Riders

30

All the riders were now revving up for the World Championship, which was being held at Les Rivaux in Brittany in July. Only six British riders would be selected to go. Considering Billy a certainty, Kevin Coley had reserved a big tent at Les Rivaux and was intending to make a party of it, flying out all his important customers for a jolly.

As it was only May, Billy wasn’t too worried about qualifying. He was bound to hit form soon. The Bull had got over a virus complaint and was back on the circuit. Another key event, from Kevin Coley’s point of view, was Westerngate, a big show in the Midlands, towards the end of May. The Moggie Meal factory was just a few miles outside Westerngate, and Kevin Coley had a tent at the show, where all his senior staff were expected to turn out in their best clothes and mingle with important customers.

The highlight of the day for all of them was to meet Billy and watch his horses, Moggie Meal Al, Moggie Meal Kitch (Kitchener), and Moggie Meal Dick (Mandryka), jumping. They were also keen to meet Billy’s beautiful and famous wife, Janey, whom many of the wives had thought a scream when they read her pieces.

Westerngate was about eighty miles north of Penscombe. Billy was expected to be on parade all three days of the show, and Kevin and Enid Coley were naturally disappointed that Janey was working on Thursday and Friday, but were very much looking forward to seeing her on Saturday for lunch.

“Do I have to come?” grumbled Janey.

“It is important,” urged Billy. “They’re our bread and butter.”

“Marg and sliced bread, if you ask me. I hate to leave the book,” she lied, “when it’s going so well.”

“I’ll come home on Friday night and collect you,” said Billy, “and we can drive down in the morning. But we’ll have to leave early; I’ve got a novice class around eleven-thirty.”

On the Monday before the show, Billy had gone to Kevin to ask for an advance of £20,000 to keep some of his creditors at bay. Kevin thought for a minute. “Yes, I’ll help you out, Billy.”

“That’s terribly kind of you,” said Billy, heaving a sigh of relief.

“It isn’t kind, it’s fucking generous. But I’m not going to help you out that much. I’m only going to give you £2,000, or you’ll lose your hunger.”

Billy’s heart sank.

“You’ll have to win the rest. Cut down on the booze and lose some weight. It’s a tough world. I’m counting on you for the World Championship. I’ve booked that tent for Les Rivaux, so you’d better start winning, and qualify.”

Billy wished Kevin hadn’t booked the tent; it was tempting providence.

Bad luck seemed to pursue him. He had such a hangover at Fontainebleau, he forgot to check if Tracey had screwed in Kitchener’s studs. Kitchener went into the ring and promptly slipped on takeoff, putting him out for the whole season, which left Billy with only The Bull and Mandryka. Janey was sympathetic when he rang, but she was four days late with the curse, and cocooned in secret expectations.

On Wednesday night, Billy came home from Fontainebleau and found Janey had put three pairs of breeches and four white shirts in the washing machine with one of her scarlet silk scarves, so they came out streaked red like the dawn. Billy was very tired or he wouldn’t have hit the roof.

“I can’t think what you’re worrying about. I’m not complaining,” Janey shouted back at him, “and I’ve ruined a perfectly good scarf. I’ve been so busy, you’re lucky to have your shirts washed at all. Why don’t you go out and win something, then you could afford to send them to the laundry?”

Billy felt that terrible clawing pain in his gut that was becoming so familiar these days. A large glass of whisky seemed the only answer.

Going upstairs in the faint hope of finding some clean shirts, he saw instead the beautiful new iron bedhead above the spare room bed.

“Where did that come from?”

“I bought it weeks ago.”

“And paid for it?”

“Not yet.” Janey didn’t meet his eyes.

“Why d’you buy bloody bedheads when I can’t afford boots?”

“Why don’t you buy cheap vino instead of paying £3 a bottle? Why are you always buying drinks for people, giving them the shirts off your back, even if they are streaked red like the dawn? As I said, why don’t you win something? I’m fed up with playing second fiddle to a string of bloody horses.”

Billy went back upstairs. When she joined him, he was lying in bed wearing pajamas buttoned up to the neck. Even though his face was turned to the wall she caught a waft of bad digestion and drink fumes.

“Billy,” she said apologetically. He didn’t answer, but she knew he was awake. Nothing, however, could dent her happiness. She was eight days late. She woke up in the night and Billy was so still she thought he’d committed suicide, so she woke him up in a panic and, half-asleep, he instinctively put his arms round her, forgetting the dreadfulness of the row.

He left before she woke in the morning to go to Westerngate, but returned on Friday night in better spirits. The Bull had come second in a big class, so perhaps his luck was turning.

Janey was delighted. “Who beat you?”

“Jake Lovell, of all people. He’s back on the circuit.”

“Who’s he?”

“You know Jake. Oh, I’d forgotten. You probably never met him. He was a cert for the Colombia Olympics, with two top-class horses. Then one had a heart attack at Crittleden. Appalling bad luck. Should never have been jumped. And then Rupert set his heart on the second.”

“And got it, no doubt,” said Janey. “He always gets anything or anyone he wants.”

“Yes, he did. It was Revenge actually. Belonged to Jake’s stepfather-in-law. Rupert made him an offer he couldn’t refuse; left Jake without any horses. Now he’s really back on form. I’m glad. I always felt bad about that business.”

Cheered up by Billy’s second, they got mildly tight together. “I’m so pleased you’re coming tomorrow,” said Billy. “They’re all dying to meet you. I want to show you off.”

Janey didn’t feel like being shown off. She felt fat and bloated; perhaps it was the first stirrings of pregnancy. In anticipation of maternity, and to cover the bulges (she was ten days late now), she was wearing one of Billy’s streaked shirts and nothing else.

“Do you like short hair?” she said, pausing at the Daily Mail fashion page.

“I do on Mavis. Can I shave your bush tonight?”

It was all rather erotic. Billy had bought her a porn magazine to read and laid her on a towel on the bed and used his razor and masses of soap and hot water. Wincing in case he nicked her, she read a story about a Victorian maid and her boss, which was too absurd for words and full of misprints and anachronisms, which she kept reading out to Billy: “ ‘I want to lock your bunt,’ said the vicar, his hot six rearing up.” But it soon had her bubbling over inside; the libido was an awfully bad judge of literature, Janey decided.

“Christ, you look fantastic,” said Billy as he rinsed away the last soap and hairs. Janey peered at herself. “Rather like an old boiler chicken.”

“It’ll be fantastic going down on you. Did you ever allow any of your other boyfriends to do this to you?” asked Billy, as he leapt on her. “Can we play for a long time?”

Janey, however, having come quickly herself, wanted to get it over with. She was suddenly tired and wriggled frantically trying to bring him to the boil, and then exciting him with a story of how Pardoe took her in the back of his Jaguar one summer night.

Janey fell asleep immediately afterwards. Billy lay awake and fretted. Mandryka had put in a nasty stop yesterday. He must get to Westerngate early and sort it out. Janey woke up in the morning with a hangover, feeling Billy’s prick nudging her back, his hand stroking her shaven flesh.

“What time ought we to leave?”

“Ten at the latest. I haven’t declared and I promised Kev we’d be there for prelunch drinks.”

Janey didn’t want sex but, to get herself in a more receptive mood, she fantasized she was a schoolgirl in a gym tunic, being ticked off by a very strict headmaster in a dog collar. Next moment the headmaster’s wife walked in and they both decided to have her.

“Shall I tell you a story to excite you?” asked Billy.

“I’m fine,” said Janey, who was deep in headmasters. “Nearly there.” The next moment, pleasure flooded over her. She longed to go back to sleep.

“You look so fantastic,” said Billy, “how about soixante-neuf?”

Janey couldn’t face a huge cock down her throat. “I can’t Billy, not with a hangover. Please stay inside me. I want to feel you coming.”

Afterwards they both fell asleep. When they woke it was five to ten.

“What are you doing?” said Billy, when he went into the bathroom five minutes later.

“Washing my hair.”

“But you can’t, we’ve got to leave now.”

“You’ll just have to drive a bit faster, or go without me.”

“I can’t,” he said, aghast. “They’re expecting you. Your hair looks fine. It’s only a show. It’s you they want to see, not your hair.”

“I know what they’ll all say, ‘Not as attractive as her photograph, nothing to look at in the flesh,’ ” snapped Janey, who was now upside down, head in the bath, rubbing in shampoo. “I do have a public image to keep up. It was you who wanted bloody sex.” They didn’t leave until after eleven.

“Revving up is actionable,” hissed Janey, coming out of the house.

“So is being an hour late,” snapped Billy.

“And my fringe has separated.”

Billy didn’t think that a striped rugger shirt with a rather dirty white collar, flared jeans, and an old denim jacket were suitable, but he didn’t complain, as he would have had to wait another twenty minutes. Rancid with ill temper, they drove all the way to Westerngate with Janey trying to do her face, snapping at Billy every time he went round a corner. The traffic was terrible. They were held up for thirty-five minutes by a couple of gays unloading some carpet into an antique shop in Broadway High Street.

Billy kept looking at his watch. “Kev’s going to flip his lid. I’m going to be too late to declare.” His stomach was killing him.

They arrived at half-past one. Billy went straight off to try and square the secretary, leaving Janey to park the car in the sponsors’ car park. There was the Moggie Meal tent. There was the awful cat winking on the flag. Oh God, here was Kevin Coley, coming towards her, wearing a suit the color of a caramel cupcake. He looked simply livid.

“Hi, Kev,” she said casually. “The traffic was awful.”

“Where the hell is Billy? He’s been late once too bloody often and they’ve put their foot down. They’ve closed the declaration. They’re already walking the course. That means he’ll probably be dropped for the Royal and for Aachen, and it’s too bloody near the World Championships.”

“He’s gone to talk to the stewards now. They’ll let him in. The crowd have come to see The Bull.”

“Don’t you bank on it. Everyone’s been waiting for you, too. We held lunch until a quarter of an hour ago. It’s not bloody good enough.”

It was with great difficulty that Janey stopped herself shouting back at him. Matters were hardly improved when Billy turned up, abject with apologies, and said they were going to allow him to jump, and he had better go and walk the course.

“See you later, darling,” he said to Janey. “Go and have some lunch.” Face set, she ignored him.

Kevin Coley took her arm, none too gently. “You’d better come along to the tent and repair some of the damage. And smile, for Christ’s sake. You’re being paid for it.”

In the tent, they found customers and staff stuffing roast beef and lobsters. Most of them were already tight. Kevin clones were everywhere, with thatched hair and lightweight and light-colored suits. The wives also all seemed to wear beige or pastel suits. Many wore hats on the back of their heads, with too much hair showing at the front, and high heels which kept catching on the raffia matting and sinking into the damp earth beneath.

Enid Coley, in a brown check suit and yellow shirt with a pussycat bow, was not the only one who looked disapprovingly at Janey’s jeans and rugger shirt. I don’t care, I don’t care, thought Janey. I’m eleven days late, and I’m going to have a baby. The little Coley children or the Sprats, as Billy called them, had all been at the bottle and were rushing around being poisonous. I’ll never let my children grow up like that, Janey thought to herself. Kevin put her between two directors’ wives who were eating strawberries and cream.

“The gardens aren’t as good as the ones at Buckingham Palace,” said one.

“No,” said the second, “although I didn’t really notice the ones at Buckingham Palace the first time I went.”

Next moment Helen walked into the tent looking like a million dollars in an off-white canvas suit and flat dark brown boots.

“I’m real sorry I couldn’t make lunch. You did get the message, didn’t you? But with young kids, it’s so difficult to get away,” she said to Kevin and Enid, who looked as though they’d been kissed under the mistletoe. Enid, pink with pleasure, took Helen on a tour of the more important clients. Helen was so nice to all of them. Then suddenly she saw Janey and her face lit up.

“Janey, how lovely. I didn’t know whether you’d be able to get away.”

“We were just saying the BSJA ought to club together and buy you a bra, Janey,” said Enid Coley.

Later, Janey sat in the riders’ stand with Helen watching the big class. She had been pleased with her rugger shirt and jeans until she saw Helen’s suit, which was French and cost at least £300. When they had walked through the crowds earlier, all the men had stared at Helen, so Janey had taken her dark glasses off, so people could see her sexy, slanting eyes, but they still looked at Helen, so she took off her denim jacket to show off her splendid bosom, but they still looked at Helen. Why the hell couldn’t Billy be as rich as Rupert, so she could afford decent clothes? She was still furious with Kev, who was sitting on her other side. In the next-door stand, he had booked seats for all his frightful clients, who clapped and shrieked when riders fell off, and cheered before rounds were finished, and stood up and took pictures all the time, to the rage of the people sitting behind them.

“Isn’t Kev hell?” she whispered to Helen. “I bet he streaks his chest hair.”

“I think he’s charming,” said Helen, in surprise.

Billy’s stomach was killing him, like a giant clenching a huge fist in his gut. The only answer, as Kevin was safely in the riders’ stand, was to nip into the bar for a couple of quick doubles.

“Those hangover pills you gave me aren’t doing much,” he grumbled to Rupert, when he got back to the collecting ring.

“I should think not,” said Rupert. “They’re for backache. D’you know, I really think Tab is very bright. She smiled at me today. They don’t usually smile till three months.”

“Lucky you. Janey’s not smiling at me.”

Suddenly, Billy thought of the shaved bush under those jeans and, overwhelmed with lust, he waved at Janey. Janey ignored him.

It was a tough course. Ludwig went clear. Two Americans, just arrived and accustoming themselves to European fences in anticipation of the World Championships, went clear. The usual mighty roar of applause went up as Billy and The Bull rode into the ring. All Kevin’s guests stood up to take photographs.

“My husband may not be the most successful, but he’s certainly the most popular rider in England,” said Janey, shooting a venomous look at Kevin, who was tugging at his goalpost mustache and twisting his initial bracelet.

“Come on, Billy. Come on, The Bull,” yelled the crowd. They too refused to adopt Moggie Meal Al.

“I can’t bear to look,” said Janey, and didn’t, continuing to talk to Helen about straight-legged jeans.

Billy was clear and jumping beautifully, until he came to the penultimate fence, when a great cheer went up from the Moggie Meal contingent and distracted The Bull, who jumped the wing instead of the fence and, catching his front leg, went head over heels. The Moggie Meal supporters let out piercing shrieks and started clicking their cameras frantically.

Billy was unhurt and managed to hang on to the reins, getting up and running like mad after a thoroughly rattled Bull. Nearly crashing into a flag, Billy picked it up and waved it in mock fury at The Bull, who backed away in terror. Billy started to laugh, threw down the flag, snatched up a handful of grass, and gave it to The Bull, reducing the crowd to fits of laughter. Vaulting onto The Bull’s back, he cantered out of the ring, grinning broadly.

That’s two grand up the spout, thought Janey. I don’t know what he’s got to look so cheerful about.

Billy came into the stand, kissed Helen hello, and sat down between her and Janey.

“Sorry, Kev,” he said.

Janey caught a waft of whisky and hoped it didn’t reach Kevin. After two minutes, Billy got to his feet.

“Who’d like a drink?”

“Not for me,” said Kevin Coley pointedly.

“Nor me,” said Helen, standing up. “I must go and ring Bergita. Has anyone got any change?”

“Be my guest,” said Kevin Coley, going pink again as he handed her the coins.

“That’s what I call a real lady,” said Kevin as Helen made her way along the row, thanking everyone for getting up.

“As opposed to me,” muttered Janey to herself, crossly.

“Pity she doesn’t come to shows more often. But then she’s such a caring mother,” Kevin went on.

Janey looked stonily down at the collecting ring, where a black-haired rider was walking towards a girl groom, with long mousy hair, who was leading a large gray horse.

“Who’s that? He’s attractive,” she said to Billy.

“That’s Jake Lovell,” said Billy. “I was telling you about him last night. And that groom’s his sister-in-law, Fenella Maxwell. She won a novice class this morning and she’s only sixteen. She’s bloody good. Jake’s trained her really well. Isn’t she pretty?”

“She’s certainly a most attractive young lady,” said Kev.

“I’m surprised you can tell for the spots,” said Janey.

“Meow,” said Kevin.

“Oh, go eat your own product,” snapped Janey.

She went downstairs to the loo. She really must stop being a cow. Glancing at her reflection under the fluorescent lighting, she thought how awful she looked, piggy-eyed and shadowed. She did hope she wasn’t going to be one of those women who felt sick for nine months. As she sat on the loo, she felt the sudden cold on her shaven bush. Just to convince herself, she slipped her finger between her legs, then pressed it against the white gloss lavatory wall. She couldn’t believe it. She reached further into her vagina, pushing against the neck of the womb. She pressed the white wall again. It was unmistakable: a second dark red fingerprint. She gave a groan, tears spilling out of her eyes. She was wracked with despair. Oh, God, the red badge of discouragement. It was so ironic. Before she was married, the red fingerprint was all she craved; she’d been so terrified all the time of getting pregnant. Now she knew why it was called the curse, the curse of not having babies. She leant against the wall and cried and cried.

Twenty minutes later she came out of the loo, huddled behind her dark glasses. Kevin was waiting outside. “Where the hell have you been? Billy was looking for you. He’s just about to jump Moggie Meal Dick. He told me to tell you. What’s the matter?” He lifted off her dark glasses. “Why are you crying?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“Worried about money?”

Her lip trembled. “I thought I was pregnant. I was ten days late, you see. I’ve just discovered I’m not.”

“Been trying long?”

“About eighteen months. Since we married, really.”

“May not be your fault.”

Janey gave a bitter laugh. “Billy’s mother thinks it is.”

Kevin looked at her thoughtfully.

“Enid’s got a first-rate gynecologist. I’ll tell her to give you a ring.”

Mandryka got four faults and was out of the running. Rupert was first, Jake Lovell second. It was noticed that both men stared stonily ahead, not exchanging a single word, as they lined up for their rosettes.

Helen drove home with Rupert. “I really do think Janey should look after Billy better. All his boots need heeling. He was wearing a filthy shirt and Kevin said she made him really late today.”

Rupert shook his head. “There’s no doubt that William has made a marriage of inconvenience.”