Riders (76 page)

Gradually the first wild intensity died down, subsiding into a succession of wrenching, despairing sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept saying. “I’m such an idiot. Please, please forgive me.”

“If we don’t both want to die of hypothermia,” he said, “we ought to find that pub.”

She suddenly realized that he was only wearing a Barbour, his shoes were soaked, and his teeth chattering.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again in a trembling voice. “I can’t go to a pub looking like this.”

He handed her her bag. “Well, powder your nose, then.”

In the pub Jake found Helen a seat by the fire and went off to order treble brandies. Looking in the bar mirror he could see her vacantly gazing into space, twisting her fingers around and around. Christ, he thought, she’s the one who ought to be in hospital. He took the brandies back to the table, holding one out to her. It was a second before she took it.

“I’m a trusty St. Bernard struggling through the snow to bring you sustenance,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, it’ll really help.”

He noticed how loose her expensive boots were around her legs, and that her skirt, which was held up only by a brown suede belt, was on an extra notch. She took a gulp, made a face, choked, and then took another gulp. She wished the taste didn’t remind her so much of that last night in Kenya.

“Where’s Rupert?”

“Gone skiing.”

“Needn’t have bothered. Plenty of snow here. When’s he coming back?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Five days—a week.”

“And you’re left to cope with all this?”

Helen held out thin, shaking hands to the fire.

“I ought to go back,” she said restlessly.

“No, you ought not. They’ll ring if he wakes.”

“Poor little guy, he’s been so ill,” she said. “He was so excited about coming into hospital. All the gifts and everyone for a change bothering about him rather than Tab—except Rupert, of course.”

“He ought to be in a ward. Other children’d take his mind off his sore throat. Darklis and Isa didn’t want to come home.”

People kept coming in, stamping the snow off their feet. On the other side of the fireplace a couple of undergraduates in college scarves were eking out Scotch eggs and pints of beer. Helen’s hair glowed in the firelight; it was the only bright thing about her. Suddenly there were tears trickling under her dark glasses again.

“Oh God,” she muttered in a choked voice.

“Don’t worry.”

“I haven’t got a tissue.”

One by one Jake removed all the paper napkins on the nearby tables and handed them to her. The waitress, trying to keep the tables for people having lunch, clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she replaced them.

“Do you want a menu, sir?” she asked, pointedly.

“Yes, later, but for the moment, can you get us two more very large brandies?” He gave her a fiver, adding, “Keep the change.”

The waitress looked at Helen curiously. Must have been a death at the hospital, she thought. Then she looked at Jake. He was familiar, with his dark brooding eyes. She was sure she’d seen him in
Poldark
or
Jamaica Inn.

“Who’s that by the fire?” she asked the other barmaid. “What was he in?”

“I think he’s got a group. No, he’s a show jumper! I know. He’s the one that broke his leg. Dr. Millett was telling us. They thought they was going to have to amputate, but he put up a real fight and pulled through. What’s his name, Rupert Lovett, Jack Lovett?”

“Jake Lovell,” said the first barmaid, picking up the soda syphon.

“Here you are, Mr. Lovell,” she said, putting down the brandies on the table. “How much soda would you like? Can I have your autograph for my niece? She loves horses.”

Jake scribbled his name on the back of her bill pad and turned back to Helen. He felt a certain academic interest in why she was in such a frightful state. He’d never admired her looks, too thin, breedy and rarefied, and in his eyes she was always contaminated by being part of Rupert. But today he was drawn to her, as he had been drawn to Macaulay, and to all other things terrorized by Rupert. Being out of the circuit for nearly a year, he was not
au fait
with the gossip. He’d read about Samantha Freebody, of course, but that was too long ago to have such a traumatic effect.

“He’s a beautiful child,” he said.

Helen gave the ghost of a smile. “And he’s extra bright. He’s starting to read and he’s not four yet.”

“Rupert got him on a horse yet?”

“He’s allergic to horses.”

“Lives in the wrong house, doesn’t he? Sure he’s not allergic to his father?”

“Rupert thinks he’s a wimp,” she said bitterly. “Can’t wait for him to go to prep school.”

“Where’s he going?”

“St. Augustine’s—if Rupert gets his way.”

“Christ, don’t send him there,” said Jake, appalled.

“What was Rupert like at school?” asked Helen.

“Same as he is now—Torquemada.”

She looked up with a start of recognition.

“Have you always hated him?”

“For over twenty years.”

“He had an awful childhood,” said Helen. “His mother didn’t really love him.”

“A woman of taste,” said Jake.

The waitress came up, all smiles now.

“Are you ready to order? And could I have your autograph for our manager’s daughter?”

“Steak and kidney, chips, and cauliflower cheese,” said Jake.

“I don’t want anything,” protested Helen.

“Don’t be silly, and bring a bottle of red,” he added to the waitress. “You need food,” he said a minute later. “I used to try and go without it until Dino Ferranti converted me. He always said that most depression is caused by tiredness and lack of food.”

“I liked Dino,” said Helen. “He was fun.”

“We all liked him,” said Jake. “Fen misses him like hell, but she’s too proud to admit it.”

Then lunch arrived and Jake tucked in in the way that only really thin people do. Helen suddenly found she was hungry after all. It was real steak and kidney and there was wine in the gravy.

Jake nodded approvingly: “How’s Rocky?”

“Rupert figures he’s the best horse he’s ever ridden.”

“Paid enough for him.”

“How’s Macaulay?”

Jake’s face softened. “He is something else. After Sailor died I vowed I’d never get so fond of a horse again. But Macaulay really gets to me. If he could read, he’d go around on his own. He’s not really a world-class horse, but he’s such a trier and he’s got so much heart.”

“He’s not overly fond of Rupert.”

Jake grinned. “That’s another thing we’ve got in common.”

After a good start Helen didn’t manage to finish her lunch. Quite pink now from her thermal underwear, she looked as though she’d got a temperature.

“I ought to go back.”

“I’ll ring and check,” he said.

When he came back she’d disappeared. He thought she’d bolted until he saw her shopping basket, with the copy of
The Brothers Karamazov
and
The Guardian.
When she returned, he noticed she’d toned down the flushed cheeks and tidied the rumpled hair. He knew it wasn’t for his benefit. Just the instincts of a woman who liked looking perfect all the time.

“He’s fine,” he said, getting up. “Out like a light, still. No one expects him to wake for several hours.” He filled up her glass.

“You have been kind,” she said slowly. It was as if she was noticing him as a person for the first time.

“Why are you here anyway?”

Jake told her.

She was stricken with remorse. “It’s such a crucial day for you. I’m so sorry. I’ve been so obsessed with my own problems, I didn’t even think of anyone else. Are you hoping to go to L.A.?”

Jake touched wood. “Yes, if Johnnie Buchannan gives me the go-ahead today. I’ve got just six months to get fit.”

“Will you take Macaulay?”

“I’d like to, although potentially Hardy’s a better horse. He’s been going well with Fen, but he’s still very spooky and erratic. Christ, if only I had a year.”

Looking at him, Helen suddenly saw coming alive that single-minded, driving fanaticism, which had to be there: the fuel of Olympic fire.

“Buchannan warned me I might never ride again. I promised that if he mended me, I’d bring him home a medal. Fighting talk, huh?”

He stopped suddenly, flushing slightly, hearing his own obsession, wanting to disguise it.

Helen looked at the black hair, the thickly lashed dark eyes, and the thin, watchful face. Suddenly she winced and clutched her temples.

“What’s the matter?”

“I get this pain. It seems to start as a headache, then becomes toothache, then often reappears as earache.”

“Neuralgia,” said Jake. “Caused by tension.”

He felt so sorry for her. She reminded him of a vixen escaping from hounds, lying in the bracken taking a brief panting respite to get her breath back. In a minute she’d be running again, waiting, terrified, for the kill. But Rupert hadn’t killed her. He’d totally destroyed her self-esteem.

As they came out of the pub it was still snowing, shortening the visibility, so they could see only the vague outlines of the towers of Oxford.

“ ‘Beautiful city’,” said Helen softly. “ ‘Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, unpopular names and impossible loyalties.’ ”

“Pretty impossible to be loyal to Rupert,” said Jake dryly.

Underfoot it was freezing so hard that he ought to have been more frightened of falling over. But, in vino, he crossed the snow without a slide or a stumble.

Helen was amazed that Marcus recovered so quickly. Driving in on the fifth day to take him home, she found him playing with the most exquisite model circus. There were clowns, little dogs with ruffs, a ringmaster, and even a ballerina in a pink tutu, who slotted into a cantering horse with a pink plume. All the nurses were gathered around playing with it.

“How darling,” said Helen in delight. “Who gave you that?”

“Dake did.”

“Dake?” said Helen, puzzled.

“Dake with the sore leg. It’s better now. Want to see Dake.”

“Who can he mean?”

“Jake Lovell,” said Sister Wutherspoon warmly. “He popped in last night on his way back to Warwickshire and brought the circus with him. Marcus was a bit restless, excited about going home. Sister Tethers, who was on duty, had a very sick child to look after. Jake stayed playing with Marcus for hours.”

“How very kind,” said Helen. “How very, very kind.”

“Mr. Buchannan gave him the go-ahead on Monday evening. I still don’t think he’s come down to earth.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased,” said Helen, “and he still remembered Marcus.”

“Want to see Dake,” said Marcus.

T
he winter seemed to go on and on, but at last the snow melted; aconites and snowdrops appeared and Helen watched Rupert’s dogs trampling over her crocuses, snapping off their fragile heads, and found she minded less than on other years.

As she went for long solitary walks in the woods, her thoughts strayed far too often to Jake Lovell. Over and over again she got out the road atlas and realized how far he’d driven through the snow to give Marcus the circus. She remembered how unembarrassed he’d been by her tears and how cold he’d got sitting in the car, just patting her shoulder.

As she watched the spring emerge with aching slowness she wondered how she could thank him for lunch and for the circus. She didn’t want to write in case some secretary opened the letter. He might have told Tory about lunch, but if he hadn’t, it might make things awkward. Personal letters were so obvious when they arrived at a private house. She remembered so many arriving for Rupert over the years, usually in gaudily colored envelopes, sometimes with SWAK on the back, and how she’d longed to steam them open. Janey, she knew, would have had no such scruples.

Chatting to Janey in the kitchen one day, and leafing through the latest issue of
Horse and Hound,
with a shock of recognition she came across a picture of Jake. The caption underneath said he would be making his comeback at the Crittleden Easter meeting, and how glad readers would be to see this brilliant but very private rider back on the circuit. He had evidently recovered from one of the worst accidents in show-jumping history and had learned to walk by sheer guts and determination. The story went on to praise his staunch, close-knit family and to explain that Jake had not achieved the international fame of other British riders because, before the World Championship, he preferred to jump in this country and get home to his family in the evening. Malise Gordon was quoted as being absolutely delighted. If all went as planned, he hoped Jake would be offering himself for selection for Los Angeles.

“Good that Jake Lovell’s back, isn’t it?” she said to Janey.

“I shouldn’t imagine Rupert thinks so.” Janey took the magazine from Helen. “I’ve always thought he was very attractive. All that Heathcliff gypsy passion kept under such perfect control. He’s much more self-confident too. I saw him interviewed on the box last night about his comeback and he actually managed to string a sentence together. And, instead of looking sulky and defensive, he was rather cool and detached.”

Helen found her voice thickening, as it did when she asked if she could cash a check at the village shop. “Have you ever heard any gossip about other women?”

“No, he’s squeaky-clean reputation-wise. You only have to look at Tory to see he hasn’t got very high standards.”

“I guess he’s only interested in getting to the top,” said Helen.

“Perhaps,” said Janey thoughtfully, “but there’s something irresistible about men who are impossibly hard to get, which is not something one can say about your dear husband.”

It was strange, reflected Helen, that, after that unspeakably dreadful last night in Kenya, she and Janey could still be friends. Janey had an amazing ability to swan in, not attempting to justify or apologize for appalling behavior, which made it possible. Rupert, however, she could not forgive. They both moved around the house not communicating, like goldfish in a bowl.

The week before Easter brought the first sunshine for days. Helen went around the house turning off lights that weren’t on, because the rooms were suddenly so unexpectedly bright. Out in the fields she noticed little red buds on the wild roses and larks singing in the hazy drained blue sky, thrashing their bodies like moths against nonexistent windows. Perhaps I could escape, thought Helen, listening to the larks’ strange whistle; perhaps I too am thrashing against a window that isn’t really there.

Next day the vicar came to tea, to talk about raising money for the church spire. Afterwards Rupert walked in from the stables, to find Helen and he praying together in the drawing room.

“Christ,” he said in horror, and walked out again.

The vicar, who had a white beard and stank like a polecat, scrambled creaking to his feet.

“I wish we could make some progress with your husband,” he said with a sigh. “I feel he is very troubled.”

“I don’t think he’d see it that way,” said Helen hastily, “but thank you very much.”

Carrying the tea things into the kitchen, she found Rupert and Tab eating an Easter egg and reading
Dandy
together.

“Flappy Oyster,” said Tab.

She shouldn’t be eating Easter eggs before Easter Sunday, thought Helen, appalled, but she didn’t say anything.

Rupert looked up. “Has your friend from Hollywood gone?”

Burying her face in the dishwasher, as she stacked the cups and saucers, Helen said, “I thought I might come to Crittleden on Saturday.”

“The anniversary of your first show,” said Rupert. “That’s rather touching.”

“I’m having lunch with the Godbolds,” said Helen, putting all the knives in the wrong way up, “so I can come on afterwards. I also thought I might fly out to Rome for a couple of days.”

Rupert looked slightly startled. “Whatever you like,” he said.

For the first time in years Helen felt excited and took ages planning what she was going to wear to Crittleden. Despite the lack of sun April had been very dry, so she wouldn’t have to wear gum boots. She settled for a pinstriped suit, a white silk shirt, and a charcoal gray tie and a gray trilby.

After a lightning lunch at the Godbolds, where she ate nothing, she arrived at Crittleden just as the riders were walking the course for the big class. There was Rupert fooling around with Wishbone and Billy, and there was Jake, still limping quite badly, walking beside Fen. He looked small and preoccupied and very pale. Neither of them were speaking. Fen was only an inch or two smaller than he was.

Jake felt nausea creeping through his stomach as he made his way towards the collecting ring. People nodded and waved and clapped him on the back, but he hardly noticed them. Why the hell hadn’t he chosen a smaller show to make his comeback?

A little girl rushed forward for his autograph. “Later,” he snapped.

Lack of sleep and food had made him dizzy. Everything seemed unreal. For the past week he’d hardly slept, dozing off, then waking up with the sensation of falling, then lying awake, jumping fences in his head, seeing them growing higher and impossibly higher, as the long hours crept towards dawn and cigarettes piled up in the ashtray.

The sky was getting grayer. He began to shake.

“Are you all right?” said Sarah. “Don’t worry. You’ve been jumping super at home. Mac’ll take care of you.”

Macaulay tried to knock Jake’s hat off to cheer him up and was sworn at for his pains. When Jake was mounted, Macaulay tried again, just a little buck that in the old days would have made Jake laugh—but which today nearly put him on the floor and produced another torrent of abuse. To further shatter Jake’s confidence, Rupert was crashing Rock Star over the practice fences, putting him wrong, so he hit his forelegs hard and would be certain to pick them up when he went into the ring. God, he was a beautiful horse in the flesh, thought Jake; a chestnut stallion showing all the compressed power of his American breeding, with curving muscles like coiled steel cables.

Jake jumped a couple of fences, then, having been nearly sent flying by Rupert, retreated to the outer field, desperately trying to get his nerves under control. Suddenly he passed Helen Campbell-Black, looking like a city gent, ludicrously out of place in a pinstriped suit.

“Hi,” she said, smiling and coming towards him.

Jake nodded curtly and, circling, rode back to the arena.

Fen was waiting for him: “You’re on,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Good luck,” called voices on all sides.

In the old days he had usually been all right once he got into the ring, the nervous tension a necessary preliminary to the class itself, heightening awareness, but that was when his body was fit and flexible, not frozen with fear. Now he was like a child at his first gymkhana. What if he really was jinxed? Sailor had died here. Last year he had smashed up his leg. These things went in threes. What had the fates in store for him today?

Macaulay, aware of his master’s terror, heard the bell and suddenly decided to take matters into his own big hoofs. Bucketing towards the first fence, he cleared it easily. Somehow, clinging onto his mane, Jake stayed in the saddle. It was a very hit and miss business. The crowd had their hearts in their mouths all the way round. No one cheered, for they didn’t want in any way to distract Macaulay, but as he cleared the last triple with a flourish they broke into a roar that seemed to part the gray clouds and bring out the sun, putting a sparkle on everything.

Fen found herself hugging Malise in the collecting ring. “He did it,” she gulped, “he really did it. It’s going to be all right.”

As Jake rode towards the exit, deadpan as ever, the cheers mounted and all the people in the boxes came out onto the balconies to bellow their approval. Helen joined in the applause politely. She felt absurdly deflated. Jake had hardly noticed her and then cut her dead.

“Great round,” said Malise.

Jake shook his head. “It was bloody terrible and you know it, but at least I, or rather Macaulay, got around.”

Everyone was congratulating him. It amazed him. They were so thrilled to see him back. But he couldn’t take the hero worship and the enthusiasm just yet. He wanted to be alone with Macaulay to thank him. Riding quietly out of the collecting ring he saw Helen Campbell-Black. Aware that he’d snubbed her earlier, he rode towards her.

“Hello.”

She looked up: “Oh, hi,” she said, ultracasually.

There was a long pause.

“He jumped well,” she stammered. “I’m so happy for you.”

“How’s Marcus?” said Jake to the top of her trilby.

“He’s real fine, so much better. Look, I’ve been meaning to thank you for ages for lunch and for Marcus’s circus. You were so kind driving all that way.” She was really gibbering now.

“That’s all right,” said Jake.

After another long pause she looked up and they gazed at each other.

“I’ve got your handkerchief, too,” she said, color mounting in her face, “and Marcus plays with his circus the whole time. He just adored you.”

Jake said nothing, but went on staring down at her.

As Macaulay sidled beneath him, Helen put up a trembling hand to stroke the horse’s black neck.

“Are you going to Rome?” she asked, desperate for something to say.

“No. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go.”

“W-what?” She looked at him in amazement.

“I said, don’t go. Make some excuse. When’s Rupert leaving?”

“Lunchtime on Monday week. He’s flying out.”

“Right. You’ll be home in the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll ring you there.” And he was gone.

Helen was thrown into complete panic. Had she dreamed it? Could Jake really have said that? From that Saturday at Crittleden to the Monday nine days later, when Rupert left for Rome, she went through every fluctuation of excitement, worry, terror, and disbelief.

She was completely inattentive at committee meetings and at parties. When the parties were boring she could think of nothing but Jake. Yet when Amanda Hamilton invited them to dinner on the Saturday and Helen, radiant in russet taffeta, was chatted up by two rather glamorous Tory MPs, she hardly missed him at all. Amanda had been particularly nice to her, soliciting her aid to persuade Rupert to go into politics.

Perhaps if he did, thought Helen, things would be different. He’d be in England most of the time and there wouldn’t be any of those punishing three-o’clock-in-the-morning departures, and by using his brain he might have less of a chip about her apparent intellectual superiority.

Rupert was highly relieved that Helen wasn’t coming to Rome. Amanda Hamilton was going to be out there for the Rome tennis tournament, staying with friends. He was making no progress with Amanda. Like a do-it-yourself cupboard, he told Billy, she was taking far longer to make than one would expect. Pathological about adverse press, she even refused to lunch with him. But she fascinated him more than any woman he’d met for ages, and he was determined to get her into bed before long.

When Rupert’s car refused to start on Monday, Helen drove him to the airport. As she drove slowly back to Penscombe, admiring the wild cherry blossom and the pale green spring leaves, she reflected that it was a good thing she’d be out when Jake rang, just to show she wasn’t that keen.

Walking into the house she buried her face in a huge bunch of white lilac which filled the entire hall with its scent. Marcus rushed out to meet her and show her the pictures of the fair he’d painted at play school.

“Any messages?” she called out casually to Charlene, who was in the kitchen.

“No. Oh, I tell a lie, Mrs. Bacon rang about jumble.”

“No one else? Are you sure you didn’t go out or into the garden?”

“I’ve been here all afternoon.”