Riders (46 page)

“Do you think he’s good in bed?”

“Cock like a baseball bat. Used to bat bread rolls across the room with it when we were at school.”

“Lucky Helen.” Janey sat up, excited at the thought.

“Am I big enough for you?” asked Billy anxiously. Janey climbed on top of him, holding on to the brass bedstead, causing frightful creaking. “Quite big enough. Look how good I am at rising at the trot.”

H
ilary, in fact, was Rupert’s first serious affair since he had met Helen, and it was a complete love-hate relationship. Despite her protestation that all men were beasts, Hilary herself was an animal in bed—insatiable, almost a nymphomaniac. She didn’t bathe enough, she was a slut, she had a bad temper, and Rupert had to keep kissing her to shut her up, and later cut her nails himself to stop her lacerating his back. He detested her hypocrisy in still going on being a friend to Helen.

It was the one affair about which he never boasted to Billy, knowing how appalled Billy would be. Making love to Hilary was like eating a pork pie when you were desperately hungry, then discovering by the date on the discarded wrapping that it should have been eaten a month before.

“If you ever breathe a word about this to Helen I’ll throttle you,” he frequently warned her, and she knew he wasn’t joking. This, however, did not prevent her from rocking the boat. The night before Rupert was due to leave for Aachen he’d stood her up and she had rung up Penscombe in a rage, screaming at Rupert down the telephone. Rupert, who was in bed with Helen at the time, reading his horoscope in
Harper’s,
held the receiver to his ear for a minute, then said calmly, “Have, a word with Helen about it. She’s just here.” And Hilary was forced to pull herself together and issue an impromptu invitation for Helen and Rupert to come to a dinner party in three weeks’ time, which meant she had to go to all the expense of giving one.

For Hilary, despite her ranting, was mad about Rupert and grew increasingly strident as he showed no inclination to move in with her. Part of the fascination for him was that they saw so little of each other, perhaps a couple of hours a month.

Hilary was sure she could nail him if they had a little more time together. While Rupert was in Aachen at the end of July, she flew out to Germany, leaving the children with the long-suffering Crispin. Her excuse was that she needed to be alone to paint. After Aachen, Rupert sent Podge home with Billy and the horses, saying he was off horse-hunting and would be home in a day or two. He had been very short-tempered with Podge all week, because he felt guilty and nervous about Hilary coming out. Together, he and Hilary drove to a hotel in the Black Forest, chosen by Hilary. Their stay was a disaster. Having screwed her, Rupert found it a nightmare to have to make conversation with her at dinner, or walk with her in the forest, or be greeted by her carping, rather common voice when he woke in the morning. After forty-eight hours, they had a mighty row and returned home on separate planes.

Podge, meanwhile, had returned home twenty-four hours earlier with Billy and Janey to find England in the grip of a drought. Day after day the sun blazed down; young trees and flowers withered; Penscombe’s green valley turned yellow; the streams dried to a trickle; leaves were turning. In Gloucestershire people were forbidden to water the garden or wash their cars, and there was talk of standpipes and water rationing.

When they got back, Janey and Billy collapsed into bed for sixteen hours to get over the journey. But Podge and Tracey still had to get up at six next morning after four hours’ sleep, because the horses had to be looked after. When a telephone message came through that Rupert was coming back that evening, Podge redoubled her efforts. Usually, to reestablish his ascendancy as master of the house and the yard, he came home in a picky mood, criticizing everything she’d done and then biting her head off for sulking. By late afternoon, the relentless heat showed no sign of letting up. Most of the horses were inside to avoid the flies, and were let out at night. Arcturus, a gray Irish-bred stallion, was Rupert’s latest acquisition. He showed potential, but had blotted his copy book by jumping sloppily at Aachen. Wearing only a black bikini and espadrilles, her sweating hair in a ponytail, Podge chattered away to him as she strapped his dappled coat to firm up his muscles.

“Bugger off, sweetheart,” she said, as Arcturus nudged her lovingly in the back. “Your master’s coming home tonight, and he’ll want you looking lovely. Hope he’s cheered up and not cross with us anymore, Arcy. You didn’t mean to hit that last triple, and I didn’t mean to bugger up the map-reading on the way out. He can be ’orrible, Arcy. If he wasn’t so lovely when he was being lovely, I don’t s’pose we’d put up with the ’orrible bits.”

“I don’t expect you would,” said a voice behind her, “but I’m in one of my lovely moods today.”

Arcturus jerked up his head as Podge jumped out of her skin, dropping the whisp and going crimson. “I didn’t think you was coming back till this evening,” she muttered.

“Obviously not, or you’d be properly dressed.”

“Sorry.” She picked up the straw whisp and attacked Arcturus’s already gleaming flanks again. “But it’s been ever so ’ot.”

“You look very fetching,” said Rupert, pulling her ponytail. “I just don’t want Phillips getting ideas.” Phillips, the undergardener, had an unrequited crush on Podge. “You’re my property,” added Rupert.

Podge was filled with a happiness so intense, that tears stung her eyelids.

“Hey,” said Rupert, giving her ponytail another gentle tug, “you don’t seem very pleased with me.”

“I am, I am.” She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt across her face. “I just thought you was cross with me, and if I got everyfink perfect for when you got back, you wouldn’t be.”

“Everything looks fine,” said Rupert. “I’m going to change. Finish off Arcy and then we’ll walk up the fields and see Gemini’s foal.”

He sauntered off, followed by Badger and two of the Jack Russells.

Podge’s hands shook as she filled the haynet and Arcturus’s water bucket. Then she shot up to the loft and frantically washed her face. Oh, that awful muddy smear down one side. And she’d wanted to wash her hair before he got back. It must still reek of Billy and Janey’s chain-smoking on the drive home. She had a frantic shower, twice washing under her arms and three times between her legs, and making herself sneeze by shaking on so much talcum powder. She’d just pulled on a faded orange T-shirt and skirt which clung to her wet body, when she heard Rupert yelling from downstairs. As she came backwards down the ladder out of her attic flat, Rupert was waiting, sliding his hands up under her skirt, his thumbs biting into her plump bottom.

“Don’t,” she shrieked.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans and he smelt of an expensive French aftershave which she couldn’t pronounce. Suddenly she had difficulty breathing.

“Not here,” she gasped. “What about Phillips and Mrs. Campbell-Black?”

“In London. Come on. Why’d you change? You looked sexy in that bikini.”

“Too fat,” muttered Podge, pulling on gum boots.

“What the hell are those for?”

“Adders,” muttered Podge. “Phillips killed one by the tennis court last week. And nettles and thistles.”

As they walked up the scorched fields, Rupert carrying the Hasselblad camera he’d won in Aachen, the chestnut trees were raining down orange leaves, the thistles were turning to kapok, and the little copse of hornbeams Rupert had planted earlier in the year had already died. There were huge cracks in the ground. In the distance they could hear the jangle of a fire engine.

“If we don’t get some rain soon, we’re going to be in trouble,” said Rupert. “Going’ll be murder at Crittleden.”

The nettles on the way down to Billy’s secret pond, which used to reach to four feet and close over the top, were shrunk to a pathetic eighteen inches and no threat to Podge’s legs today. The pond was almost empty. Sweat was running in rivulets between Podge’s breasts and down her sides. She felt her heart pounding.

“Which horses are you taking to Rotterdam?” she asked.

“You asked me that five minutes ago. You’re not concentrating,” Rupert said mockingly. As they reached the bottom of the path, he took her hand and turned right.

“Gemini’s in the oak meadow,” said Podge quickly.

“We’ll go and see her later,” said Rupert. “I’ve got more pressing plans for you.” He put his arm round her waist, then moved it upwards, till his hand squeezed her left breast. “Very pressing.” Then he let her go.

They reached the stream that ran down the valley with water meadows on either side. It was greener here, the stream choked with figwort and forget-me-not. A circle of ash trees formed a sun trap. No one could see them from the road.

“What happens if someone walks across the fields?”

“Private property. I’ll have them for trespassing.” Rupert raised his hand and smoothed the sweat from her face. “I’ve missed you, Podge,” he said gently. “Get your clothes off.”

An expression of doubt flickered in her eyes, but she took off the orange T-shirt so that her breasts fell out full, pointed, and sloping downwards.

“Lean against that tree,” said Rupert, adjusting his camera for the light.

Instinctively, Podge put her hand up to loosen her hair.

“No, leave it tied back. I want to see the expression on your face.”

“I haven’t any makeup on.”

“Suits you. Put your arms above your head and lean back against the trunk. Beautiful. Christ, you’ve got gorgeous boobs. Now turn sideways. Keep your arms up, lovely.” He took another picture, then came over, running his hands over her breasts, then kissing her. He tasted of toothpaste and animal health and wonderful digestion. Putting her arms round him, Podge kissed him back so violently, they nearly toppled over.

“Steady,” he whispered. “I haven’t finished yet.”

He undid the drawstring of her skirt and she stepped out of it, then he pulled her panties off. The mouse brown bush was flattened and he ran his hands through it to fluff it up. Then he spread the pink lips. A shiny snail’s trail was trickling down both thighs.

“All right, keep your legs apart. Don’t be shy, sweetheart. If you knew how fantastic you look. Now turn around. Don’t tense your bum up. Relax.” She heard two more clicks. She waited, clinging onto the ribbed surface of the tree, throat dry, heart crashing against her ribs. Then she felt a warm hand on her back. Rupert wasn’t even sweating.

“Lovely arse,” he said softly, running his fingers down the cleft before he came to the sticky warmth between her legs.

“Christ,” he said, his hand like a burrowing ferret. “You are the most welcoming thing.”

He thought of Hilary’s tantrums, of her vacuum-cleaner kisses, her sharp teeth and scraping hands. He thought of Helen’s cool distaste and he compared them with Podge’s ecstatically grateful gentleness.

“Why don’t you take
your
clothes off?” she said, turning around and kissing him passionately, as she fumbled with the zip of his jeans and then his briefs. Then, sinking to her knees, she buried her face in the blond hair of his groin, sucking him as pleasurably as a child with a lolly.

“Steady, sweet. I don’t want to come yet.”

As he turned to remove his trousers, she seized the camera. “Now it’s my turn to photograph you!”

Giggling hysterically, she photographed him as he was turning, then caught him again as he was coming towards her half laughing, half angry.

The next moment he’d caught up with her, pushing her down on the grass, parting her legs, and kissing her damp bush. She writhed, tensed, gave a gasp of pleasure, and came. So blissfully quickly, thought Rupert. Recently, Hilary seemed to come later and later, like the Christmas postman. He turned over, lay back, and pulled Podge on top of him, feeling her muscles, so tight but so oily, gripping him, breasts swaying like party balloons when the front door opens. Really, she was gorgeous.

The sun had disappeared behind the ashwood by the time they had finished, sated with pleasure and exhaustion. Podge rinsed herself out in the stream, startling several minnows. As they walked home up the sun-drenched valley, Rupert picked grass seed out of her hair.

“There isn’t time to see Gemini’s foal,” he said. “I’ve got to go and give the prizes at Cheltenham Flower Show.”

They were greeted in the yard by Tracey and Phillips. “Mrs. Campbell-Black’s just rung from London,” said Tracey. “I couldn’t find you. Will you ring her back?”

“Just been up to the oak meadow to photograph Gemini’s foal,” said Rupert coolly.

“That’s funny,” muttered Phillips, bitter with jealousy, to Rupert’s departing back. “The grass was so poor, we moved them up to Long Acre this morning.”

Rupert went off to Rotterdam two days later. The day before he was due back, Helen drove into Cirencester to shop and bumped into Hilary in the market, crossly buying cheese for the dinner party she’d been forced into giving the following night.

“Rupert is going to be back, isn’t he?” she demanded. “Not that he’s a great asset at dinner parties, always making fascist remarks and falling asleep. But I’ve got ten smoked trout and I don’t want my numbers messed up.”

Helen, who found herself increasingly irritated by Hilary, said you could never be sure with Rupert, but she thought it’d be 99 percent certain.

“Well, make sure he’s there,” said Hilary. “No, about an inch more Dolcelatte, please.”

Hilary had realized by the time she got back from the Black Forest how much she was going to miss the excitement Rupert provided in her drab life. She must get him back. It would be too cruel if he didn’t turn up tomorrow night.