Riders (39 page)

Half the crowd and all the grooms were in tears. The riders were visibly shaken. The organizers were in a tizzy about who’d won.

“It’s in the FEI rules, Jake wasn’t mounted when he left the ring,” said Grania Pringle, who was about to present the prizes.

“Then Billy’s got to get it,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Let’s get on with it, get people’s minds onto something more cheerful. Bloody good thing it happened today. Just think if he’d collapsed in Colombia. That’s what Olympic trials are for.”

Grania Pringle turned on him, her beautiful makeup streaked with tears. “Bloody well shut up, Roxie. Don’t be so fucking insensitive.”

As the tractor came out with its grisly burden Billy, near to tears himself, rode up to Jake: “Christ, I’m sorry. Of all the ghastly things to happen. We all knew how you felt about him. But I’m not taking first prize, Malise. Jake won it. He must have it.”

“Very kind of you, Billy, but we have to abide by the rules.”

He looked at Jake. It was hard to tell now which was downpour or tears. The rain had washed all the mud from the white shrunken face.

“Bastard,” Jake spat at Malise, and turned in the direction of his lorry. Suddenly he turned back. “Where are you taking Sailor?” he demanded.

“Don’t worry your head about that,” said Malise. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

“You’re not taking his body away for cat food.”

“He won’t go for cat food,” said Malise reasonably. “They’ll take him to the Hunt kennels.”

Jake shot him a look of pure hatred. “As if that were any better. Take him to my lorry.”

Fen dried Revenge off and fed him, while Jake loaded the two novices into the box. She couldn’t bear to watch them loading Sailor, so she went and rang Tory to tell her they were coming home. As she came out of the telephone box, Malise was waiting for her. She was about to walk past him when he said, “Look, I know how you both feel.”

“I should doubt it,” said Fen coldly. “And don’t try telling Jake it’s only a horse. He loved Sailor more than any human.” She added suddenly, with a wisdom beyond her years, “He felt they were both ugly, both laughed at, both despised and rejected. Together they were going to show the world.”

Malise looked at her thoughtfully. “He’s very lucky to have you. Can’t you stop him driving in this condition? It’s simply not safe.”

“You didn’t worry too much about Sailor’s safety, did you?” snapped Fen. “So I don’t think you’re a very good judge. And in this condition, which you put him into, all he needs is Tory.”

Jake didn’t speak a word on the way home. Fen found it unbearable the way Revenge kept nudging Sailor’s body, waiting for his wise old friend to scramble, grumbling, to his feet and tell him not to worry. They reached the Mill House at midnight. Jake drove the box straight around to the orchard. The rain had stopped, leaving a brilliant clear night. Moonlight flooded the dripping apple trees and the grave, which had already been dug for them by the next-door farmer. He stayed to help them unload Sailor, which was a good thing, as he was stiff and cold now, and terribly heavy. It was so bright you could see the flecks on his flea-bitten coat, his mane still neatly plaited. Jake wrapped him in his white and maroon rug and patted him good-bye. Jake’s face was set and expressionless as he covered the body with earth, pressing it down neatly. Later, when he’d unloaded and settled the other horses, he made a cross and put it on the grave.

By a supreme effort, Tory managed not to cry in front of him, and when they finally fell into bed around four o’clock he just groaned, laid his head on her warm, friendly breasts, and fell asleep.

Next day he spent a long time digging up wildflowers to plant around Sailor’s grave. Outwardly he appeared calm, but Tory knew he was bleeding inside. In the afternoon Malise rang up. Jake refused to talk to him.

“How is he?” asked Malise.

“All right,” said Tory, “but he won’t talk about it.”

“Well, it might cheer him up to know he and Revenge have been selected to go to Aachen. Probably he’s suffering from shock. He’ll be okay in a day or two.”

He rang up again two days later. “Just confirming Jake and Revenge are available for Aachen.”

“Well, it’s a bit awkward,” said Tory.

“Let me speak to him.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t want to talk to you. And he’s completely gone off the idea of going to the Olympics.”

“But that’d give him an interest, best possible therapy,” said Malise. “He can’t deprive his country of a horse like that.”

Colonel Carter was less reticent. He rang repeatedly, complaining about Jake refusing to take Revenge to Aachen and poor Tory, who had to field the calls, received a torrent of abuse.

“It’s preposterous. Fellow’s a milksop, blubbing in the ring. Suppose he’s lost his nerve.”

For once Tory lost her temper. “Don’t you realize they’ve broken his heart?”

The village sent a wreath to put on Sailor’s grave. Letters of sympathy poured in. “We all loved him,” wrote one woman. “To us Sailor was show jumping.”

“I’m sending you my pocket money,” wrote one little girl. “I expect the other horses are missing him, and you might like to buy them some Polos.”

On the Thursday morning after Sailor’s death Fen, having spent two hours on the novices in the indoor school, was just eating a piece of toast and marmalade, and dashing off an essay on Mercutio before racing off to school, when Wolf started barking frenziedly and she heard the sound of wheels on the bridge. Going out, she found a plump blonde with a sweet round face, and two tough-looking men getting out of a horse box.

“Yes?” she said.

They all looked faintly embarrassed, then the girl said, “I’m Petra, Rupert Campbell-Black’s new groom. We’ve come for the horse.”

“What horse?”

“Revenge.”

Whimpering, Fen bolted back upstairs to wake Tory and Jake. Jake, unable to sleep, had only dropped off with the aid of a sleeping tablet at six o’clock. He came down zombielike, eyelids swollen, eyes leaden with sleep, wearing only jeans. Noticing his sticking-out ribs, Fen thought how much weight he’d lost recently.

“What did you say?”

“They’ve come for Revenge.”

“Don’t be bloody silly,” said Jake, going to the open back door. “Bugger off, all of you.”

The girl went very pink. “We understood you’d been told.”

“What?”

“That Rupert Campbell-Black bought Revenge yesterday.”

Jake went very still. “Are you certain?”

She nodded, pitying him. Jake had long been one of her heroes.

“I don’t believe it,” snapped Jake. “Just one of Rupert’s silly games. I’ll go and ring up Bernard.”

The colonel was out. Molly answered, hard put to conceal her elation.

“Bernard’s been trying to get through to you for three days, Jake.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes. Rupe’s been after Revenge for months.”

It was “Rupe” now, was it? Jake leant against the hall table, suddenly dizzy with hatred.

“I’ll buy him. Offer him to me.”

“I hardly think you can top Rupe’s offer.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five thousand pounds,” said Molly maliciously.

“You’re crazy. He’ll ride that horse off its feet in six months.”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter, now that Bernard’s got the cash,” said Molly. “Anyway, I’m sure Rupert won’t. He’s taking him to the Olympics. Bernard’s set his heart on that. We tried to talk to you last night to say the deal had finally gone through, but you wouldn’t come to the telephone. Oh, Bernard’s just come in. Have a word with Jake.”

The colonel picked up the telephone. “ ’Fraid it’s true, Jake. Had the feeling you were a bit chicken about the Olympics, bit out of your depth really. He who dares wins you know. Campbell-Black’s man enough to have a go.”

“He’s a sadist,” said Jake.

“Rubbish. He’s a brilliant horseman with a lot of experience. Not fair to Revenge to hold him back.”

Jake hung up and rang Malise.

“Rupert’s told me. I tried to dissuade him, but the deal had gone through. I’m awfully sorry, Jake, but there’s not much I can do. It’s Carter’s horse.”

Jake got dressed and went out to the yard, to find Fen standing outside Revenge’s box with a twelve-bore in her hands and Wolf snarling beside her.

“Keep away from that door,” she hissed. “This is our horse. If you lay a finger on him I’ll blast you full of lead.”

“You’ve been watching too many westerns, love,” said the taller of the two men, but he backed away slightly.

Jake strolled across the yard. “Put that gun down, Fen.”

“No! He isn’t their horse to take.”

“I’m afraid he is,” he said. “Bernard’s sold him to Rupert.”

It was too much for Fen. Revenge was her baby, the horse she’d transformed from a nervous, napping wreck to a loving, happy, and willing horse. She dropped the gun with a clatter and rushed up to the men. “Please don’t take him away,” she sobbed. “We lost Sailor last Saturday. Please don’t take away Revenge, too.”

“I’m sorry, love, I know it’s hard, but orders is orders.”

Jake turned to Tanya. “Go and get Revenge.”

It took only a few minutes to put one of Rupert’s rugs and a head collar on Revenge. Jake went to the book they kept in the tackroom, describing each horse’s likes and dislikes, and the training and the feed he’d been getting, and which of Jake’s medicines he needed. Numbly he wondered whether to give it to Rupert. It would certainly help the horse. Then, he thought, sod it, and, tearing out the page, he crumpled it up and threw it in the bin.

It gave him a terrible pang to see how merrily and confidently Revenge bounced up the ramp of the lorry, thinking he was going to a show. He’d been such a devil to load when he’d arrived. He looked worth every penny of £45,000 now.

Jake went up and stroked him and gave him a handful of stud nuts. It gave him an even worse pang to think how Revenge would react when he got to the other end and didn’t find Fen to welcome him. He couldn’t look as the lorry drove off over the bridge, through the fringe of willows.

Africa was the first to notice Revenge’s absence. She’d been looking out for Sailor since Jake came back, leaving her manger after a quick mouthful, coming to the half-door with a puzzled expression on her black face and calling out for him. Now Revenge was gone too, she was irritated and nervy, circling her box, picking up straw, letting it hang from her mouth like the village idiot. Jake went up and put his arms round her neck, fighting back the tears. “I miss them, too,” she seemed to be saying with her wise kind eyes, “but you still have me; please love me because I’m the one who always loved you best.”

And suddenly Jake felt ashamed. Africa, the goodest, truest, gentlest of them all, and he’d been neglecting her recently, because Sailor and Revenge seemed so much more important. He went into the tackroom, looking at the rows and rows of rosettes. Across the yard in the sitting room, lovingly polished by Tory, were all his silver cups. Pride of place had been given to the cup he’d won at Olympia with Sailor. Then, he’d been king of the castle. Now he was at the bottom of the heap again, with only Africa and half a dozen novices to his name. He looked up at the cupboard on the opposite wall where, well out of reach, he kept all his poisons: belladonna, henbane for galls, hemlock, and the ground-down toadstools, which if sparingly administered could cure colic or purge a sick horse to recovery.

In an old silver snuffbox he kept warty caps. One spore of the fungus would attach itself to Rupert’s throat, giving all the symptoms of consumption, but causing death in a few weeks. It was a nice thought. But he preferred to beat Rupert in other ways.

He went upstairs to Fen’s room, noticing the threadbare landing carpet. Tory was desperately trying to comfort her. Poor little Fen; first Marigold, then Revenge. He put a hand on Tory’s cheek and stroked it. She looked up startled, blushing at the unexpected tenderness, relieved he wasn’t as shattered as she’d expected.

“Fen,” he said, “I’ve got an idea. I think it’s high time Africa had a foal.”

Fen didn’t react. She just lay there, slumped, her shoulders heaving.

“And it’s high time you had your own horse,” he went on. “Think I’ve found one for you. She’s only five, and roan, not a color I like, but her mother was a polo pony, so she turns on a sixpence and she jumps like a cricket already.”

Almost blindly Fen reached out for Jake. “It’s so terribly, terribly kind of you,” she sobbed, “but it’s no good. I can’t stop thinking about Revenge.”

T
he more Rupert rode Revenge the better he liked him. He’d never sat on such a supple, well-schooled animal. It was like playing a Stradivarius after an old banjo. They clicked the moment he got on the horse’s back. It was easier for Revenge to carry Rupert’s twelve stones than Jake plus two unmovable stones of lead. The horse also loved jumping against the clock. He had already won one class at the Royal Highland, where he had trounced all the other possibles. Now he was in Aachen with the probables, for the final trial, and attracting a huge amount of interest from the world’s press. How would Gyppo Jake’s horse go with Rupert over such huge fences?

Rupert, in fact, had received a lot of flak. After Sailor’s tragic death, the public felt it was very unfair on Jake that the other horse he’d spent so much time bringing on should be snatched from under his nose. As soon as Marion heard that Rupert had appropriated Revenge, she handed in her notice, properly this time, then went straight to Fleet Street and told them exactly how much Rupert had paid for the horse, an offer the frightful colonel couldn’t refuse, and then went on to give them some choice titbits about the cruelty of Rupert’s training methods. The
News of the World
felt the material was too hot to print but
Private Eye
had no such scruples. Rumors were rife.

No one could get any comment from Jake on the subject, so the reporters besieged Rupert.

“Well, I’ll concede Jake Lovell’s a good trainer,” he said diplomatically, “but the horse needed an experienced rider on his back. Winning’s about taking chances. Jake wasn’t even prepared to take the horse to Colombia. As for the cruelty charges, they’re too ridiculous to discuss. Horses won’t jump if they don’t want to.”

And now it was the eve of the trials and Rupert knew perfectly well that if Revenge beat the rest of the international field as well as the English probables tomorrow and was picked for Colombia, people would conveniently forget how the horse had been acquired. Helen was so wrapped up in little Marcus that she hardly appreciated the furor. Rupert had hoped she might leave Marcus with Mrs. Bodkin and fly out to Aachen, but she was still looking desperately tired and said she didn’t feel quite confident enough to leave him.

Rupert, however, was finding consolation in his new groom, Petra, whom he had nicknamed Podge. He was glad Marion had gone; he was fed up with her tantrums and her beady eyes following him all the time. Podge, on the other hand, with her chunky body and legs, though not as upmarket or as handsome as Marion, had a nice smooth skin and was always smiling, and she adored the horses, almost more than she worshiped Rupert. Naturally, Revenge was homesick at first; any horse coddled as Jake’s were would feel the draft when he left the yard. But Podge had made a huge fuss of the horse and after a few days kicking his box out and spurning his food, he had settled in.

It was the eve of the Aachen trials and, having seen the horses settled, Rupert and Billy took a taxi back to their hotel. There was something about a hotel bedroom that made Rupert want to order a bottle of champagne and a beautiful girl to drink it with.

“What shall we do tonight?”

Billy pushed aside Rupert’s clothes, which littered both beds, and collapsed onto his own bed.

“Go to bed early. I’m absolutely knackered.”

“Ludwig’s having a barbecue at his house.”

“I don’t want a hangover tomorrow.”

“But just think of all that Kraut crumpet.” Rupert went to the window and gazed down the tidy village street, then said casually, “Thought I might take Podge.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, leave her alone. You know how it rotted up your relationship with Marion. Pity there isn’t a Gideon Bible, then I could read you the seventh commandment all over again.”

“Well, I’m not getting much joy out of my wife at the moment. She’s temporarily closed, like the M4.”

Billy put his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear. You know I adore your wife.”

The telephone rang. Rupert picked it up.

“Hello, darling. I was just talking to Billy about you.” Next moment the lazy smile was wiped off his face.

“It’s Marcus,” sobbed Helen. “He’s been hospitalized. He can’t breathe and he’s gone purple in the face. Oh Rupert, I know he’s going to die. Please come back.”

“I’ll be on the next plane. You’re at Gloucester Hospital? Don’t worry, darling, he’ll pull through. The Campbell-Blacks are very tough.”

He rang Malise in his room, who came over straightaway.

“You must go back at once.”

“I’m sorry. Helen’s in a frightful state.”

“Hardly surprising. They’re terrifying, these illnesses of little children. I remember going through them with Henrietta and,” he paused, “with Timmy. I hope everything’ll be all right. Give Helen our love and sympathy.”

Rupert was lucky enough to get a plane at once and he reached the hospital by midnight. He hadn’t bothered to change; he was still wearing boots, breeches, and a tweed coat over his white shirt and tie.

“My name’s Campbell-Black,” he said to the receptionist. “My wife came in this afternoon with our baby, named Marcus. He may be in the operating theater.”

His hand shook as he brushed his hair back from his forehead. The girl looked down her list, wishing she’d bothered to wash her hair that morning. She remembered Rupert from earlier in the year, when he’d caused such a stir when Helen had the baby.

“Marcus’s in the children’s ward on the fourth floor.”

The lift was occupied with a patient coming back from the operating theater. Rupert ran up the stairs. The sister met him in the passage.

“My son, Marcus Campbell-Black,” he panted, “he was brought in this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes.” With maddening lack of haste the sister went back into her room to check the chart.

“He’s in Room Twenty-five.”

“Is he, is he?” Rupert choked on the words, “going to be all right?”

“Of course he is. He had an attack of croup.”

“What’s that?”

“No one quite knows why it comes on. The baby goes blue and can’t breathe. Parents invariably think he’s swallowed something and is choking to death. All he needs is to inhale some moisture. We’re keeping him in the humidifying tent for tonight. Dr. Benson says he’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.

“Are you all right?” she asked staring at Rupert’s horrified expression. “It must have been a terrible shock for you. Mrs. Campbell-Black will be so pleased you’ve come back. She was very upset, but Dr. Benson’s given her something to calm her down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

And she brought me all the way back for this, thought Rupert, in the middle of the final Olympic trial. In Room Twenty-five, he found Marcus lying happily in a huge cellophane tent, inhaling friar’s balsam from a humidifier. Helen was sitting on the edge of the bed wiggling Marcus’s toes. She got up and ran to Rupert.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came. I was so frightened. I thought he was going to die.”

Rupert patted her shoulder mechanically. Nanny would have recognized croup, he thought darkly. Behind her on the bed, he could see his son and heir pinkly gurgling, digging his pink starfish fingers into his shawl, and felt a black rage.

“Look,” said Helen fondly, diving under the tent and holding Marcus up in a sitting position. “He can hold his head up now. Don’t you want to cuddle him?”

“I’m sure he ought to be kept quiet,” said Rupert.

He listened while she poured out her worries and tried not to contrast the innocent fun he’d be having in Aachen, getting tight with Billy at Ludwig’s barbecue, with the terrifying world of children’s illness and the dark claustrophobic intensity of Helen’s love.

“I’m sorry I brought you back,” she said. “I was so terrified you might find him dead. I needed you so badly. I’m sorry I’ve been offish lately, but it must be worth coming all this way just to see him. He’s so cute, isn’t he? Do you think he’s grown?”

“I need a drink,” said Rupert. Next moment Dr. Benson walked in.

“Hello, Rupert,” he said heartily. “You must have been worried stiff, but, as you can see, he’s all right. Nothing to worry about. You need a drink? Come on, I’m sure Matron’s got something tucked away.”

Benson obviously wanted a heart-to-heart. Matron had only sweet sherry, but at least it was alcohol. Immediately Benson launched into the subject of Helen.

“Bit worried about her. Only twenty-four. Very young to cope on her own with a big house and a young baby. She misses you, you know.”

“I miss her,” said Rupert, somewhat shirtily, “but Christ, she won’t come to shows with me. I got her a marvelous nanny and she promptly sacked her. I asked her to come to Aachen. I’ve got an Olympic trial tomorrow. I’ll have to fly back in the morning.”

Benson looked pained. “So soon?”

“I do have a living to earn.”

“I know,” said Benson soothingly. “I do think it would help if you could get a nanny: a young cheerful girl, who Helen wouldn’t feel threatened by. Then in time she’d feel confident enough to leave Marcus.”

“She needs a holiday.”

“Best holiday she could have would be for the baby to get well and strong. But I’m afraid all the indications are that he’s going to be an asthmatic.”

“Christ, are you sure?”

“Pretty certain. We’ll do some tests while he’s in here. And you know that’s not a condition helped by the mother’s anxiety. With any luck he should grow out of it, or at least be able to handle it, as he gets older.”

Rupert drained the glass of sherry, pulling a face.

“Want another?” asked Benson,

Rupert shook his head. He felt absolutely shattered. He had been up at five that morning.

“What’s your schedule?”

“Well the trial’s tomorrow, then the International in London. Then, if I’m picked for Colombia, a brief rest for the horses before we fly out.”

“And after that, you could take her and Marcus away for a long holiday?”

Rupert shook his head. “Virtually impossible in the middle of the season. Horses lose their precision if you rest them too long.”

Benson nodded. “Appreciate your problem. I’ve got patients on the tennis circuit. Has she got a friend she can stay with?”

Rupert thought of Hilary. He guessed she had been stirring things.

“Not really. I’ll have to find her a nanny. Can I take her home this evening?”

“Good idea. The child’s in no danger now. Do her good.”

Helen was aghast when Rupert told her he’d be flying back in the morning. She lay in the huge double bed, with that pinched defiant look of roses touched by the frost in December. Then, as Rupert joined her, she lay back, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be soothed and comforted and told she was being splendid.

Rupert comforted her in the only way he knew, by trying to make love to her. After a few minutes she started to cry.

“Christ, what’s the matter now?”

“I’m too worried about Marcus. I can’t switch off, and now you’re going back.”

“Darling, the trial’s tomorrow afternoon.”

“Horse, horse, horse.” She was suddenly almost hysterical. “Surely Marcus is more important than a horse trial?”

It was a debatable point, thought Rupert, but he merely said, “Benson says there’s nothing to worry about.”

Rupert left at nine o’clock and ran into bad weather, arriving only just in time to walk the course. Once again he contrasted Podge’s lovely smiling welcome with Helen’s set, martyred face as she’d said good-bye that morning.

“How’s Marcus?” asked Podge. “Oh, I’m so relieved he’s okay We was all so worried. Revvie and I missed you. He was restless last night, so I slept in his box—’spect I look like it.”

“Lucky Rev,” said Rupert. “He looks in the pink anyway.”

“He’s great, on top of the world. You’ll just have to sit on his back.”

What a contrast to Marion, thought Rupert.

For the first time in his life he was suffering from nerves. It must be tiredness. He longed for a stiff drink, but Podge had made him a large cup of strong black coffee instead. He knew the world’s press was watching as he rode into the ring.

His fears were groundless. Revenge jumped like an angel, literally floating over the vast fences. After the trial, the selectors went into a huddle. Elated, almost sure of a place, Rupert went off to ring Helen, now back in the hospital with Marcus. He carefully spent five minutes asking how they both were before telling her Revenge had come first, beating even Ludwig, going like a dream and muzzling any critics.

“I’m very glad for you,” said Helen in a tight little voice.

“Who’s that in the background” said Rupert.

“Hilary and the kids,” said Helen. “She’s driving Marcus and me home from hospital and staying the night. She’s being so supportive.”

As he came off the telephone, a German reporter accosted him.

“Meester Black, it is unusual for zee English to beat zee Germans in this country, no?”

“No,” said Rupert coldly, “I think you’re forgetting the last two world wars,” and stalked off.