Riders

50

Ringing home next day, Helen discovered that Marcus was in bed with tonsillitis and a temperature of 103. She was so riddled with guilt that she felt so relieved there was a really good excuse to fly straight home by herself.

In recent months the tonsillitis attacks had been getting closer together. The antibiotics were having less effect and Marcus was looking so waiflike that Helen accepted James Benson’s recommendation that he should have his tonsils out at once.

“They’re as big as billiard balls. Marcus’ll be much better shot of them. It won’t cure the asthma, but all the illnesses he’s having as a result of the infected tonsils are pulling him down. There’s a very good man at the Motcliffe in Oxford. He’ll only be in hospital for four or five days.”

“Can I go in with him?”

“I honestly don’t recommend it. You’ve been under a lot of strain recently.” Privately Benson thought he’d never seen her look so wretched. “Leave him with experts who see this operation fifty times a week.”

“You’re saying I’m no good as a mother,” said Helen, beginning to shake.

“No, no,” said Benson reassuringly. “I’m saying you’re too good.”

“It’s certainly been a stressful year. D’you think that’s making his asthma worse?”

Benson shrugged. “Probably. Children are like radars; Marcus must realize how unhappy Rupert’s making you.”

Thank God we didn’t take the kids to Kenya, thought Helen, with a shudder.

“Rupert wouldn’t want me to go in with him.”

“Well, don’t. By all means visit him during the day, but go home and get a good night’s sleep every night.”

The night before Marcus was due to have his tonsils out, at the beginning of March, Helen and Rupert went to a big ball in London to raise funds for the Tory Party. It was the sort of invitation that Rupert would normally have refused; but, surprisingly, he was rather a fan of Mrs. Thatcher, the new prime minister, and felt she needed every bit of help if the Tories were to stay in power.

“You wouldn’t be able to afford to have Marcus’s tonsils out privately if the Socialists brought in a wealth tax.”

They went very grandly to the ball with several ministers and their wives. Helen found the evening a nightmare. Hollow-eyed, thinner than ever, her black ball dress had had to be taken in yet again. She knew she was being a damper on the evening, but all she could think about was Marcus in his white hospital bed and the surgeon’s knife going into his little throat in the morning. All around her, every table seemed filled with ravishing, chattering women flirting with bland smooth-haired men. At the same table a be-diamonded brunette with a roving eye, who’d already had a long amorous dance with Rupert, was surreptitiously holding hands with one Tory minister and, at the same time, making animated conversation to his wife.

The whole world’s at it, thought Helen, in despair.

There was Rupert coming off the dance floor, looking around for fresh talent. Goodness, he was going up to Amanda Hamilton, the much-admired wife of the minister for foreign affairs. Now she was smiling up at him and he was taking her onto the floor. She must be forty, but very attractive in a determined sort of way — driving her husband Rollo on from success to success, knowing everyone, rigidly governed by the social calendar.

Rupert had actually met Amanda Hamilton before, at a party last June, and had promptly asked her out to lunch.

“No, I can’t,” she had replied in her shrill, piercing voice. “Next week’s Ascot.”

“The week after then.”

“No, that’s tennis.”

Rupert was slightly taken aback, until she explained that Wimbledon went on for a fortnight and she had to be in her seat on the center court by two o’clock every day.

After that, she explained patiently, there would be a trip to America with Rollo, then Goodwood, and then Scotland.

Now, holding her in his arms in the twilight gloom, as the band played “This Guy’s in Love with You,” Rupert admired her rounded, magnolia-white shoulders. A side door suddenly opened to admit a couple to the dance floor, and Amanda Hamilton’s Scotch-mist-soft complexion was briefly illuminated. She didn’t duck her head, for her unwrinkled, untroubled beauty had no need of dimmer light.

“How was Wimbledon?” asked Rupert.

“Very exciting. He’s spoilt, that American who nearly won, but my goodness he can play tennis. I rather admire that kind of drive. It seems odd that no one minds painters or musicians or actors having tantrums, but tennis players, who are, after all, kind of artists, are expected to behave themselves. He’s rather like you, in fact. You’ve had a bad press recently, haven’t you?”

“You noticed?” said Rupert.

“Fighting with judges, frolicking with starlets, beating up your horses.”

Rupert shrugged.

“D’you beat your wife, too? Is that why she looks so miserable?”

Rupert glanced at Helen, who was still sitting frozen, gazing into space.

“What do you think?” he said.

“She looks as though the dentist is filling her back teeth, having forgotten to give her an injection.”

Rupert grinned.

“I don’t think it’s funny. Why are you consistently so foul to her when she’s so beautiful?”

“She’s given me up for Lent.”

“Don’t blame her, with you running after everything in skirts — or trousers — these days. Girls don’t seem to wear skirts anymore.”

“You seem to have been taking a great interest in my career.” His hand was beginning to rotate very gently on her back.

“It amazes me that someone with such dazzling qualities should be quite happy about presenting such an appalling image to the outside world.”

“I know what my friends think. Other people don’t matter.”

Amanda Hamilton shook her head so the pearl combs gleamed in her dark hair.

“One day you might get bored with riding horses and want to try your hand at something more serious.”

“Like taking you to Paris.”

“Rollo was saying the other day that one felt rather insulted if Rupert C-B hadn’t been to bed with one’s wife.”

Rupert tightened his grip, his hand moving upwards until he encountered bare flesh.

“I’d hate to insult Rollo,” he said softly.

“He could do you a lot of good. Have you ever thought of going into politics?”

“No.”

“You’d be very good. You’ve got the looks, the force of personality, the magnetism, the wit.”

Rupert laughed. “But not the intellect. My wife says I’m a dolt.”

“You’ve got common sense, and I’ve heard you’re a very good after-dinner speaker.”

“I speak much better during dinner — and to one person, preferably you. When are you going to dine with me?”

“We’re off to Gstaad tomorrow. Oh, listen, the music’s stopped.” She clapped vaguely and turned towards her table.

Rupert grabbed her arm. “Wait. It’ll start up again in a second.”

“No,” said Amanda, with gentle firmness. “We’ve danced quite long enough. Go back and look after your poor little wife. You must both come and dine with us when Rollo gets back from Moscow next month.”

“No, thank you. I’ve got absolutely no desire to get better acquainted with your husband.”

Amanda smiled and patted his cheek.

“Think about politics as a career. I mean it seriously.”

Rupert stared at her unsmilingly.

“Seriously,” he emphasized the word, “I’m only interested in getting a gold at the moment.”

Two days later, Jake Lovell walked down the long corridors of the Motcliffe Hospital to say hello to the matron and in the hope of catching a glimpse of the angelic Sister Wutherspoon. By some stupid Freudian misreading of the diary, or perhaps because he was so anxious to get the go-ahead to ride again, he had arrived for his appointment with Mr. Buchannan five hours early. Mr. Buchannan was operating, said the secretary, and couldn’t possibly see him before four o’clock.

The day had already been full of omens. It had snowed heavily since lunchtime the previous day and he and Tory had had to dig out the car that morning. Two magpies had crossed his path as he was leaving Warwickshire. An odd number of traffic lights had been green on his way through Oxford. He’d taken fifty-one strides from the car park to the front door. There were eleven people in the lift. His horoscope said the aspects for Venus were good and this was a make-or-break day. He hoped to hell it wasn’t the latter. He’d had enough of breaks. He vowed that if Johnnie Buchannan told him he could ride again, he’d make the Olympic team. The individual event on September eighth was exactly six months away.

The nurses on the ward greeted him like a long-lost brother.

“My, we are walking well. You’ll be beating Seb Coe in the eight hundred meters at this rate.”

It was very warm in the hospital. Outside, the snow was still falling thickly, blurring the outlines of the trees, laying a clean sheet over the lawn. Orange streetlights glowed out of the gathering whiteness. Feeling totally blanketed against reality, Jake asked after Sister Wutherspoon.

“She’s having two days’ leave,” said Joan, Sister Wutherspoon’s spotty, fat friend, “but she was absolutely furious to miss you. She left you her number in case you felt like ringing her at home,” she added, excited at the prospect of matchmaking.

Jake pocketed the number. He had five hours to kill. He might as well ask her out to lunch. On the way to the telephone he passed by some of the private rooms and heard an unearthly animal screaming like a rabbit caught in a snare. The screams increased, growing more terrible.

Anxious to disassociate himself, Jake walked on. Rounding the corner, he was sent flying by what seemed like a huge bear jumping out of a room at him.

“What the fuck?” he snapped.

Then he realized it was a woman in a huge blond fur coat, tears streaming down her face. She looked half crazy with terror.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t know what to do. Marcus. Such terrible screaming. Something must have gone wrong.”

Jake realized it was Helen Campbell-Black.

“Where is he?” he said over the screaming.

“In there. He’s just had his tonsils out. They said not to visit till later, but I wanted to be here when he came back from the theater.”

Jake took her arm. “Let’s go and see him.”

Marcus was still screaming. He was as pale as his pillow; his white nightgown, like a shroud, was splattered with blood. Jake stroked the child’s red hair gently.

“He’ll go to sleep soon.”

“Can’t they give him something to stop the pain?”

“He’ll just have had a huge shot of morphine. Every time he swallows, it must be like an axe on his head.”

Gradually the screams subsided into great wracking sobs, until finally Marcus fell into an uneasy whimpering sleep.

“He’ll be okay now,” said Jake, straightening the sheet.

“Are you sure? W-why did he scream so much?”

“They have to wake them up immediately after the operation to make sure everything’s all right. We went through the same thing with Darklis and Isa. They were both perfectly okay when they came around later. Darklis was as cheerful as anything, eating ice cream and raspberry jelly by the evening. When she woke up, she asked, ‘When am I going to have my tonsils out?’ ”

Helen looked at him stunned, as though only half-listening to what he was saying.

“W-why it’s Jake, isn’t it? Jake Lovell?” she said slowly. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“You weren’t exactly in a recognizing mood.”

Suddenly she jumped out of her skin at the sound of more screaming coming down the corridor.

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “It’s only another child coming back from the operating theater. They all sound like that.”

Woken, Marcus started crying again. Helen rushed to his side. “Oh, please don’t, angel.”

In a few seconds he’d fallen back to sleep again. They waited for quarter of an hour. Every noise seemed magnified a thousand times — a car horn outside, a nurse laughing in the passage, even the snow piling up on the window ledge outside, but Marcus didn’t wake. Jake looked at his watch: “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll have a word with my friend, Joanie. If he makes a squeak they’ll ring us at the pub and you can rush back.”

Outside, the snow was still falling — heavy flakes like goose feathers, bowing down the privets in the hospital garden, settling on the collar of Helen’s fur coat, forming points on the toes of her tan leather boots, clogging up her eyelashes. Jake walked slowly. It was treacherous underfoot. He couldn’t afford to fall over, today of all days. They had only got as far as the car park when she broke down again.

“I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

He led her to his Land Rover, sitting her down on a noseband and a copy of Riding magazine. Snow curtained all the windows. All Jake could do was say, “There, there,” gently, almost absent-mindedly, patting her shoulder.

Gradually the first wild intensity died down, subsiding into a succession of wrenching, despairing sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept saying. “I’m such an idiot. Please, please forgive me.”

“If we don’t both want to die of hypothermia,” he said, “we ought to find that pub.”

She suddenly realized that he was only wearing a Barbour, his shoes were soaked, and his teeth chattering.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again in a trembling voice. “I can’t go to a pub looking like this.”

He handed her her bag. “Well, powder your nose, then.”

In the pub Jake found Helen a seat by the fire and went off to order treble brandies. Looking in the bar mirror he could see her vacantly gazing into space, twisting her fingers around and around. Christ, he thought, she’s the one who ought to be in hospital. He took the brandies back to the table, holding one out to her. It was a second before she took it.

“I’m a trusty St. Bernard struggling through the snow to bring you sustenance,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, it’ll really help.”

He noticed how loose her expensive boots were around her legs, and that her skirt, which was held up only by a brown suede belt, was on an extra notch. She took a gulp, made a face, choked, and then took another gulp. She wished the taste didn’t remind her so much of that last night in Kenya.

“Where’s Rupert?”

“Gone skiing.”

“Needn’t have bothered. Plenty of snow here. When’s he coming back?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Five days — a week.”

“And you’re left to cope with all this?”

Helen held out thin, shaking hands to the fire.

“I ought to go back,” she said restlessly.

“No, you ought not. They’ll ring if he wakes.”

“Poor little guy, he’s been so ill,” she said. “He was so excited about coming into hospital. All the gifts and everyone for a change bothering about him rather than Tab — except Rupert, of course.”

“He ought to be in a ward. Other children’d take his mind off his sore throat. Darklis and Isa didn’t want to come home.”

People kept coming in, stamping the snow off their feet. On the other side of the fireplace a couple of undergraduates in college scarves were eking out Scotch eggs and pints of beer. Helen’s hair glowed in the firelight; it was the only bright thing about her. Suddenly there were tears trickling under her dark glasses again.

“Oh God,” she muttered in a choked voice.

“Don’t worry.”

“I haven’t got a tissue.”

One by one Jake removed all the paper napkins on the nearby tables and handed them to her. The waitress, trying to keep the tables for people having lunch, clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she replaced them.

“Do you want a menu, sir?” she asked, pointedly.

“Yes, later, but for the moment, can you get us two more very large brandies?” He gave her a fiver, adding, “Keep the change.”

The waitress looked at Helen curiously. Must have been a death at the hospital, she thought. Then she looked at Jake. He was familiar, with his dark brooding eyes. She was sure she’d seen him in Poldark or Jamaica Inn.

“Who’s that by the fire?” she asked the other barmaid. “What was he in?”

“I think he’s got a group. No, he’s a show jumper! I know. He’s the one that broke his leg. Dr. Millett was telling us. They thought they was going to have to amputate, but he put up a real fight and pulled through. What’s his name, Rupert Lovett, Jack Lovett?”

“Jake Lovell,” said the first barmaid, picking up the soda syphon.

“Here you are, Mr. Lovell,” she said, putting down the brandies on the table. “How much soda would you like? Can I have your autograph for my niece? She loves horses.”

Jake scribbled his name on the back of her bill pad and turned back to Helen. He felt a certain academic interest in why she was in such a frightful state. He’d never admired her looks, too thin, breedy and rarefied, and in his eyes she was always contaminated by being part of Rupert. But today he was drawn to her, as he had been drawn to Macaulay, and to all other things terrorized by Rupert. Being out of the circuit for nearly a year, he was not au fait with the gossip. He’d read about Samantha Freebody, of course, but that was too long ago to have such a traumatic effect.

“He’s a beautiful child,” he said.

Helen gave the ghost of a smile. “And he’s extra bright. He’s starting to read and he’s not four yet.”

“Rupert got him on a horse yet?”

“He’s allergic to horses.”

“Lives in the wrong house, doesn’t he? Sure he’s not allergic to his father?”

“Rupert thinks he’s a wimp,” she said bitterly. “Can’t wait for him to go to prep school.”

“Where’s he going?”

“St. Augustine’s — if Rupert gets his way.”

“Christ, don’t send him there,” said Jake, appalled.

“What was Rupert like at school?” asked Helen.

“Same as he is now — Torquemada.”

She looked up with a start of recognition.

“Have you always hated him?”

“For over twenty years.”

“He had an awful childhood,” said Helen. “His mother didn’t really love him.”

“A woman of taste,” said Jake.

The waitress came up, all smiles now.

“Are you ready to order? And could I have your autograph for our manager’s daughter?”

“Steak and kidney, chips, and cauliflower cheese,” said Jake.

“I don’t want anything,” protested Helen.

“Don’t be silly, and bring a bottle of red,” he added to the waitress. “You need food,” he said a minute later. “I used to try and go without it until Dino Ferranti converted me. He always said that most depression is caused by tiredness and lack of food.”

“I liked Dino,” said Helen. “He was fun.”

“We all liked him,” said Jake. “Fen misses him like hell, but she’s too proud to admit it.”

Then lunch arrived and Jake tucked in in the way that only really thin people do. Helen suddenly found she was hungry after all. It was real steak and kidney and there was wine in the gravy.

Jake nodded approvingly: “How’s Rocky?”

“Rupert figures he’s the best horse he’s ever ridden.”

“Paid enough for him.”

“How’s Macaulay?”

Jake’s face softened. “He is something else. After Sailor died I vowed I’d never get so fond of a horse again. But Macaulay really gets to me. If he could read, he’d go around on his own. He’s not really a world-class horse, but he’s such a trier and he’s got so much heart.”

“He’s not overly fond of Rupert.”

Jake grinned. “That’s another thing we’ve got in common.”

After a good start Helen didn’t manage to finish her lunch. Quite pink now from her thermal underwear, she looked as though she’d got a temperature.

“I ought to go back.”

“I’ll ring and check,” he said.

When he came back she’d disappeared. He thought she’d bolted until he saw her shopping basket, with the copy of The Brothers Karamazov and The Guardian. When she returned, he noticed she’d toned down the flushed cheeks and tidied the rumpled hair. He knew it wasn’t for his benefit. Just the instincts of a woman who liked looking perfect all the time.

“He’s fine,” he said, getting up. “Out like a light, still. No one expects him to wake for several hours.” He filled up her glass.

“You have been kind,” she said slowly. It was as if she was noticing him as a person for the first time.

“Why are you here anyway?”

Jake told her.

She was stricken with remorse. “It’s such a crucial day for you. I’m so sorry. I’ve been so obsessed with my own problems, I didn’t even think of anyone else. Are you hoping to go to L.A.?”

Jake touched wood. “Yes, if Johnnie Buchannan gives me the go-ahead today. I’ve got just six months to get fit.”

“Will you take Macaulay?”

“I’d like to, although potentially Hardy’s a better horse. He’s been going well with Fen, but he’s still very spooky and erratic. Christ, if only I had a year.”

Looking at him, Helen suddenly saw coming alive that single-minded, driving fanaticism, which had to be there: the fuel of Olympic fire.

“Buchannan warned me I might never ride again. I promised that if he mended me, I’d bring him home a medal. Fighting talk, huh?”

He stopped suddenly, flushing slightly, hearing his own obsession, wanting to disguise it.

Helen looked at the black hair, the thickly lashed dark eyes, and the thin, watchful face. Suddenly she winced and clutched her temples.

“What’s the matter?”

“I get this pain. It seems to start as a headache, then becomes toothache, then often reappears as earache.”

“Neuralgia,” said Jake. “Caused by tension.”

He felt so sorry for her. She reminded him of a vixen escaping from hounds, lying in the bracken taking a brief panting respite to get her breath back. In a minute she’d be running again, waiting, terrified, for the kill. But Rupert hadn’t killed her. He’d totally destroyed her self-esteem.

As they came out of the pub it was still snowing, shortening the visibility, so they could see only the vague outlines of the towers of Oxford.

“ ‘Beautiful city’,” said Helen softly. “ ‘Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, unpopular names and impossible loyalties.’ ”

“Pretty impossible to be loyal to Rupert,” said Jake dryly.

Underfoot it was freezing so hard that he ought to have been more frightened of falling over. But, in vino, he crossed the snow without a slide or a stumble.

Helen was amazed that Marcus recovered so quickly. Driving in on the fifth day to take him home, she found him playing with the most exquisite model circus. There were clowns, little dogs with ruffs, a ringmaster, and even a ballerina in a pink tutu, who slotted into a cantering horse with a pink plume. All the nurses were gathered around playing with it.

“How darling,” said Helen in delight. “Who gave you that?”

“Dake did.”

“Dake?” said Helen, puzzled.

“Dake with the sore leg. It’s better now. Want to see Dake.”

“Who can he mean?”

“Jake Lovell,” said Sister Wutherspoon warmly. “He popped in last night on his way back to Warwickshire and brought the circus with him. Marcus was a bit restless, excited about going home. Sister Tethers, who was on duty, had a very sick child to look after. Jake stayed playing with Marcus for hours.”

“How very kind,” said Helen. “How very, very kind.”

“Mr. Buchannan gave him the go-ahead on Monday evening. I still don’t think he’s come down to earth.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased,” said Helen, “and he still remembered Marcus.”

“Want to see Dake,” said Marcus.