Riders

12

Helen pushed open the door and found herself in a library where the only gaps in the walls not covered with books were filled with vast family portraits. In one corner on a revolving stand stood a globe of the world with the map of America turned towards her, the states all blurred together and sepia with age. A fire leaping in the grate gave off a sweet, tart smell of apple logs, reminding her of her grandmother’s house in the mountains, and filling her with such homesickness that she had to choke back her sobs and blow her nose several times on an overworked paper handkerchief.

Drawn instinctively towards the bookshelves, she was halfway across the room before she realized a man was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, reading.

“I am sorry,” she said with a gulp. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not. I’m hiding.”

“From Mrs. Greenslade?”

“Et alia. We weren’t introduced this afternoon. Malise Gordon.”

He put out his hand.

“Helen Macaulay,” she mumbled.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a glass of Algie’s brandy.”

“Please don’t bother.”

He didn’t answer and went over to the drinks trolley. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, threadbare but well cut across the shoulders, with turn-ups and a fob watch. She noticed the upright, military bearing, the thin mouth, the eyes, courtesy of British Steel Corporation. He was the kind of Englishman one used to see in old war movies, Trevor Howard or Michael Redgrave, who hid any emotion behind a clipped voice, a stiff upper lip, and sangfroid.

“What were you reading?” she asked.

“Rupert Brooke.”

“Oh,” said Helen in surprise, “how lovely. There’s one Rupert Brooke poem I really love. How does it go?

“ ‘These laid the world away’, ”

she began in her soft voice,

“ ‘poured out the red

Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be

Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,

That men call age; and those who would have been

Their sons, they gave, their immortality.’ ”

Her voice broke as she was suddenly stabbed with grief at the thought of Harold Mountjoy’s child that she had lost.

“It’s so beautiful, and so sad,” she went on.

For a second the color seemed to drain out of Malise Gordon’s face. Then he handed Helen the glass of brandy.

“How extraordinary,” he said. “I was just reading that poem. My father was at school with Rupert Brooke.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh, awfully nice, according to my mother.”

“Your father must have some marvelous stories about him.”

“Probably did. Unfortunately he was killed in 1918 in the last advance of the war.”

“That’s just terrible. You never knew your father. Did you go to Rugby too?”

He nodded.

“I so enjoy the Rugby poets,” said Helen. “Walter Savage Landor, Clough, Arnold, they have a deep melancholy about them which I find very appealing. I did the Victorian poets for my major. I think Matthew Arnold is by far the most interesting.”

Seeing her curled up on the sofa, having kicked off her shoes, the firelight flickering on her pale face, Malise thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her ankles were so slender, he wondered how they could bear the weight of her body, or her long slender neck the weight of that glorious Titian hair. Quivering with misery, she was like a beech leaf suddenly blown by the gale against a wall; he had the feeling that, at any moment, the gale might whisk her away again. He would like to have painted her, just like that, against the faded gold sofa.

“Where is Rupert?” he asked.

“Being enjoyed by his adoring public. Actually, he’s just been ‘borrowed’ by Lady Pringle.”

“She’s never been very scrupulous about giving people back.”

“She’s kinda glamorous, but very old,” said Helen. Then, realizing that Grania must be younger than Malise Gordon, added hastily, “for a woman, I mean — or rather a Lady.”

“Hardly,” said Malise, echoing Rupert.

“Oh, I know about the laxatives,” said Helen, “but all these ancestors?” She waved a hand round the walls.

“All fakes,” said Malise, cutting the end off a cigar. “I restore pictures as a sideline. Grania’s great-grandmother over there,” he pointed to a bosomy Victorian lady, “was actually painted in 1963.”

Helen giggled, feeling more cheerful.

“You and Rupert just had a row?”

Helen nodded.

“What about?”

“He wants to go to the max.”

Malise raised his eyebrows.

“In England I think you call it the whole hog.”

“Ah, yes.”

“He’s so arrogant. He ignores me all evening, selling some horse, then expects me to go meekly back and spend the night in his caravan. I said I was going back to London, so he told me to find my own way. I just don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll take you. I’m going back to London tonight.”

“But I live in Shepherd’s Bush; it’s way out. Rupert claims he’s never heard of it.”

“Rupert on occasions can be very affected. It’s about a mile from my flat. It couldn’t be easier to drop you off.”

Cutting through her stammerings of gratitude, he started to ask her about herself, about America, her family, her university, her ambitions to be a writer, and her job. He even knew her boss.

“Nice chap. Never read a book in his life.”

“But no one seems interested in books over here,” sighed Helen, picking up the Rupert Brooke. “This is a first edition and they haven’t even bothered to cut the pages. I don’t understand the British, I mean they have all this marvelous culture on their doorsteps and they’re quite indifferent to it. Half the office hasn’t even been inside St. Paul’s, and John Donne actually preached there. Rupert’s mother has shelves full of first editions. No one ever reads them. She keeps them behind bars, as though they were dangerous animals full of subversive ideas. They never even know who’s painted their ancestors.”

“Unless it’s a Gainsborough they’re going to flog at Christies for half a million,” said Malise. “Then they’re fairly sharp.”

“That lot out there can’t talk about anything but horses,” said Helen bitterly.

“You mustn’t blame them,” said Malise. “For most of the season, which goes on sadly for most of the year now, they’re spending twenty-four hours a day with those horses, studying them, schooling, worrying about their health, chauffeuring them from one show to another. That lot you met next door have battled their way to the top against the fiercest competition. And it hasn’t been easy. We’re in the middle of a recession; petrol prices are rocketing; overheads are colossal. Show jumping’s a very tough competitive sport and only a few make it, and unless they keep on winning, they don’t survive.”

He got up and walked over to the globe and spun it round, pointing to the tiny faded pink shrimp that was England.

“Most of them would never have left the villages they were born in if they hadn’t been brilliant horsemen. Now, as a result of this brilliance, they are kings to the public, household names, ambassadors to their country all over the world. Rome today, Madrid tomorrow, New York the day after, constantly on television; yet most of them haven’t an “O” level between them.

“Often you’ll hear the winner of a competition gabbling to his horses all the way round, coaxing him over those huge jumps. Yet, ask him to describe that round in a television interview afterwards and he’ll be completely tongue-tied. They’re physical people, and they think in physical terms, and they’re far more at home with horses than they are with humans, and they distrust anyone with any kind of learning, because it makes them feel inadequate. But don’t underestimate them. Because they lack the gift of tongues, it doesn’t mean they don’t feel things deeply.”

He paused, frowning at her, then smiled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture you. I know what you’ve been going through today. Ever since I was appointed chef d’equipe last year I’ve been trying to break down these barriers of suspicion. You simply can’t apply Army discipline and expect them to jump into line. They are all deeply individualistic, chippy, very highly strung. Despite their deadpan exteriors, they get terribly het up before a big class. But once they accept you, you’re in for keeps unless you do something very silly.”

He thought it was time to change the subject. “Is your firm publishing any decent books this summer?”

And they went back to talking about literature, which Malise enjoyed because she was so adorably pompous and earnest, and because he could see how she was relaxing and gaining confidence, and just watching that exquisite face gave him pleasure. He was tempted to ask her to sit for him.

“I wish I could meet someone like Rupert Brooke,” she was saying. “I guess he can be regarded as the most charismatic personality of his generation.”

Malise Gordon winced and put another log on the fire. “I wish your generation wouldn’t so willfully misuse words.”

Helen laughed. “I guess then that Rupert was the most glamorous character of his generation.”

“Taking my name in vain,” said a voice. Rupert was standing in the doorway, his face quite expressionless.

“No,” said Malise Gordon. “We were discussing another Rupert — a poet.”

“Quite unlike me,” said Rupert lightly. “Helen knows I’m an intellectual dolt, don’t you, darling?” He turned to Helen, still smiling, but she knew beneath that bland exterior he was angry. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

“Talking to me, since Grania — er — borrowed you.”

“How nice,” said Rupert. “So no doubt you’ve discussed every exhibition and play and foreign film on in London. Perhaps you’ve even graduated to Henry James.”

“We hadn’t got round to him yet,” said Malise.

“That’ll have to wait till next time,” said Rupert. “Come and dance,” he added to Helen. It was definitely an order. But before she could move, a sound of screams, whoops, and catcalls rent the air, drowning the deafening pounding of music. The noise was coming from outside. Malise drew back the heavy dark green velvet curtains. A group of men were running through the moonlit cherry orchard carrying something that was wriggling frantically, like a sheep about to be dipped.

“They’re throwing Driffield in the lake,” said Rupert.

“Isn’t that lake polluted?” asked Helen in worried tones.

Rupert laughed. “It soon will be, if they throw Driffield in.” He took Helen’s wrist. “Come on, darling.”

Malise took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.

“We ought to head for home,” he said.

“We?” asked Rupert, his fingers tightening on Helen’s wrist.

Then she said, all in a rush, “Colonel Gordon’s going back to London tonight. He’s very kindly offered me a lift.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“There isn’t anywhere for me to sleep.”

“Grania’ll give you a bed. Party’s hardly got going yet.”

“Events would bely that,” said Malise, as bellows, guffaws, and sounds of splashing issued from the lake. “I hope Driffield doesn’t catch cold. It’s hardly the weather for midnight bathing. As for Grania putting Helen up, I’m sure every bed and sofa in the house is already heaving with occupants. Shall we go?” he turned to Helen.

She nodded, unable to speak. Part of her longed to stay with Rupert. She’d never seen anyone so angry. His blue eyes narrowed to slits, his face pale as marble. He picked a white narcissus out of the flower vase, examining the crinkly orange center.

“I’ll drive you back to Vagina House,” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” said Malise crushingly, “you’ve got classes early tomorrow and you’ve had far too much to drink. Police always patrol the Worthing-London road at this hour of night. Not worth risking your license. You can’t afford to be off the road for a year.”

“I am quite capable of driving,” said Rupert through gritted teeth.

“And then you’d have to turn round and drive all the way back. Be reasonable.”

Rupert turned to Helen. “You really want to go?”

“I guess so.”

Looking down, Rupert found he had shredded the narcissus. One petal was left. “She loves me not,” he said.

“I’ll get my coat,” said Helen.

Fleeing from the room, she nearly fell over Monica Carlton, fast asleep in her red nightgown, propped against the gong. On her lap lay a plate of chocolate mousse which Mavis was busy finishing up.

In the room where she’d left her coat and boots a couple were heaving on the bed.

“Billy, we must be careful,” said a voice. “Mummy will be fuwious if she catches us.”

Billy was going to win his tenner, thought Helen. As she grabbed her belongings and let herself out of the room, Mavis shot through her feet to join in the fun.

Outside she found Hans Schmidt swaying in front of her.

“Fraulein Helen,” he said triumphantly, “come and dance wiz me.” He was just about to drag her off in the direction of the music when Malise and Rupert came out of the library, both looking wintry. To make matters worse, Hans insisted on coming out to the car with them and roaring with laughter when he discovered what was going on.

“You are losing zee touch, Rupert,” he kept saying.

“Fuck off,” snarled Rupert. Then, as Helen got into the car, “Your things are still in the caravan.”

“Only my suede dress,” said Helen.

“I’ll get Marion to post it on to you,” said Rupert and, without even saying good-bye, turned on his heel and stalked back into the house.

“There’s absolutely no need to cry,” said Malise, as the headlights lit up the grass verge and the pale green undersides of the spring trees. “That’s definitely thirty-love to you.”

“D’you think he’ll ever call me again?” said Helen with a sniff.

“ ’Course he will. It’s a completely new experience to Rupert, not getting his own way. Very good for him.”

Malise slipped a Beethoven quintet into the stereo. Helen lay back, reveling in the music and thinking how much Rupert would hate it. Ahead along the winding road she watched the cats’ eyes light up as their car approached.

“All right?” said Malise.

“Sure. I was thinking the cats’ eyes were like girls, all lighting up as Rupert approached.”

“And Rupert never dims his headlights,” said Malise.

“Is it worth it? Me going on with him, that is if he does ring me?”

“Depends if you’ve reached the stage when you can’t not. In which case any advice I give you will be meaningless.”

“Explain him to me,” pleaded Helen. “All I hear is gossip from people who hardly know him.”

“I’ve known his family for years. Rupert’s mother was exquisitely beautiful but deeply silly. She couldn’t cope with Rupert at all and abandoned him to a series of nannies, who all spoilt him because they were frightened of him, or felt sorry for him. He learnt far too early in life that, by making himself unpleasant, he could get his own way. The only decent relationship he had was with old Nanny Heald, and she was his father’s old nanny, so she didn’t look after Rupert very long. Rupert’s mother, of course, was besotted with Adrian, Rupert’s younger brother, who was sweet, curly-haired, plump, easygoing, and who, of course, has turned into a roaring pansy.

“As a result I don’t think Rupert really likes women. He certainly doesn’t trust them. Subconsciously, I think he enjoys kicking them in the teeth, just to pay them back as a sex for letting him down when he was a child. He’s bright, though, and enormously talented. Funnily enough, the one thing that might save him could be a good marriage. But she’d have to be a very remarkable girl to take the flak.”

As they reached the motorway, he put his foot on the accelerator.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” he said, “to find a respectably rising barrister or some bright young publisher?”

Helen shrugged. “I guess so, but he is kind of addictive. You take a lot of trouble with all these guys. Have you got kids of your own?”

“We’ve got a daughter. She events.”

“Oh,” said Helen, “that’s what Mark Phillips does, as opposed to Rupert.”

“That’s right.”

“Any sons?”

“No.” There was a pause. Then he said in a measured, deliberately matter-of-fact voice. “We had a boy. He was killed in Northern Ireland last year.”

“Oh,” said Helen, aghast, “I’m desperately sorry.”

“He drove into a booby trap, killed outright, which I suppose was a mercy.”

“But not for you,” said Helen. “You weren’t able to say good-bye.”

Oh hell, she said to herself, that’s why he was reading that Rupert Brooke poem. And I came barging in with all my problems.

“Were you very close?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so. The awful thing was that I’m not sure he really wanted to go into the Army at all. Just felt he ought to because my father had a dazzling war and…”

“And you got an MC, Billy told me.”

“But Timmy was really rather a rebel. We had an awful row. He’d got some waitress pregnant, felt he ought to marry her. He didn’t love her, he just had principles. We tried to dissuade him. His last leave was all rows, my wife in hysterics.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“It was a false alarm, which made the whole thing more ironic. Now I wish it hadn’t been. At least we’d have something of him left.”

They had reached London now. When they got to Regina House he got out as well. A few stars had managed to pierce the russet haze hanging over London. Lit from behind by the street-light, there were no lines on his face.

Helen swallowed, took a deep breath to conquer her shyness, and stammered, “I always dreamed English men would be just like you, and it’s taken me six months in this country to find one,” and, putting her hand on his shoulder, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Thank you so much for my lift. I do hope we meet again.”

“Absolutely no doubt about that,” said Malise. “Young Rupert’ll be on the warpath in no time. But listen to an old campaigner: play it cool, don’t let him have it all his own way.”

Malise let himself into his Lowndes Street flat and switched off the burglar alarm. It was a cheerless place. His wife had conventional tastes, tending to eau de nil wallpaper, overhead lights, and Sloane Square chintz. She was away in the country, eventing with their daughter. The marriage had not been a success. They had stayed together because of the children, but now there was only Henrietta left. In the drawing room, on an easel standing on a dust sheet, was an oil painting of a hunting scene Malise was restoring. He could finish it in two hours. He didn’t feel tired. Instead, he poured himself a glass of brandy and set to work, thinking about that exquisite redhead. She was wasted on Rupert. He was not entirely sure of his motives in whisking her back to London. Was it a desire to put Rupert down, or because he couldn’t bear the thought of Rupert sleeping with her tonight, forcing his drunken hamfisted attentions on her? For a minute he imagined painting her in his studio, not bothering to turn on the lights as dusk fell, then taking her across to the narrow bed in the corner and making love to her so slowly and gently she wouldn’t realize it had been miraculous until it was all over.

He cursed himself for being a fool. He was fifty-two, thirty years her senior, probably a disgusting old man in her eyes. Yet she had stirred him more than any woman he had met for years.

She’d have done for Timmy. He picked up the photograph on the piano. The features that smiled back at him were very like his own, but less grim and austere, more clear-eyed and trusting.

Were Rupert and Billy and Humpty merely Timmy substitutes? Was that why he’d taken the job of chef d’equipe? After six months he was surprised, almost indignant, at the pain. Putting the photograph down, he slumped on the sofa, his face in his hands.

As Helen let herself into Regina House the telephone was ringing. “Shush, shush,” she pleaded, and, rushing forward, reached the receiver just before the principal of the hostel, furious and bristling in her hairnet.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” she hissed, “I won’t have people ringing so late.”

But Helen ignored her, hunching herself over the telephone to ward off the outside world. Praying as she’d never prayed before, she put it to her ear.

“Hello,” said a slightly slurred voice, “can I speak to Helen Macaulay?”

“Oh yes, you can, this is she.”

“Bloody bitch,” said Rupert, “waltzing off with the one man in the room I can’t afford to punch on the nose.”

Helen leant joyously against the wall, oblivious of the gesticulating crone in the hairnet.

“Are you okay?” Rupert went on.

“Fine. Where are you?”

“Back in my horrible little caravan — alone. I’ve got your dress here, like a shed snakeskin. It reeks of your scent. I wish you were here to fill it.”

“Oh, so do I,” said Helen. Again at a distance, she felt free to come on more strongly.

“Look, I’m on the road this week and most of next. I haven’t really got myself together, but I’ll ring you towards the end of the week, and I’ll try and get up to London on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Rupert,” she pleaded, “I didn’t want to go off with Malise. It was just that you seemed so otherwise engaged all evening.”

“Trying to make you jealous didn’t work, did it? Won’t try that again in a hurry.”