A Three Day Event (28 page)

Then Polo began to feel the full weight of the shame of what he was doing. He hadn’t moved or spoken. He was officially eavesdropping. But how to get out of it? And did he really want to? He was supposed to be sleuthing. So he listened, fascinated and increasingly sick at heart by what he heard.

“Claude, I just spoke to the journalist. I told her about Palm Beach…yeah, I’m sure, it had to come out sooner or later…I don’t know, I hope so…but listen, never mind that shit…what did the doctor say? I mean, the tests, are they…then when?…I should have been there with you…how can I not blame myself…do your parents suspect anything? …Good. Thursday? Don’t worry, Joc is covering for me…Oh Christ, I just want to be with you, I want to tell them, it’s making me crazy not being with you…My father? No, he thinks I’m out with a hundred girls every night, I told you, he thinks I’m going to marry this rich bitch in New York. Oh, shit, Claude, I have to tell somebody soon or I’ll explode…yeah, me too…yeah, as soon as this crazy stuff blows over here…okay, okay…me too…bye.”

As Michel’s steps receded, Polo got slowly to his feet. Every muscle in his body ached. He felt a hundred years old. Old but not wise. He hated his own reaction to what he had heard. If it were anyone else but Michel, he wouldn’t have questioned himself. Nathalie had told him he was homophobic, and he had laughed at her. Phobic meant afraid. But that wasn’t it. Not where Michel was concerned. What was it then? Why take it so personally? And–what tests?
Tests for what
? He could only think of one medical test that would provoke the tension and worry he had heard in Michel’s voice. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and forehead.

Polo had never given much thought before as to how he felt about Michel as a person. The boy was a friend’s son and a prodigy in the profession. How could he not have a special interest in Michel’s well being and a natural curiosity about his life’s trajectory? It would be a rotten trick of fate if Michel were the killer–getting Jocelyne to lie for him was incriminating, a foolish and desperate move on the face of things–but it did not account for the misery and frustration Polo felt or his irresistible urge to shield the boy from discovery or further harassment. Protecting, comforting, understanding. That wasn’t his job. It was a father’s role. Roch’s.

Polo thought about Roch learning that his son was gay and/or a killer. Which would he think was worse? Polo could imagine the uncomprehending pain and anger either of these terrible imagined revelations would arouse in Roch. Whatever happened, it would be crushing for Michel. Roch could be hotheaded and impulsive. He had invested too much in Michel’s success. There was no Plan B for Roch. Michel was his one throw of the dice. Michel was only too aware of that. How strong was the boy? How much courage did he have? He was going to need some–more than some. Jocelyne had said he acted like a kid when his father was around. He had looked almost ill this morning following Sue down the corridor.

This is what comes of having children, Polo thought stupidly, knowing it was stupid, but needing a peasant’s simple understanding of a stubbornly complex pattern of circumstances. They raise your hopes, they make you needy, you depend on them to make sense of life, you think they want the same things you do. And in fact you haven’t got a fucking ounce of control over what they do. They can tear your heart out in the end. His fists curled tight, and for the second time that morning, he longed to crack apart a blackboard.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
hea knocked at the deeply scratched and peeling old
door
.
It was Guy who ushered her inside.

“B–Bridget’s in the kitchen with some of her students, Thea,” he said, taking her waxed rain poncho delicately between thumb and forefinger and hanging it on one of a row of hooks beside the door, all similarly laden with riders’ foul weather gear.

“She’s exp–pecting you,” he went on. “But she didn’t th–think you’d want to walk the course in the r–rain.”

Thea made a moue of exasperation. Guy went on hastily, “Actually, it’s wh–what she’s doing now with her s–students–going over the c–course, that is. T–talking it through.”

“Well, that’s no good to me, Guy,” Thea answered. “I have to actually see the jumps, measure them and check their construction and so forth. I brought a camera, too, so we can have a permanent record, for the archives.” She nodded at her briefcase.

“And,” she added tartly, “I’m not made of sugar. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to walk the course in the rain. I must have done that fifty times at least with Stephanie.” Thea was relieved to be able to finally say her daughter’s name without making a spectacle of herself. She had steeled herself for this trip down Memory Lane, the course walk, and she had managed to keep her professional self at a remove. But her eyes stayed fixed on Guy to measure his reaction to Stephanie’s name. She felt sure he had not dealt with his own feelings. She knew how few friendships he had sustained in his life.

Guy flinched a little, but Thea wasn’t sure whether it was the reference to Stephanie or the implied confrontation she would be having with Bridget over the promised course walk. She knew Guy couldn’t bear ‘scenes’ and that he was afraid of Bridget’s anger. Everyone knew that. What everyone didn’t know, she thought with sudden compassion, was why he was that way. She knew why, because Stephanie had told her. Poor Guy. Thea didn’t want to involve him in any difficulties her presence might cause. So without waiting for any further invitation, she simply headed for the kitchen.

An animated conversation broke off and four heads turned toward her as she arrived at the threshold. Bridget, charming in an old–fashioned floral Viyella blouse and green cotton vest that made the most of her vivid hair and creamy skin, dominated the tableau. She was sitting on the ancient kitchen counter with a large cross–country course map in her hands. A well–padded calico cat lounged in blissful indolence on the breadboard beside her. Three girls, ranging in age, Thea guessed, from fifteen to nineteen, sat taking notes at the white deal table in the centre of the room.

The girls were clearly not sisters, but they had enough about them in common to suggest kinship of another kind. Thea was singularly well placed to recognize their breed. They were Three–Day Event riders. They all had on the scruffiest of outfits, torn jeans and none–too–clean oversized sweatshirts. They wore no makeup or jewelry. One had her hair cut as short as a boy’s, the other two sported no–nonsense ponytails worn low, and scrunched, unadorned, into fat elastics. Their fingernails were clipped, square and lacquerless. And they all looked annoyed at this interruption of their course ‘walk.’

Thea could not suppress a tiny smile of bemusement as she took in this typical scene. For a bittersweet instant she was back with Stephanie in the agreeable intimacy of a post–show dinner, dissecting the performances and characteristics of the other riders, reliving the triumphs and/or disasters of the competition.

Amongst the three disciplines, the eventers were universally acknowledged to be the grungiest of the riders, Stephanie had admitted complacently and not without a certain pride. She revelled in her tomboyhood, and boasted of her spartan social life. Boys could wait, she had always said (citing the more promiscuous Jumper riders with disdain). Eventers had to put their hormones on hold. Her horse took too much time and care to admit of rivals for her affection. After all, they were the triathletes of the sport. And the last of the great amateur tradition in riding. They did it all. Event horses gave so much of themselves, Stephanie used to say, that they had a special right to their riders’ unconditional love and single–minded devotion.

Bridget’s voice, unusually husky today, brought Thea back to the present. “I’m right in the middle of things with this lot, Thea, but you’re welcome to muck in, if you want.”

“As long as we actually get out on the course itself at some point today. I really must have things in place for tomorrow’s meeting, you know.”

“Would it be a tremendous
bore
if you went without me, then, Thea, because, you see, the thing is, I also promised you the list of jump judges and outriders and that sort of thing, and if I don’t do it this afternoon,
that
won’t be done for the meeting either.” She coughed emphatically and blew her nose. “And I’m starting this bloody awful
cold
, it seems. I mean, I know it’s rotten of me to go on
whinging
like this, but if you
could
manage on your own, I’d be jolly grateful–” and she smiled appealingly at Thea.

Thea was acutely aware of the impatient stares of the students and fought back what she knew to be futile resentment. It was not a good time for an argument. “Well, I don’t see that I have much choice,” Thea said, thwarted and knowing it. She could not in all (public) conscience ask a person who might be on the verge of a flu to spend two hours tramping up and around fifty acres of rough, sodden terrain in this weather. “I’ll look at the map while you talk to the girls.”

She accepted Bridget’s offer of coffee and sat down to review the grubby, much–handled copy of the course map that was cheerfully pushed at her by a pony–tailed member of the trio. Each of the girls politely murmured her name–Lucie, Chloe and Claire–and promptly forgot Thea was there as they turned their rapt attention back to Bridget’s discourse.

Bridget carried on with her coaching session, punctuating a general discussion of the pitfalls and challenges of the twenty–four obstacle Young Riders’ course with individual warnings and bits of advice uniquely tailored to the talents and weaknesses of each girl and horse combination.

“Now let’s remember our goals here,” Bridget was summarizing. “You’ve done your Dressage. Whatever happened there is best forgotten. Spilt milk. And if you did well, thinking about it’s bound to make you overconfident. The cross–country is what you’re in the sport for. Here’s where you don’t want to blow it.

“You have to ask yourself if your horse is fit enough to make the optimum time if it’s a really hot day. Don’t forget: it’s a hilly course. There won’t be many without time penalties. And you have to have enough
go
left for Sunday and the Jumping. So Chloe, you’re going to have the advantage here, because you’ve done all that hill work in training, and your ‘Sting’ is a nice, go–ey kind of beast.

“But Lucie, let’s admit that your ‘Hilarious’ is a bit of a slug. Now you’ll have done well in the Dressage, so there’s no use getting hot and bothered for nothing, just don’t go for time on the course, go for accuracy and no other penalties. Your best bet is to kick on and take the safe options, and especially watch out he doesn’t suck back at the water, you know how you tend to take your leg off at the water…”

This is where she’s at her best, Thea thought. She’s a born teacher. Look at their faces. Absolute trust and confidence. And she loves this. She never gets tired of it. If I only ever saw this side of her, I’d like her, I really would.

“Claire, I don’t want you flying out of the start box and using ‘Mastermind’ up. You want to steady him without riding backwards. Eyes up, leg on and try to get a rhythm. By the time you get to the ‘Orrible ‘Ole, he should be all settled in.”

The familiar admonitions and jargon took Thea back to the early days of Stephanie’s training program with Bridget. The enthusiasm! In those days it was nothing but excitement and progress. Those were the days when Stephanie was getting to know her first
real
competition horse. ‘Boy George’ they had named him because he was such a flashy mover and so full of himself.

And in the first two seasons, between semesters at Tufts, she had moved quickly up the competitive ladder, winning several Open Preliminary Trials–at Timberline, at Ledyard and Fair Hill–then capping the second season as Ontario Reserve Champion at Glen Oro. She and Boy had been a wonderful partnership.

“Now Chloe, you’re going to have to be very accurate at The Coffin. You’ve had your good, strong gallop up to the Ogre’s Table and then a direct shot up The Ziggurat, and now you’ve had a breather coming down hill where you’ve your choice of this very attractive fourteen foot bounce with good ground lines on both elements, or that quite unattractive right–hand corner. I wouldn’t take the corner. It’s too easy for the horse to run out at it. Especially Hilarious, not–let’s admit–the most
honest
bloke if he sees an opportunity. In any case you’d only save two seconds. Actually, the bounce
looks
gruesome, but it’s quite straightforward if you get a nice, collected pace and set up properly.”

When had things begun to go wrong? Thea was sure that it was the transition from Prelim to Intermediate that had marked the turning. The amateurs stayed at Prelim or fell away from competition altogether when their horses proved to lack the necessary scope to move up. Only a handful went on because Intermediate was riskier, a lot harder, and required a bold, scopey horse. The jumps were huge. Downright scary, in fact. It was a major transition, much more so than from Training to Prelim.

Suddenly there was too much at stake. At the Prelim level all of them had been happy amateurs, pulling together. There had been stress, certainly, but it came from within. It was the rider challenging herself, setting her own goals.

But at Intermediate, most of the riders were committed to making it big–that is, they wanted to go all the way, compete internationally, be chosen for the Talent Squad, then the long list, then the short list, then Team Alternates, and finally The Team.
Making The Team.
It was political now. It was who your trainer was, if they were ‘in’ with C–FES, if the C–FES committee liked your horse, liked your odds, thought you would reflect well on them.

So now the stress was external too. The mood changed. Stephanie wasn’t happy any more. She thought her chances for making the Team were slim. What did it matter, Thea urged, as long as she was enjoying herself?

You don’t understand, Mom. You have to have an international level horse. Bridget says Boy isn’t good enough. He’s not scopey enough. He’ll let me down. Even if he goes okay at Intermediate, he’ll never go Advanced. I have to have a better horse. I have to.

And Harold had backed her up. Thea hadn’t wanted to quarrel with him. The divorce had been a painful experience. She wanted to keep their relationship civil and as amicable as possible. She didn’t want Stephanie to become an object for wrangling over.

And of course Harold was so taken with Bridget. He admired spunky, pretty women, he was easily seduced by posh British accents, and he liked the thought that his daughter might make the Team, where Bridget seemed to be in a position–perhaps not to guarantee a berth, but certainly to oil the wheels of the political machinery involved.

Eventing was a small pond in Canada in relation to the big lake that was England or Europe. Compared to Jumping, where competitors were more numerous and the struggle at the top much fiercer, you could go pretty far pretty fast in Canadian Eventing. Even so, in its parochial way, Harold had found it no small thing to be the parent of a Team member. And on top of his honorary life membership on the Board of C–FES–well, it had an irresistible appeal.

Bridget was deep into her subject. “Now you want to remember that the second water jump will be harder than the first. Your horse will be tired. And you should keep in mind that statistically, more refusals happen jumping
out
of the water than at any other obstacle. So for God’s sake once you’re out of the water, look up, keep your leg on, ride forward, and get over the next jump. That’s the vertical–here, you see it? And then, heading for home, your horse is really tired now, so he’ll want to flatten out and be on the forehand. It’s absolutely critical not to let him
dive
at the Hay Ride….”

Thea found herself engulfed in the blackness of mood that always coincided with this point in her memories, the acquisition of that damned Robin’s Song. Why hadn’t she spoken out? Why hadn’t she said aloud what she had come to realize after following Stephanie around on the Three–Day Event circuit for all that time?

That Stephanie wasn’t experienced enough for the big time. She was brave, certainly, and talented. But not ready to leap so high. Oh yes, perhaps with a very special horse, a horse with more experience, that knew the ropes at Advanced. But really, Steph should have stayed at Prelim for at least another year, ridden more horses at that level. Only to have competed with the one horse, Boy–it wasn’t enough. She had gone on to Intermediate too fast. And there was no question that Robin’s Song wasn’t the right horse for her. Not at all.

How had it been that she, Thea, was the only one to think so? Bridget had told Harold that Robin’s Song was ideal for Stephanie. He was a Team prospect, no question, she had said. Out of Rockin’ Robin, the best stallion she had ever brought over from England. And Harold had believed her. Why was she, Thea, the only one to remark–only in her mind, of course, not out loud–that it was Bridget who stood to gain financially from the sale of the horse? That there was a terrible conflict of interest involved?

But no, the horse was incredibly beautiful, Bridget produced a list of his amazing accomplishments so far, Stephanie fell in love with him at first sight, and it was, emotionally, a
fait accompli
. Harold had put pressure on Thea because, after all,
she
would be the one to pay for the horse. Harold was not embarrassed about this fact. He had gotten quite accustomed to the luxuries that her family fortune had provided during their marriage.