Riders

11

Another bottle of champagne was consumed and the rain had stopped before they set out for Grania Pringle’s party. The setting sun was firing the puddles and bathing the dripping trees with a soft pink light.

Rupert and Billy, both already slightly tight and in raging spirits, walked on either side of Helen, putting their inside arms through hers and lifting her over the muddier ground.

“Where my caravan has rested, Flowers I leave you on the grass,” caroled Billy in a quavering baritone as they walked past the caravan village. Mavis ran on ahead, picking up her blond feet like a hackney pony, delicately tiptoeing along the runnels of the puddles.

On the way they stopped to check the horses, who were dozing in nine inches of wood shavings. The Bull was looking out of his box and Mavis scampered up and licked him on the nose. Helen couldn’t help noticing how both The Bull and Kitchener whickered with pleasure to see Billy, nudging at his pockets for Polos, but both Belgravia and Mayfair and the younger novice horses flattened their ears and backed off as Rupert approached.

“Got to show them who’s boss,” said Rupert lightly, but, adding that it was getting chilly, he put an extra rug on Belgravia.

“Don’t forget the antifreeze,” said Billy, and promptly burst into song again. Then he said, “I’m going to make the most enormous play for Lavinia Greenslade tonight.”

“Wavish her in the whododendwons,” said Rupert. “Like hell you will. I’ll give you a tenner if you get to first base.”

The Pringles lived in a large Georgian house behind the Crittleden elm wood, looking over a lake and a cherry orchard whose white blossom was now tinged almond pink by the last rays of the sun.

Helen gave a gasp of pleasure.

“ ‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now,’ ” she gushed expansively, “ ‘is hung with bloom along the bough.’ ”

“Hung with bloomers,” said Rupert, deliberately mishearing her. “Sounds just like Nanny. What were those bloody great things she insisted on wearing winter and summer?”

“Directoire knickers,” said Billy.

“That’s right. When she hung them on the line on washday we always thought they’d carry the house away like an air balloon.”

They both collapsed with laughter.

In order not to be a spoilsport, Helen tried to join in.

From the noise issuing from the front door the party was obviously well under way. As Helen changed out of mud-spattered boots into black high-heeled shoes, a handsome blonde, scent rising like incense from the cleavage of her splendid bosom, came out to welcome them.

“Rupert, darling, how lovely to see you.”

She gathered him into a braceleted embrace. Over his shoulder her sootily mascaraed eyes appraised the rest of them, affording Helen and Mavis about the same amount of enthusiasm.

That’s Grania Pringle, thought Helen. Close up she didn’t look very ladylike.

“Must you bring that creature in here?” she said to Billy.

“Love me, love my dog,” said Billy unrepentantly. “Sorry, Grania, but she howls the caravan down if I leave her behind.”

“Well, I don’t have any difficulty loving you, but I do draw the line at Mavis.”

“You haven’t met Helen Macaulay,” said Rupert, extracting himself from her clutches. “She comes from Florida, where tomatoes, she informs me, are their tertiary industry.”

“Tomatoes,” said Lady Pringle. “How extraordinary. Your mother gave me a marvelous recipe for tomato provençale last time I saw her, Rupe. We all stank of garlic for weeks afterwards, but it was simply delicious.” She turned back to Helen. “Are you a horsey gel?”

“No, thank God,” said Rupert, “she works in publishing. And she’s absolutely fed up with Humpty Hamilton and Ivor Braine and Billy gassing about bloodlines all afternoon. Have you invited any intellectuals for her to talk to?”

“Only Malise Gordon,” said Grania. “He writes books, frightfully clever chap, you must meet him. But he’s rather hemmed in by Lavinia Greenslade’s parents, who are twying to persuade him to take Lavinia to Wome.”

“Must be mad,” said Rupert. “She couldn’t even stay on the wocking horse at Hawwods.”

“Shut up,” said Billy, grinning.

“Billy’s rather a fan of Lavinia’s,” explained Rupert. “He’s longing to wape her.”

“And Lavinia’s Daddy will be so cwoss, he’ll come and wun me over in his Wolls-Woyce,” said Billy.

Grania screamed with laughter. She was already beginning to get seriously on Helen’s nerves.

“You boys are awful. Come and have a drink.”

“If Greenslade mère and père are bending Malise’s ear, that means Lavinia must be unchaperoned for a second and I’m off,” said Billy, and vanished into the crowd in the next room.

“I’m afraid I’ve hidden the whisky, Rupert,” said Grania. “You know what pigs this lot are, but you’ll find some in the decanter in the library and there’s another bottle in the kitchen cupboard.”

Whisky, however, was only for Rupert. Helen had to make do with a glass of very indifferent sparkling wine. The next moment Grania had swept her away from Rupert and thrust her into a loudly arguing group consisting of several show jumpers and Joanna Battie.

“Now then, Joanna,” said Grania briskly, “you can’t monopolize all these delicious chaps. This is Helen Macaulay, boys; she’s frightfully clever and works for a publisher in London. Now I know all you show jumpers are writing your autobiographies, so why don’t you get her to publish yours? Come along, Rupert, my sister’s dying to meet you.”

And off she swept, leaving Helen scarlet with embarrassment. “Hi, again,” she mumbled to Joanna. “Are you all writing books?” she asked the ring of men.

“Too busy keeping them,” said a man with brushed-forward hair and a pale, pinched, disapproving face who was drinking tomato juice. “Joanna’s the writer round here, aren’t you, Joe? Except she gets it all wrong.”

“Never met a journalist who got anything right,” grumbled Humpty Hamilton. “Last week the Telegraph said Porky Boy was out of Sally in Our Alley. I mean, everyone knows Windsor Lass was his dam.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” snapped the man with brushed-forward hair. “You told us that yesterday.”

“You should come off the wagon, Driffield,” said Humpty. “It’s making you very bad-tempered.”

“I’ve lost twelve pounds, which is more than I can say for you, Humpty. You look five months gone in that sweater.”

“How much d’you reckon Rupert weighs?” said Ivor Braine, who was gazing at Helen with his mouth open.

“Helen should know,” said Joanna acidly.

“About twelve stone, I should think,” said Humpty.

“And eleven stone of that is pieces of paper with girls’ phone numbers on,” said Joanna.

Helen flushed. She hated Joanna, and her flat little voice, and hair drawn back from her forehead. She was more deadpan even than the show jumpers.

“How long have you been reducing for?” she asked Driffield.

“About a month.”

“You must have terrific control.”

“No!” he cut right across her, “that’s wrong, Humpty, he went clear.”

“No, he didn’t, he had four faults, and he was at least a quarter of a second slower than Rupert against the clock.”

Helen gritted her teeth. Across the room, as the horsey chat ebbed and flowed endlessly round her, she could see Rupert talking to Dick Brandon, hemmed in by women, all braying like Grania. Every few minutes, she noticed, Grania fed in another one and saw to it that Rupert’s glass of whisky was constantly topped up. Every so often he looked across and mouthed “All right?” to Helen and pride made her nod back.

She was certain Grania had deliberately thrust her into a group of small men. She topped all of them in her high heels. Separated from Rupert, she wanted him to be able to see her as the center of attention, being madly chatted up, but among this lot she felt about as attractive as a spayed Great Dane among a lot of Jack Russells. She bent her legs slightly.

Now they were discussing who’d bought what horses during the winter and which looked as though they were going to be the most promising novices. Hans Schmidt, wearing slightly too fitted and too bright blue a blazer, came up, clicked his heels, and kissed Helen’s hand.

“Ha, Mees Helen of Troy,” he said.

Helen turned to him gratefully, but next minute he was caught up with the others, discussing some potentially unbeatable Hanoverian mare.

Over in the corner Billy was hanging over the back of an armchair shared by Mavis and Lavinia Greenslade. After her dunking in the water she’d rewashed and curled her hair. A belted peacock blue dress showed off her tiny waist. Her small hand rested on Mavis’s head. Billy and she’ll have very curly-haired children, thought Helen. She wished Rupert would look after her like that. She must pull herself together and try and be more extrovert.

The group had moved on to discussing the best routes to take to the next show, which was in the West Country.

“The A40’s much quicker,” said Humpty Hamilton.

Suddenly they were joined by an amazing woman of about sixty. Squat, with a discernible black mustache on her upper lip, she was wearing a hairnet, a red flannel nightgown, bedroom slippers, and looked, thought Helen, not unlike President Nixon in drag.

“Hello, boys,” she said in her deep voice. “If we don’t get something to eat soon, you’ll have to carry me home.” She was just about to move on when she caught sight of Helen, gave her the most enthusiastic eye-meet she’d received all evening, and joined the group.

“Who’s that?” whispered Helen, holding out her glass to a passing waitress.

“Monica Carlton,” whispered Humpty. “Law unto herself, breeds Welsh cobs, always comes to parties in her nightgown, then can get absolutely plastered and doesn’t have the hassle of undressing when she gets back to her caravan.”

“While that waitress is here, she might as well fill me up too,” said Miss Carlton, thrusting her glass at Humpty. “You look familiar,” she added to Joanna Battie.

“We met at Olympia last Christmas,” said Joanna. “I write for the Chronicle.”

“Dreadful rag,” boomed Miss Carlton, retrieving her full glass. “Still, it comes in useful for wiping up puppies’ widdle.”

Helen giggled. Scenting enthusiasm, Miss Carlton turned towards her. “You’re a lovely little thing,” she went on. “We certainly haven’t met. I’d have remembered you.” She looked Helen up and down approvingly. “Don’t belong to any of these boring little farts, do you? Might have guessed it; too good for any of them.”

“I resent that,” said Humpty. “The amount of times I’ve given you a fireman’s lift home after parties, Monica.”

“Well, perhaps you’re better than some. Now, where are you from, my beauty?” she said, turning her full attention on Helen. “Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” stammered Helen.

“Well, if you are, I’ll take you for a spin round the countryside in my trap. You’d enjoy that. My two chaps travel at a spanking pace.”

And she was off, describing the merits of her two cobs who, it seemed, had won prizes at every show in England. As she talked, her eyes wandered over Helen’s body and the hand not clutching a glass squeezed Helen’s waist on every possible opportunity. Around them, Helen was vaguely aware of all the show jumpers creasing themselves with laughter. None of them was prepared to rescue her.

“Everyone all right?” It was Grania flitting past.

“Just admiring your antiques,” called out Helen desperately. “I’m a real Chippendale freak.”

“Oh, you Americans are always mad about old things; you must meet my husband. I see you’ve already met naughty Monica.” She patted Miss Carlton’s bristly cheek. “Grub’s up downstairs, by the way.”

“Thank God for that,” said Humpty. “I’m starving. Come on, everyone.”

Rupert caught up with her just as she was entering the dining room. “All right, darling? Sorry to neglect you; I’m in the process of selling a horse.”

“I’m fine,” said Helen, hardly able to trust herself to speak. “Just fine.”

“You must be starving. I’ll get you a plate.”

But the next moment he’d been lassooed by a large woman in red, asking him what had happened to some horse she’d sold him last year. Next minute the crowds had closed around him. Turning around, Helen saw Miss Carlton bearing down on her with two huge plates of chicken and rice. “Coo-ee,” she shouted.

Desperately, Helen fled in the other direction where she could see Billy and Mavis and Lavinia sharing another armchair. She’d just have to play gooseberry.

“Please,” she rushed up to them, “can I talk with you? Rupert’s with some woman, and Miss Carlton’s on the warpath.”

“Of course.” Billy got to this feet. “You haven’t met Lavinia, have you? Are you having an awful party?”

“I haven’t seen much of Rupert,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. He’s still haggling with Dick Brandon and it’s the first real show of the season. No one’s seen each other all together for ages, if you know what I mean. They’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Oh, Billy, darling,” said Lavinia, “I’ve forgotten to put any Fwench dwessing on my lettuce. Can you get me some, and do see if there’s any more of that delicious garlic bwead.”

For a second Helen’s eyes met Billy’s, but both of them managed not to giggle.

“Well, if Monica comes up, you must protect Helen.”

“He’s weally nice, isn’t he?” said Lavinia dreamily. “Mummy doesn’t approve because he’s such a fwiend of Wupert’s. Not but what Wupert isn’t very attwactive,” she added hastily, “but Mummy thinks Wupert leads Billy astway. Is this your first date with him?”

“No,” said Helen, finding herself chewing and chewing on the same piece of chicken, “my second.”

“Goodness,” said Lavinia, her china blue eyes widening, “that must be a wecord.”

Billy came back and they were joined by Humpty and Ivor Braine with a bottle of red.

“I say, Helen,” said Humpty, going rather pink, “you certainly made a hit with Monica.”

“Oh dear,” said Helen, blushing.

“Thinks you’re the prettiest filly she’s seen in years,” said Ivor and roared with laughter. “Going to take you in her trap tomorrow, she says.”

“Well, don’t get twapped in her twap,” said Lavinia. “She chased me round the tackwoom once.”

“Better watch out. She breeds her own Welsh cobs; they say she doesn’t even need a stallion,” said Billy.

“Well at least she’s better than Driffield,” grumbled Ivor. “Since he’s given up booze he’s got so bad-tempered.”

“The big fairy,” said Humpty. “Let’s chuck him in the lake after dinner.”

Next moment Hans joined them carrying a plate of trifle.

“Mind my dog,” said Billy, as the German prepared to sit heavily on the sleeping Mavis.

Hans rolled his eyes in the air. “Always zee same, zee English, zee dog sleep in zee chair or zee bed, zee husband sleep on the floor. You are American, Fraulein Helen. Are zey not crazy people? Why not come back to Germany wiz me?”

“I say, Hans off,” said Humpty. “You’ll have to fight a duel with Monica.”

“You might also have Rupert to contend with,” said Billy, giving Mavis the rest of his chicken.

“No, Rupert is no problem. I can beat him any day of zee week, how do you say it, against zee cock? But Monica, she is different proposition, she is Superman. If Monica stake a claim, I can only love you from afar.”

Helen felt suddenly happy. She hadn’t been a flop after all. In their clumsy way they were paying her attention, accepting her, ragging her as they ragged each other.

“Oh blast,” said Lavinia, “here come Mummy and Daddy. They’ve been talking to Malise an awfully long time. Talk to me like mad, Helen. And, Billy, you turn away and talk like mad to Humpty and Hans and Geoff. Then perhaps they won’t suspect anything. Where did you get that lovely dwess, Helen?”

“Bus Stop,” said Helen. “My mother doesn’t really approve of me wearing black.”

“Nor mine,” said Lavinia. “If you’re here tomowwow you must come and have a cup of tea in our cawavan. It’s not gwand like Wupert’s.”

Once again, Helen felt overwhelmed with pleasure, particularly when Driffield suddenly brought her a plate of fruit salad.

“This moment must go down in history,” said Humpty. “It is the first time Driffield has ever done anything for anyone else in his life. Where’s Joanna? She must put it in the Chronicle.”

“Are you feeling all right, Driffield?” said Billy.

“He’s dwunk too much tomato juice,” said Lavinia.

Driffield went scarlet and looked irritated and pleased at the same time. They were all laughing. Then Helen looked across the room and her happiness evaporated. There was Rupert standing by the sofa signing autographs for some girl and still talking to Dick Brandon, who was sitting down. Beside Brandon sat Grania talking to another woman. Helen watched frozen as she saw Grania slide her hand up and down the inside of Rupert’s thigh, those beautiful brown muscular thighs she’d seen earlier. Rupert did not move. Grania carried on. Leaping to her feet and spilling the fruit salad mostly over the carpet and Mavis, Helen fled from the room.

“Darling!” yelled Rupert as she passed. He caught up with her in the hall.

“Where are you off to?” Then, seeing her stricken face, “What’s the matter?” and, taking her hand, he pulled her into a nearby room which turned out to be an office with desks and ledgers and a calendar of spiky-legged racehorses on the wall.

Rupert leant against the door.

“Now, what’s the matter? I thought you were having a good time.”

Helen backed away until she found herself sitting in a wire basket.

“I’m fed up with all these people treating you like public property,” she said.

Rupert shrugged. “Come back to the caravan now and I promise you my undivided attention until morning.”

“Like hell! In five minutes someone’ll be banging on the door trying to sell you a horse, or asking for your autograph for their great aunt.”

Rupert laughed. “Temper, temper. I’m sorry about all these people.”

“It was positively obscene, all those women hanging round you like wasps round a molasses tin.”

Rupert felt a surge of triumph. It had worked. She really was jealous.

“I’m fed up with them all. Gabriella, and Bianca, and that obnoxious Joanna,” she emphasized all the “a’s, “and Marion looking daggers at me all afternoon, and worst of all Grania; if she’s a lady, I’m the queen of Sheba.”

“Don’t be silly. No one ever suggested she was. Her father made his fortune flogging laxatives. Do you honestly think I fancy her? She’s like some geriatric canary.”

“You didn’t think so two minutes ago when she was running her hand up and down your thigh like an adrenalized tarantula.”

“I was hemmed in. Autograph hunter to the right, prospective buyer to the left, I couldn’t just prise her off. It might have distracted Dick Brandon. Do you realize I’ve just made twenty grand?”

“Bully for you; you’ve also just lost a girlfriend.”

He put his head on one side and grinned at her.

“A girlfriend, have I just?” he said mockingly. Then his voice softened. “Don’t be such a crosspatch,” and he came towards her, pinning her against the table so she couldn’t escape.

“Now you’re hemmed in, and don’t you like it?” he said, drawing her towards him until he was holding her tight against his body, which was so smooth and hard it seemed to curve into hers like expensive soap.

For a second she melted, her longing for him was so strong, her relief to be in his arms. Gently he pulled down the shoulder of her dress and began to kiss her along her collarbone.

The other hand glided over her bottom: “Chicken, you are wearing pants.”

“I am not, I’m wearing a dress.”

“What’s this then?” he pinged the elastic.

“Panties,” said Helen quickly.

Rupert sighed. “There is a language barrier,” he said.

Helen suddenly twigged. “You thought I’d go to a party without panties?” she said in a shocked voice.

“I hoped you might, seeing as how you’re going to take off all your clothes for me later this evening.”

“No,” said Helen, struggling away. “I’m not going to be another of your fancy bits, just to be spat out like chewing gum when the flavor’s gone.”

Rupert started to laugh. “Fancy bit, what an extraordinary phrase. Sounds like a gag snaffle. And I don’t like chewing gum very much. Nanny always said it was common.”

“Why do you trivialize everything?” wailed Helen. “I just don’t want to be rushed.”

“Oh really,” drawled Rupert. “Would you rather we made a date for the year 2000? Would January fifth be okay, or would the sixth suit you better? I’m afraid I can’t make the seventh. Perhaps you could check in your diary.”

“Oh, stop it. I just don’t believe in jumping into bed with people who don’t give a damn for me.”

“You haven’t given me much chance. You can hardly expect me to swear eternal devotion on the second date.”

“I don’t,” sobbed Helen, “I truly don’t. I just don’t want to get hurt again. Harold Mountjoy…”

“Oh dear, now we’re going to be subjected to another sermon on the Mountjoy. Is that it? You only go to bed with married men? If I get married to someone else, then can I fuck you?”

“Please don’t use that kind of language.”

“What’s wrong with the word fuck? That’s what we’re discussing, aren’t we? Stop being so bloody middle class.”

“I am middle class.”

“Personally I think prick-teaser is a much worse word than fuck. Why the hell did you come down here, then?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You can, all of me. Come back to the caravan.”

“No!” screamed Helen. “I’m going back to London.”

“How?” asked Rupert.

“Where’s the nearest railroad station?”

“About ten miles away. And, frankly, I’m not going to drive you. Nor am I going to lend you one of my horses, although I suppose you could borrow a bike from one of Grania’s children. Or perhaps Monica could whizz you home in her trap.”

Helen burst into tears. Running to the door, she went slap into Grania Pringle.

“Oh, there you are, darling. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Rupert. Can I borrow you for a sec?”

Helen gave a sob and fled down the passage. She locked herself in the john. Twice someone came and rattled the door, then went away again. The party was still roaring away downstairs and, from the shouts and catcalls, seemed to be spilling out into the garden. Feeling suicidal, she washed her face and combed her hair.

Creeping out into the passage she saw the huge red nightgowned back of Monica Carlton. She was talking to Mrs. Greenslade. Terrified, Helen shot into reverse, taking the nearest door on her left.