Riders (29 page)

“I started late,” said Jake.

“But I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” said Billy, puzzled, as he handed double whiskies to Jake and Rupert.

“Pwobably in
Horse and Hound,
or
Widing
magazine,” said Lavinia.

No it wasn’t, thought Billy to himself. There was something about Jake that made him feel uneasy, layers of memory being slowly peeled back like an onion, not very happy memories, the kind you tucked into a corner of your mind and tried to forget.

They dined in a taverna a couple of streets away. The walls were covered in fans and castanets and pictures of ladies in mantillas. In a corner a fat tenor in a rather dirty white frilly shirt, and with greasy patent leather hair, was dispiritedly strumming a guitar. The owner rushed out, shaking hands with Malise, Humpty, Rupert, and Billy and showing them their signed photographs on the wall, then going into a frenzy of ecstasy over Lavinia’s blond beauty. Redheads were less rare in Madrid than blondes, and Helen was a little too thin for Spanish tastes.

Jake was beginning to feel distinctly odd. He must get some food inside him. He found himself with Lavinia on his left and Mr. Greenslade on his right. Bottles were put on the table and Rupert immediately filled everyone’s glasses. Completely incomprehensible menus came round.

“What’s gazpacho?” he asked Lavinia.

“Tomato soup,” said Rupert.

That sounded gentle and stomach-settling.

“And polpi?”

“Some sort of pasta,” said Rupert.

“I’ll have that,” said Jake.

Suddenly he noticed Billy’s hand caressing Lavinia’s thigh under the table, where her mother and father couldn’t see. The waiter arrived for their order. Firmly Jake said he’d like gazpacho and polpi.

“I’d like a large steak and chips,” said Humpty.

“So would I,” said Billy, “but not chips, just a salad—my trousers are getting disgustingly tight—and Mediterranean prawns to start.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” said Rupert, filling up his glass.

Helen turned to the waiter and started to address him in Spanish.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Rupert irritably, “they all speak English.”

“Spanish is the native language of approximately two hundred million people throughout the world,” said Helen, flushing slightly. “That can’t be all bad.”

“At least she can translate your horoscope in the Spanish papers,” said Billy.

“And jolly useful at customs,” said Mrs. Greenslade, who admired Helen.

“We’ve got Marion for that,” said Rupert. “She’s got big boobs, which is more a language the customs officers understand.”

Apart from his hand stroking her thigh, Billy was studiously avoiding Lavinia for the benefit of her parents, so she turned to Jake.

“How did you get on in Rome?” he said. “I haven’t seen any papers.”

“I got a second and a third. Wupert did best. He won two classes and got a clear wound in the Nations’ Cup. But we were still thwashed by the Germans and the Fwench. I don’t think we’ll ever beat them. Ludwig and Hans Schmidt are like computers: they just pwogwam their horses and wound they go.”

Jake was eating bread, desperate to mop up some alcohol. The fat flamenco singer, after a lot of stamping, launched into some mournful ditty.

“Sounds like Grand Hotel,” said Rupert.

Now he’d had a lot to drink, Jake found his eyes continually drawn to Rupert, like a rabbit to a snake. He still felt the same sick churning inside. Rupert’s whiplash tongue was still there. Soon he knew he’d be the recipient. He realized again what an evil man Rupert was behind his offhand jokey exterior.

It was very hot in the restaurant. Jake was drenched with sweat.

“Okay?” asked Malise. “Grub should be up in a minute. That’s one of the maddening things about Spain: no one dines before ten o’clock. At least we get a nice late start.”

“I’m going to spend tomowwow morning sunbathing,” said Lavinia.

“You are not,” said her father. “You’ll sort out that stop of Snowstorm’s. We’re not risking him ducking out again.”

At last food began to arrive. A plate of soup was put in front of Jake. A great waft of garlic made him feel distinctly queasy. God knows what was in it. Little bits of fried bread, green peppers, and cucumbers floated on top.

“This is a most interesting paella,” Helen was saying as she speared a large mussel. Feeling slightly sick, Jake took a mouthful of soup and only just avoided spitting it out. It was stone cold and heavily garlicked. He put his spoon down and took a huge gulp of wine, then a piece of bread to take the taste away.

What was he to do? Was it some diabolical plan of Rupert’s, telling the waiter to bring him cold soup, so he could laugh like a drain when Jake ate it?

“What’s the matter?” said Malise.

“Nothing,” said Jake. He mustn’t betray weakness. He took another mouthful and very nearly threw up. Glancing up, he saw Rupert eyeing him speculatively.

“Gazpacho good?” he asked.

“It’s stone cold, if you want to know,” said Jake. “They’ve forgotten to heat it up.”

Rupert grinned. “It’s meant to be,” he said gently. “I should have warned you. It’s a Spanish national dish, no doubt enjoyed throughout the world by approximately two hundred million people.”

Jake gripped the sides of the plate. For a second he felt such a wave of hatred he nearly hurled it in Rupert’s face.

“I’ll have the gazpacho,” said Billy, leaning over, whipping away Jake’s plate and handing him the Mediterranean prawns in return.

“Then you’ll sleep alone,” said Rupert.

“It seems I have no other choice,” said Billy, smiling blandly at Mrs. Greenslade, and squeezing Lavinia’s thigh a bit harder.

Rupert started discussing bullfights with Humpty Hamilton.

“We’ll go to one later in the week.”

“I’m not going,” said Lavinia. “I thinks it’s vewy cwuel.”

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Rupert.

“No.”

“You’re just like Helen. She was out with the Antis when I first met her.”

She looks like a fox, thought Jake, beautiful, nervous, wistful, with those haunted yellow eyes, a tamed fox that might bolt at any minute.

“The El Grecos are wonderful,” she was saying to Malise. “You look like an El Greco yourself, kind of lean and distinguished.”

Malise, Jake noticed, blushed slightly and looked not unpleased.

“I’m going back tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come too?” she went on.

“Tomorrow, my angel,” said Rupert with a distinct edge to his voice, “you are going to spend the morning in bed with me.”

The second courses were arriving. Jake felt the mayonnaise and prawns mixing unhappily with the whisky and wine in his stomach. Pasta was just the thing to settle it. Next moment a plate was put down in front of him. He nearly heaved at the sight; it was full of octopus.

“I didn’t order this!”

“Sí, señor, polpi.”

Jake turned dark red. “You said it was pasta,” he hissed at Rupert.

“How silly of me,” drawled Rupert. “Of course, polpi, octopus. I’d forgotten. What a pity you didn’t ask Helen or Malise.”

“You’re a shit, Rupert,” said Billy. “Look,” he added to the waiter, “take this back and get some risotto, or would you rather have a steak?”

Jake shook his head. He was feeling awful.

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Have some of my wice and chicken,” said Lavinia, tipping it onto his side plate. “It’s weally good, but I’ll never get thwough it all. Did you know there were two men in the Spanish team called Angel and Maria?”

Dinner dragged on. Jake was dropping now. He picked at the rice Lavinia had given him but didn’t manage to finish it. Once again he was overwhelmed with such homesickness he almost wept. If he was home now, he’d probably have just come in from a show. Tory would be waiting and together they’d go up and gloat over the sleeping Isa.

“Anyone want pudding?” asked Malise.

“I’d love some berries,” said Helen. “Have they any fresh berries?”

“In English you specify them,” said Rupert through gritted teeth. “Strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries.”

“I’m sure there are some strawberries,” said Malise, smiling at Helen.

“What about you, Jake?”

Jake shook his head and got to his feet. “Thank you for dinner. I’m off to bed,” he said. “Can I settle up with you in the morning?”

“This is on the BSJA,” said Malise.

“Well, thanks,” said Jake.

“Sleep well,” said Malise. “Order breakfast from Reception. They all speak English, and for Christ’s sake don’t drink the water in the taps.”

“You going to bed?” said Rupert in surprise. “Sorry about the polpi and the gazpacho. New boy’s tease, you know.”

“I know,” said Jake bleakly, “only too well.”

Looking at the set white face, in a flash Billy remembered. Lovell, J. Of course! He knew he’d seen him before. He was the gypsy boy at St. Augustine’s, Gyppo Jake, whom he and Rupert had bullied unmercifully until he ran away. It was the one thing in his life he’d always been ashamed of. He wanted to say something to Jake, to apologize for the teasing at dinner, but it was too late. He’d gone.

Outside Jake took a taxi down to the showground. Fortunately he’d remembered his pass and the guards let him in. He realized he was very drunk.

The Great Bear overhead kept disintegrating and reforming, like a swarm of illuminated gnats. Crossing the exercise ring, he threw up behind a large Spanish chestnut. As he covered it with sand, he hoped one of Rupert’s bloody horses would slip on it tomorrow.

Bastard, bastard, bastard, he hadn’t changed at all. New boy’s tease indeed. Nausea overwhelmed him again. He leant against an oak feeling dizzy. Finally he made the stables. It was a comfort that Africa and Sailor were so pleased to see him. Blinking sleepily, they smelt of hay and contentment. One arm round each of their necks, he clung onto them, desperate for reassurance. They were
his
horses from
his
yard.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go out and lynch him.”

J
ake never knew if it was a result of meeting Rupert again, or because he drank too much tap water, but in the early hours of the morning he was laid low with a vicious attack of gyppy tummy. For the first few days of the show, it was all he could do to struggle up and crawl down to the stables to look after Africa and Sailor. Later in the day, he was either eliminated or knocked up a cricket score of faults in every class he entered. The jumps were huge and solid, with the poles fitting deeply into the cups, and the competition was fierce. Both Africa and Sailor were out of sorts after the long journey. Jake was so strung-up, he transmitted his nerves to the horses, who jumped worse and worse as the week went on.

To make matters worse, none of the classes started before three o’clock in the afternoon, with an evening performance beginning at 11 P.M. By the time the final National Anthem had been played it was 3 A.M. and usually four o’clock before Jake fell into bed, to wake like a stone at six in the morning, his usual time for getting up, after which he couldn’t get back to sleep again.

A doctor was summoned and gave him pills and advised forty-eight hours’ rest. But for a workaholic like Jake, this was impossible. He couldn’t bear to be parted from his horses, his one link with home. He had no desire to sightsee with Malise or Helen, or lounge round the pool sunbathing with the others and be confronted with the contemptuous bronzed beauty of Rupert Campbell-Black.

So while the others relaxed and enjoyed themselves, Jake didn’t miss a round jumped by another rider, or a workout in the warm-up area. He was learning all the time, but not to his advantage. There were too many of his heroes around to influence him, and he got increasingly muddled as first he tried to ride like the Italians, then like the dashing Spaniards, then like the mighty Germans.

The rest of the team, except Rupert, tried to be friendly and helpful. They were all relieved he was not the white-hot savior predicted by Malise, but as one catastrophic round followed another and he became more monosyllabic and withdrawn, they gave up.

Rupert, on the other hand, was openly hostile. On the morning after they arrived in Madrid, he was riding round the practice ring when Billy said, “You know that new chap?”

“The great gourmet and conversationalist?” said Rupert scornfully.

“Don’t you recognize him. He’s the same Gyppo Lovell who was at St. Augustine’s with us.”

“Can’t be.”

“Bloody is. Don’t you remember his mother was the cook. Mrs. Lovell? She did herself in.”

“Hardly surprising after producing an undersized little runt like that. Didn’t he become a boarder?”

“Yes,” said Billy bleakly. “He was in our dormitory. We gave him such hell he ran away.”

“Perhaps we should repeat the experiment. With any luck he might do it again.”

“You didn’t help much last night,” snapped Billy. “Making him order octopus. Poor sod, he’s never been abroad before.”

“Certainly doesn’t know how to behave in a hotel,” said Rupert. “I caught him making his bed this morning.”

For a few minutes they rode on in silence, then Billy said, “I feel I ought to make it up to him somehow for being such a shit at St. Augustine’s.”

Rupert started to play on an imaginary violin. “Don’t be so bloody wet. Little creeps like that deserve to be hammered. How the hell did he get started anyway?”

“Well that’s the interesting part. D’you remember a hugely fat deb named Tory Maxwell?”

Rupert shuddered. “Only too vividly. Maxwell big as a house—unable to turn round without the use of tugs.” He glanced sideways at Billy, relieved to see he had made him laugh. “And quite rich.”

“That’s the one. Well, Jake Lovell married her and evidently used all her cash to get started.”

“No wonder he’s undersized; squashed flat in the sack. Must be like going to bed with a steamroller. Who told you all this?”

“Malise. Last night. He thinks Lovell’s brilliant.”

“Well, he’s wrong. Lovell’s just about as insipid as the mince his mother used to cook. And, what’s more, he kept Helen and me awake all night throwing up.”

To rub salt into Jake’s wounds, all the other members of the team were jumping well and in the money, particularly Rupert, who won a Vespa on the third day and insisted on roaring round the showground on it, to everyone’s amusement and irritation. Jake’s was the only part of the British tackroom without its share of rosettes.

Rupert never lost an opportunity to put the boot in. On the third day, just before the competition, he persuaded Marion to hide all Jake’s breeches and his red coat and fill up his trunk with frilly underwear.

Marion was only too happy to oblige. Wandering round, heavily curvaceous in pink hot pants and a sleeveless pink T-shirt, she was the toast of the showground, always followed by a swarm of admiring tongue-clicking Spaniards, and the recipient of endless bonhomie from the other male international riders.

Jake, resentful that Rupert not only had an exquisite wife but a spectacular groom, ignored Marion, a reaction to which she was unused.

“He went bananas when he found his clothes missing,” she told Rupert gleefully. “He’s not as cool as he makes out.”

Although Marion soon returned his clothes, what upset Jake more was that the yellow tansy flower he always wore in the heel of his left boot to bring him luck had somehow vanished. Without his talisman, his luck was bound to plummet and as a result he lost even more confidence.

Most of all he was upset by Rupert’s constant cracks about Sailor—that he must be a mule or a camel, and no wonder he’d frightened them at customs; they must have thought they were letting a dinosaur into the country. Jake felt very protective towards Sailor, whom he loved very deeply, and his heart blackened against Rupert.

On the fifth day Malise announced the British team: Rupert, Billy, Humpty Hamilton, and Lavinia, with Jake as reserve. In the evening he took Jake out for a drink and explained there was nothing else he could do on Jake’s current form.

“Don’t worry,” he said, spearing an olive out of his very dry martini. “This often happens to new caps.”

“Not as badly as this,” said Jake, gazing gloomily into a glass of soda water. He still felt too sick even to smoke. His eyes seemed three inches deep in his face. His face was gray and seamed with exhaustion; he must have lost half a stone.

“It’s a vicious circle,” said Malise gently. “Everyone talks about the killer instinct and being hungry enough to go out and win, but you’re so snarled up inside you’re frightening the hell out of your horses. I know the fences seem huge and you’re worried about overfacing them, but you
must
be more aggressive. The only way to tackle those fences is to attack. Be accurate, but ride on all the time. Those big heavy poles are so firm you can afford to clout them. Africa should be able to sail over them anyway.”

Jake’s face registered no emotion. A fly was buzzing round their heads. Malise flicked it away with a copy of
The Times.

“Spanish fly,” said Jake suddenly, with the ghost of a smile. “S’pposed to be good for sex, isn’t it?”

Malise laughed. “Never tried it myself, more Rupert’s province. Expect you’re feeling homesick, too, missing Tory and the baby, and you’re pulled down looking after the horses by yourself. It’s amazing how your first win will buck you up.”

“If I ever do win.”

“My dear boy, I’ve seen you on form. I know you’re good. You’ve just got to calm down.”

Jake suddenly felt an emotion close to adulation. He could imagine following Malise into battle without a qualm. If only he’d had a father like that, or even a father like Mr. Greenslade, who bossed you around all the time because he minded about you. There he was buying himself a drink at the bar, and about to come and join them.

“I’m going to be very unorthodox,” said Malise. He handed Jake a bottle with some red pills in. “Those’ll make you sleep; put you out like a light. Don’t tell the rest of the team I’ve given them to you. They’ll play havoc with your reflexes, but you’re not jumping tomorrow or in the Nations’ Cup, and a couple of good nights’ sleep’ll put you right for the Grand Prix on Saturday. And don’t tell me you don’t approve of sleeping pills. Nor do I, except in an emergency. Tomorrow you’re not going anywhere near the stables. Marion and Tracey will look after Africa and Sailor. You can go on the sightseeing jaunt with the rest of the team.”

After fourteen hours’ sleep, Jake woke feeling much better. He didn’t know whether Malise had had a word with them, but all the team were particularly nice to him as they set off out of Madrid in an old bus, across dusty plains, like the hide of a great slaughtered bull, then through rolling hills dotted with olive trees and orange groves. The road was full of potholes, sending sledgehammer blows up Jake’s spine as the back wheels went over them. Rupert sat next to Helen with his arm along the back of the seat, but not touching her because it was too hot. Billy sat in front, talking constantly to them, refereeing any squabbles, sticking up for Helen. Lavinia Greenslade sat with her father. Humpty sat with Jake and talked nonstop about Porky Boy.

Only Rupert didn’t let up in his needling. Every donkey or mule or depressed-looking horse they passed reminded him of Sailor or “Jake’s Joke,” as he now called him.

They lunched at a very good restaurant, sitting outside under the plane trees, eating cochinella or roast suckling pig. It was the first square meal Jake had been able to keep down since he arrived. While they were having coffee, a particularly revolting old gypsy woman came up and tried to read their fortunes.

“Do tell your ghastly relation to go away, Jake,” said Rupert.

Helen, beautiful, radiant, and clinging, was surprised Rupert was being so poisonous to this taciturn newcomer. She tried to talk to Jake and ask him about his horses, but, aware that he was being patronized, he answered abruptly and left her in midsentence.

Afterwards they went to a bull farm and tried playing with the young bulls and heifers with padded horns and a cape. Rupert and Billy, who’d both had a fair amount to drink at lunchtime, were only too anxious to have a go. Humpty, who’d eaten too much suckling pig (“You might pop if a horn grazed you,” said Rupert), refused to try, and so did Jake.

Side by side, but both feeling very different emotions, Jake and Helen watched Rupert, tall and lean, a natural at any sport, swinging away as the little bull hurtled towards him. Determined to excel, he was already getting competitive. Billy, fooling around, couldn’t stop laughing, and was finally sent flying and only pulled out of danger just in time by Rupert. In the end Rupert only allowed himself to be dragged away because they had to be in Madrid to watch a bullfight at six. Before the fight, they were shown the chapel where the matadors pray before the fight.

“Do with a session in there before tomorrow afternoon,” said Billy. “Dear God, make us beat the Germans.”

The bullfight nauseated Jake, particularly when the picadors came on, riding their pathetic, broken-down, insufficiently padded horses. If they were gored, according to Humpty, they were patched up and sent down into the ring to face the ordeal again. They were so thin they were in no condition to run away. The way, too, that the picadors were tossing their goads into the bull’s neck to break his muscles reminded Jake of Rupert’s method of bullying.

The cochinella was already churning inside him.

“I say, Jake,” Rupert’s voice carried down the row, “doesn’t that picador’s horse remind you of Sailor. If you popped down to the Plaza de Toros later this evening, I’m sure they’d give you a few pesetas for him.”

Jake gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“That’s wight,” whispered Lavinia, who was sitting next to him. “Don’t wise. It’s the only way to tweat Wupert.”

Jake felt more cheerful, particularly when, the next moment, Lavinia plucked at his sleeve, saying, “Can I wush past you quickly? I’m going to be sick.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Jake.

Neither of them was sick but on the way home enjoyed a good bitch about Rupert. The rest of the team went out to a party at the Embassy. Jake followed Malise’s advice and went to bed early again.

On the morning of the Nations’ Cup, Jake woke feeling better in body but not in mind. The sight of fan mail and invitations so overcrowding Rupert’s pigeonhole that they spilled over into Humpty’s and Lavinia’s on either side gave him a frightful stab of jealousy.

Then in his own pigeonhole he found a letter from Tory, which filled him equally with remorse and homesickness. “Darling Jake,” she wrote in her round, childish hand, “Isa and Wolf and all the horses and Tanya and most of all me (or should it be I) are missing you dreadfully. But I keep telling myself that it’s all in a good cause, and that by the time you get this letter, you’ll have really made all the other riders sit up, particularly Rupert. Is he still as horrible or has marriage mellowed him? I know you’re going to do really well.”

Jake couldn’t bear to read any more. He scrumpled up the letter and put it in his hip pocket. Skipping breakfast, he went straight down to the stables. He wanted to work the horses before it got too punishingly hot.

Walking into the British tackroom, he steeled himself for whatever grisly practical joke was on the menu today, but he found everything in place. Because it was Nations’ Cup Day, everyone was far too preoccupied. The grooms were tense and distracted, the horses edgy. They knew something was up. Jake worked both the horses and was pleased to find Sailor had recovered from the bout of colic he’d had earlier in the week, and Africa’s leg was better.