Riders

38

Fen had seldom met anyone she disliked more than Griselda Hubbard. Having told Fen to be ready at five-thirty, she rolled up, while it was still dark, at four forty-five, just as Fen was feeding Desdemona and Macaulay. Refusing to come in for a cup of coffee, she sat drumming her fingers on the wheel of her vast eight-gear juggernaut, gazing at the immaculate yard as though it was a pigsty, forcing Fen into a complete panic and sabotaging all her down-to-

the-last-minute organization. Macaulay loathed getting up early, at the best of times. There was no way you could hurry him over his breakfast or Sarah over blow-drying her hair.

“It’ll dry all crinkly if I leave it,” was her only answer, in reply to Fen’s frantic pleas.

“What on earth’s that?” said Griselda, as Fen installed a huge sweetshop jar of lemon sherbets, taking up a large corner of the very limited cupboard space.

“Macaulay’s reward if he jumps well.”

“You’re optimistic,” said Griselda dismissively. She was bull-terrier solid rather than fat, with huge fleshy thighs stretching a maroon track suit, and a hard face with short permed dark hair, small beady eyes, and more than a suggestion of mustache on her upper lip. She might have been any age between thirty and forty-five but in fact was only twenty-eight.

“I am not sitting next to her,” muttered Sarah.

Georgie, Griselda’s girl groom, as thin and wiry as Griselda was solid, had a pointed nose, watery blue eyes, and a long beige plait down her back. There was a lot of fuss about loading. Griselda had four horses, with her star, Mr. Punch, on the outside.

“I’m not having that brute next to Punchie,” she said, as Fen started to lead Macaulay up the ramp.

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” protested Fen.

“Punchie is not a fly,” said Griselda, “and that’s not what Rupert Campbell-Black says. Put Desdemona next to Punchie.”

“Desdemona gets scared. It’s easier if she’s between Mac and Hardy, and Mac goes in first.”

“Look, if you hitch a lift with me,” said Griselda, “you abide by my rules.”

Handling the monster lorry like a man, Griselda calmly knocked down two of Tory’s carefully nurtured lilac trees on the grass verge by the gate. Fen shivered for Desdemona and Macaulay’s safety, as Grisel overtook juggernaut after juggernaut on the motorway. She got to the ferry two hours early, which meant lots of hanging around. Fen insisted on feeding her horses at the docks, which, to Griselda’s intense irritation, had Mr. Punch and the rest of her horses clamoring for their lunch too. To upset Fen, there was the inevitable lorry-load of bewildered, thirstily bleating little calves. The driver said they were destined for the pot.

“Why can’t they bloody kill them in England?” said Fen.

“EEC Regulations,” said the driver.

“Don’t be so sentimental,” said Griselda. “You eat meat, don’t you?”

When they were at sea they had lunch in the restaurant. Grisel ordered a huge steak. “I need my fuel. I’m the only one doing any work.”

Fen, who was starving, ordered a grilled sole, which seemed less bloodthirsty. The moment it arrived, Grisel made a point of asking her to go down to the hold and check the horses.

Throughout the three-day journey, she treated Fen with even more contempt than the grooms, insisting she map-read, then hitting the roof when Fen gazed out of the windows at the pink and white apple blossoms and, wondering how she would put Desdemona at all the fences that flashed past, twice navigated Grisel on to the wrong motorway.

Every sixty miles or so, Griselda ordered Sarah or Fen to make her yet another cup of strong black coffee with three spoonfuls of sugar.

Jake always stopped to water and graze his horses on the way. Griselda believed in pushing on. “We’ll never make Fontainebleau by nightfall if we bugger around blowing them out with grass. Who’d like a lemon sherbet?”

“They’re Macaulay’s,” snapped Fen.

“He’ll hardly get through that lot. No wonder he’s so podgy.”

“Certainly likes her pound of flesh,” muttered Sarah to Fen, “although why she should want any more flesh defeats me, the ugly cow.”

“She’s supposed to have a boyfriend,” said Fen.

“Must have picked him up at St. Dunstan’s.”

Finally, two days later, with the Ave Maria ringing out all over the city, they drove into Rome. Fen was knocked sideways by the beauty of the churches, the statues, the lakes reflecting the yellow and turquoise sky, and the great humpbacked dome of St. Peter’s. The streets swarmed with people parading up and down, gossiping and showing off their new clothes. The traffic was terrifying. Griselda, however, drove the lorry on undaunted, on the principle that if she crashed into a Ferrari it would come off worst. Sarah, sitting by the window, was the object of repeated wolf whistles.

“I always felt I’d like to end my days in Rome,” she said smugly.

“You probably will if Griselda doesn’t drive more slowly,” said Fen. “Oh, look at that beautiful park over there.” Through the gap in the houses she could see a rustic amphitheater circled with umbrella palms.

“That’s the showground,” said Sarah. “It’s supposed to be the most beautiful in the world.”

The stables, part of a military barracks, were splendid, with big roomy boxes, enabling the horses to look out into the yard.

“There’s Snakepit and The Bull,” said Sarah. “So Rupert and Billy are already here.”

Fen suddenly felt nervous and wondered what they’d think of her new hair.

“Hello,” said Dizzy, coming out of Snakepit’s box. “We flew out. We were lucky. Have you had a frightful journey?”

“Marvelous,” lied Fen, because Griselda was in earshot.

“Where are the team staying?” Griselda asked Dizzy.

“The Apollo, just round the corner.”

“Well, I’m off,” said Griselda. “I expect you’ll want to settle your horses, Fen. Can you carry my cases to the taxi rank, Georgie? And mind you brush out the horse area, and clean up the living area.”

“Bitch,” said Fen, glaring at Griselda’s solid, departing back, with Georgie running after her, buckling under the cases. “We’re getting home some other way,” she added to Sarah, “even if we have to carry the horses.”

Having examined the loose boxes for sticking-out nails and jagged edges of wood, they put down wood shavings and fed and watered the horses. Macaulay, however, had a more pressing need. Dropping down, folding like a camel, he rolled and rolled.

“God, I’m so tired. I could sleep on a clothesline,” said Fen.

“Where shall we have supper?” said Sarah.

“There’s a nice trattoria round the corner,” said Dizzy.

“Can I come with you?” asked Fen.

“No, you can’t,” said Driffield, who’d been checking his horses. “You’re staying at the Apollo with the team and you’ll be expected to dine with them, too. Come on, we’ll share a taxi.”

“Pay for it, you mean,” said Fen under her breath, knowing Driffield’s meanness. “You can sleep in the hotel room alternate nights, and I’ll sleep in the lorry,” she said apologetically to Sarah.

“Malise won’t put up with that,” said Driffield. “You’ve made the grade now, dear, and you’ll have to behave like one of us.”

The Hotel Apollo was a sprawling yellow villa, its stuccoed walls peeling. The walls of the lobby were decorated with friezes of Apollo in various guises, cavorting with bathing nymphs, bemused maidens, and hairy-legged flute players. There was a rackety lift, but Fen preferred to climb a huge baroque staircase to her room on the second floor, which turned out to be the height of luxury.

* * *

Meanwhile, downstairs in the bar, Malise, hiding his disappointment that Helen hadn’t made the trip to Rome this year, was giving Billy and Rupert a pep talk. “I need your help, chaps,” he said, with unusual heartiness. “Fenella Maxwell’s not eighteen yet. Tory and Jake are in a panic she’s going to get seduced by some wop. I promised them we’d keep a close eye on her.”

“Tory’s overreacting,” said Rupert. “I can’t actually envisage Fen having to fight them off.”

“Poor old Jake,” said Billy, looking down at his glass of Coke. “Bloody bad luck when he’d just battled his way to the top.”

“I must send him a please-don’t-get-well card,” drawled Rupert. “He tried to kill me last year, remember?”

“Pity he didn’t succeed,” said Driffield nastily.

Billy thought wistfully of the old days, when predinner drinks were the nicest part of the day, to celebrate or cheer you up after a lousy round. You’d start with a pint of beer because you were thirsty, and after that you had several large whiskys, with increasing merriment in anticipation of some exotic food, heightened by plenty of wine and several brandies afterwards. Life had seemed framed in a halo, studded with buttercups. Now all meals had a terrible sameness, with people getting sillier or more aggressive. The first wild agony of losing Janey had given way to a dull numbing loneliness. He had become aware of the appalling sameness of the show-jumping circuit, the faceless bedrooms, the endless traveling. Before, it had been redeemed by hell-raising with Rupert, or living it up with Janey. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of her and the good time they had had, and every night he watched the other riders ring home to check up on their families and report the latest success. He had no one to ring now, no one who gave a stuff if he won or lost, except his creditors, whom he was gradually paying back. The money from each small win was sent to Mr. Block, who kept what was necessary for Billy’s livelihood, took his cut, and passed the rest on to the tax man. In fact, if he could get back on form and notch up about five really good wins, he could discharge the whole debt. Once Janey had filed for divorce, Billy’s mother, making no secret of her relief, had come to his aid, not giving him a huge sum, but enough to settle the most pressing bills. Rupert had been wonderful. Looking across at him, a fond father showing photographs of the twelve-month-old Tabitha to Malise, Billy felt a wave of passionate gratitude for his support and kindness. Never once had Rupert tried to persuade him to have a drink, as other people constantly did.

Malise’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hope you don’t mind coming here again too much,” he said in an undertone. “I’m fond of this place, even if it is a bit quaint.”

Billy smiled. “Of course not.” That was all part of the act, to be cheerful, never to show the cracks in his heart.

He pointed to one of the more grotesque figures portrayed in the frieze round the walls of the bar.

“What did that poor chap do?”

“Raped Apollo’s mother. He was pegged down so that birds could peck continually at his liver.”

“Sounds like mine in the old days,” said Billy.

“Another Coke?” asked Malise.

“No, I’m fine.” Billy looked across at Griselda Hubbard, massive in a red track suit. What a disgustingly ugly pig she was, and already bad-mouthing poor little Fen.

“She’s a hopeless map-reader and kept making the most ridiculous fuss about stopping to graze and water the horses. If I’d listened to her we’d still be in France. Jake’s mad to let her ride the horses when she’s so soft. They’ll be walking all over her in a week or two, and she’s no sense of hierarchy, treats her groom like an equal, even a superior. She’ll have both her and the two horses tucked up in her hotel bedroom watching the telly at any minute.”

“I hope we can get English food here,” grumbled Driffield, brandishing an empty glass and looking around, hoping someone would buy him a drink.

Rupert was discussing declining television viewing figures with Malise. “They ought to sack Dudley; he’s such a pratt. What we need on the circuit is crumpet.”

“Who’s talking?” sneered Driffield.

“Not groupie crumpet, competing crumpet, some good-looking riders,”

“Like Lavinia,” said Malise.

“She was never good enough, or pretty enough,” said Rupert.

“Ahem,” said Billy.

“Anyway, she married a frog. I am talking about someone like Ann Moore or Marion Coakes; someone every little pony-mad girl can identify with. It’s the pony-mad girls that make up the audiences and bring in their parents.”

“What about Fenella Maxwell?” said Malise.

“Well, if she shed about a stone and a half, most of which is spots.”

“Thank you, Rupert,” said a shrill voice.

Everyone turned round.

“Mamma Mia,” said Billy.

“Christ,” said Rupert. “You have grown up.”

Fen stood staring at them, eyes widened like a faun, drained sea green shirt tucked into drained sea green Bermuda shorts, espadrilles on the end of her long smooth brown legs. Her spiky blond hair was still wet from the shower. Not a spot spoiled her smooth, brown cheeks, just a faint touch of blusher. She looked like a wary but very beautiful street urchin.

Oh, God, thought Malise, how am I going to chaperone that in Rome?

As it was very late, they went straight in to dinner. Ivor Braine and, amazingly, Driffield made concerted efforts to sit next to Fen. Ivor just crumbled Gristiks and gazed at her with his mouth open. All the team, except Griselda, who was obviously feeling upstaged, were incredibly nice, asking her about Jake’s leg and the horses and how the glamorous Sarah was settling in. The waiters, flashing teeth and menus, kept filling her glass with chianti. Not having touched a drop since she’d started dieting, she suddenly felt very light-headed.

“I’m starving,” she told Driffield. “I don’t think I could ever look at a grapefruit or a lettuce leaf again.”

“How much have you lost?”

“Not enough for Rupert.”

Across the table, Rupert laughed and raised his glass to her.

“I overestimated. You look delectable. Don’t lose an ounce more.”

“I’m going to have fettucine,” said Griselda sourly, “followed by abbacchio al forno.”

“What’s that?” said Ivor.

“Roast baby lamb, cooked whole,” said Griselda, watering at the mouth.

Probably one of those lambs that came over on the ferry, thought Fen savagely. Bloody carnivore. Suddenly she felt less hungry.

“What’s ucelletti?”

“Little songbirds roasted on a spit,” said Griselda. “They’re very good.”

“God, this is a barbaric country,” said Billy. “I’m surprised they don’t casserole all those stray cats hanging round the street.”

“Not enough meat on them,” said Rupert.

Next moment a messenger arrived at the table with two telegrams for Fen. One was from Jake and Tory and the children. When she opened the other, she gasped and went bright scarlet, but failed to shove it back into the envelope quickly enough to stop Driffield reading it.

“ ‘Congratulations,’ ” he read out, “ ‘and good luck. Look forward to seeing you this summer. Dino Ferranti.’ Consorting with the enemy, are we? You could do a lot worse for yourself. Evidently his father’s as rich as Croesus.”

“It’s nothing,” stammered Fen. “We just met briefly at the World Championship. I wonder how he discovered I’d been selected.”

Rupert was looking across at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “The sly fox,” he said, “must have been working overtime at Les Rivaux. As well as making a play for you, he was running like mad after Helen.”

“Not nearly as much as Macaulay was running after you,” began Driffield, then stopped when he saw the blaze of anger on Rupert’s face. “Sorry, dangerous subject.”

“Dino,” said Rupert, leaning over to fill up Fen’s glass, “even pursued Helen when we were in America. While she was staying with her mother, he was evidently never off the telephone, pestering her to go out with him.”

Fen felt her happiness evaporate. Seeing her face, Billy said quickly, “Never met Dino. Can’t imagine him pestering anyone. He sounds far too laid back.”

Dinner seemed to go on for hours. Fen found she couldn’t finish her spaghetti.

“Is Billy all right?” she said to Driffield in an undertone. “He seems to have lost all his sparkle and his hair’s even grayer than it was at Olympia.”

“Hasn’t really had a good win since then,” said Driffield. “Malise is only keeping him in the team for sentimental reasons.”

“He’s still so attractive.”

“Who is?” asked Rupert. Throughout dinner his eyes had flickered over Fen. He was the only man she’d ever met who could stare so calculatingly and without any embarrassment, as though he was a cat and she a bird’s nest he was going to raid in his own good time.

“No one,” she said quickly. She turned to Ivor. “Tell me about your new horse. Is he really called John?”

“I think you’ve lost your audience, Ivor,” said Rupert, five minutes later. Fen had fallen fast asleep, her head on the red raffia table mat.