Riders

32

The gods that had blessed Billy during the first year of marriage seemed to withdraw their sponsorship during the second. The following week, Billy rang, jubilant from a show in the South, saying he’d just come first in a big class and won a £5,000 car. He was going to pop up to London in the morning for a ten o’clock appointment with Enid’s gynecologist, who’d been making some tests, then pop back to the show, compete in the afternoon, then drive the car straight home afterwards. Tracey would drive the lorry and, as the car was still being run in, he was afraid they’d both arrive in the middle of the night.

“But I really feel my luck’s turning, darling.”

Janey spent the afternoon in bed with Kevin, so she was glad Billy was going to be late. At midnight the telephone rang. It was from a call box.

“Billy!”

“Yes, darling.”

“Where are you?”

“On the Penscombe-Birdlip road.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I was driving home when a wall jumped out and hit me.”

“Christ.”

“I’m afraid I was a bit over the limit, and I think the car’s a write-off.”

“Stay where you are,” said Janey. “I’ll come and get you.”

She drove in her nightie, frantic with worry. The first thing she saw was a concertinaed pile of scrap metal. God knows how Billy had escaped alive. Then she saw Billy sitting on the wall, singing:

* * *

“Billy Lloyd-Foxe sat on a wall,

Billy Lloyd-Foxe had a great fall.

All Kevin’s horses and all Kevin’s men

Couldn’t put Billy together again.”

He was absolutely plastered. She must get him home before the police came along and Breathalyzed him.

“Billy Lloyd-Foxe sat on a wall,” he began again.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

She had to help him in; his legs kept giving way. When they got home she helped him upstairs. He collapsed on the bed, white and shaking. There was a huge bruise on his forehead.

“Must have a pee.”

He got to his feet and, staggering towards the wardrobe, opened the door and was about to step in.

“Bill-ee, the loo’s the other way.”

“Oh, yes.” He took two steps back, one forward, and veered off towards the loo.

“I didn’t know anyone could pee that long,” said Janey when he came back.

“I’ve done one minute, fifty-five seconds before now. Rupert timed me.” He collapsed on the bed again. She knelt down beside him.

“What’s the matter?”

He looked at her, not focusing. “I went to the doctor.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it’s me, not you. I’ve got a zilch sperm count. He showed me it under the microscope. Not a tadpole in sight.”

He hung his head. “He said we should think seriously about adoption.” Janey put her arms around him.

“Oh, angel, I’m so sorry. But it doesn’t matter. Of course we can adopt.”

“But I wanted you to have my babies. You wanted one so badly and I can’t give you one. Christ!”

She felt desperately sorry for him, but she couldn’t help feeling relief in a way for herself, and boo sucks to his bloody mother. She put him to bed and within seconds he had passed out. He woke with a most appalling headache and went to the doctor, who said he had concussion as well and he should rest for a week. Billy ignored him. The following morning he set off with Rupert for Aachen.

Janey rang Kevin as soon as he’d gone and, feeling disloyal, told him about the car and the sperm count. In a way, she felt she’d been dealt a marked card. She’d married Billy thinking he was a star and the star had almost immediately started falling out of the firmament. That she’d contributed almost entirely to this fall didn’t enter her head. She forgot how miserable she’d been, racketing from lover to lover in Fleet Street, waiting desperately for telephone calls, often spare at weekends. She remembered only the fun and excitement. Kevin’s propaganda was soft-pedaled but lethal.

“Honey, Billy is simply not macho enough for you. You’re like a beautiful lily. You’ll only thrive if tied to a very strong stake. He’s too weak, too Piscean. He’s totally dominated by Rupert. He simply can’t cope on his own. He’s never going to get himself out of this mess. He’s over the top. Everyone’s saying so.”

By contrast, Kev was so positive, ordering her about, paying restaurant bills with wads of fivers. She even suspected he put her on expenses.

Billy rang her from Aachen. He sounded depressed and slightly tight. “Darling, please don’t worry about babies. I promise I’ll sort us out after the World Championships. I miss you horribly. I wish you were here.”

Janey proceeded to plead with him not to ring her until he got home. “I hate to hear you so down. It really upsets me, puts me off work. I know you’ll get in the money soon.”

Feeling faintly guilty, Janey then left Mavis with Mrs. Bodkin and flew off to Spain with Kev. Billy was due back on Sunday. She’d be home by Saturday lunchtime. She spent a fortune on clothes and having her hair streaked beforehand. She felt, subconsciously, that if she made the financial situation worse, some kind of confrontation would be triggered off. Kev had never mentioned any permanent relationship — he was too fly for that. But the affair was certainly hotting up.

Billy got home at midday on Saturday, his heart like lead. There was no barking. Janey must have taken Mavis for a walk. He had difficulty opening the front door for letters on the doormat. He was so tired, it took him a little while to realize that among them were his own letters and postcards from Aachen. And there was the telegram he’d sent yesterday saying he was coming home early, unopened.

The house was very tidy. Harold Evans weaved furrily round his legs. But there was no sign of Janey anywhere. He felt faint with horror. Perhaps she’d been murdered or kidnapped. He poured himself a large whisky and telephoned Mrs. Bodkin.

“She’s gone away, researching for her book in Norfolk,” she said, “and staying with her mother. She’s coming home today. I’ve got Mavis. She’s been as good as gold. D’you want to come and pick her up?”

Relief gave way to a dull anger. Mrs. Bodkin looked secretive and overexcited when he arrived, her mouth disappearing in disapproval. She loved Billy; he was as nice a gentleman as you could find, and so thoughtful. But he should never have married that trollop.

After two more drinks back at the cottage, he heard a car draw up. There was Janey running up the drive in a faded purple T-shirt and sawn-off pink trousers. Her tortoiseshell hair was incredibly bleached by the sun (Billy didn’t recognize streaking) and she was browner and thinner than ever. His stomach twisted with desire and the pain of his ulcer. All he could think of was how much he’d like to fuck her.

“Darling, how lovely! You said you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” cried Janey. “Must have a pee.”

She didn’t look as though she’d been staying with her mother, thought Billy. She never bothered to wear makeup or scent when she went down there.

“I bought you some Norfolk strawberries, darling,” she lied. Actually, she’d bought them in Cheltenham on the way from the airport, in case she needed an alibi. They went back into the house.

“Sweetheart, you look awfully pale,” said Janey, suddenly noticing. “What’s happened?”

“I sent you this telegram. You haven’t read it.”

He turned away, fighting a terrible desire to break down and cry. Janey opened it with shaking hands. Had he heard something about her and Kev? Smoothing out the paper, she read: “Mandryka broke leg. Had to be shot. Coming home. Love, Billy.”

She turned in horror.

“Oh, my angel, I’m so sorry.” She went over and put her arms round his shaking shoulders. “What happened?”

“It was my fault. He missed his jerk, hit the top pole smack, got caught up in the rest of the poles, and that was that. It was horrible.” His face worked like a little boy about to cry. “He was such a great horse. I know he was bad-tempered, but he could be so brave.”

“Come to bed,” she said gently. “I’ll take care of you.”

Upstairs he rolled on top of her, took her perfunctorily, then immediately fell asleep.

“There’s no choice,” said Billy, facing the ruins of his career next morning. “It’s The Bull for the World Championship. At least Kev’s keeping away and not breathing down my neck at the moment. Christ knows what he’ll say about Mandryka.”

He was away the next two days, jumping the Grade B and C horses at Crittleden. Janey spent the second afternoon in bed with Kevin, where they did more talking than copulating. Billy, said Kevin, had been drunk in Aachen when he jumped Moggie Meal Dick. That was why he put the horse wrong at the fence where he broke his leg. Everyone was talking about it.

He was gone long before Billy got home, giving Janey plenty of time to wash off scent and makeup, get back into her old clothes, and be sitting dutifully at her typewriter.

“Good day?” she asked.

“Not bad. Here’s The Tatler. Rupert gave it me. There’s a picture of Tab and Helen. I think Rupe’s bought up every copy, he’s so chuffed.”

Billy went upstairs and changed into his dressing gown, secured with his old Harrovian tie; the belt had been lost years ago. As there was no sign of dinner, he poured himself a drink and then started opening the new pile of brown envelopes. He started to tremble. He knew Janey had been depressed about babies and probably needed to cheer herself up, but these bills for clothes were ludicrous. And how the hell could she have spent £50 at the hairdresser’s? She hadn’t even had a haircut. He poured himself another drink and sat down on the sofa.

“Darling, we must talk about money.”

Janey, however, was deep in The Tatler. “Oh look, there’s Mike Pardoe, and there’s Rupert’s mother. She is amazingly well preserved. She must be over fifty.”

Billy tried again. “I’ve just been through the returned checks. The bank say they’re going to bounce anything more we submit. Soon, I won’t be able to feed the horses.”

“Oh, dear,” said Janey in mock horror. “Of course the horses always come before everything else.”

“How long d’you think it’ll be before the book’s finished?”

“How can I tell? Oh, that is a sweet one of Tab, and Helen looks marvelous. She is so bloody photogenic. And there’s Caroline Manners. What an incredibly plain child.”

“You said July, last time I asked.”

“More likely October.”

“So it won’t be published this year?”

“Nope. Oh, look, Henrietta Pollock got engaged. Poor man.”

Billy’s heart sank. He was hoping to keep the manager sweet by a promise of £14,000 by Christmas.

He tried again. “We simply can’t go on like this. We’ve got an overdraft of £30,000. We owe the tax man twenty grand and the builders fifty grand and the VAT-man’s threatening to take us to court, and you spend £50 at the hairdressers, and £250 on clothes, expecting me not to notice. D’you take me for a complete fool?”

“Not complete. Pity you pranged the car. Oh, there’s Ainsley Hibbert. She’s gone blond. Not a bad guy with her, too.”

“Janey, have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Yes, I have. We owe rather a lot of money: about £100,000, in fact. You’ll have to tap darling Mumsie, won’t you? She won’t let poor Billy starve.”

Billy was having difficulty keeping his temper.

“If the book’s not going to be finished yet, could you do some journalism, just to pay the more pressing bills?”

Janey got up. “I must go and put on the parsnips.”

“I don’t want any dinner. If you honestly think I can eat…”

“It doesn’t seem to stop you drinking. Why don’t you go out and win something? It’s awfully boring being married to a failure.”

Billy put his head in his hands.

“Why d’you always try and make me feel small?”

“You are small,” said Janey. “You told me you’d lost a lot of weight recently.”

“For Christ’s sake, can’t you take anything seriously? If we really try, I know we can get straight.”

“Borrow something from Rupert.”

“He’s pushed himself, at the moment.”

“Paying for the new indoor swimming pool,” said Janey, walking out of the room.

Two minutes later Billy followed her, putting his arms round her. “Angel, we can’t afford to fight.”

Janey laughed bitterly. “I should have thought that was the only thing we could afford to do.”

The telephone rang. Billy went to answer it. “Oh, hello. Yes, I see. I quite understand. It was very good of you to let me know. Good luck, anyway.” Very slowly he put the receiver down; as he turned he seemed to have aged twenty years.

“That was Malise. I’ve been dropped for the World Championships. He wanted me to know before I read it in tomorrow’s papers. They’ve selected Jake Lovell instead.”

What, thought Janey, was Kev going to say, stuck with a tent in Les Rivaux and all his male customers revved up for a stag freebie full of Oh-la-las?