Riders

3

The afternoon wore on, getting hotter. The Lady Mayoress, sweating in her scarlet robes, had a bright yellow nose from sniffing Lady Dorothy’s lilies. The band was playing “Land of Hope and Glory” in the main ring as the fences for the open jumping were put up, the sun glinting on their brass instruments. Mrs. Thomson and Mrs. Maxwell moved their deck chairs to the right, following the sun, and agreed that Jake was extremely rude.

“I’m going to have a word with Joyce Wilton about it,” said Molly Maxwell.

“Horse, horse, horse,” said Mr. Thomson.

“I can never get Fen to wear a dress; she’s never been interested in dolls,” said Molly Maxwell, who was still crowing over Fen’s rosette.

“I’m pleased Sally Ann has not lost her femininity,” said Mrs. Thomson.

“It’s extraordinary how many people read The Tatler,” said Mrs. Maxwell.

“Mrs. Squires to the judges’ tent,” announced the address system.

“Miss Squires, Miss Squires,” snapped the hairnetted lady judge, stumping across the ring.

“Wasn’t Dandelion wonderful?” said Fen for the hundreth time.

Tory could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts and down her ribs. She’d taken off her red jacket and hung her white shirt outside, over the straining safety pin.

Competitors in the open jumping were pulling on long black boots, the women tucking long hair into hairnets and hotting up their horses over the practice fence. With £100 first prize there was a lot of competition from neighboring counties. Two well-known show jumpers, Lavinia Greenslade and Christopher Crossley, who’d both jumped at Wembley and for the British junior team, had entered, but local hopes were pinned on Sir William’s son, Michael, who was riding a gray six-year-old called Prescott.

Armored cars and tanks had started driving up the hill for the dry shoot and the recruiting display. Soldiers, sweating in battle dress, were assembling twenty-five pounders in ring two.

“Christ, here comes Carter’s circus,” said Malise Gordon to Miss Squires.

“Hope he can keep them under control.”

“My chaps have arrived,” said Colonel Carter to Mrs. Maxwell. “I’m just going to wander over and see that everything’s all right.”

Jake gave Africa a last polish. Tory, noticing his dead white face, shaking hands, and chattering teeth, realized how terrified he was and felt sorry for him. He put a foot in the stirrup and was up.

If only I weren’t so frightened of horses I might not be frightened of life, thought Tory, cringing against the rope to avoid these great snorting beasts with their huge iron feet and so much power in their gleaming, barging quarters.

The band went out to much applause and, to everyone’s dismay, came back again. Jake rode up to Tory and jumped off.

“Can you hold her for a minute?” he said, hurling the reins at her.

He only just made the Gents’ in time.

Looking into the deep, dark dell of the Elsan, and catching a whiff of the contents, he was violently sick again. He must pull himself together or Africa would sense his nerves. Mrs. Wilton wouldn’t find out; the kids could cope in the gymkhana events for half an hour by themselves. He’d be all right once he got into the ring. He’d walked the course; there was nothing Africa couldn’t jump if he put her right. He leant against the canvas and wondered if he dared risk another cigarette.

Tory was not happy. Excited by the microphone and the armored cars and the crowds, Africa pulled and fretted as she jogged up and down.

“Thanks very much,” said Jake, taking the horse from her.

Tory looked at his white face and chattering teeth and felt so sorry for him. “I get just the same before dances,” she blurted out.

Jake smiled slightly.

“Take your partners for the torture chamber,” he said, mounting Africa again.

He rode very short, almost jockey length, crouching over the mare like a cat, settling down into the creaking leather. Africa, a netted cord of veins rippling under her shining coat, tugged at the reins, now this way, now that. Trying to catch Jake out, she danced over the grass, shying at the tea tent, the ladies’ lavatory, the flags. Jake didn’t move in the saddle.

Christopher Crossley, the good-looking boy on the chestnut with four white socks, cantered past, startling Africa, who bucked and swished her tail. Jake swore at him.

“Jake rides lovely, doesn’t he?” sighed Fen.

Even Tory’s uncritical eye could see that he rode wonderfully lightly; his hands hardly touched Africa’s mouth. Taking her away from the crowd, he popped her over a couple of practice fences.

Colonel Carter sat down beside Molly Maxwell, announcing that his chaps were itching to get started. At that moment a competitor on a huge gray paused in front of them to chat to some friends. The gray promptly stuck out its penis. Mrs. Maxwell caught the colonel’s eye and giggled.

“Aren’t horses rude?”

The colonel gave a bark of embarrassed laughter. Mrs. Maxwell found she couldn’t stop giggling. Tears were making her mascara run.

The band was playing a selection from The Merry Widow.

“Delia, oh Delia,” sang Colonel Carter, brushing his khaki leg against her silken thigh.

“Will you be able to get out again this evening?” he asked.

Molly stopped giggling with a little hiccup. “Oh, Tory’ll babysit. That’s one way she’s useful. Oh dear, I don’t mean to be bitchy.”

“You never say an unkind word about anyone.”

No, thought Molly, perhaps I don’t.

The colonel looked at his watch.

“Half an hour to blast off,” he said. “I hope Malise Gordon gets his finger out.”

There were nine jumps in all: a brush fence, a stile, a gate, parallel bars, the road-closed sign put up to a nasty five foot, another brush with a pole on top, a water jump which had been drained by various dogs, a wall, and a triple.

The two stars, Lavinia Greenslade and Christopher Crossley, stood side by side slightly apart from the other competitors.

“The jumps are much too low and flimsy,” said Lavinia. “Bound to be loads of clear wounds. We won’t get away for at least an hour and I did want to look in at Henwietta’s dwinks’ party.”

“Not much competition anyway,” said Christopher, adding to the groom, who was holding his horse, “Cindy, can you adjust that bandage?”

The first competitor trotted out, an enormously fat girl with a huge bosom.

“Give herself a couple of black eyes every time she jumps with those boobs,” said Christopher.

The girl went clear.

“I told you there were going to be loads of clear wounds,” said Lavinia petulantly.

“I can’t see, I can’t see,” said Fen in a shrill voice.

“You come through here then,” said a man on a shooting stick, making a gap in the crowd through which Fen dragged a desperately embarrassed Tory to the ropes.

A chestnut came in, ridden by a boy with a big nose who jabbed his horse in the mouth over every fence.

“Jumps well,” said Tory.

“Horse does,” said Fen. “Rider should be shot. Bloody hell,” she added as he went clear. The man on the shooting stick who’d let Fen through looked at her with less indulgence.

Lavinia Greenslade was next, the gray peering seductively through the long forelock of its mane, Arab ears curling upwards like eyelashes.

“Her father spends a fortune on her horses,” said Fen. “That one was third at the Horse of the Year Show last year.”

Sure enough, the gray bounced serenely round the course like a Ping-Pong ball, followed by Sir William’s son, who also went clear.

To the course builders’ relief a man came in on a horse wearing so much leather it looked like a bondage victim and proceeded to demolish the course completely. Fear traveled through the collecting ring and for a dozen rounds no one went clear. The wall, the principal bogey, had to be laboriously rebuilt each time.

Colonel Carter looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. Time and the colonel waited for no Malise Gordon.

Lavinia’s boyfriend, Christopher, then went in and killed the jinx by jumping a very fast clear round. Jake envied the casual way he threw his whip to his groom, slid off the horse, and went back to the ringside to join Lavinia and watch the rest of the rounds.

The next competitor was an old woman in a hairnet with raddled face, scarlet lipstick, and withered cheeks embedded with rouge.

“She’s only seven stone,” said the man who’d let Fen through.

“Half of that’s makeup,” muttered Fen.

The old lady rode as if she was steering a Rolls-Royce. Her cob went clear without any visible effort.

“Jake’s after this,” said Fen, as a girl with a bun escaping from her hairnet came in on a mangy brown mare and proceeded to scatter every fence. As she came to the wall the mare dug in her toes and skidded four feet into the wall; then, as the bricks collapsed around her, she bolted on to totally demolish the triple.

“Oh, poor Jake,” said Fen, as they waited and waited for the course to be repaired.

At last they called Number 195. Out came Jake from the gap in the crowds, his face a gray mask. By contrast, Africa, who danced and plunged, merry eyes gleaming at the crowd, coat rippling like a furniture polish advertisement, looked the picture of joy.

“Jack Lovette,” said Dudley Diplock. “From Brook Farm Riding School.”

“Not another one,” Malise Gordon groaned inwardly.

Tory could see Jake’s lips constantly moving as he reassured Africa.

“Only time he talks is to horses,” grumbled Fen.

Once in the ring, Jake found his nerves had gone. He shortened his reins and stood up in the stirrups. Africa bounded towards the first fence.

“Too quick,” muttered Fen.

But Africa was over safely and Jake’s eyes were already trained on the post and rails ahead, which she cleared easily. At the gate, catching sight of a balloon in the crowd, she stopped concentrating and rapped her hock hard. The gate swung, but miraculously didn’t come down.

“That’ll teach her,” said Fen, as Africa dragged her leg for a couple of paces.

“Rides well,” said a voice in the crowd.

“Horse carrying a lot of condition.”

“Isn’t that Jake Lovell?” said Molly Maxwell.

Africa slowed down at the wall, then changed her mind and cleared it with a violent jerky cat jump, which would have unseated most riders.

Haven’t seen that boy before, thought Malise. Handles that horse very well. She’s not at all an easy ride. With increasing pleasure he watched Africa clear the post and rails and the parallel bars and sail over the water jump and the wall.

But, as Jake turned her towards the triple, Malise realized it was unnaturally high. One of the arena stewards, who’d been crossed in love and in the beer tent all afternoon, had just seen his beloved saunter past on the arm of a rival and had put the top bar up to six feet.

Malise Gordon stepped forward to protest but it was too late. Africa had turned and was approaching the triple at a steeple-chaser’s pace, her feet drumming on the ground, fighting for her head.

“Steady, darling,” crooned Jake.

The top bar, white against pitted gray-green turf, was higher than Africa’s ears. For a second she hesitated, caught on a short stride, then, like a helicopter, rising off her hocks, she made a colossal jump. It seemed to the gaping crowd that she had taken off like a bird into the sky and bore no relation to the white poles below her.

“Christ,” said Malise.

At the same time Sir William’s binoculars fastened on Africa. He checked his program: From Brook Farm Riding School, of all unlikely places. She might do very well for Mikey next season.

The crowd gave a long sigh of rapture and sent up a great cheer.

Colonel Carter looked at his watch.

“Bloody good round,” said Christopher Crossley.

Jake jumped off Africa, patting her, determined not to betray the surge of exultation that was sweeping over him.

“That’s it,” Malise Gordon told the arena party. “Restrict it to six jumps, raise the pole over the first jump and the gate, put another row of bricks on the wall, and put the triple at five feet. Buck up, or Carter will start letting off his guns.”

“That’s seven clear rounds,” said Fen, counting on her fingers.

Colonel Carter heaved himself out of his deck chair.

“Are you off?” said Molly.

“Enemy wouldn’t wait, would they? The men will start the display in ten minutes,” he said, striding past Malise.

“Don’t be bloody silly,” snapped Malise. “If you fire a single shot before the last horse has jumped, you’ll cause chaos — and accidents.”

“Quarter of an hour; should give you ample time.”

“I’ll send someone to give you the okay.”

Colonel Carter ground his big yellow teeth. He was tired. Last night, with Molly, had been wonderful but rather exhausting. He hadn’t had much sleep; the effects of Sir William’s hospitality at lunchtime had worn off and, worst of all, he resented Malise’s complete refusal to take his display seriously.

In ring three, near the chestnut trees, the gymkhana events were already starting, with a burst of music for musical chairs.

“Can you help me saddle up Swindle, Mr. Lovell?” said Patty Beasley.

“Give me quarter of an hour,” said Jake.

The horses waited in the collecting ring, maddened by flies, the heat, and the rumble of approaching thunder.

“If you win, will you tell Mrs. Wilton?” asked Fen.

“God, no. If she knew how good Africa was, she’d persuade Bobby to sell. Wish I could buy her myself, but I’d have to win the football pools or marry an heiress.”

“Marry Tory,” said Fen with a giggle. “She’s going to be frightfully rich one day, and you could keep lots of horses, and I could come and live with you.”

“Fen,” said Tory, going crimson.

She was a champion blusher, thought Jake.

Fen watched Sally Ann Thomson bumping off to take part in the musical chairs.

“Good thing Mrs. Wilton’s in Brighton,” she said. “She’d be jolly cross if she knew you weren’t keeping your eyes on her darling pupils.”

Mrs. Wilton eased her car through the traffic. It had been a most unsatisfactory day. Her rich homosexual uncle, irritated by the heat and the stubbornness of his male hairdresser friend, had been so quarrelsome at lunchtime that she had walked out in a huff. One look at Brighton beach, packed with day trippers avid for time in the sun, and she had decided to drive back home to avoid the rush-hour traffic. The journey, in fact, had been so easy that she decided to look in at the Bilborough show. It never hurt to turn up unexpectedly; it kept Jake up to the mark. She rummaged in her bag for lipstick and applied it without even looking in the mirror.

Colonel Carter’s blood pressure rose with the temperature. Bugger Malise Gordon. He would not only lose the respect of his soldiers, dying of the heat in their battle dress, but also of the sizable crowd, who’d turned up at five to witness some bangs and were now drifting away.

“People are getting bored with waiting, sir,” said his adjutant.

“Take this to Colonel Gordon,” said Colonel Carter, handing him a note: “The guns will be fired at seventeen-twenty hours. Carter.”

It was just like the Charge of the Light Brigade, thought the young soldier, as he returned two minutes later with the same bit of paper, on the back of which Malise Gordon had scrawled: “Imperative to wait end of last round. Gordon.”

Colonel Carter tore up the note in a fury.

The girl with the big boobs had seven faults, Sir William’s son had eight. The horse whose rider jabbed him in the mouth had had enough and refused the brush fence twice, the stile once, and was eliminated. The old lady covered in makeup went next; she took a brick off the wall and knocked the bar of the triple.

Mrs. Wilton parked her car. It looked as though the open jumping was still going. Colonel Carter examined his watch.

Christopher Crossley was about to start his round.

“Shall we divide, Lavinia,” he said, “if we both go clear?”

“Fire!” The word of command rang out on the midgy, steamy air. Crash went the twenty-five pounders, causing immediate pandemonium in the collecting rings, horses rearing, bucking, plunging, and scattering the crowd.

Lavinia Greenslade’s gray was barging about like a dodgem car with rabies. Jake jumped straight off Africa and was clinging on to her bridle trying to calm her.

White with anger, Malise Gordon left Miss Squires and the green baize table and sprinted across to ring two, where he was joined by Sir William asking, “What the hell is going on?”

“That megalomaniac Carter,” said Malise, striding up to Colonel Carter. “What the bloody hell are you playing at? Stop those guns at once!”

Colonel Carter’s reply was drowned in another crash.

A horse that had dumped its rider bolted past them reins and stirrups flying, followed by the girl with the big boobs who was also being carted.

“Look at that,” said Malise. “There’ll be a serious accident in a minute.”

“Your people should be able to control their mounts,” said Colonel Carter. “If you’re incapable of keeping to a time schedule, you should accept the consequences.”

Another gun exploded.

“Think you might hang on five minutes, Carter,” said Sir William. “Only three horses left to jump.”

“Hold your fire, Colonel,” said the Lady Mayoress, who had put her hands over her ears.

Carter decided he was outnumbered.

“All right, if you want to make a mockery of the whole display we’ll wait another ten minutes.”

“Maniac,” said Christopher Crossley, whose horse was leaping around as if someone was burning the grass under its feet, its nostrils as red as a poppy. Jake, who was trying to sooth a trembling, sweating Africa, admired the way Christopher went into the ring, and jumped a beautiful round, only taking a brick out of the wall.

Lavinia Greenslade’s gray, however, who’d been completely unhinged by the guns, crashed round the course, leaving it as if an earthquake had hit it.

Once again Jake had to wait until it was repaired, the strain telling on both his and Africa’s nerves.

“Bad luck,” said Christopher Crossley, as Lavinia rode out, looking furious.

“I’m going to object,” she said.

Molly Maxwell joined Colonel Carter.

“Are you having a cease-fire?” she said with a giggle.

“Bloody Gordon, insisted on finishing his jumping.”

“You should have started half an hour ago,” said Molly. “I wouldn’t stand for that. Wellington would never have taken Waterloo that way.”

“Oh, my God,” gasped Fen, seeing Mrs. Wilton pushing briskly through the crowd. “Look who’s over there, Tory. She’ll go potty if she sees Jake. We’d better distract her. Hello, Mrs. Wilton, we thought you were in Brighton.”

“Decided to come back. Had a good day?”

“I was fourth in the junior jumping.”

“Your first rosette. Well done. Has anyone else done anything?”

Fen shook her head.

“Where’s Jake?”

“Supervising the gymkhana events, I think,” said Tory desperately.

“Yes, he is. Come and find him, and on the way you can see how sweet Dandelion looks in his rosette,” said Fen, seizing Mrs. Wilton’s red hand. “And then come and see Mummy. I know she wants to buy you a drink. You must be hot after your journey.” She looked a picture of guilt as the words came tumbling out.

“What happened in the open jumping?”

“It’s finished,” said Fen.

The course had been set to rights.

“In you go,” said the collecting ring steward.

Jake rode quietly into the ring.

That’s a nice horse, thought Malise.

“Oh there’s one more competitor,” said Mrs. Wilton.

“Come and see Dandelion,” said Fen desperately.

“Why, it’s Jake,” said Mrs. Wilton in tones of outrage, “and he’s riding Africa.”

Africa bounded up to the first fence, as tense as a catapult at full stretch.

The ten minutes were up. “Fire!” said Colonel Carter for the second time.

The gun went off like a clap of thunder.

A dog bolted into the ring, barking hysterically, a child dropped its ice cream and let out a wail of rage. Africa went straight up on her hind legs, eyes rolling in terror, and dropping again, with a bound bolted towards the first fence clearing it by inches.

Jake sat down in the saddle and tried to hold her. Another gun went off. Africa crashed into the gate and sent the stile flying.

The crowd looked on, helpless. Tory and Fen watched, frozen with horror, as the maddened mare swung around the corner, with Jake hauling futilely on the bit, aware only of Africa’s hooves thundering on the dry earth and the white terrified faces flashing past.

As she raced for the triple, ten yards off, another gun went off. Jake tried to check her, but she’d missed her stride and took it completely wrong, jumping sideways and catching her foreleg in the wing of the jump. The crowd gave a moan of terror.

Africa lay under three poles, legs flailing like a centipede, making desperate attempts to get up. Jake staggered groggily to his feet, stars in his head. Praying against hope that Africa hadn’t broken a leg, he lurched towards her still holding on to the reins.

Another gun went off; Africa threw off the poles and struggled to her feet, standing trembling all over, holding up her off hind hoof.

Malise ran up.

“You all right?” he said.

Jake nodded. “Not so sure about the horse; can’t put her foot down.”

Malise took Africa’s bridle, stroking her gently, then he led her forward a step. Africa hobbled, then stopped. Malise ran his hand down the foot; she winced, but let him touch it.

“Nothing broken. Might have pulled a tendon. Better get the vet.”

Another gun went off. Africa trembled violently but was finished.

“Sorry about that,” said Malise. “She jumped very well in the first round. Look, sit down on the grass,” he added as Jake started to sway.

But the next moment Mrs. Wilton rolled up, marching with a far more military stride than Colonel Carter.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away,” she shouted. “How dare you jump that horse, how dare you?”

Jake looked at her. Through a haze of pain he saw her red angry face like a baron of beef receding and coming towards him.

“Leave him alone,” snapped Malise. “Can’t you see he’s in a state of shock.”

Mrs. Wilton turned on Malise furiously.

Jake said nothing and, after another look at Africa’s foot, led her hobbling out of the ring. Mrs. Wilton followed him, shouting abuse. She wanted to sack him on the spot, but she couldn’t afford to, as there’d be no one except that halfwit, Alison, who only worked part time, to look after the horses. Grooms were so hard to get. She’d have to ask her copywriting brother to write a witty advertisement for Horse and Hound. She supposed it was her fault for being too lenient with Jake; she should never have offered him a drink in the evenings. As he came out of the ring, Fen rushed forward.

“Oh, poor Jake; are you all right? Are you concussed? Can you remember what day of the week it is and what you had for lunch?”

Next minute Mrs. Thomson came roaring up.

“There was no one to help Sally Ann in the bending. She’s fallen off and hurt her arm. Oh, you’re back, Joyce,” she added in relief. “Things will go more smoothly from now on.” Tory felt so sorry for Jake, gray and shaking and the recipient of such a torrent of abuse from Mrs. Wilton and Mrs. Thomson.

Christopher Crossley passed them going into the ring to collect first prize. He pulled up his chestnut horse for a minute.

“That was bloody bad luck,” he said, “and that’s a very nice mare. If you ever want to sell her I’m in the North Hampshire telephone directory under Crossley. Those bloody soldiers should turn the guns on themselves.”

Jake nodded.

As they approached the horse lines, Fen gave a scream.

“Dandelion — he’s not there!”

Rushing forward, she found his head collar still tied to the fence.

“He’s a valuable horse now that he’s a prize winner,” she wailed. “He’s probably been kidnapped.”

After a nasty quarter of an hour, in which Mrs. Wilton trailed after Jake, calling him every name under the sun, Dandelion was discovered in the brave new world of Lady Dorothy’s vegetable garden. Having laid waste to the herbaceous border, dug holes in the newly sprinkled lawn, cut a swathe through the rose beds and deformalized the formal garden, Dandelion was now imitating an untamed bronco, galloping about, snorting, showing the whites of his eyes, with a large carrot sticking out of his mouth like a cigar.

Every time Jake or Fen got close he whisked out of range, snatching bites to eat.

“He looks like the Hamlet advertisement,” said Fen, quite hysterical with giggles.

By the time Jake had caught him, abuse — from Lady Dorothy, Mrs. Wilton, and Mrs. Thomson — was cascading over his head like Niagara.

At last it was time to go home. Africa had been checked by the vet, who said she was suffering a bad sprain, no more, and should be rested. Malise Gordon then hurried home himself because he was going to the theater. Fen had come second in the potato race and was in a state of ecstasy. Miss Bilborough had a date with one of Colonel Carter’s men. Dudley Diplock had been asked for his autograph three times, but had not been thanked for doing the commentary.

Back at Brook Farm Riding School, a still dizzy Jake was sorting out the ponies.

“Hear you’re in the doghouse,” said Alison, the Irish girl who helped out at weekends. “Old Ma Wilton’s hopping. I knew she’d catch you out sooner or later.”

Jake didn’t answer; he was putting a poultice on Africa. He’d already rubbed one of his gypsy medicines (ointment made from marshmallow flowers) gently into her leg. He was finally sweeping up at about nine-thirty, when Mrs. Wilton turned up. Her faced looked unappetizingly magenta in the naked lightbulb of the tackroom and he could smell whisky on her breath.

“I want to talk to you, Jake,” she said, speaking slowly to show she was quite sober. “Do you realize you’ve ruined the reputation of Brook Farm Riding School?”

“What reputation?” said Jake. “You can’t descend from the basement.”

“Don’t be cheeky. No need to answer back.”

Jake swept up the straw on the floor. Phrases like “absolute shambles,” “endangering best horse in the yard,” and “duty to our young pupils” flowed over his head. His face had taken on an almost Asiatic aloofness.

Why can’t he ever show any contrition? thought Mrs. Wilton. If he apologized just once it would make a difference.

The diatribe continued: “Taking advantage,” “wonder who’s employing whom,” “use my house as an hotel,” “after all I’ve done for you.” Jake mimicked her under his breath.

Oh, God, she was getting very close now; he hoped she wasn’t going to start anything.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Jake,” she went on. “I really trusted you, gave you some responsibility and you just kick me in the teeth. Yet I still feel deep down that you really like me.” For a second her voice was almost obscenely conciliatory.

“No, I don’t,” Jake said flatly. “Deep down it’s much worse.”

Mrs. Wilton caught her breath. Next minute, vindictiveness was warming her blood. She played her trump card. “You’d better get Africa’s leg better; she won’t be with us much longer.”

Jake looked up, eyes narrowed.

That jolted him, she thought.

“Sir William’s just rung. I thought he was going to raise hell about Lady Dorothy’s garden, but he only wanted to know how Africa was and if we’d be interested in selling. He wants her for his youngest son to hunt next season. She might do very well with a decent rider on her back.”

Turning, she walked unsteadily out of the tackroom. Jake felt suddenly exhausted, near to tears, overwhelmed with black despair.

Going out of the tackroom, he walked down past the loose boxes until he came to Africa. Even though she was feeding, she left her manger and hobbled over to him, whickering with joy, nuzzling at his pockets. He put his arms round her neck and she laid her head against his cheek. Soppy old thing; she’d stay like that for hours, breathing softly while he scratched her behind the ears.

In his mind, he jumped that beautiful first round again, reliving that wonderful, amazing last jump. What a star she was; he couldn’t give her up, and he knew more than ever that the only thing he could ever be in this world was a show jumper. Working for Mrs. Wilton for over a year, he was constantly aware of time running past, time wasted. He had left the orphanage at eighteen and spent two years in a racing stable. It was there he made the discovery that difficult horses became easy when he rode them, and that he could communicate with them as he never could with people. Even having his first girl, and subsequently others, wasn’t nearly as exciting as that sudden breakthrough when a horse that had been written off as hopeless became responsive under his touch. Finally there was the joy, over the past months, of discovering Africa and slowly realizing how good she was. It was worth putting up with the horrible little girls and their frightful mothers. No mother had ever protected and fussed over him like they did, he thought bitterly.

And now he’d blown it; it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Wilton sacked him. He supposed he could get another job as a groom, but not as a rider. Africa nuzzled him gently.

I’m still here, she seemed to say.

“But not for much longer,” sighed Jake, “although I’ll fight like a bugger to keep you.”

Tory Maxwell lay on her bed, bitterly ashamed of herself for eating three helpings of strawberries and cream. She looked around her extremely tidy bedroom and wished she had a photograph of Jake. The scent of lilac and lilies of the valley kept drifting in from outside, as insistently he kept drifting into her thoughts. Not that he had noticed her. His eyes had flickered over her as a man flips past the woman’s fashion page in his daily paper, knowing it has nothing to interest him.

Her mother had gone out with that monstrous murderer, Colonel Carter. After what he’d done to Jake, Tory couldn’t bring herself even to talk to him. How could her mother sleep with him? She imagined him climbing on top of her like an ancient dinosaur.

Looking in the mirror, she tried on a different colored lipstick and put her hands over the sides of her round face. If she were thinner, she might just be pretty. Out of the window, against a brilliant, drained sapphire sky, she could see the sliver of a pale new moon, followed by a little star. Just like me following Jake, she thought.

“Oh, please,” she prayed, “give me Jake Lovell, and then I could buy him all the horses he wants.”

Colonel Carter and Mrs. Maxwell were on their third gin and tonic in the bar of the Grand Hotel, Guildford. They had pulled Malise and Jake to shreds, had a good bitch about Sir William and Lady Dorothy, and were in a mood of great mutual self-congratulation about having found each other.

“You’re looking particularly lovely tonight,” said Colonel Carter.

He always says that, thought Molly, but then perhaps it’s true. She caught sight of her glossy reflection in the rose-tinted bar mirror. What should she wear to get married in? Perhaps oyster silk with a matching hat; it couldn’t be the same thing she wore to Tory’s party.

In future the colonel could cope with all her bills.

In the corner, the pianist, who had unnaturally vermilion hair, was playing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

“Just a little lamb that’s lost in the wood,” sang the colonel.

It was nice to take an attractive woman out again. He had always been unfaithful to Jennifer, his wife, but it had been a shock when she died. She’d done everything for him.

“I was very lonely when Jennifer died,” he said.

“I was very lonely when Alastair died,” said Molly. No reason to add that she and Alastair had been divorced for six years before he was killed in that car crash. It was so much more romantic to be a widow than a divorcée.

The waiter presented them with a huge menu, which they studied with too much attention (Colonel Carter in particular noting the prices) for people in love.

“I’m glad I stood up to that bastard, Gordon,” he said.

“I wish I knew where I’d gone wrong with Tory,” said Molly Maxwell.

In the bedroom down the passage from Tory’s lay Fen. She’d been sent to bed in disgrace for cheeking Colonel Carter about frightening Africa with his twenty-five pounders. Her bed was full of biscuit crumbs and she was reading The Maltese Cat for the hundredth time with a flashlight. She turned the flashlight on her rosettes, white and blue, then looking out of the window, caught sight of the new moon.

“Make me the greatest show jumper in the world,” she wished.