Riders (83 page)

Because they were not rich like Rupert, they had to keep taking the rest of the horses to shows right up to the last moment. In between, there were endless medical tests for both horses and riders, and Jake and Fen had to rush up to London to get their Olympic uniforms fitted, then on to Moss Bros. to choose coats and breeches.

Fen was livid she wasn’t allowed to wear a dark blue coat. “Black’s so hard,” she grumbled. “Anyway, I’m not going to a funeral.”

“You may well think you are,” said Jake, “when you see the size of the fences.”

Jake was so ludicrously busy he had no time to see Helen, which, despite Malise’s strictures, drove her so frantic she even rang him at the yard.

“It’s me, darling. Why haven’t you called? Pretend this is a wrong number and call me back as soon as you’ve got a moment.”

It was almost a relief when she and Rupert flew off to Los Angeles, giving him a breathing space in which he could concentrate on the job in hand. But if he worked flat out during the day, he still spent his few hours in bed worrying about the future.

Their finances were still in a precarious position. The bank manager needed the Mill House and the yard and Tory’s shares as security. He was very proud of Jake and his incredible comeback and often dropped his name at the golf club, but Jake knew this amiability would vanish overnight if he got into financial trouble.

Now he had been picked for the Olympics he was an infinitely more bankable proposition, particularly as half a dozen potential sponsors were pestering him. But he didn’t like any of them and he knew they’d cool off if he came home without a medal. Anyway, he’d seen the appalling pressures sponsors had put on Billy, Humpty, and Driffield—having to take days off to open factories and turn up at parties and chat up important clients before a big class. Jake knew he didn’t have the easy kind of charm or placid temperament to cope with such an invasion of his privacy. He was terrified of no longer being his own boss. It would be back to Brook Farm Riding School and Mrs. Wilton. If the sponsors owned the horses they might take them away, as Colonel Carter had taken Revenge.

More than anything he wanted to get a gold and beat Rupert. But now just as much, he wanted Helen, her cool, slender body and the extraordinary white-hot passion he inspired in her. When he was with the horses or the family he could switch off and forget about her. But at night the pain of longing came back more intensely than ever.

But, how the hell could he support two households? If Helen ran off with him, Rupert would see she was left penniless. Even if she got a writing job she’d have to employ someone to look after the children (if Rupert let the children go, which was unlikely). And if Jake walked out on Tory he would lose the children, Fen, and the Mill House, not to mention Tory and her incredible backup. He’d have to find another owner. And how would he divide the horses? Would he get Macaulay’s front half, Tory the back, like a pantomime horse?

Finally, Helen worried him. She said she was prepared to live on nothing, but she’d had six years with Rupert, with daily women to clean her beautiful house, nannies for the children, and gardeners to tend those exquisite flower beds, not to mention champagne and flowers at every four-star hotel she stayed at. How would she cope with poverty? She had compared herself with a potted plant, wilting unwatered in a greenhouse, while the rain fell on the sweet earth outside. But equally, how would a pot plant fare when faced with the winds and snows of the outside world?

He had tried to discuss this with Helen, but she was so insecure she always misconstrued this as backing off. None of this had he thought through when, tanked up with champagne, he had posted her the blue silk handkerchief from Dublin.

On the day before he left for Los Angeles, as if in answer to a prayer, he had a telephone call from Garfield Boyson, who owned a huge video empire. Boyson was amiable, intensely tough, a lifetime lover of horses, and rich enough not to be worried about money.

“I’m driving through your village at lunchtime,” said his crackling voice from a car telephone. “How about a drink?”

“Too busy,” said Jake. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“You’ll not be too busy for this,” said Boyson. “See you at the Stirrup Cup in half an hour.”

Sloping off to take leave of Mrs. C-B, thought Fen sourly, as Jake disappeared without explanation. Village boys stopped to admire Boyson’s gleaming Rolls-Royce, his chauffeur nodding in the late August sunshine. Inside the bar a bench seat was tightly clamped round Boyson’s vast bulk. As he downed a treble whisky and clawed up potato crisps, his eyes, almost entirely hidden by rolls of flesh, were shrewd and kindly.

“Hello, lad, what’d you like?”

“Tomato juice. I’m working,” said Jake pointedly. He lit a cigarette.

“You should give up that habit,” said Boyson. “L.A.’s lousy for people with bad chests.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Worcester sauce?” asked the barmaid. “Oh, it’s you, Jake. Didn’t see you come in. How’s it going?”

“Spare,” said Jake.

The barmaid looked at the wall where one of Macaulay’s World Championship rosettes was proudly hung.

“Hope we get one from Los Angeles to join it,” she said.

Jake turned to Boyson. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to tell me to give up smoking.”

Boyson laughed fatly. “I didn’t. Sit down, lad. I’ve watched your career for some time. Admired your guts, the way you fought back. Admire that sparky sister-in-law of yours.”

“Men tend to.” Unsmiling, Jake looked at his watch.

“Rupert’s right about you,” said Boyson. “Said you were as short on charm as you were on inches.”

“Thanks,” said Jake, draining his glass and getting to his feet.

“Sit down,” said Boyson, waving a fat ringed hand. “One thing I don’t want is a PR man. I’ll not ask you to chat up customers and open shops. Just like to make things easier.”

“What d’you get out of it?”

“Well, not to pussyfoot around. My name in front of your horses. Boyson Macaulay. Boyson Hardy. Doesn’t sound bad.”

“No!” said Jake.

“Wait a minute. For that I’d pick up your bills and your traveling expenses and give you a new lorry with my name on it. Noticed yours was falling to pieces at Crittleden. I’d even buy you some horses.”

“And when we start losing?”

“We’ll draw up a watertight three-year contract. All riders lose form, so do horses. I know all that. But you’ve always worked with second-class horses, making them into top-class ones. I’d like to see what you could do with a horse like Rocky or Clara.”

Boyson had ordered more drinks, exchanging Jake’s tomato juice for a large whisky. Jake drained it without noticing.

“You’d start ordering me about, expecting me to ride your way.”

“I wouldn’t. I might argue with you occasionally, but you’d be the boss. I don’t expect you to tell me how to run my company.”

“What sort of terms were you thinking about?”

“About seventy-five grand a year, and extra of course for the box and any horses.”

Jake’s brain reeled. This was really the big time, he thought excitedly, although his face didn’t flicker.

“Not much for horses.”

“Might be more—if you’d agree to another thing.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a lad of fifteen; nice boy, but I didn’t marry his mother, if you know what I mean.”

“Only too well. I had the same problem.”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons I thought you and I might get on. He’s crazy about horses, wanted to be a flat race jockey, but he’s grown too big. You could do with a third jockey in your yard, take the pressure off. He’s a good lad; admires you no end; got your picture on his wall; says you’re the only rider worth bothering about.”

“What if he’s no good?”

“He is,” said Boyson. “Believe me. His mother died recently. He needs a family.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Jake.

“Go to Los Angeles first. I know you’ve had a lot of expenses. The yard’ll be virtually out of action for a month. Horses may take time to get their form back, so don’t worry your head about how you’re going to pay for it all. Come home with a medal and we’re in business.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll have to think again.”

“I don’t like bribery, Mr. Boyson.”

“Garfield to you, and I don’t like failures.”

“Why don’t you sponsor Rupert then?”

“Because he hasn’t kept his nose clean—too many scandals; can’t understand it with that beautiful wife.”

“And I’m squeaky clean,” said Jake, getting up.

“Well, at least you’re discreet,” said Boyson. “I haven’t been able to find anything on you.”

They left England on a perfect day. Tory was helping Fen with her packing upstairs. Jake was in the kitchen checking papers. Sarah had left from Stansted airport with Hardy and Desdemona two days before. The horses would be out of quarantine and into their Olympic quarters by the time Jake and Fen arrived.

Tory, going down to the kitchen, found Wolf on the stairs, swallowing miserably, knowing he wasn’t included.

“Nor am I, darling,” she said, stroking his rough brindle head. “We’ll have to look after each other.”

Jake looked out of the window at the soft russet stables. The willows round the millpond were already touched with yellow, and the millstream dried to a trickle. Last night he’d watched a rippling arrow of migrating wild geese spread out across the sky. Now the house martins were taking up their positions on the telegraph wire.

“Look at those birds all in a row,” said Darklis. “What are they doing?”

“They’re practicing leaving,” said Jake.

Perhaps that’s what he ought to be doing. The martins would be gone by the time he came home. With an aching feeling of sadness and anticipated homesickness, he gazed at his tawny fields and his stables, with the horses looking out of the half-doors, all knowing something was up; apart from Macaulay, who had turned away, sulking.

If only he could have afforded to take Tory and the children. If he accepted Boyson’s sponsorship he’d be able to do things like that. Tory wouldn’t have to work herself into the ground; she and the kids could have new clothes. Then in his pocket he felt the tansy that Helen had had specially made for him in gold—for luck. He’d given Helen the handkerchief; there was no way he could go back now.

Tory came into the kitchen.

“Fen’s ready. You ought to be off soon,” she said. “I wish you’d have some lunch. I’ve made you a quiche, and some sandwiches for the journey. I splurged and put smoked salmon in them.”

He shook his head, half-smiling. “We get dinner at the hotel tonight.” They were flying at crack of dawn tomorrow. He turned to Darklis. “Go and tell Fen we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

As soon as she’d gone, he drew Tory close to him, cradling her round, tired, kind, unmade-up face between his hands, smoothing back the lank mouse brown hair she’d had no time to wash.

“Don’t,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “I look so awful. I’m going on a crash diet. I’ll be thin when you come home.”

He put his arms round her, feeling her comforting solidity.

“I won’t expect you to ring,” she said in a not-quite-steady voice. “Malise has told me what lines from L.A. are going to be like. Just ring if you can, but we’ll all be thinking of you.”

For a second they clung together. Suddenly he wished she was his mother, wise and ever-loving, that he could always come back to, even though he was committing himself to Helen. With an uneasy premonition, he thought this might be the last time he saw her.

“Wish you were coming.”

“I wish I was, too. Take me next time.”

“I love you,” he said truthfully and for the first time. He’d just have to sort everything out after the Games.

As they went out into the yard he saw she was crying. To distract him she said, “You must go and say good-bye to Macaulay.”

Macaulay had his back to the door. As Jake approached he flattened his ears. Jake went into the box. “I’m sorry, boy—I know how you feel. I’m as disappointed as you are.”

“
W
e’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” said the air hostess. “Can I have eight autographs for the crew?”

Fen fled to the loo, desperately tarting up, in case, by some miracle, Dino had come to meet her at the airport. When she came back they were still flying across the desert and Ivor was still struggling with the quick crossword in the
Daily Mirror,
which he’d started the moment they left Heathrow. Jake seemed increasingly uptight. Perhaps he was wondering if Helen would meet them.

Suddenly there was Los Angeles and Fen’s tiredness seemed to disappear as she looked down at the great turquoise expanse of ocean and the platinum blond beaches. She could even see the flecking of the breakers. Now they were flying over a vast checkerboard of streets, houses, gardens, and brilliant blue swimming pools, and skyscrapers glittering in the midday sun, and the great network of freeways superimposed like arteries. The horizon was bordered by a thick, muzzy, browny-gray smog curtain.

Jake fingered his gold tansy, trying to keep his nerves in check. This is Dino’s country, thought Fen in ecstasy. I’ve finally made it.

“I can see Robert Redford and Donald Duck,” she cried, leaning across Ivor.

“Where, where?” he said, gazing out of the window.

“Go back to your crossword,” she said soothingly. “You might even finish it by the time we get through customs.”

As they stepped off the plane the heat from the scorching Californian sun hit them like a knockout punch.

“We’ll be microwaved,” moaned Fen.

“We’ll never jump in this,” said Jake to himself.

Customs seemed to take longer than the flight. Waiting for them outside, wearing nothing but sneakers, jagged denim shorts, and a baseball cap, was Rupert. He was so brown he almost made the black ground staff look white.

“Welcome to L.A.,” he said mockingly. “As part of Malise’s new solidarity drive, and because Big Mal himself is in a meeting, I’ve come to welcome you all. Security is a nightmare.”

“Did the horses travel all right?” asked Jake.

“Eventually. The crates didn’t fit, and they had to wait for hours to load, and the flight took thirty-three hours.” Then, seeing Jake’s look of utter horror, he went on, “But they’re all fine and out of quarantine. Hardy’s already bitten Malise, so he must be feeling okay.”

“Can we go straight to the stables?”

Rupert looked surprised. “If you feel up to it.”

Fen sometimes wished Jake wasn’t quite so conscientious. She was dying for a bath and a change, in case she bumped into Dino.

As they drove along in the car Rupert had hired, not a breath of wind stirred the palm trees as they flashed past.

“Is this the roosh hour?” asked Ivor nervously.

“This is nothing,” said Rupert briskly, passing a Cadillac on the inside, then nipping outside a Pontiac. “Once you’ve negotiated the rush hour, the individual competition will seem like falling off a log.”

“How far are the stables from the Olympic village?” asked Jake.

“Well, that’s another slight problem,” said Rupert. “About ninety minutes’ drive on the Olympic bus.”

“Shit,” said Jake, exchanging looks of horror with Fen.

“I’m lucky,” said Rupert, not without a certain complacency. “Helen and I are staying with chums in Arcadia, so I’m only five minutes from the showground.”

“Nice house?” asked Fen, aware that Jake was beginning to look really fed up.

“Terribly quiet,” said Rupert, blithely. “Only thing you can hear at night is the occasional splash as an overripe avocado pear falls into the swimming pool.”

No one could fault the stables. They were huge and airy, with push-button doors, air-conditioning in the boxes, and water playing on the roofs all day to keep the temperature at sixty-five degrees. They were also banned to the press. The grooms slept in dormitories overhead.

Sarah, who’d dyed her hair red, white, and blue, was thrilled to see them. “The talent is fantastic,” she said to Fen. “I’ve just been asked out by a Mexican rider named Jesus.”

Desdemona was even more delighted to see Fen. She looked so small in the huge box. As she cuddled her and checked her for bumps and bruises, Fen, trying to keep her voice steady, asked, “Has the American team arrived yet?”

“Mary Jo and Lizzie Dean arrived this morning. But Carol Kennedy and Mr. Ferranti,” Sarah winked at Dizzy, who was looking over the half-door, “aren’t due until tomorrow night.”

“Hi, Fen,” said Dizzy. “Evidently Dino’s swept all before him this year. Manny hasn’t had a fence down in three months. He’s hot favorite for the individual gold.”

“So eat your heart out, Mr. Campbell-Black,” said Sarah.

“Don’t be unpatriotic, dear,” said Dizzy.

Both of them had already acquired golden suntans. Dizzy was wearing Union Jack shorts. They made Fen feel drabber and tireder than ever. At that moment Malise rolled up, svelte as usual in a cream suit and a panama with an old Rugbeian hatband.

“You’ve made it. Don’t hang about here too long. You need some sleep. When you’re ready I’ll take you back to the Olympic village and we’ll sort out your security chains. Better sleep in them. After tomorrow you won’t be allowed anywhere without them.”

After an hour and a half’s drive back to the Olympic village in a nonair-conditioned bus, which just dumped them outside the male and female sectors, Jake could see exactly why Rupert had found a house in Arcadia. Having been issued with his security chain, which contained his name, a photograph, nationality, and the classes for which he was entered, he had to fight his way through the tightest security cordon. It took ages to find his room, as the guards on each floor all had to check where he was going. Finally tracking it down, he discovered he was sharing not with Ivor but with two weight lifters, who were fortunately out on the town. Apart from three beds, the room included three small chests of drawers, a wardrobe, a shower, a hot plate, and a fridge. He supposed they daren’t provide an oven in case someone put his head in it.

He was pouring with sweat, but it wasn’t just the heat. Looking outside, he was suddenly aware of the number of security vans prowling around between the scorched yellow lawns with their sprinkling of palm trees, and the helicopters and airplanes overhead, all part of the largest security operation ever mounted in peacetime.

The tough guys on the gate, with their guns and their German accents, the bare institutional corridors, the guards seated on every floor, the smell of fear, the anonymity, all unnerved him, and reminded him of the children’s home.

Overwhelmed with homesickness and claustrophobia he started to unpack. Underneath the beautifully ironed shirts and his new red coat, he found a pile of telegrams and good-luck cards he hadn’t seen. There was also a letter from Tory.

“Darling, I’m missing you almost before you’ve gone. When you get this, you’ll be in L.A. on the way to the greatest adventure of your life. Please don’t be scared, and
please
eat properly. Don’t worry, remember you’re still the World Champion and the greatest rider in the world. Give a kiss to Hardy. The presents are from the children. All my love, Tory.”

One parcel contained a black china cat with a horseshoe around its neck. The other a toothbrush which had a glass bubble on the end containing a tiny model of Mickey Mouse, and a bell which rang when you cleaned your teeth.

One of the telegrams was from Garfield Boyson, another from Eleanor Blenkinsop. Feeling much happier, Jake undressed, showered, and fell into his first dreamless sleep in weeks.

“It’s too awful,” grumbled Fen the next morning. “I’m sharing with Griselda and an enormous lady discus thrower of very questionable sexuality who snored all night. The corridors are swarming with security guards. I could do with one in the room for protection, except there isn’t room for the three of us as it is. Griselda is already making eyes at a beefy cyclist in the next room, and on the other side there are three event riders who keep saying ‘Must go and ring Mummy.’ ” She giggled. Nothing really mattered today except that she would see Dino.

They were cheered up by more telegrams downstairs, although Jake was slightly daunted to find three long, rather hysterical letters from Helen, saying how much she was missing him, and would he make contact as soon as possible. Then they explored the Olympic village. Jake was appalled by the sheer noise and size. There were sports shops, hairdressers, cinemas and theaters, saunas, swimming pools, even a disco, and endless souvenir shops and televisions everywhere. He’d expected a kind of monastic retreat. It was going to be about as easy to distance oneself here as in a monkey house.

Fen was almost more appalled in the souvenir shop to see posters of Dino on sale. In one he had a terrific suntan, looked too ludicrously glamorous for words, and was wearing a pale gray shirt. In another he was jumping Manny, wearing the U.S. red coat with the sky blue collar. In horror she watched two American girl gymnasts buy copies of both.

“Look,” said Jake to distract her, “there’s Sebastian Coe.”

“And there’s Daley Thompson,” said Fen, in awe.

Then they went to a meeting called by Malise. The plan, he said, was that from tomorrow the team would rise at four in the morning, drive down to the stables, and work the horses from six to eight, then leave them to rest during the punishing midday heat. Then the grooms would walk them around to loosen them up for an hour or so in the cool of the evening. During the day the riders’ time would be more or less their own, except for the odd meeting or press conference. Beach barbecues, endless parties, trips to Disneyland, Hollywood, or Las Vegas were also on offer. Malise wanted them to relax, enjoy themselves, stick together, and save the adrenaline for the competitions. It was now Saturday. The opening ceremony was on Sunday, the individual competition a week on Monday, and the team event the Sunday after that.

That evening, Malise continued, the Eriksons, with whom Rupert and Helen were staying in Arcadia, had invited the British and the American teams to a barbecue at their house. This information threw both Fen and Jake into a panic. Jake was longing to see Helen, but he didn’t want a hassle. Dublin had been a nightmare, worrying all the time whether Rupert suspected anything. He didn’t want Los Angeles to be a repeat.

Fen, having showered about fifty times, couldn’t put on her makeup. She was shaking so much her eyeliner kept leaving her eyelashes and shooting up the lid. She totally gave up on lipstick. She wore new, baggy, pink-striped Andy Pandy overalls and a pale pink T-shirt.

Griselda, who was exchanging even hotter glances with the next-door cyclist, cried off the evening, saying she was still jet-lagged. Luckily, after two more stints on the nonair-conditioned bus, Malise had hired a car to drive the team about. As the Eriksons’ house was only five minutes from the stables, they decided to check the horses on the way to the barbecue. Shadows of palm trees were beginning to stripe the road, but it was still punishingly hot. Even Desdemona seemed listless.

“Probably still suffering from travel sickness,” said Malise, reassuringly.

Perhaps Dino would be suffering from jet lag, too, thought Fen, and wouldn’t feel like a party. But next minute she saw Carol Kennedy going past in dark glasses, so Dino must at least have arrived. Frantically she checked her face in the depths of Desdemona’s box.

Outside, she met Rupert, who pulled out the front of her voluminous overalls, peered inside, and asked if she was “reduced to wearing Tory’s castoffs,” which did nothing to increase her self-confidence.

“Come on,” he said. “Malise is champing for the off. Not that he’ll get any dinner before midnight, Suzy Erikson is so disorganized.”

As they reached Malise’s hired car, Fen said, “There’s Mary Jo.”

Mary Jo was wearing a white T-shirt with “Carol Kennedy for President” printed in large blue letters across the front. “Wait,” she called out to them. Close-up she looked red-eyed and distraught.

“My dear child,” said Malise, concerned. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Dino,” she sobbed.

“What’s happened to him?” said Fen, in horror.

“Manny went ape on the plane. They think he may have been stung by something. It was Dino’s plane. He was driving it. He wanted to crash-land in the desert, but he was transporting Carol’s horses as well and there was the chance he might have killed the lot of them, the terrain was so rocky, so he had to shoot Manny.”

“Christ,” said Rupert, appalled. “Surely they could have tranked him?”

“They tried. It didn’t make any difference.”

“Where’s Dino now?” asked Malise.

“Dropped off Carol’s two horses and then flew Manny’s body back home.”

“Who’s he riding now?” asked Jake, looking absolutely shattered.

“Nothing,” sobbed Mary Jo. “That’s what makes it so awful. Manny was our star horse, right, but he was really Dino’s only horse. His father’d been ill and he was letting the yard run down.”

“Won’t he come to the Games at all?” whispered Fen.

“He told Carol he couldn’t face it, not after all those years and years of hard work. And he just adored Manny. I tried to call him at his place just now, but his mother said he was too upset to talk to anyone.”