Riders (28 page)

“Just,” said Jake. “I’d like to.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thanks very much.”

“The rest of the team’ll be coming on from Rome,” said Malise, “except for Humpty, who’s flying from Heathrow and sending his groom down by train with the horses. It’s a bugger of a journey, takes three or four days, so I suggest you put your groom and your horses in Humpty’s box. His groom, Bridie, can collect yours on the way and they can travel as far as Dunkirk together, then take the train the rest of the way. You can fly out to Madrid with Humpty,” he went on, “and meet the horses there. No point both you and the horses arriving exhausted.”

“No,” said Jake sharply, “I want to travel with the horses.”

“I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Anyway I can’t spare my groom. Tory’s about to have a baby and she can’t look after the yard on her own.”

“Are you sure? You really won’t enjoy that flog.”

“I don’t mind.” Jake had never been abroad and the thought of letting his precious horses out of sight for a second on foreign soil filled him with horror.

“And you’ll bring Valerian and Africa?” asked Malise.

“Valerian’s been a bit pulled down by some virus. I’ve got a much better horse. He was placed in three classes at Birmingham.”

“Okay,” said Malise, “you know your own horses. If we need you for the Nations’ Cup you can jump Africa.”

In the kitchen Jake found Tory talking to Wolf, who was sitting on the kitchen table. She was also opening a bottle of champagne.

“Where did that come from?” he said, shocked at such extravagance.

“Granny Maxwell gave it to me just before she died. She said I wasn’t to open it until you were selected. She had faith in you, too. Oh, Jake,” she put down the bottle and flung her arms around his neck and he could feel the tears on her cheeks. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

In the week that followed, Jake was almost too busy to be nervous. Although Tory repeatedly nagged him, he’d never bothered to get a passport, thinking it was tempting providence until he was actually picked. Now all sorts of strings had to be pulled by the BSJA and trips taken to the passport office. Africa and Sailor had to have passports, too, which included a drawing of the horse. However many times Jake redrew Sailor, he still looked like an old Billy goat. They also had to have blood tests, and their health papers had to be stamped. Then shows had to be canceled and Jake and the horses had to be packed for. With a four-day journey there and possibly back, he would be away for nearly three weeks. He would liked to have rung Humpty and asked his advice about foreign customs and what to wear, but he was too proud. Meanwhile the village dressmaker sat up late every night making him a red coat.

He tried the coat on the night before he left, wishing he was taller and broader in the shoulders. At least he didn’t have a turkey red face that clashed with it, like Humpty.

Tory was putting Isa to bed. Wolf, the lurcher, sat on his curved tail, shivering on Jake’s suitcase, the picture of desolation. Normally he went with Jake to every show, but some sixth sense told him he was going to be left behind tomorrow.

Next minute Isa wandered in, in blue pajamas with a Womble on the front and a policeman’s helmet on his head which he wore all day and in bed at night. His left wrist was handcuffed to a large teddy bear. He was at the age when he kept acquiring new words, and copied everything Jake and Tory said.

“Daddy going hunting,” he announced, seeing the red coat.

“Not exactly,” said Jake. “I’m going away for a few days to Spain, and you must take care of Mummy.”

“Will you be back before Mummy gets her baby out? Will you bring me a present?”

Jake turned so he could look at the coat from the back. He wished he knew how hot it would be in Spain.

“What d’you want?”

“Nuvver lorry.”

“You’ve got about ten,” said Jake. “For Christ’s sake, don’t touch that briefcase.”

“What’s this?”

“Spanish money.”

“Where is Pain?” said Isa, ignoring Jake and spreading out the notes.

“Over the seas. I said
leave
that case alone.”

Normally he hated snapping at Isa, but last-minute nerves were getting to him.

“Daddy have a whicksey,” said Isa, who regarded a stiff drink as the cure to all grown-up ills, “and get pissed up.”

“I said
go
and find Mummy.” Jake retrieved the notes and the health papers.

“Mummy’s crying,” said Isa.

Jake felt a burst of irritation. He felt guilty about leaving her, but what else could he do? She wanted him to get on; what the hell was she crying for? He found her in the bathroom bending her bulk down slowly to retrieve plastic ducks, boats, and sodden towels. Her swollen ankles were spilling over her slip-on shoes. She had had those shoes since he married her.

“What’s the matter?” he snapped.

“Nothing.” She concentrated on squeezing out a flannel.

“What the hell’s the matter? I can’t help going.” His guilt at leaving her made him speak more harshly than he’d meant to. “It’s not going to be much fun for me; fifteen hundred miles on the train in the blazing heat with two horses.”

It was part of the bargain of their marriage that she never clung to him or betrayed her desperate dependency.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m over the moon that you’re going. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

Her lip trembled. Jake put his arm round her, feeling the solid shape of the baby inside her, pressing against him. For a second she clung to him, lowering her guard.

“It’s just that I’m going to miss you so much.”

“It’ll go very quickly,” he said. “I’ll ring you the moment I get to Madrid.”

Next minute they heard a terrific banging, and Wolf barking. Looking out, they saw Tanya, obviously having to stand on a bucket, peering out of the tiny high tackroom window.

“Will someone come and rescue me? Your wretched son’s just locked me in.”

And yet next morning, getting up at first light, with the rising sun touching the willows and the pale gray fields, the Mill House looked so beautiful that Jake wondered how he could bear to leave it. Tanya had already been up for two hours getting the horses ready. She had even borrowed two milk churns from a nearby dairy to carry water, in case Jake ran out on the train journey.

“I’m sorry you’re not coming,” he said.

“You can take me next time.”

“If there is a next time,” said Jake, lighting a cigarette.

“Nervous?”

Jake nodded.

Africa heard Humpty’s lorry before Jake did. She had changed over the years, growing stronger, more muscular, and filling out behind the saddle. She was more demanding and less sociable, and could be moody and impatient, especially if she was in season. Now, aware that something was up, she darted to her half-door to look out, eyes bold, ears flattened, pawing at her straw, stamping with her forelegs. The other horses put their heads out of the boxes, ready to be jealous because they were not included in the trip. Only Sailor stayed in his box, calmly finishing off his feed. Sailor calmed Africa down. But Jake was her big love.

Both Tory and Tanya felt a stab of relief that Bridie, Humpty’s groom, wasn’t at all pretty. Plump, with mouse brown curls, she had a greasy skin and a large bottom.

Just my luck to be stuck for four days with that, thought Jake.

Inside the lorry they could see Humpty’s three horses, with the resplendent Porky Boy on the outside, coat gleaming like a conker. By comparison, Sailor, shuffling up the ramp, looked as though he was going on his last journey. At least Africa, in her dark beauty, whinnying and prancing up the ramp, slightly redeemed the yard.

“Well, I don’t think you need have any worries about Jake getting off with that,” said Tanya, as the lorry heaved its way over the bridge, rattling against the willow branches.

“The forecast’s awful,” Bridie told Jake cheerfully. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a terrible crossing.”

In fact the entire journey was a nightmare. The horse box moved like a snail. A storm blew up in midchannel and the boat nearly turned back. Jake spent the entire journey trying to calm the horses. The crossing took so long they missed the train at Dunkirk and had to wait twelve hours before they caught another one, which took them to the Spanish border quite smoothly. There they got into trouble with both French and Spanish customs, who took exception to Jake’s emergency passport. Jake, speaking no languages at all, and Bridie, who had only a few words of Spanish, found themselves shunted off to a siding for a day and a half, fast running out of food. Bridie, who was quite used to such delays, whiled the time away reading Mills and Boon novels and being chatted up by handsome customs officials who didn’t seem remotely put off by her size.

Jake nearly went crazy, pacing up and down, smoking packet after packet of cigarettes, trying to telephone England.

“If you’re abroad, there are always holdups,” said Bridie philosophically. “You’ll just have to get used to them.” He’s as uptight as a tick, that one, she thought. Any minute he’ll snap.

At last Jake got on to Tory, who managed to trace Malise in Rome, who pulled more strings and eventually arranged for them to take the next Madrid-bound train. In the ensuing wait, Jake started reading Mills and Boon novels, too, not realizing that only now was the real nightmare about to begin.

Their transport turned out to be cattle trucks, with Humpty’s three horses and Bridie in one, and Jake, Africa, and Sailor in another. There were no windows in the trucks, just air vents and a sliding door. “Porky Boy won’t like this,” said Bridie. “He’s used to a light in his box.”

After lots of shunting and banging back and forth, until every bone in Jake’s body was jarred, they were then hitched to a Spanish passenger express. Once the train started there was no communication with the outside world. No one to talk to, just total blackness and occasional flashes as stations flew past. The whiplash effect was appalling. Jake knew exactly what it was like to be a dry martini shuddering in a cocktail shaker.

As they slowed down outside a big station, Jake heard crashing and banging from Bridie’s truck next door.

“Porky Boy’s gone off his head,” she yelled. “I can’t hold him still enough to dope him.”

Risking his life and eternal abandonment in the middle of Spain, Jake leapt out of his truck and ran along to Bridie’s, only making it just in time, and narrowly avoiding being crushed to death by a maddened Porky Boy. Somehow, with the flashlight between his teeth, he managed to fill the syringe, jab it into the terrified plunging animal, and cling on, soothing and talking to him, until he calmed down.

Bridie was tearful in her gratitude. Frantic about Africa and Sailor, Jake then had to wait until the milky white light of morning revealed rolling hills, dotted with olive trees, flattening out to the dusty, leathery plains around Madrid, before the train slowed down enough for him to get back to them. He was so proud. Africa had a cut knee where she had fallen down, and both were obviously saddened by his absence, but delighted to welcome him back. They swayed from side to side keeping their footing. If they could, he thought, they would have got out and pulled the cattle trucks themselves.

When they finally reached Madrid, the trucks were pulled into the passenger station. Jake and Bridie found the platform packed with chic Spanish commuters, soberly dressed for the office, and looking with astonishment on two such travel-worn wrecks and their shabby horses.

A
fter such a hellish journey, Jake was prepared for hen coops in which to stable the horses. But the Madrid showground turned out to be the last word in luxury, with a sumptuous clubhouse, swimming pools and squash courts, and a huge jumping arena next to an even bigger practice ring containing more than fifty different jumps.

“Humpty says it’s worth coming to Madrid just to practice over these fences,” said Bridie as she unloaded a stiff, weary, chastened Porky Boy.

Even better, each foreign team had been given its own private yard with splendid loose boxes. Next door, the victorious German team had just arrived from Rome and were unloading their huge horses and making a lot of noise. Jake recognized Ludwig von Schellenberg and Hans Schmidt, two riders he’d worshiped for years. Tomorrow, he thought with a thud of fear, he’d be competing against them.

He was distracted from his fears by another crisis. The loose boxes were all bedded with thick straw, which was no good for greedy Sailor, who always guzzled straw and blew himself out. Jake had run out of wood shavings on the journey down. How could he possibly explain to these charming, smiling, but uncomprehending Spaniards what he wanted? Bridie’s dictionary had “wood” but not “shavings.” He felt a great weariness.

“Can I help?” said a voice.

It was Malise Gordon, who had just flown in from Rome, his high complexion tanned by the Italian sun, wearing a lightweight suit and looking handsome and authoritative. Jake was never so pleased to see anyone.

Immediately Malise broke into fluent Spanish and sorted everything out.

“You look absolutely shattered,” he said to Jake. “Sorry it was a bloody journey, but I warned you. Still, it was as well you were there to look after Porky Boy last night. Are your horses okay?”

While the Spanish grooms put down the wood shavings for Sailor, Jake showed Malise Africa’s knee, which mercifully hadn’t swollen up.

“Where’s your other horse?”

“Here. They’ve got his box ready.”

Sailor, a messy eater, had tipped all his feed into the wood shavings and was busily picking it out. He gave Malise a baleful look out of his walleye. After the four-day journey he looked perfectly dreadful.

Christ, thought Malise, we’ll be a laughingstock entering something like that. But, he supposed, in the remote chance of Jake having to compete in the Nations’ Cup, he could always ride Africa. Anyway, the boy looked all in. No point in saying anything now.

“I’ll take you back to the hotel. You’d better get some sleep.” Malise looked at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock now. The rest of the team won’t arrive till this afternoon. I suggest we meet in the bar around nine P.M. Then we can have dinner together and you can meet them all.”

To Jake, who had never slept in a hotel, the bedroom seemed the height of luxury. There was a bathroom with a shower, and a bath and a loo, and free soap and bubble bath, and a bathcap, and three white towels. In the bedroom there was a television, a wireless, a telephone, and a huge double bed. He was dying for some coffee but he didn’t dare pick up the telephone in case they couldn’t understand him. French windows led out onto a bosomy balcony which looked over a park. To the left, if he leaned out, he could see a street full of shops and cafés with tables outside. Already smells of olive oil, pimentos, and saffron were drifting up from the kitchen. Drawing the thick purple curtains and only bothering to take off his shoes, Jake fell onto the surprisingly hard bed. The picture on the wall, of a matador in obscenely tight pink trousers shoving what looked like knitting needles into the neck of a bull, swam before his eyes and he was asleep.

Despite his exhaustion, however, he slept only fitfully. His dreams of disastrous rounds kept being interrupted by bursts of flamenco music or the screams of children playing in the park. By six the city had woken up and stretched itself after its siesta and Jake decided to abandon any hope of sleep. Outside, the streets were packed with cars rattling over the cobbles, hardly restrained at all by lights or frantically whistling policemen. Tables along the pavement were beginning to fill up, crowds to parade up and down. Looking across at the park, he saw a small child racing after a red ball, then tripping over a gamboling dog, falling flat on his face and bursting into noisy sobs. Next moment a pretty dark-haired mother had rushed forward, sworn at the dog, and gathered up the child, covering him with kisses. Jake was suddenly flattened with longing for Isa and Tory. He was desperate to ring home, but he didn’t know how to, nor did he dare pick up the telephone and ask for some tea.

Instead, raging with thirst, he drank a couple of mugs of water out of the tap, then unpacked, showered, and, wrapped only in one of the white towels, wandered out onto the balcony. Instantly he stepped back, for there on the next balcony was a beautiful girl painting her toenails coral pink and soaking up the slanting rays of the early evening sun.

She was impossibly slender, with long legs and arms, which, despite being covered in freckles, were already tanning becomingly to the color of weak tea. She wore a saffron yellow bikini and her hair was hidden by a big yellow towel. Beside her lay the catalogue of some art gallery, a Spanish dictionary, what looked like a book of poetry, and a half-finished glass of orange juice. Obviously she could make Reception understand her. The whole impression was of a marvelously pampered and overbred racehorse. As she stretched luxuriously, enjoying the sensation of being warm and alive, Jake felt a stab of lust. Why didn’t one ever see girls like that in Warwickshire? He wished she would pick her nose or scratch her crotch, anything to make her more normal and less desirable.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor. The girl jumped up. A man’s voice could be heard shouting in the passage, “Okay, we’ll see you in the bar about nine.”

The girl in the saffron bikini could be heard calling out in an American accent, “Darling, it’s so good to see you.”

There was a long pause. Then he heard the man’s voice more clearly. It was a flat distinctive drawl which he would recognize anywhere and which made his knees disappear and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

“Bloody awful journey,” said the voice. “Lorry kept overheating. We’ve been on the road for nearly thirty-six hours.”

“Sweetheart,” said the girl, “I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted.”

Another pause followed, then the voice said sharply, “I don’t care how fucking exhausted I am, get that bikini off.”

The girl started protesting, but not for long. Next moment there were sounds of lovemaking, with the bed banging against the wall so hard that Jake felt he was back in the cattle truck. Mercifully it lasted only five minutes. Any more evidence of Rupert’s superstud servicing would have finished Jake off altogether. Almost worse was the splashing and laughter as later they had a bath together. It was still desperately hot. Jake made his bed neatly and, soaked with sweat, had another shower and changed his shirt, for something to do. He’d have liked to have washed some underpants and shirts and hung them out on the balcony, but he could imagine Rupert’s derisive comments. Later he heard them having a drink on the balcony.

“Better get a few quick ones under my belt, so Malise doesn’t think I’m alcoholic.”

By nine o’clock Jake was so crucified by nerves and waiting that he couldn’t bring himself to go downstairs, until Malise rang up from Reception saying they were all in the bar, and had he overslept? Malise met him as he came out of the lift. Noticing the set face, the black rings under the eyes, the obvious tension, he said, “Don’t worry, they’re all very unalarming.”

There they were—all his heroes. Humpty Hamilton, puce from the heat, drinking lager. Lavinia Greenslade, whom he remembered from the first Bilborough show. She was even prettier now that she’d lightened her hair, and wore it shorter and curlier. On either side, like two guard dogs, sat her mother, who wore too much cheap jewelry, and her father, who had ginger sideburns and a stomach spilling over his trousers. They didn’t smile. Lavinia was too recent a cap herself for them to regard any new member of the team with enthusiasm. Billy Lloyd-Foxe had filled out and broken his nose since prep school days, but looked more or less the same. He was laughing with a most beautiful redheaded girl, who was wearing black flared trousers and a white silk shirt tied under her breasts and showing off her smooth bare midriff. By her freckled arms and her coral pink toenails, Jake identified the girl on the balcony. Rupert had his back turned as he paid for a round of drinks and signed an autograph for the barman, but Jake immediately recognized the back of that smooth blond head and the broad blue striped shoulders. He felt a wave of horror and loathing.

“This is Jake Lovell,” said Malise. “I’m sure he knows who all of you are.”

Rupert swung round, smiling. In his brown face his eyes were as brilliantly blue as a jay’s wing.

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome to alcoholics not at all anonymous. I hear you had a worse journey than us, which seems impossible. What are you going to drink?”

Jake, who’d rehearsed this moment so often, and who was prepared to be icily aloof, found himself totally disarmed by such friendliness and muttered he’d like some Scotch. Billy got to his feet and shook Jake’s hand.

“You’ve been cleaning up on the Northern circuit. Don’t venture up there often myself, too easy to get beaten.”

“That was a good horse you were jumping at Birmingham,” said Humpty, patting the empty seat beside him. “What’s she called, Australia?”

“Africa,” said Jake.

“Looks almost clean bred. Who was her sire?”

“Don’t know.”

“And her dam?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” said Rupert, handing Jake a very large glass of whisky, which made Malise frown slightly.

Rupert lifted his glass to Jake. “Welcome to the British squad,” he said. “Hope it’s the first of many.”

“Thanks,” said Jake. He took a slug of his whisky, which was so strong it made his eyes water. He put his glass down at once, so they shouldn’t see how much his hand was shaking.

“Lavinia’s been capped for Great Britain six times,” said her mother defensively.

“Oh, please, Mummy.”

“You should be proud of the fact,” went on her mother. “The only girl in the team.”

“What about Driffield?” said Rupert. “I’ve always thought his sex was slightly in question.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Humpty. “I’ve shared a room with him.”

“That’s enough,” said Malise.

“Did you get to the Prado this afternoon?” Helen asked him.

Malise shook his head.

“I spent a couple of hours there,” she said. “The Velasquez are out of this world. Such power. I only managed to do two rooms, but I also looked at the cathedral. The nave is just wonderful.”

Rupert stifled a yawn. “I prefer navels,” he said, running his hand over his wife’s midriff. Then, pushing down her black trousers, he fingered her belly button. “Particularly yours.”

It was definitely a gesture of possession and he smiled across at Jake with that bullying, mocking, appraising look that Jake remembered so well.

Humpty turned back to Jake. “By the way, thanks for looking after Porky on the way down. Bridie said he might have damaged himself and her very badly if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“The train driver ought to be shot,” said Jake.

“Spaniards don’t like animals,” said Humpty. “Porky’s highly strung of course, but so was his dam.”

And Humpty was off on a long involved dissertation on Porky Boy’s breeding. Jake appeared to listen and studied the others. Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade were discussing what horses Lavinia ought to jump, across Lavinia, who was gazing surreptitiously at Billy. Billy was arguing fairly amicably with Rupert about whether a particular mare was worth selling and how much they’d get for her. Helen and Malise, having exhausted Velasquez, had moved on to Spanish poetry. She was an astonishingly beautiful girl, thought Jake, but too fragile for Rupert. Jake couldn’t imagine him handling anyone with care for very long.

“I just adore Lorca,” Helen was saying. “He’s so passionate and basic; that poem that starts ‘Green, Green, I want you Green.’ ”

“Sounds like Billy,” said Rupert, “only in his case it’s Gweenslade, Gweenslade, I want you Gweenslade.”

“Shut up,” hissed Billy, shooting a nervous glance in the direction of Lavinia’s mother.

“Not unless you buy me a drink,” said Rupert, handing Billy his empty glass.

“Okay,” said Billy, getting up. “Who needs a refill?”

“Jake does,” said Rupert.

Unable and not particularly wanting to get a word in edgeways while Humpty talked, Jake had had plenty of time to finish his whisky. Having not had anything to eat for at least thirty-six hours, he was beginning to feel very tight. But before he could protest, Rupert had whipped his glass away and handed it to Billy.

“Not as strong as the last one, then,” said Malise firmly. “That was a quadruple.”

“He’s not eighteen, you know,” said Rupert softly.

“How old are you?” asked Humpty.

“Twenty-six,” said Jake.

“Same as me and Rupe,” said Billy, hailing the waiter.

“It’s funny we haven’t heard of you before,” said Lavinia. “Awfully womantic, to be suddenly picked out of the blue like that.”