Riders (19 page)

After the competition, the heavens opened and journalists and other riders crowded into Rupert’s caravan to get out of the rain. But after drinking Rupert’s health in Rupert’s champagne out of the huge silver cup he had just won, they were far more interested in talking about The Bull’s amazing jump and Billy’s retirement. Rupert loved Billy, but he did not like playing second fiddle. He might have been indifferent to public adulation, but he liked it to be there, so he
could
be indifferent to it.

Leaving them all gassing together, he took half a bottle of champagne into the shower. As the drumming of raindrops on the caravan roof drowned the noise of the hot water, he was gripped by the lust that always overwhelmed him after a big class. Normally he would have screwed Marion in the back of the horse box, but he doubted if she would oblige with a quickie with Helen around. Anyway, he didn’t want Marion; he was amazed by his violent craving for Helen. He must get her into bed soon. Only that could restore his
amour propre
and remove the ache from his loins. He’d already told Billy to find somewhere else to shack up for the night as he needed the caravan for Helen and himself. But, although he knew she was hooked on him, he was by no means sure she was going to be a pushover. He’d have to make her jealous. He knew Grania Pringle would oblige.

Helen, in fact, was feeling absolutely miserable. She knew Rupert was busy, that this was his world, but he had this ability to be all over her one moment and virtually oblivious of her the next. Since he’d won the cup, he’d been completely withdrawn. And now all these people were guzzling his drink, talking shop, and ignoring her. Only the German, Hans Schmidt, who had rather mad arctic blue eyes, had made any attempt to chat her up.

But he hadn’t seen any of the German movies she so admired and when she got him on to writers it was even worse.

“I just adore Brecht,” she said with enthusiasm.

“I too am a great admirer of breasts,” said Hans, brightening perceptibly and gazing at her bosom.

“No, Brecht, the writer.”

“Ya, ya,” said Hans. “Small breasts, big breasts, it’s quite all right viz me for zee ladies to like other ladies’ breasts.”

Helen went pink and hastily started talking about Gunther Grass. She thought she was making progress. The German seemed most interested until he suddenly said, “Vot is zis grass? Is it some kind of hay which Rupert feed his horses?”

So she gave up and he turned back to Humpty Hamilton, who was having an argument with the man from the
Daily Telegraph
about dust allergy.

Billy still being interviewed by Joanna Battie from the
Chronicle,
who was showing all the intensity of someone who realizes they’ve stumbled on a really good story, could do little more than smile apologetically and shove the bottle in Helen’s direction from time to time.

Unaware of the taciturnity and habitual suspicion towards outsiders of all show-jumping people, Helen felt she must have lost her sex appeal. Nor did she realize they were too wary of Rupert to chat up one of his girlfriends.

She longed to be able to shower and change before Lady Pringle’s party. She’d never met a member of the British aristocracy before and wondered if she ought to curtsey, and how she should address her. Her mother always emphasized the importance of using people’s names when you talked to them. Was it milady, or your grace, or what? She’d liked to have asked Joanna or Marion, who had just returned exhausted from settling the horses, but they both looked at her with such hostility. To hell with them all, she thought, helping herself to another drink. I am a writer, I must observe life and listen to British dialogue.

One of the journalists was ringing his newspaper on Rupert’s telephone.

“I’m sure he was half brother to Arctic Prince,” said Humpty.

“He was own brother,” said Ivor sullenly.

“Half brother.”

“Own brother. I ought to know, I rode the horse.”

“I must use the telephone next to ring my news desk,” said the man from the
Telegraph.

At this moment Rupert came out of the shower, a dark blue towel round his hips, blond hair dark and otter sleek. Helen felt her stomach give way.

“I want to change, so would you all fuck off?” he said coldly.

“Don’t mind us,” said Humpty. “You never have before. Wasn’t Polar Pete half brother to Arctic Prince?”

“I don’t care. Get out—
all
of you. And get off my telephone, Malcolm.”

He ripped the telephone wire out of its socket.

“I was on to the news desk, singing your praises,” said Malcolm indignantly.

“I don’t care. Beat it.”

Grumbling, they all dispersed into the sheeting rain, running with their coats over their heads, until only Billy and Helen were left. Rupert replugged the telephone. It rang immediately. At a nod from Rupert, Billy picked it up. Rupert came over and kissed Helen. He tasted of toothpaste and smelt faintly of eau de cologne. In the safety of Billy’s chaperonage, she allowed herself to melt against him, kissing him back until she could hardly stand. Rupert put a hand on her breast.

“I can feel your heart,” he said softly, “and it sure is racing.”

“Ahem,” said Billy. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s Dick Brandon. He wants to drop in for a drink.”

“Hell! Oh, all right, tell him to come over. Go and have a shower, darling, the water’s baking.”

“Will it be very fancy tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Shall I wear pants?”

Rupert’s eyes gleamed. That
was
getting somewhere. “Certainly not,” he said.

Helen was relieved to find that the shower, unlike the showers at Regina House, gushed out constant hot water. But there was no lock on the door and Helen imagined Rupert barging in, so she showered with frantic haste. She put on a black silk jersey dress with a discreetly low back and pale gray tights which stuck to her legs because they were still wet.

Outside, she found that the double bed had been let down from the wall. Joining the two bench seats, it formed a huge area. On top of the dark blue duvet lounged Rupert, wearing a striped shirt and gray trousers. Perching on the edge of the bed were Billy and a man in a light check suit with an expansive red-veined face, bags under his eyes, and blond hair going gray. They were three-quarters of the way down another bottle of champagne. Rupert’s eyes were beginning to glitter slightly.

“Well, if the horse is so bloody good, I can’t see why you’re selling her,” said Brandon.

“She’s not quite up to my weight and she’s too sensitive for me. You know what I feel about mares.”

Suddenly they all noticed Helen standing there, white skin flushed from the shower, brilliant red hair falling over her forehead, the perfect contrast to the black dress. The man in the check suit whistled.

“Oh boy,” he said. “Come here, sweetheart.”

As she came towards him, he ran his hand down her pearly gray stockinged leg as if she were a horse.

“Now this I’m really prepared to offer for.”

Rupert laughed and, reaching out for Helen, pulled her down beside him, offering her his glass to drink out of. Then he ruffled her hair, gazing into the huge shy bruised eyes.

“I’m afraid this one’s definitely not for sale, Dick,” he said.

Christ, Rupe is a lucky sod, thought Billy. She gets more stunning by the minute.

A
nother bottle of champagne was consumed and the rain had stopped before they set out for Grania Pringle’s party. The setting sun was firing the puddles and bathing the dripping trees with a soft pink light.

Rupert and Billy, both already slightly tight and in raging spirits, walked on either side of Helen, putting their inside arms through hers and lifting her over the muddier ground.

“Where my caravan has rested, Flowers I leave you on the grass,” caroled Billy in a quavering baritone as they walked past the caravan village. Mavis ran on ahead, picking up her blond feet like a hackney pony, delicately tiptoeing along the runnels of the puddles.

On the way they stopped to check the horses, who were dozing in nine inches of wood shavings. The Bull was looking out of his box and Mavis scampered up and licked him on the nose. Helen couldn’t help noticing how both The Bull and Kitchener whickered with pleasure to see Billy, nudging at his pockets for Polos, but both Belgravia and Mayfair and the younger novice horses flattened their ears and backed off as Rupert approached.

“Got to show them who’s boss,” said Rupert lightly, but, adding that it was getting chilly, he put an extra rug on Belgravia.

“Don’t forget the antifreeze,” said Billy, and promptly burst into song again. Then he said, “I’m going to make the most enormous play for Lavinia Greenslade tonight.”

“Wavish her in the whododendwons,” said Rupert. “Like hell you will. I’ll give you a tenner if you get to first base.”

The Pringles lived in a large Georgian house behind the Crittleden elm wood, looking over a lake and a cherry orchard whose white blossom was now tinged almond pink by the last rays of the sun.

Helen gave a gasp of pleasure.

“ ‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now,’ ” she gushed expansively, “ ‘is hung with bloom along the bough.’ ”

“Hung with bloomers,” said Rupert, deliberately mishearing her. “Sounds just like Nanny. What were those bloody great things she insisted on wearing winter and summer?”

“Directoire knickers,” said Billy.

“That’s right. When she hung them on the line on washday we always thought they’d carry the house away like an air balloon.”

They both collapsed with laughter.

In order not to be a spoilsport, Helen tried to join in.

From the noise issuing from the front door the party was obviously well under way. As Helen changed out of mud-spattered boots into black high-heeled shoes, a handsome blonde, scent rising like incense from the cleavage of her splendid bosom, came out to welcome them.

“Rupert, darling, how lovely to see you.”

She gathered him into a braceleted embrace. Over his shoulder her sootily mascaraed eyes appraised the rest of them, affording Helen and Mavis about the same amount of enthusiasm.

That’s Grania Pringle, thought Helen. Close up she didn’t look very ladylike.

“Must you bring that creature in here?” she said to Billy.

“Love me, love my dog,” said Billy unrepentantly. “Sorry, Grania, but she howls the caravan down if I leave her behind.”

“Well, I don’t have any difficulty loving you, but I do draw the line at Mavis.”

“You haven’t met Helen Macaulay,” said Rupert, extracting himself from her clutches. “She comes from Florida, where tomatoes, she informs me, are their tertiary industry.”

“Tomatoes,” said Lady Pringle. “How extraordinary. Your mother gave me a marvelous recipe for tomato provençale last time I saw her, Rupe. We all stank of garlic for weeks afterwards, but it was simply delicious.” She turned back to Helen. “Are you a horsey gel?”

“No, thank God,” said Rupert, “she works in publishing. And she’s absolutely fed up with Humpty Hamilton and Ivor Braine and Billy gassing about bloodlines all afternoon. Have you invited any intellectuals for her to talk to?”

“Only Malise Gordon,” said Grania. “He writes books, frightfully clever chap, you must meet him. But he’s rather hemmed in by Lavinia Greenslade’s parents, who are twying to persuade him to take Lavinia to Wome.”

“Must be mad,” said Rupert. “She couldn’t even stay on the wocking horse at Hawwods.”

“Shut up,” said Billy, grinning.

“Billy’s rather a fan of Lavinia’s,” explained Rupert. “He’s longing to wape her.”

“And Lavinia’s Daddy will be so cwoss, he’ll come and wun me over in his Wolls-Woyce,” said Billy.

Grania screamed with laughter. She was already beginning to get seriously on Helen’s nerves.

“You boys are awful. Come and have a drink.”

“If Greenslade
mère
and
père
are bending Malise’s ear, that means Lavinia must be unchaperoned for a second and I’m off,” said Billy, and vanished into the crowd in the next room.

“I’m afraid I’ve hidden the whisky, Rupert,” said Grania. “You know what pigs this lot are, but you’ll find some in the decanter in the library and there’s another bottle in the kitchen cupboard.”

Whisky, however, was only for Rupert. Helen had to make do with a glass of very indifferent sparkling wine. The next moment Grania had swept her away from Rupert and thrust her into a loudly arguing group consisting of several show jumpers and Joanna Battie.

“Now then, Joanna,” said Grania briskly, “you can’t monopolize all these delicious chaps. This is Helen Macaulay, boys; she’s frightfully clever and works for a publisher in London. Now I know all you show jumpers are writing your autobiographies, so why don’t you get her to publish yours? Come along, Rupert, my sister’s dying to meet you.”

And off she swept, leaving Helen scarlet with embarrassment. “Hi, again,” she mumbled to Joanna. “Are you all writing books?” she asked the ring of men.

“Too busy keeping them,” said a man with brushed-forward hair and a pale, pinched, disapproving face who was drinking tomato juice. “Joanna’s the writer round here, aren’t you, Joe? Except she gets it all wrong.”

“Never met a journalist who got anything right,” grumbled Humpty Hamilton. “Last week the
Telegraph
said Porky Boy was out of Sally in Our Alley. I mean, everyone knows Windsor Lass was his dam.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” snapped the man with brushed-forward hair. “You told us that yesterday.”

“You should come off the wagon, Driffield,” said Humpty. “It’s making you very bad-tempered.”

“I’ve lost twelve pounds, which is more than I can say for you, Humpty. You look five months gone in that sweater.”

“How much d’you reckon Rupert weighs?” said Ivor Braine, who was gazing at Helen with his mouth open.

“Helen should know,” said Joanna acidly.

“About twelve stone, I should think,” said Humpty.

“And eleven stone of that is pieces of paper with girls’ phone numbers on,” said Joanna.

Helen flushed. She hated Joanna, and her flat little voice, and hair drawn back from her forehead. She was more deadpan even than the show jumpers.

“How long have you been reducing for?” she asked Driffield.

“About a month.”

“You must have terrific control.”

“No!” he cut right across her, “that’s wrong, Humpty, he went clear.”

“No, he didn’t, he had four faults, and he was at least a quarter of a second slower than Rupert against the clock.”

Helen gritted her teeth. Across the room, as the horsey chat ebbed and flowed endlessly round her, she could see Rupert talking to Dick Brandon, hemmed in by women, all braying like Grania. Every few minutes, she noticed, Grania fed in another one and saw to it that Rupert’s glass of whisky was constantly topped up. Every so often he looked across and mouthed “All right?” to Helen and pride made her nod back.

She was certain Grania had deliberately thrust her into a group of small men. She topped all of them in her high heels. Separated from Rupert, she wanted him to be able to see her as the center of attention, being madly chatted up, but among this lot she felt about as attractive as a spayed Great Dane among a lot of Jack Russells. She bent her legs slightly.

Now they were discussing who’d bought what horses during the winter and which looked as though they were going to be the most promising novices. Hans Schmidt, wearing slightly too fitted and too bright blue a blazer, came up, clicked his heels, and kissed Helen’s hand.

“Ha, Mees Helen of Troy,” he said.

Helen turned to him gratefully, but next minute he was caught up with the others, discussing some potentially unbeatable Hanoverian mare.

Over in the corner Billy was hanging over the back of an armchair shared by Mavis and Lavinia Greenslade. After her dunking in the water she’d rewashed and curled her hair. A belted peacock blue dress showed off her tiny waist. Her small hand rested on Mavis’s head. Billy and she’ll have very curly-haired children, thought Helen. She wished Rupert would look after her like that. She must pull herself together and try and be more extrovert.

The group had moved on to discussing the best routes to take to the next show, which was in the West Country.

“The A40’s much quicker,” said Humpty Hamilton.

Suddenly they were joined by an amazing woman of about sixty. Squat, with a discernible black mustache on her upper lip, she was wearing a hairnet, a red flannel nightgown, bedroom slippers, and looked, thought Helen, not unlike President Nixon in drag.

“Hello, boys,” she said in her deep voice. “If we don’t get something to eat soon, you’ll have to carry me home.” She was just about to move on when she caught sight of Helen, gave her the most enthusiastic eye-meet she’d received all evening, and joined the group.

“Who’s that?” whispered Helen, holding out her glass to a passing waitress.

“Monica Carlton,” whispered Humpty. “Law unto herself, breeds Welsh cobs, always comes to parties in her nightgown, then can get absolutely plastered and doesn’t have the hassle of undressing when she gets back to her caravan.”

“While that waitress is here, she might as well fill me up too,” said Miss Carlton, thrusting her glass at Humpty. “You look familiar,” she added to Joanna Battie.

“We met at Olympia last Christmas,” said Joanna. “I write for the
Chronicle.
”

“Dreadful rag,” boomed Miss Carlton, retrieving her full glass. “Still, it comes in useful for wiping up puppies’ widdle.”

Helen giggled. Scenting enthusiasm, Miss Carlton turned towards her. “You’re a lovely little thing,” she went on. “We certainly haven’t met. I’d have remembered you.” She looked Helen up and down approvingly. “Don’t belong to any of these boring little farts, do you? Might have guessed it; too good for any of them.”

“I resent that,” said Humpty. “The amount of times I’ve given you a fireman’s lift home after parties, Monica.”

“Well, perhaps you’re better than some. Now, where are you from, my beauty?” she said, turning her full attention on Helen. “Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” stammered Helen.

“Well, if you are, I’ll take you for a spin round the countryside in my trap. You’d enjoy that. My two chaps travel at a spanking pace.”

And she was off, describing the merits of her two cobs who, it seemed, had won prizes at every show in England. As she talked, her eyes wandered over Helen’s body and the hand not clutching a glass squeezed Helen’s waist on every possible opportunity. Around them, Helen was vaguely aware of all the show jumpers creasing themselves with laughter. None of them was prepared to rescue her.

“Everyone all right?” It was Grania flitting past.

“Just admiring your antiques,” called out Helen desperately. “I’m a real Chippendale freak.”

“Oh, you Americans are always mad about old things; you
must
meet my husband. I see you’ve already met naughty Monica.” She patted Miss Carlton’s bristly cheek. “Grub’s up downstairs, by the way.”

“Thank God for that,” said Humpty. “I’m starving. Come on, everyone.”

Rupert caught up with her just as she was entering the dining room. “All right, darling? Sorry to neglect you; I’m in the process of selling a horse.”

“I’m fine,” said Helen, hardly able to trust herself to speak. “Just fine.”

“You must be starving. I’ll get you a plate.”

But the next moment he’d been lassooed by a large woman in red, asking him what had happened to some horse she’d sold him last year. Next minute the crowds had closed around him. Turning around, Helen saw Miss Carlton bearing down on her with two huge plates of chicken and rice. “Coo-ee,” she shouted.

Desperately, Helen fled in the other direction where she could see Billy and Mavis and Lavinia sharing another armchair. She’d just have to play gooseberry.

“Please,” she rushed up to them, “can I talk with you? Rupert’s with some woman, and Miss Carlton’s on the warpath.”

“Of course.” Billy got to this feet. “You haven’t met Lavinia, have you? Are you having an awful party?”

“I haven’t seen much of Rupert,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. He’s still haggling with Dick Brandon and it’s the first real show of the season. No one’s seen each other all together for ages, if you know what I mean. They’ve got a lot to catch up on.”