She’d learnt from the paper that the Crittleden meeting started on Good Friday and lasted over the Easter weekend.

On Thursday at lunchtime, in anticipation of seeing Rupert, she went out and spent nearly three weeks’ salary on the softest beige suede midi dress. Coming through the door of the office, she found Nigel holding out the telephone receiver and looking boot-faced.

“Some man with a foreign accent asking for you, says it’s personal.”

Helen felt her knees give way, her cheeks flame. She could hardly cross the room, then found herself positively winded by the thud of disappointment because it was Paul on the other end.

“I put on a French accent to deceive Nigel,” he said, laughing heartily. “How about that concert on Saturday night?”

Almost in tears, Helen had told him she was going away for the whole weekend.

“That’s a shame,” said Nigel as she came off the telephone. “I was going to a CND rally in Hyde Park on Sunday. I hoped you’d accompany me.”

“And I was hoping to see R.C.B at Crittleden,” Helen wanted to scream at him, “but I don’t think that’s going to happen either.”

She spent a miserable Good Friday going to the three-hour service, praying for resignation and trying not to ask God to remind Rupert to ring.

On Saturday afternoon she went downstairs and, sitting on a hard-backed chair in the television room, tried to watch Crittleden, but had to wait until some Charlie Chaplin film had finished on the other channel before she could switch over. By this time the BBC had left Crittleden and gone over to some extremely noisy motor race. Seeing the pained expressions on the lady academics’ faces, Helen explained that a friend of hers was jumping at Crittleden, which should be on any minute.

At last they went over to the show ground. It was pouring with rain and it was not until the last five riders, none of them Rupert, had demolished the course, that the announcer told them that the winner was a German rider who had produced the only clear. An Irishman was second with four faults, and Rupert Campbell-Black for Great Britain was third with eight faults: Billy Lloyd-Foxe and three other riders had tied for fourth place with twelve faults apiece.

After the incessant rain, said the announcer, the Crittleden arena was like a quagmire and any rider who got round was to be congratulated. Through the downpour the German rider came into the ring, followed by the Irish rider in his holly green coat. Helen’s heart started thumping, her mouth went dry, as Rupert followed them on a huge chestnut. The black collar of his red coat was turned up, his white breeches splattered with mud.

As they lined up, a man in a tweed suit and a bowler hat came out holding an umbrella over an attractive, middle-aged blonde in a dark gray suit, who delicately picked her way through the mud. Another bowler-hatted man in a tweed suit followed them, carrying a huge silver cup and shielding a tray of rosettes from the rain under his coat.

“Here comes Lady Pringle, a fine horsewoman in her own right, to present the prizes,” said the announcer. Helen could see Rupert chatting and laughing with Billy and, as Lady Pringle reached him, he took off his hat and, bending down, kissed her on both cheeks.

“Lady Pringle and Rupert Campbell-Black are obviously old friends,” said the announcer as she handed him a lemon yellow rosette, “and she’s obviously delighted to have a British rider in the first three.”

“Isn’t that the young man who picked you up last Sunday?” said one of the female anthropologists, changing her spectacles to have a better look. But Helen had fled upstairs to sob her heart out on her bed. How could Rupert look so cheerful and carefree when she’d been going through such hell waiting for him to call?

“Lady Pringle, indeed,” she sobbed and, taking the photograph of Rupert which she’d surreptitiously cut out from one of Nigel’s Horse and Hounds out of her diary, she tore it into tiny pieces. He was nothing but a stud.

She was crying so hard, at first she didn’t hear the knock on the door.

“Telephone,” said a voice.

When she got downstairs it was Rupert.

“Angel, I’m sorry I haven’t rung before. I left your number at home and I’ve only just remembered the name of your coven. We’ve been up at the South Lancashire show and the lorry blew out on the way down, so we only arrived in time for the big class.”

“How did you get on?” asked Helen. She was damned if she was going to let him know she’d been watching.

“Not bad. I was third, Billy fourth. We had to unload the horses straight out of the lorry, and the going was terrible, nogs in front of every fence. Are you coming down?”

“I d-don’t know,” said Helen, thinking of her swollen eyes and lack of sleep. “I can’t tonight.”

“Come down tomorrow. I’d come and collect you, but I’ve got classes in the morning. Get a taxi.”

“But it’s miles,” said Helen, appalled thinking of all the money she’d squandered on the midi dress.

“It’s only an hour from London. I’ll pay,” said Rupert. “Come to the main entrance. I’ll leave the cash and a ticket with the man on the gate.”

Rupert’s estimate of the time it would take to drive down to Crittleden was very different from the taxi driver’s. No doubt he shifted that Porsche at a hundred and twenty miles an hour the moment he got on the motorway, thought Helen, as she nervously watched the fare jerk up and up. £25—£35! She was sure the driver wouldn’t take an American check and she couldn’t ring up her bank as it was Sunday. Scrabbling round in her purse she found only £1.30. Perhaps he’d accept her gold watch until she could find Rupert. Even worse, two miles from Crittleden they ran into a huge traffic jam. A glorious mild day had followed yesterday’s downpour. Every young green leaf and blade of new grass sparkled with raindrops and all the people who’d given the show a miss yesterday seemed to have decided to go today. For the thousandth time Helen checked her face in the mirror. Her hair had gone right, the suede dress brought out the amber of her eyes, but she still looked tired.

“Got him bad, ’ave you?” said the taxi driver as the third application of Miss Dior in ten minutes fought with the diesel fumes. She’d looked rich enough when she’d got into the car; that dress must have cost a packet, and Americans were rarely short of a few bob.

“Been to Crittleden before?”

Helen shook her head. “One of the show jumpers has invited me. You may have heard of him, Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Rupert Campbell-Black,” said the driver. “I know Rupert, ’ad him in the cab, and his mate, Billy Lloyd-Foxe. ’E’s a lad, is Rupert. Did you see him at the ’orse of the Year Show in one of the novelty classes on the last day? Dressed up as Miss World, wiv coconuts in his dress. They fell out as he rode over the jumps, brought the ’ouse down. ’E’s a lad, is Rupert. I got ’is autograph for my missis; she’s mad about Rupert, she is.”

And Lady Pringle and Gabriella and Bianca too, thought Helen bleakly.

At last they reached the main gates.

Help, thought Helen in panic. There seemed to be half a dozen men in yellow coats on the gate.

The taxi driver had no such reserve. Winding down the window he shouted: “I’ve got a lidy here for Rupert.”

Immediately one of the yellow-coated men leapt forward and peered into the cab.

“Might ’ave guessed it,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “Rupert certainly goes for lookers,” and getting a sheaf of tenners out of his pocket he handed them to Helen. “I think he’s given me most of his winnings yesterday. If you hang on quarter of an hour, mate, I’ll get you a fare back to London.”

After Helen had paid the taximan sixty pounds, which seemed an appalling amount of money, the man in the yellow coat took her off to find Rupert. It was so muddy she was thankful she’d worn boots.

“I’m a bit late,” she said.

“Not surprised in that traffic. Got a good crowd here today, although it looks like rain later.” He pointed to indigo clouds which were beginning to mass on the horizon above the pale acid green elm wood.

They found Rupert in the practice ring, cantering very slowly round on a magnificent bay gelding, totally oblivious of the crowd, mostly nubile teenagers, who were gazing at him.

The man in the yellow coat was about to call out when Helen stopped him. “I want to watch for a second,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

Rupert was wearing green cords tucked into gum boots, a dark blue quilted waistcoat over a dark blue jersey, and no hat.

“I told you he was lovely,” said a teenage girl eating an ice cream.

“I never thought he’d be that lovely,” said her friend.

“That’s his groom, Marion,” said the first girl, pointing to a sulky-looking blonde who was standing by the practice fence. “She was interviewed in Honey about what it’s like working for Rupert. She said he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

At a word from Rupert the sulky blonde, who was wearing a red T-shirt with “I only sleep with the best people” printed across her bosom, put up the pole to five foot. Rupert cleared it effortlessly.

“Wish I was the horse,” said the girl with rippling hair.

Helen had had enough.

“Rupert,” she called as he came past.

It was some comfort that he seemed so pleased to see her. Instantly sliding off the bay gelding and handing him to the sulky blonde, he ducked under the railings to join her. Immediately the autograph hunters surged forward.

“Bugger off,” snapped Rupert. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” and, putting his arm round Helen’s shoulders, he pushed impatiently through the crowd.

“How are you?” he said.

“Wonderful,” said Helen, suddenly realizing she was.

“You certainly look it,” he said, running his hand down her suede arm. “I adore that dress. It’s the same texture as Belgravia when he’s just been clipped, but I don’t like that bloody Alice band,” and, removing it from her hair, he tossed it into a nearby dustbin.

Helen gave a cry of protest and ran towards the bin to find the hairband nestling among the remains of hamburger buns and Kentucky fried chicken.

“That was my favorite hairband,” she said, outraged.

“And your last one,” said Rupert.

And he turned her round to face him, running his hands through her red mane so it fell tousled and shining over her forehead and round her face.

For a second she gazed at him mutinously, then she laughed.

“Christ,” said Rupert. “I’d forgotten how beautiful you were,” and drawing her towards him, he kissed her full on the mouth, in front of the crowds.

“We can’t here,” she said, pulling away, blushing furiously.

“We can absolutely anywhere,” said Rupert. “Come on, let’s go back to the caravan and have a drink.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a class in an hour and a half.”

On their way they passed the stables. Horses lolled their heads over the half-doors, gnawing at the wood, flattening their ears at each other and at passersby.

A crowd of people were hanging round one box stable. “That’s Belgravia,” said Rupert.

As he went towards the half-door the crowd dispersed to a respectful distance, but the horse rolled its eyes and took a threatening nip at Rupert’s sleeve.

“Ungrateful sod,” said Rupert, punching him gently on the neck. “He doesn’t like me; I mean hard work to him. You’d better be on form this afternoon.”

Leaving the horses, they walked through the mud up the hill to the caravan village in which the riders lived during the show. Rupert’s was easily the biggest caravan and the only one painted dark blue piped with emerald. In the window hung a string of rosettes.

“We had a good morning,” said Rupert.

Inside the caravan Badger thumped his tail joyfully and, wriggling up to Helen, goosed her briskly. On the table sat Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Mavis, the yellow mongrel, sat perched on his knee being fed pieces of Easter egg. On the bench seats sat a mousy-haired man with big ears and his mouth open, a fat man with short legs, and a pretty brunette with a notepad. They were all watching yesterday’s competition on the video machine. Billy’s horse was coming up to a big oxer and scattering poles.

“Freeze it,” said the fat man. “You went in too close, Billy.”

“Not enough impulsion,” said Rupert. “Got to jump an extra foot in mud like that. I wish you’d all stop cluttering up my caravan. This is Helen Macaulay.”

They all stared at her.

“This,” continued Rupert, “is my unstable companion Billy Lloyd-Foxe.”

Billy grinned. “Hi. I saw you across a crowded meet, but sadly Rupe got in first.”

“This is Joanna Battle from the Chronicle, who’s interviewing Billy,” said Rupert, introducing the dark girl, “and Humpty Hamilton.” The fat man nodded. “And this is Ivor Braine, singularly misnamed because he’s so thick.” The man with big ears opened his mouth even wider.

Rupert got down two glasses and another bottle.

“I wish you’d stop feeding that bloody dog my Easter egg. She’ll get spots.”

“And turn into a Dalmatian,” said Billy. Mavis was now lying on her back, with her legs apart, and her head on his shoulder. “Wish I had this effect on women,” he went on, smiling at Helen.

Once Helen had been given a drink they all ignored her and went back to watching the video, tearing everyone’s round to shreds, which gave her a chance to look at the caravan. It was extremely luxurious with an oven, a fridge, a washing machine, bench seats, a double bed that folded up completely, and a great deal of cupboard space.

At the end of the tape Rupert switched over to racing, picking up the paper in order to look at his horoscope.

“ ‘Good day for shopping,’ ” he read. “Perhaps I’d better buy that gray gelding. ‘Evening starred for romance.’ ” He grinned at Helen. “I should bloody well hope so.”

At that moment Marion walked in, still looking sulky. She was chewing gum, which gave her a particularly insolent air.

“Have you rung Ladbroke’s?” asked Rupert.

“I haven’t had time,” snapped Marion.

“Better buck up. You’ll miss the first race.”

“Put a fiver each way on Red Chaffinch,” said Billy.

“Come on, William,” said Joanna Battie, picking up her notebook. “This is going to be a bum interview. Isn’t there anyone, or anything, you dislike in show jumping?”

“You should have interviewed Rupert,” said Billy, undoing the purple paper from one of the chocolates inside the egg and giving it to Mavis.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with show jumping,” said Rupert, filling up Helen’s glass. “Why don’t the big shows provide the stabling free for the top riders? Cattle and sheep never have to pay a penny for accommodation. They ought to waive our entrance fees too, and pay us appearance money. Our names go on every press release. The crowds have come here to watch Billy, Humpty, Ivor, and mostly me.”

“You’re so modest,” said Joanna.

“And another thing,” said Rupert, warming to his subject, “French, German, and Irish riders get a grand every time they win abroad. We don’t get a bean. We’ll never smash the Kraut ascendancy until they start paying us decent money.”

“Do you agree with this, Billy?” asked Joanna.

“Well, I don’t feel as strongly as Rupert. Probably because I’m not a member of the British team.”

“And because you never worry about money,” snapped Rupert. “People who claim not to be interested in money are always bloody good at spending other people’s.”

“If you want to be a top show jumper,” said Billy, winking at Helen, “you don’t need to ride well, just be Olympic level at bellyaching.”

Marion came off the telephone to Ladbroke’s.

“You haven’t met Helen Macaulay, Marion,” said Rupert, a slight note of malice creeping into his voice.

“I’ve met her namesake,” said Marion sourly. “Arrived Friday morning; bitten me three times already.”

“My namesake?” asked Helen, bewildered.

“The black horse I bought at the barracks. He’s been showing Marion who’s boss. I decided to call him Macaulay.”

Helen blushed crimson. “Oh, how darling of you.”

“Are you going to make us something to eat?” said Rupert.

“Haven’t got time,” said Marion. “Class starts in three-quarters of an hour. I’ve got to help Tracey tack up Belgravia and The Bull. There’s smoked salmon in the fridge and brown bread in the bin,” and she flounced out of the caravan, slamming the door behind her.

“What a lovely nature that girl’s got,” Humpty said, getting up. “We’d better go, Ivor. Thanks for the drink.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Joanna. “You’ll want to get changed. I presume you’re all going to Grania Pringle’s party tonight. Okay then, I’ll have half an hour there with you, Billy. Good luck, both of you.”

“Do you want me to go out while you change?” asked Helen.

“As long as you don’t mind underpants,” said Rupert.

“I’ll make you some sandwiches.” She went to the fridge which was packed with an upmarket medley of pâté, smoked salmon, smoked turkey, and several bottles of champagne. She also noticed a great many empties already in the trash can.

“Bread’s in the bin on the right,” said Rupert. Lifting her hair, he planted a kiss on the back of her neck, then when she swung round, he kissed her on the mouth, his hands feeling for her breasts. Helen tried to leap away but she was rammed against the oven.

Rupert laughed and let her go. “Mustn’t raise my blood pressure too much before a class.”

As Helen spread unsalted butter on slices of bread and placed smoked salmon, red pepper, and a squirt of lemon on top, she allowed herself the brief fantasy of living with Rupert in the little caravan like a couple of gypsies, cooking him ingenious dinners on the stove each night, shutting out the rest of the horsey world except Billy. Billy, she decided, was really nice.

“How’s Nige?” asked Rupert.

“Very overadrenalized,” said Helen, cutting the crusts off the sandwiches, “and overly concerned that you’ve appropriated his address book and now have access to all the names and addresses of the saboteur underground.”

“The only name and add-ress I was after,” said Rupert, mimicking her accent again, “was yours. After that I threw the book into the Thames, so no doubt a lot of fishes are about to reveal the Antis’ darkest secrets in the Angling Times.”

Helen turned round with the plate of sandwiches to find Billy already dressed in breeches and shirt, tying his white tie, and Rupert wearing nothing at all. She nearly dropped the sandwiches on the floor. Shoving the plate down on the table, she turned back to tidy up and found herself putting the crusts in the fridge.

“Very good sandwiches,” said Rupert. “D’you want some, Billy?”

“No thanks,” said Billy, lighting a cigarette. “It never fails to amaze me how you can eat before a big class. I’m about to throw up last night’s dinner.”

“Nigel had two broken ribs, a black eye, and multiple bruises,” said Helen reprovingly.

“You ought to have brought me a color photograph,” said Rupert, who was pulling on his boots.

There was a bang on the door. It was Humpty Hamilton.

“We can walk the course in five minutes,” he said. “It looks a sod.”

“I’m definitely going to ask Lavinia Greenslade out tonight,” said Billy, shrugging into his red coat.

“You’ll have to take her parents along as well,” said Rupert, seizing a couple more sandwiches as they went out of the caravan.