Riders

16

After such a hellish journey, Jake was prepared for hen coops in which to stable the horses. But the Madrid showground turned out to be the last word in luxury, with a sumptuous clubhouse, swimming pools and squash courts, and a huge jumping arena next to an even bigger practice ring containing more than fifty different jumps.

“Humpty says it’s worth coming to Madrid just to practice over these fences,” said Bridie as she unloaded a stiff, weary, chastened Porky Boy.

Even better, each foreign team had been given its own private yard with splendid loose boxes. Next door, the victorious German team had just arrived from Rome and were unloading their huge horses and making a lot of noise. Jake recognized Ludwig von Schellenberg and Hans Schmidt, two riders he’d worshiped for years. Tomorrow, he thought with a thud of fear, he’d be competing against them.

He was distracted from his fears by another crisis. The loose boxes were all bedded with thick straw, which was no good for greedy Sailor, who always guzzled straw and blew himself out. Jake had run out of wood shavings on the journey down. How could he possibly explain to these charming, smiling, but uncomprehending Spaniards what he wanted? Bridie’s dictionary had “wood” but not “shavings.” He felt a great weariness.

“Can I help?” said a voice.

It was Malise Gordon, who had just flown in from Rome, his high complexion tanned by the Italian sun, wearing a lightweight suit and looking handsome and authoritative. Jake was never so pleased to see anyone.

Immediately Malise broke into fluent Spanish and sorted everything out.

“You look absolutely shattered,” he said to Jake. “Sorry it was a bloody journey, but I warned you. Still, it was as well you were there to look after Porky Boy last night. Are your horses okay?”

While the Spanish grooms put down the wood shavings for Sailor, Jake showed Malise Africa’s knee, which mercifully hadn’t swollen up.

“Where’s your other horse?”

“Here. They’ve got his box ready.”

Sailor, a messy eater, had tipped all his feed into the wood shavings and was busily picking it out. He gave Malise a baleful look out of his walleye. After the four-day journey he looked perfectly dreadful.

Christ, thought Malise, we’ll be a laughingstock entering something like that. But, he supposed, in the remote chance of Jake having to compete in the Nations’ Cup, he could always ride Africa. Anyway, the boy looked all in. No point in saying anything now.

“I’ll take you back to the hotel. You’d better get some sleep.” Malise looked at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock now. The rest of the team won’t arrive till this afternoon. I suggest we meet in the bar around nine P.M. Then we can have dinner together and you can meet them all.”

To Jake, who had never slept in a hotel, the bedroom seemed the height of luxury. There was a bathroom with a shower, and a bath and a loo, and free soap and bubble bath, and a bathcap, and three white towels. In the bedroom there was a television, a wireless, a telephone, and a huge double bed. He was dying for some coffee but he didn’t dare pick up the telephone in case they couldn’t understand him. French windows led out onto a bosomy balcony which looked over a park. To the left, if he leaned out, he could see a street full of shops and cafés with tables outside. Already smells of olive oil, pimentos, and saffron were drifting up from the kitchen. Drawing the thick purple curtains and only bothering to take off his shoes, Jake fell onto the surprisingly hard bed. The picture on the wall, of a matador in obscenely tight pink trousers shoving what looked like knitting needles into the neck of a bull, swam before his eyes and he was asleep.

Despite his exhaustion, however, he slept only fitfully. His dreams of disastrous rounds kept being interrupted by bursts of flamenco music or the screams of children playing in the park. By six the city had woken up and stretched itself after its siesta and Jake decided to abandon any hope of sleep. Outside, the streets were packed with cars rattling over the cobbles, hardly restrained at all by lights or frantically whistling policemen. Tables along the pavement were beginning to fill up, crowds to parade up and down. Looking across at the park, he saw a small child racing after a red ball, then tripping over a gamboling dog, falling flat on his face and bursting into noisy sobs. Next moment a pretty dark-haired mother had rushed forward, sworn at the dog, and gathered up the child, covering him with kisses. Jake was suddenly flattened with longing for Isa and Tory. He was desperate to ring home, but he didn’t know how to, nor did he dare pick up the telephone and ask for some tea.

Instead, raging with thirst, he drank a couple of mugs of water out of the tap, then unpacked, showered, and, wrapped only in one of the white towels, wandered out onto the balcony. Instantly he stepped back, for there on the next balcony was a beautiful girl painting her toenails coral pink and soaking up the slanting rays of the early evening sun.

She was impossibly slender, with long legs and arms, which, despite being covered in freckles, were already tanning becomingly to the color of weak tea. She wore a saffron yellow bikini and her hair was hidden by a big yellow towel. Beside her lay the catalogue of some art gallery, a Spanish dictionary, what looked like a book of poetry, and a half-finished glass of orange juice. Obviously she could make Reception understand her. The whole impression was of a marvelously pampered and overbred racehorse. As she stretched luxuriously, enjoying the sensation of being warm and alive, Jake felt a stab of lust. Why didn’t one ever see girls like that in Warwickshire? He wished she would pick her nose or scratch her crotch, anything to make her more normal and less desirable.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor. The girl jumped up. A man’s voice could be heard shouting in the passage, “Okay, we’ll see you in the bar about nine.”

The girl in the saffron bikini could be heard calling out in an American accent, “Darling, it’s so good to see you.”

There was a long pause. Then he heard the man’s voice more clearly. It was a flat distinctive drawl which he would recognize anywhere and which made his knees disappear and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

“Bloody awful journey,” said the voice. “Lorry kept overheating. We’ve been on the road for nearly thirty-six hours.”

“Sweetheart,” said the girl, “I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted.”

Another pause followed, then the voice said sharply, “I don’t care how fucking exhausted I am, get that bikini off.”

The girl started protesting, but not for long. Next moment there were sounds of lovemaking, with the bed banging against the wall so hard that Jake felt he was back in the cattle truck. Mercifully it lasted only five minutes. Any more evidence of Rupert’s superstud servicing would have finished Jake off altogether. Almost worse was the splashing and laughter as later they had a bath together. It was still desperately hot. Jake made his bed neatly and, soaked with sweat, had another shower and changed his shirt, for something to do. He’d have liked to have washed some underpants and shirts and hung them out on the balcony, but he could imagine Rupert’s derisive comments. Later he heard them having a drink on the balcony.

“Better get a few quick ones under my belt, so Malise doesn’t think I’m alcoholic.”

By nine o’clock Jake was so crucified by nerves and waiting that he couldn’t bring himself to go downstairs, until Malise rang up from Reception saying they were all in the bar, and had he overslept? Malise met him as he came out of the lift. Noticing the set face, the black rings under the eyes, the obvious tension, he said, “Don’t worry, they’re all very unalarming.”

There they were — all his heroes. Humpty Hamilton, puce from the heat, drinking lager. Lavinia Greenslade, whom he remembered from the first Bilborough show. She was even prettier now that she’d lightened her hair, and wore it shorter and curlier. On either side, like two guard dogs, sat her mother, who wore too much cheap jewelry, and her father, who had ginger sideburns and a stomach spilling over his trousers. They didn’t smile. Lavinia was too recent a cap herself for them to regard any new member of the team with enthusiasm. Billy Lloyd-Foxe had filled out and broken his nose since prep school days, but looked more or less the same. He was laughing with a most beautiful redheaded girl, who was wearing black flared trousers and a white silk shirt tied under her breasts and showing off her smooth bare midriff. By her freckled arms and her coral pink toenails, Jake identified the girl on the balcony. Rupert had his back turned as he paid for a round of drinks and signed an autograph for the barman, but Jake immediately recognized the back of that smooth blond head and the broad blue striped shoulders. He felt a wave of horror and loathing.

“This is Jake Lovell,” said Malise. “I’m sure he knows who all of you are.”

Rupert swung round, smiling. In his brown face his eyes were as brilliantly blue as a jay’s wing.

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome to alcoholics not at all anonymous. I hear you had a worse journey than us, which seems impossible. What are you going to drink?”

Jake, who’d rehearsed this moment so often, and who was prepared to be icily aloof, found himself totally disarmed by such friendliness and muttered he’d like some Scotch. Billy got to his feet and shook Jake’s hand.

“You’ve been cleaning up on the Northern circuit. Don’t venture up there often myself, too easy to get beaten.”

“That was a good horse you were jumping at Birmingham,” said Humpty, patting the empty seat beside him. “What’s she called, Australia?”

“Africa,” said Jake.

“Looks almost clean bred. Who was her sire?”

“Don’t know.”

“And her dam?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” said Rupert, handing Jake a very large glass of whisky, which made Malise frown slightly.

Rupert lifted his glass to Jake. “Welcome to the British squad,” he said. “Hope it’s the first of many.”

“Thanks,” said Jake. He took a slug of his whisky, which was so strong it made his eyes water. He put his glass down at once, so they shouldn’t see how much his hand was shaking.

“Lavinia’s been capped for Great Britain six times,” said her mother defensively.

“Oh, please, Mummy.”

“You should be proud of the fact,” went on her mother. “The only girl in the team.”

“What about Driffield?” said Rupert. “I’ve always thought his sex was slightly in question.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Humpty. “I’ve shared a room with him.”

“That’s enough,” said Malise.

“Did you get to the Prado this afternoon?” Helen asked him.

Malise shook his head.

“I spent a couple of hours there,” she said. “The Velasquez are out of this world. Such power. I only managed to do two rooms, but I also looked at the cathedral. The nave is just wonderful.”

Rupert stifled a yawn. “I prefer navels,” he said, running his hand over his wife’s midriff. Then, pushing down her black trousers, he fingered her belly button. “Particularly yours.”

It was definitely a gesture of possession and he smiled across at Jake with that bullying, mocking, appraising look that Jake remembered so well.

Humpty turned back to Jake. “By the way, thanks for looking after Porky on the way down. Bridie said he might have damaged himself and her very badly if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“The train driver ought to be shot,” said Jake.

“Spaniards don’t like animals,” said Humpty. “Porky’s highly strung of course, but so was his dam.”

And Humpty was off on a long involved dissertation on Porky Boy’s breeding. Jake appeared to listen and studied the others. Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade were discussing what horses Lavinia ought to jump, across Lavinia, who was gazing surreptitiously at Billy. Billy was arguing fairly amicably with Rupert about whether a particular mare was worth selling and how much they’d get for her. Helen and Malise, having exhausted Velasquez, had moved on to Spanish poetry. She was an astonishingly beautiful girl, thought Jake, but too fragile for Rupert. Jake couldn’t imagine him handling anyone with care for very long.

“I just adore Lorca,” Helen was saying. “He’s so passionate and basic; that poem that starts ‘Green, Green, I want you Green.’ ”

“Sounds like Billy,” said Rupert, “only in his case it’s Gweenslade, Gweenslade, I want you Gweenslade.”

“Shut up,” hissed Billy, shooting a nervous glance in the direction of Lavinia’s mother.

“Not unless you buy me a drink,” said Rupert, handing Billy his empty glass.

“Okay,” said Billy, getting up. “Who needs a refill?”

“Jake does,” said Rupert.

Unable and not particularly wanting to get a word in edgeways while Humpty talked, Jake had had plenty of time to finish his whisky. Having not had anything to eat for at least thirty-six hours, he was beginning to feel very tight. But before he could protest, Rupert had whipped his glass away and handed it to Billy.

“Not as strong as the last one, then,” said Malise firmly. “That was a quadruple.”

“He’s not eighteen, you know,” said Rupert softly.

“How old are you?” asked Humpty.

“Twenty-six,” said Jake.

“Same as me and Rupe,” said Billy, hailing the waiter.

“It’s funny we haven’t heard of you before,” said Lavinia. “Awfully womantic, to be suddenly picked out of the blue like that.”

“I started late,” said Jake.

“But I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” said Billy, puzzled, as he handed double whiskies to Jake and Rupert.

“Pwobably in Horse and Hound, or Widing magazine,” said Lavinia.

No it wasn’t, thought Billy to himself. There was something about Jake that made him feel uneasy, layers of memory being slowly peeled back like an onion, not very happy memories, the kind you tucked into a corner of your mind and tried to forget.

They dined in a taverna a couple of streets away. The walls were covered in fans and castanets and pictures of ladies in mantillas. In a corner a fat tenor in a rather dirty white frilly shirt, and with greasy patent leather hair, was dispiritedly strumming a guitar. The owner rushed out, shaking hands with Malise, Humpty, Rupert, and Billy and showing them their signed photographs on the wall, then going into a frenzy of ecstasy over Lavinia’s blond beauty. Redheads were less rare in Madrid than blondes, and Helen was a little too thin for Spanish tastes.

Jake was beginning to feel distinctly odd. He must get some food inside him. He found himself with Lavinia on his left and Mr. Greenslade on his right. Bottles were put on the table and Rupert immediately filled everyone’s glasses. Completely incomprehensible menus came round.

“What’s gazpacho?” he asked Lavinia.

“Tomato soup,” said Rupert.

That sounded gentle and stomach-settling.

“And polpi?”

“Some sort of pasta,” said Rupert.

“I’ll have that,” said Jake.

Suddenly he noticed Billy’s hand caressing Lavinia’s thigh under the table, where her mother and father couldn’t see. The waiter arrived for their order. Firmly Jake said he’d like gazpacho and polpi.

“I’d like a large steak and chips,” said Humpty.

“So would I,” said Billy, “but not chips, just a salad — my trousers are getting disgustingly tight — and Mediterranean prawns to start.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” said Rupert, filling up his glass.

Helen turned to the waiter and started to address him in Spanish.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Rupert irritably, “they all speak English.”

“Spanish is the native language of approximately two hundred million people throughout the world,” said Helen, flushing slightly. “That can’t be all bad.”

“At least she can translate your horoscope in the Spanish papers,” said Billy.

“And jolly useful at customs,” said Mrs. Greenslade, who admired Helen.

“We’ve got Marion for that,” said Rupert. “She’s got big boobs, which is more a language the customs officers understand.”

Apart from his hand stroking her thigh, Billy was studiously avoiding Lavinia for the benefit of her parents, so she turned to Jake.

“How did you get on in Rome?” he said. “I haven’t seen any papers.”

“I got a second and a third. Wupert did best. He won two classes and got a clear wound in the Nations’ Cup. But we were still thwashed by the Germans and the Fwench. I don’t think we’ll ever beat them. Ludwig and Hans Schmidt are like computers: they just pwogwam their horses and wound they go.”

Jake was eating bread, desperate to mop up some alcohol. The fat flamenco singer, after a lot of stamping, launched into some mournful ditty.

“Sounds like Grand Hotel,” said Rupert.

Now he’d had a lot to drink, Jake found his eyes continually drawn to Rupert, like a rabbit to a snake. He still felt the same sick churning inside. Rupert’s whiplash tongue was still there. Soon he knew he’d be the recipient. He realized again what an evil man Rupert was behind his offhand jokey exterior.

It was very hot in the restaurant. Jake was drenched with sweat.

“Okay?” asked Malise. “Grub should be up in a minute. That’s one of the maddening things about Spain: no one dines before ten o’clock. At least we get a nice late start.”

“I’m going to spend tomowwow morning sunbathing,” said Lavinia.

“You are not,” said her father. “You’ll sort out that stop of Snowstorm’s. We’re not risking him ducking out again.”

At last food began to arrive. A plate of soup was put in front of Jake. A great waft of garlic made him feel distinctly queasy. God knows what was in it. Little bits of fried bread, green peppers, and cucumbers floated on top.

“This is a most interesting paella,” Helen was saying as she speared a large mussel. Feeling slightly sick, Jake took a mouthful of soup and only just avoided spitting it out. It was stone cold and heavily garlicked. He put his spoon down and took a huge gulp of wine, then a piece of bread to take the taste away.

What was he to do? Was it some diabolical plan of Rupert’s, telling the waiter to bring him cold soup, so he could laugh like a drain when Jake ate it?

“What’s the matter?” said Malise.

“Nothing,” said Jake. He mustn’t betray weakness. He took another mouthful and very nearly threw up. Glancing up, he saw Rupert eyeing him speculatively.

“Gazpacho good?” he asked.

“It’s stone cold, if you want to know,” said Jake. “They’ve forgotten to heat it up.”

Rupert grinned. “It’s meant to be,” he said gently. “I should have warned you. It’s a Spanish national dish, no doubt enjoyed throughout the world by approximately two hundred million people.”

Jake gripped the sides of the plate. For a second he felt such a wave of hatred he nearly hurled it in Rupert’s face.

“I’ll have the gazpacho,” said Billy, leaning over, whipping away Jake’s plate and handing him the Mediterranean prawns in return.

“Then you’ll sleep alone,” said Rupert.

“It seems I have no other choice,” said Billy, smiling blandly at Mrs. Greenslade, and squeezing Lavinia’s thigh a bit harder.

Rupert started discussing bullfights with Humpty Hamilton.

“We’ll go to one later in the week.”

“I’m not going,” said Lavinia. “I thinks it’s vewy cwuel.”

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Rupert.

“No.”

“You’re just like Helen. She was out with the Antis when I first met her.”

She looks like a fox, thought Jake, beautiful, nervous, wistful, with those haunted yellow eyes, a tamed fox that might bolt at any minute.

“The El Grecos are wonderful,” she was saying to Malise. “You look like an El Greco yourself, kind of lean and distinguished.”

Malise, Jake noticed, blushed slightly and looked not unpleased.

“I’m going back tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come too?” she went on.

“Tomorrow, my angel,” said Rupert with a distinct edge to his voice, “you are going to spend the morning in bed with me.”

The second courses were arriving. Jake felt the mayonnaise and prawns mixing unhappily with the whisky and wine in his stomach. Pasta was just the thing to settle it. Next moment a plate was put down in front of him. He nearly heaved at the sight; it was full of octopus.

“I didn’t order this!”

“Sí, señor, polpi.”

Jake turned dark red. “You said it was pasta,” he hissed at Rupert.

“How silly of me,” drawled Rupert. “Of course, polpi, octopus. I’d forgotten. What a pity you didn’t ask Helen or Malise.”

“You’re a shit, Rupert,” said Billy. “Look,” he added to the waiter, “take this back and get some risotto, or would you rather have a steak?”

Jake shook his head. He was feeling awful.

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Have some of my wice and chicken,” said Lavinia, tipping it onto his side plate. “It’s weally good, but I’ll never get thwough it all. Did you know there were two men in the Spanish team called Angel and Maria?”

Dinner dragged on. Jake was dropping now. He picked at the rice Lavinia had given him but didn’t manage to finish it. Once again he was overwhelmed with such homesickness he almost wept. If he was home now, he’d probably have just come in from a show. Tory would be waiting and together they’d go up and gloat over the sleeping Isa.

“Anyone want pudding?” asked Malise.

“I’d love some berries,” said Helen. “Have they any fresh berries?”

“In English you specify them,” said Rupert through gritted teeth. “Strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries.”

“I’m sure there are some strawberries,” said Malise, smiling at Helen.

“What about you, Jake?”

Jake shook his head and got to his feet. “Thank you for dinner. I’m off to bed,” he said. “Can I settle up with you in the morning?”

“This is on the BSJA,” said Malise.

“Well, thanks,” said Jake.

“Sleep well,” said Malise. “Order breakfast from Reception. They all speak English, and for Christ’s sake don’t drink the water in the taps.”

“You going to bed?” said Rupert in surprise. “Sorry about the polpi and the gazpacho. New boy’s tease, you know.”

“I know,” said Jake bleakly, “only too well.”

Looking at the set white face, in a flash Billy remembered. Lovell, J. Of course! He knew he’d seen him before. He was the gypsy boy at St. Augustine’s, Gyppo Jake, whom he and Rupert had bullied unmercifully until he ran away. It was the one thing in his life he’d always been ashamed of. He wanted to say something to Jake, to apologize for the teasing at dinner, but it was too late. He’d gone.

Outside Jake took a taxi down to the showground. Fortunately he’d remembered his pass and the guards let him in. He realized he was very drunk.

The Great Bear overhead kept disintegrating and reforming, like a swarm of illuminated gnats. Crossing the exercise ring, he threw up behind a large Spanish chestnut. As he covered it with sand, he hoped one of Rupert’s bloody horses would slip on it tomorrow.

Bastard, bastard, bastard, he hadn’t changed at all. New boy’s tease indeed. Nausea overwhelmed him again. He leant against an oak feeling dizzy. Finally he made the stables. It was a comfort that Africa and Sailor were so pleased to see him. Blinking sleepily, they smelt of hay and contentment. One arm round each of their necks, he clung onto them, desperate for reassurance. They were his horses from his yard.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go out and lynch him.”