Riders

54

As the day of the last Olympic trial at Crittleden approached, Jake grew more and more nervous. Hardy’s off days were fewer and Fen had had some good wins on Desdemona. But equally Griselda Hubbard had hit amazing form, and two young short-listed riders, Ralph Naylor and Fiona McFadden, had both jumped brilliantly under pressure at Aachen and several newspapers were agitating for their inclusion in the team. Rupert and Ivor Braine had been so consistent all year, so they were virtually certain of a place.

Fen was terribly down because Joanna Battie had written a bitchy piece headlined: “Fen — resting on her Laurel,” pointing out that she hadn’t had a decent win on Laurel since the previous year at Wembley, and that Desdemona was too small for an Olympic course. Knowing how desperate Fen was to go, Jake felt almost more apprehensive for her than for himself.

Rupert, on the other hand, was irritated because Helen refused to make up her mind whether or not she was going to Los Angeles. She used as an excuse the Los Angeles smog being bad for Marcus’s asthma, but in reality she wanted to see if Jake were selected. If he wasn’t, she’d stay behind. Rupert, who was trying to persuade Amanda Hamilton to fly out for a few days, wanted a decision one way or the other.

The course for the final trial was unnecessarily huge. There were a number of very unhappy rounds before Jake came in. Griselda was on twelve, Ivor eight. Fen had one stop, because she’d come in too fast, and two elements of the combination down. Everyone was grumbling that the combination was unjumpable. Then Jake rode in and proved them wrong by going clear. Thus encouraged, Rupert, Wishbone, and Ludwig went clear. But in the final jump-off, Jake really set Hardy on fire on the long run-up to the last fence to score the fastest time.

“Well done,” said Fen, desperately trying to be enthusiastic. “You must be picked after that.”

Jake shook his head. He was horribly afraid it wouldn’t be good enough. They wanted dependability at the Olympics. The selectors locked themselves away. The riders waited and waited for the promised announcement. After an hour biting their nails, Jake and Fen, who were jumping at Stoneleigh early the following morning, decided to push off. If they were selected they’d hear soon enough. If they weren’t it didn’t matter anyway.

The jams were terrible. They seemed to get caught up in all the holiday traffic. Nobody talked very much. After an hour’s delay on the M4 they decided to cut across country. Bored with tapes, Sarah turned on the lorry radio.

Fen looked miserably out at the great rolling cornfields, deepened to red gold by the rain. When would she ever see Dino again. When would she ever be happy? Idly she listened to the eight o’clock news. Mrs. Thatcher, the prime minister, would be spending a few days up at Balmoral, staying with the Queen during the summer recess. The Russians had launched another satellite. The unemployed had risen by 20,000 as a result of school leavers.

“The Olympic show-jumping committee tonight announced their team for Los Angeles,” said the announcer.

Everyone stiffened. Fen grabbed Sarah’s hand, crossing her fingers on the other. “Oh, please, please God.”

“The five riders and their horses include: Rupert Campbell-Black and Rock Star, Griselda Hubbard and Mr. Punch,” Sarah gave a groan. “Ivor Braine and John.” The announcer rustled his notes, “Jake Lovell and Hardy and Fenella Maxwell and Desdemona.”

Giving a whoop of joy, Jake nearly drove off the road.

The car behind them was trying to overtake and hooted furiously.

Speechless, Sarah and Fen hugged each other, then Sarah hugged Jake. Then they all started shouting at the tops of their voices and bellowing: “California, here we come.”

Jake drove to the next village where they found an off-license and bought a bottle of wine.

“Have one on the house,” said the landlord, putting another bottle in the carrier bag. “I’ve just heard it on the radio. Congratulations.”

They pulled up on the edge of a field and drank the Muscadet out of mugs, allowing the horses to graze, and watching the sun set.

“Here’s to you,” said Sarah. “I’m so proud of you both.”

Next moment Fen had stumbled to her feet and was hugging Desdemona.

Jake saw that her shoulders were shaking. He put an arm round her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just so happy.”

“There’s no need to cry then.”

“I’m going to see Dino again.” Half-laughing, half-crying, she rubbed away the tears, streaking her face with grimy hands. “I expect he’s got a million other girlfriends by now, but at least I’ll get the chance to say I’m sorry.”

“Missed him that much, have you?”

Fen nodded. “There’s never a moment when I’m not missing him. But you wouldn’t understand that, never having been in love.”

After the team announcement Malise wrote to all the five riders, confirming their selection. They would be expected to jump together once more as a team at the Dublin Horse Show, the first week in August, then rest their Olympic horses until they flew them out to Los Angeles at the end of the month.

Leaving Rocky at home to rest, Rupert flew the rest of his Grade A horses over to France for the Deauville and Dinard shows, and was due home on Monday night. He had been deeply scathing of the rest of the Olympic team.

“A schoolgirl, a cretin, a rip-roaring dyke, and a crippled gypsy. I’ll have to carry the lot of them,” he told Amanda Hamilton.

Nor was he particularly pleased when Helen decided that she would be coming to Los Angeles after all.

Helen sat on the terrace, drinking white wine, breathing in the night-scented stock, and reading George Herbert in the fading light:

“Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

Could have recovered greenness.”

Who indeed? She had never believed, after Kenya, that she would ever be happy again, that she would be totally wiped out by love for Jake, that the only person she wanted to be in the world was the second Mrs. Lovell. Not that Jake was showing any inclination to make her so. She knew that he loved her, except in her frequent moments of panic, and with that, until after Los Angeles, she would have to be content.

As Rupert was not due back from Dinard until the next day, and Charlene and the children were away for the night, Jake said he might pop in — but only might — she mustn’t expect him. On the eve of departure for Dublin, he was frantically busy loading the lorry. Rupert, taking the easy way, was flying over and letting the grooms do the driving.

Helen hadn’t done anything except wash her hair and have a bath earlier. She’d learnt superstition from Jake. If she tarted herself up, he wouldn’t make it. Watching a half-moon sailing like a moth up the drained blue sky, she gave a cry of joy, for there, clearly visible, moving along the top road towards Penscombe above the honey-colored stone wall, was Jake’s car.

Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed on cologne and, tugging off her panties, leapt into the bath. Holding up the skirt of the yellow dress, she’d worn the night he’d first made love to her, and which she knew he liked, she hastily showered between her legs, shivering with excitement as the hard jet of water flattened her bush and seeped into her vagina.

Leaving two dusty footprints in the bath, she leapt out and combed her hair. Since Jake had told her he liked her just as much without makeup, she felt secure enough not to bother with that all the time, either. Stretching voluptuously, she went to the window, and then stiffened with horror, for there, as usual coming too fast along the road and only five minutes behind Jake, was Rupert’s blue Porsche.

Next minute she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel and the dogs barking and tore downstairs. Opening the door she collapsed gibbering into Jake’s arms.

“What’s the matter?”

“Rupert’s just behind you. I’ve seen him on the road. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Jake, his brain racing. “Go and wash that scent off. We have to brazen it out. Pretend I just dropped in.”

“Better come out onto the terrace,” said Helen. “It’s getting dark out there and he won’t be able to see how much we’re blushing.”

Jake followed her out, running his finger down her spine.

“Anyway, if he finds out, he finds out. He’s got to know sometime,” he said. Helen went very still. Turning around, she looked straight into Jake’s eyes. “Has he?” she whispered.

Jake gazed back at her steadily, no shiftiness in his eyes now.

“Yes,” he said. “You know he has to, sooner or later. It’d just be easier after L.A.”

Helen moved towards him. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I think I always have. I just haven’t said it.”

He only had time to hold her briefly before there was a second crunch on the gravel and more barking.

“I can’t face him,” said Helen, in sudden panic.

“I’ll sort him out. Just get me a drink — Scotch; a quadruple, and as soon as possible.”

Helen fled to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

Bang. Rupert slammed the front door behind him. He was not in a good mood. He’d specially come back to spend the night in London with Amanda and, after two admittedly splendid hours, she’d pushed off to Sussex, saying she had to drive her daughter to some dance.

“Helen,” he shouted, “Tab, I’m home. Where the hell is everyone?”

Jake waited on the terrace.

“Helen,” Rupert shouted again, more irritably.

“She’s in the kitchen,” said Jake.

“Who’s that?” Rupert came out onto the terrace, then stopped in his tracks, looking at Jake with slit eyes. His hair was bleached by the French sun, and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, with “I Love L.A.” in red letters across the front. Inspiration suddenly came to Jake.

“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he said. “I’d only seen it from the road.”

“There are perfectly good gates at the bottom of the drive. I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way to them,” said Rupert coldly.

“I dropped in,” said Jake, “on the off-chance you might be back. I got a letter from Malise this week. I decided, as we’ve both been selected and I want the team gold as much as you do, we’d stand a better chance if we buried the hatchet, at least temporarily.”

He held out his hand.

Rupert, for once at a loss for words, looked down at the hand, which was completely steady. He thought of his own humiliation in the World Championship. He thought of Fen defying him at the Crittleden strike. He thought of Jake in the dormitory at St. Augustine’s, a terrified little boy, cringing away from the lighted matches. Now, here he was waving white flags and offering peace initiatives.

The hand was still there. Briefly Rupert took it.

“All right. I don’t trust you a fucking inch, Gyppo, but for the sake of the team gold we’ll suspend hostilities till after the Games. Then,” he added, smiling, “I’ll smash the hell out of you! We’d better have a drink. Helen,” he yelled.

“Yes,” said Helen faintly.

“She was getting some ice,” said Jake. “Probably hovering to see if I was to be allowed a drink.”

“You were lucky to catch me. I wasn’t planning to come back tonight at all. What d’you want?”

“Scotch, please.”

At that moment Helen came through the door, clutching a tray with one already poured glass of whisky, the whisky decanter, a second empty glass, and the ice bucket. She looked at them both with terrified eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, not knowing which way to bolt.

“Hi,” said Rupert. “We’ve decided not to kill each other. You’ve met Helen before, haven’t you?”

As Jake took his glass from Helen to stop the frantic rattling, he wondered for a second if Rupert was speaking ironically. Then decided that such was his egotism and contempt for Jake that he couldn’t possibly envisage anything between him and Helen. All the same it was a good thing there was only Helen’s glass, half-full, on the terrace wall.

Jake took a huge gulp of whisky and nearly choked. Christ, it was strong, and thank God for that.

Rupert poured two fingers into his own glass.

“I’m giving up after Dublin,” he said. “I want a stone off before the Games.”

“I can’t afford to lose it,” said Jake. “How was Dinard?”

“Bloody good.”

“And Rocky?”

“Bloody good, too. I keep thinking he’s going to jump off the top of the world. I’m scared he’s going to peak too early.”

In a daze, Helen poured herself another glass of wine. I cannot believe this, she said to herself. Here are two men, who I know detest each other beyond anything, talking not just politely but with enjoyment. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Jake betray any nerves or the slightest interest in her, but continued to discuss the team, their weaknesses, the strength of the opposition at the Games, and which riders they had to watch. He asked Rupert’s advice about the L.A. climate, and possible breathing and fitness problems. After Dublin, Rupert explained, he was flying Rocky straight out to L.A. to give them both time to get adjusted to the climate. This would certainly give him the edge over the other British riders, who wouldn’t be leaving until a fortnight later.

If Rupert’s in L.A., thought Helen, that’ll give Jake and me a safe fortnight. She marveled at his quick-wittedness. She never dreamed he would use the excuse of coming to make peace. She was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had averted a scene. She wished she could remember his exact words before Rupert arrived, but she’d been in such a panic. When he said Rupert would have to find out sometime, did he mean that he was going to commit himself to her and leave Tory; or merely that, by the law of misfortune, Rupert would rumble them sooner or later? She felt sure he had meant the former. Watching his face, dark, intense, growing more shadowed as the sun slipped behind the beeches, yet suddenly illumined gold as a chink was found between the leaves, Helen could read only one emotion; passionate interest in what Rupert was saying. Bloody, bloody horses, she thought; will I ever get away from them?

Jake tried to leave after the second drink. He was already slightly tight and, on an empty stomach, might easily make some false move. He glanced at his watch and put his glass down: “I must go. Sorry to barge in on you like that. Good-bye, and thanks,” he added casually to Helen.

Rupert went to the door with him. A desire to show off overcoming natural antipathy, he said, “Like to see the yard?”

“Okay,” said Jake, “Just for two minutes.”

An hour later, Helen heard his car drive away and Rupert came through the front door.

“I’m starving. Shall I go and get a take-away?”

I want to be taken away, thought Helen in desolation. She had been so happy when Jake had turned up and now she had no idea when she’d see him again, particularly as he was going to Dublin first thing in the morning.

She couldn’t resist discussing him with Rupert.

“Wasn’t it amazing his coming here?”

“He was certainly impressed by the setup,” said Rupert, picking up his car keys. “Said he’d come to bury the hatchet; bury it in my cranium more likely. Don’t trust the bugger an inch. Suspect he came to have a gawp, as much as anything; to see if he could pick up a few tips. Asked me the way back to Warwickshire. Hadn’t a clue where he was. I told him the Sapperton way. He was so pissed, with any luck he’ll run into a wall. Do you want Chinese or Indian?”

The following Friday, Helen slumped in total despair at the breakfast table, two hands gaining warmth from a cup of black coffee. She had heard from Jake only once since he’d been in Dublin and that was only a two-minute call before someone interrupted him. He said he’d ring back and hadn’t. He’d obviously got cold feet.

“Letter for you, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene, handing her a bulky envelope: “Postmarked Dublin. You’d better watch out it’s not a letter bomb.”

Helen was about to tell her not to be nosy, then she recognized Jake’s black spiky handwriting. Inside the envelope was folded a large, dark blue, silk spotted handkerchief.

“That’s lovely, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene. “Navy goes with everything.”

Helen went white and upended the envelope. There was nothing else inside. The spotted handkerchief — Jake was telling her he wanted her for good.

“She seemed absolutely dazed,” Charlene told Dizzy afterwards.

Then Helen jumped to her feet, laughing.

“I’m going to Dublin,” she said. “I want to watch — er — my husband in the Aga Khan Cup.”

* * *

The Aga Khan Cup — a splendid trophy — is presented to the winning side in the Nations’ Cup at the Dublin Horse Show. All Dublin turns out to watch the event and every Irish child who’s ever ridden a horse dreams of being in the home team one day. For the British, it was their last chance to jump as a team before L.A. All the riders were edgy; which of the five would Malise drop? In the end it was Griselda, who pulled a groin muscle (“shafting some chambermaid,” said Rupert) but who would be perfectly recovered in time for L.A.

On the Thursday night the British team had been to one of those legendary horse-show balls. Unchaperoned by Malise (who was unwisely dining at the British Embassy) and enjoying the release from tension after being selected, they got impossibly drunk, particularly Jake, and all ended up swimming naked in the Liffey. Next day none of them was sufficiently recovered to work their horses.

Jake, who didn’t go to bed at all, spent the following morning trying to ring Helen from the press office. He had huge difficulty remembering and then dialing her number. A strange bleating tone continually greeted him. Dragging Wishbone to the telephone, he asked, “Is that the engaged or the out-of-order signal over here?”

“Sure,” said Wishbone soothingly, “ ’tis somewhere between the two.”

“Christ,” yelled Jake, then clutched his head as it nearly exploded with pain.

Half of him was desperate to talk to Helen and find out how she’d reacted to the blue spotted handkerchief he’d sent off to her the other day, when he was plastered. The other half was demented with panic at what he might have triggered off. None of the telephones seemed to work. Wishbone, who was talking to a man in a loud check suit, who seemed to know every horse in the show, bought Jake another drink.

“Drink is a terrible dirty ting,” he said happily, “but the only answer is to drink more of it.”

Jake looked at his watch and wondered if he’d ever totter as far as the ring.

“We’d better go and walk the course,” he urged Wishbone. “We’ll be very late.”

“Stop worrying,” said Wishbone. “We haven’t got a course yet.” He jerked his head towards the man in the loud check suit, who was busy buying yet another round. “He’s the course-builder.”

All in all the British put up a disgraceful performance. A green-faced tottering bunch, they staggered shakily from fence to fence, holding on to rather than checking the spreads, wincing in the blinding sunshine, to the intense glee of the merry Irish crowd, who had seen visiting teams sabotaged before.

Ivor fell off at the first and third fences, and then exceeded the time limit. Fen knocked every fence down. Rupert managed to get Rocky round with only twenty faults, his worst performance ever.

Jake, waiting to go in by the little white church, was well aware, as Hardy plunged underneath him, that the horse knew how fragile he felt.

“For Christ’s sake, get round,” said Malise, who was looking extremely tight-lipped, “or we’ll be eliminated from the competition altogether.”

Suddenly Jake looked up at the elite riders’ stand, which is known in Dublin as the Pocket. He felt his heart lurch, for there, smiling and radiant, was Helen. She was wearing a white suit, and her hair, which she’d been in too much of a hurry to wash, was tied back by a blue silk spotted handkerchief. His challenge had been taken up.

“Oh, good, Helen’s come after all,” said Malise, sounding very pleased and beetling off to the Pocket. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder to Jake.

Concentration thrown to the winds, Jake rode into the ring. Somehow he managed to take off his hat to the judges and start cantering when the bell went, but that effort was too much for him. Hardy put in a terrific stop at the first fence and Jake went sailing through the air. The next moment Hardy had wriggled out of his bridle and was cavorting joyously round the ring until he’d exceeded the time limit.

Jake just sat on the ground, sobbing with helpless laughter. When he finally limped out of the ring Malise was looking like a thundercloud.

“There is absolutely nothing to laugh about.”

“You don’t think he’ll unselect us?” said Fen, in terror.

Jake shook his head, then winced. But all he could say to himself joyfully over and over again was, “She’s here and she’s wearing the handkerchief.”

The Irish won the Aga Khan Cup.

“There’s absolutely no point in talking to any of you,” said Malise furiously. “But I want everyone, grooms, wives, hangers-on included, to come to my room at nine o’clock tomorrow. If any of you don’t show up, you’re out.”

The only answer seemed to be to go on to another, even more riotous ball, where reaction inevitably set in.

“The hair of the dog is doing absolutely nothing to cure my hangover,” Fen grumbled to Ivor, as he trod on her toes round the dance floor. “Really, if Rupert doesn’t get his hand out of the back of that girl’s dress soon, he’ll be tickling the soles of her feet.”

The music came to an end.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t,” said Ivor. “I’ll have no one to dance with.”

“Go and talk to Griselda,” said Fen, kissing him on the forehead. She couldn’t cope with the frenzied merriness. Nights like this made her longing for Dino worse than ever. She drifted rather unsteadily across the ballroom and out through one of the side doors, looking for Jake to say good night. A couple of Irishmen called out to her, trying to persuade her to come and dance, then decided not. There was something about Fen’s frozen face these days that kept men at a distance, the way Helen’s used to.

She wandered down a passage and into a dimly lit library, which was empty except for one couple. They were standing under a picture light, talking in that intense, still way of people who are totally absorbed in one another. They were about the same height. Fen’s blood ran cold. She must be seeing things.

The man was comforting the girl.

“Be patient, please, pet.”

“It was a crazy idea to come,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t bear not being able to be with you all the time or to go to bed without you tonight.”

The man was stroking her face now, drawing her close to him. “Sweetheart, just let me get Los Angeles over, and then we’ll make plans, I promise.”

“You really promise?”

“I promise. You know I love you. You’ve got the handkerchief.” He bent his head and kissed her.

Fen gave a whimper and fled. Forgetting her coat, she ran out of the building and through the streets, desperate to escape to her hotel room. Helen and Jake — it couldn’t be true. That explained why he’d been so different recently. Remote and unsociable one moment, then wildly and uncharacteristically manic the next, and terribly absentminded. He’d hardly have minded if she’d fed Desdemona caviar.

Fen had always hero-worshiped Jake and regarded his marriage to Tory as the one safe, good constant she could cling on to and perhaps one day emulate. Now her whole world seemed to be crumbling. What about Tory? What about Isa and Darklis? And more to the point, what the hell was Rupert going to do when he found out? Nothing short of murder.