Riders (85 page)

As Jake gave Hardy the gentlest of workouts in the already punishing heat, he realized Rupert’s horse Rock Star was hardly sweating. And while Jake felt dislocated and woolly-headed from lack of sleep, Rupert, despite his late night, seemed utterly together. By leaving ahead of the pack, not only had he acclimatized his horses to the heat and humidity, but also adjusted his time clock as well.

Fen walked Desdemona beside Jake.

“She’s very down,” she said.

Like her mistress, thought Jake, noticing her swollen eyes but making no comment. Ivor was worried about John.

“It’s like sitting on a dead log.”

All around them other nations were crashing their wringing wet horses over massive combinations on what was plainly very hard ground.

Later in the day, Malise called another meeting. Rupert rolled up in a pale blue tracksuit, like Rock Star, hardly sweating after a four-mile jog along the beach.

“The great problem with the Olympic Games is peaking too soon,” said Malise. “Now you’re in L.A. you feel you must be doing something to prepare yourself and your horse. You see other teams popping their horses over all sorts of different kinds of fences, and think they’ve got inside information, but you can be sure no one will know anything until we walk the course on Monday week. If I were you I’d concentrate on work on the flat, and jump your horses as little as possible. Let them rest, relax, and enjoy yourselves and have fun.”

“I’d rather have Fen,” said Rupert, who’d also noticed her red eyes.

As they came out of the meeting they bumped into Ludwig and Hans, who’d just been looking at the Olympic swimming pool.

“Did you know it vos specially built for zee Oleempics?” said Hans.

“So was that girl,” said Rupert, as a spectacularly blond and voluptuous Romanian athlete loped past them without a backward glance. “Bet I can bed her before the Games are over.”

“How much?” said Ludwig.

“Hundred bucks.”

“Done.”

The event that saved Fen from utter despair was the opening ceremony that afternoon. Everyone had been cynical about the American hype beforehand—particularly Rupert, who made Helen furious with his persistently disparaging remarks. But somehow, the Antony and Cleopatra set, the girls in hot pants with their silver balloons, the eighty-five males bashing away at
Porgy and Bess
on their grand pianos, and the president grinning like a telly puppet, the whole thing worked.

There was a big row beforehand. Rupert had removed the Olympic badge from his blue blazer and had had the trousers narrowed to drainpipe proportions. Fen had shortened her skirt. Griselda had put on so much weight that she kept popping buttons like Tom Kitten, and the skirt of her dress was so stretched there weren’t any pleats left. Ivor had typically ordered trousers too small, so the turn-ups skimmed his ankles, and a blazer so big it hung like a peasant’s smock.

“You’re all a bloody disgrace, except Jake,” snapped Malise. “Let’s hope you can lose yourselves among the rest of the British athletes.”

After all the razzmatazz, it seemed the athletes might be ignored, but on they came in, country by country, to tumultuous cheers from the amazingly overadrenalized and happy crowd. There were Mexicans in big hats, and Africans in national costume, and the French incredibly chic in couture-designed clothes, and the English very formal, with the sexes sharply defined.

“You can tell Rupert’s been in the army,” said Fen, watching his straight-backed march. Jake tried to disguise his limp as much as possible.

“Thank God we’re jumping out in Arcadia and not in front of a crowd as big as this,” said Fen, looking at the endless pebbledash of faces.

Huge cheers greeted China and Romania and everyone stood up. Then, on a note of crazy informality, the American athletes came on to an earsplitting roar. They all wore tracksuits, so, unlike other countries, there was no division of the sexes. Joyous as otters they swarmed, rowdy and exuberant, in total disarray. All carried cameras and were soon snapping away at one another and the other teams and the stadium, then fighting their way through to the other side of the parade to photograph Mom in the stands.

Even when the black athlete came on carrying the Olympic torch on the last lap, there was doubt whether she’d ever make it, as the U.S. team swayed around her clicking away like pressmen.

“The Marx Brothers seem to have taken over,” said Rupert.

But finally the little flame, all the way from Greece, was lit and, after the endless speeches, the doves of peace fluttered into the blue in their thousands.

“I hope you’ll take note,” hissed Fen to Rupert, “and stop bitching at Jake.”

Then the beautiful girl singer stood up and started belting out “Reach out and touch someone” and everyone was breaking formation and kissing each other and shaking hands. Fen found herself kissed by Ludwig, Count Guy, and Rupert, and three times by Ivor.

“Oh, Christ, here comes Griselda,” said Rupert. “I’m off. One must draw the line somewhere.”

“I told you not to wear mascara,” said Jake, as Fen wiped her eyes.

And suddenly it got to her—the Olympic ideal. Despite the sniping, the commercialism, the chauvinism, and the heartbreak, here she was in Los Angeles, carrying her own torch for Britain in front of this wonderful, friendly, deeply moved, appreciative crowd.

For a few minutes her misery over Dino and over Jake and Helen was put aside as she suddenly realized the magnitude of her achievement, that at nineteen she’d been picked to ride for Britain. For without all the competitors, there would be no competition. And if there weren’t people prepared to lose bravely and with a good grace, there wouldn’t be any winners. True greatness was the ability to pick yourself up from the floor.

“Isn’t this your best moment ever?” she whispered to Jake. He nodded, too moved to speak.

“It’ll be even better when we go home with the team gold, and the gold, bronze, and silver in the individual,” said Rupert. “Oh, look there’s my Romanian,” and, shoving through the crowd, he grabbed her. For a second she gazed at him with her slant-eyed impassive Slav face, then the crowd shoved them together, and he was kissing her.

“First base,” said Jake, wondering if Helen was looking.

“Ludwig’s going to lose that bet,” said Fen. “Can’t you hear the clang of iron curtains dropping?”

After the ceremonies they met Helen, who’d been watching with the Eriksons.

“Wasn’t it wonderful?” said Fen. “You must feel jolly proud to be American.”

Tolerant suddenly, because Dino not coming to the Games had made her even more aware of the agonies of being in love, she moved aside to introduce herself to the Eriksons and apologize for not being able to make it to the party, leaving Helen and Jake a moment alone together.

“I was watching you the whole time,” whispered Helen, her eyes glowing. “Conscious of you every single moment, so proud that you finally made it here after all those setbacks, knowing you’d be thinking of me.”

Jake felt once again the great weight of her love.

T
hey had eight days to kill before the individual event. It was a bit like being on holiday, knowing war was going to break out any minute. Griselda sweated and became more and more bad-tempered. Fen wilted. Ivor fell asleep on the beach and woke up scarlet down one side of his face. Jake, being dark-skinned, fared better. For the first time in his life he was really brown. Suzy Erikson was constantly phoning him. Rupert went skiing, racing, surfing, pursued Miss Romania, and played endless games of poker with Ludwig, Count Guy, Carol Kennedy, and Wishbone to the despair of their chefs d’equipes, who felt that nations should stick together. At each game, honoring Dino’s absence, they left an empty chair. But he didn’t show up.

Fen kept hearing little bits of news of him. There was a huge piece headlined “The Agony of Dino Ferranti” in the
Los Angeles Times
the day after Manny was shot. Carol Kennedy had also spoken briefly to him on the telephone.

“I guess he’s still in shock,” he said. “I offered him Whittier to ride, but he’s simply not interested.”

Countless times a day Fen looked in her pigeonhole at the Olympic village, hoping that, among the telegrams and cards from well-wishers, there might be a letter from him.

Jake had frightful trouble sleeping in the Olympic village. The weight lifters were so fed up with his chain-smoking that they made him go outside and smoke in the passage. Often he didn’t bother to go to bed at all, just staying up to watch television. Once Ivor discovered you could watch cartoons all night, Malise had great difficulty getting him to bed, as well.

Malise organized a team trip to Disneyland, and Fen had to hold Ivor’s hand when he got scared in the haunted house and during the pirates’ battle, and calm him down when he became overexcited after shaking hands with Mickey Mouse. In amazement, Fen gazed at the massive overweight Americans, stuffing themselves with hamburgers, hot dogs, and ice cream, and exhorting her through capacious mouthfuls to “Have a nice day.”

“Have you ever seen people so fat?” she whispered to Jake. “D’you think Griselda’s got any Los Angeles blood?”

“No,” said Rupert, overhearing, “Griselda’s far too unpleasant. They remind me more of your wife, Jake.”

Just for a second Fen thought Jake was going to spring at Rupert.

“Don’t rise,” she pleaded, putting a hand on Jake’s arm. “He’s only trying to wind you up.”

Everywhere they went they were mobbed by autograph hunters, mostly Americans who had no idea who they were, but who were currently obsessed by anything Olympic. Rupert, because of his dazzling looks, his beautiful American wife, and his earlier successes on the American circuit was the one whom they recognized. But not always.

“I know you,” screamed a crone with a blue rinse, as they were leaving Disneyland. “You’re in television?”

“No, I’m in shorts,” snapped Rupert.

Rupert kept up his jogging every morning and was soon joined by Miss Romania. Progress was obviously being made. After a week he produced a pair of pale blue panties for Ludwig. “That tag inside says ‘Made in Romania.’ ”

“How do ve know?” grumbled Ludwig. “I don’t speak Romanian. It might say somezing quite different, like ‘Made in Los Angeles.’ ”

“It’s Miss Romania who’s being made in Los Angeles,” said Rupert.

“Vot is her English like?” asked Hans.

“Nonexistent, thank God,” said Rupert. “But she thinks our vicked capitalist vays are absolutely marvelous!”

The eight days dragged by. Gradually, Hardy and Desdemona seemed to be coming together, as Fen and Jake waited on tenter-hooks to see which three British riders of the five would be selected to jump in the individual. As Americans went on winning medals by the bucketful in every contest and the “Star-Spangled Banner” was played over and over again, the commentators reached new levels of chauvinistic hysteria. They seemed hardly to recognize that other countries existed, so there was a hardening of purpose among the British team.

On Friday, to break the monotony, they had a mock competition—two rounds, then a jump-off. Carol Kennedy, riding his dark brown mare, Scarlett O’Hara, beat everyone by five seconds in the jump-off.

“Either he’s a lunatic risk taker or that mare is phenomenally fit,” said Rupert. “If it’s the latter, we’re in trouble.”

Hardy, overfresh and full of himself from his long rest, knocked a fence down in the first round, but Jake was very pleased with him. Rocky jumped superbly. Apart from one silly mistake in the jump-off, he didn’t put a hoof wrong. Desdemona, also on tremendous form, came fourth, sailing over the fences with all her old bounce, somewhat reviving Fen’s spirits.

“All right,” said Malise. “That’s the team for the individual: Rupert, Jake, and Fen.”

Fen didn’t dare look at Griselda.

Arriving at the stables on the Saturday, however, Fen found Sarah with a long face. Desdemona couldn’t put her near hind down. She must have bruised it.

Fen, Sarah, and Jake stayed up all night, poulticing her foot and trying to reduce the swelling, walking her out to test the stiffness under the huge Los Angeles stars. By morning Fen thought she was all right. The British vet and the American national vet thought otherwise, and went into a huddle with Malise. Fen felt her presence was purely incidental.

“She’s stiff behind and there’s swelling. I think she may have chipped a bone,” said the national vet.

“She needs at least a week’s rest,” said the British vet.

“A week,” said Fen, aghast. “That rules out the team event, too.”

“I guess so,” said the American. “I’ll have another look on Friday, in case you’ve wrought miracles, but I’m afraid tomorrow is definitely out.”

For Fen, who’d been up all night, it was too much.

“Fucking bureaucrats,” she screamed. “You don’t know a bloody horse from your elbows. Give her a shot of bute. She’ll be fine. She’s often stiff in the morning.”

The American vet, nettled, accused Fen of treating her horse like a machine.

Jake and Sarah took Fen’s part, and a very undignified yelling match ensued, listened to with glee by all the surrounding grooms and riders, who were frantically translating for one another.

Finally Malise removed Fen by the scruff of the neck and took her off for a cup of coffee in a quiet corner of the British Supporters’ Club.

“You must pull yourself together,” he told her.

“There’s nothing left of myself to pull,” wailed Fen. “Desdemona’s okay She’s my horse. I ought to know.”

“When you see the course tomorrow,” said Malise gently, “you’ll understand. You might get by in a Nations’ Cup or in a Grand Prix, but Desdemona’s forte is speed, not jumping huge, daunting fences, which she’d really have to stretch herself to get over. I know you love that pony, but I can’t let you ride if you’re going to be nervous about pushing her every inch of the way.”

“Everyone goes on and on about winning not being important and the taking part is all that matters. I’m not even allowed to take part.”

“You’ve got years ahead.”

“But I may never get a horse as good as Des.”

“If you don’t ruin her tomorrow, you’ll probably have a chance of another two cracks at the Olympics on her. How would you live with yourself if you jumped her and lost her for good, like poor Dino?”

At the mention of his name, Fen put her head down on the table and sobbed her heart out. “I’ve tried, truly I have, I’ve tried to be cheerful. I’ve taken Ivor to Disneyland three times. But I did hope to see Dino. We were a bit close once.”

Malise patted her shoulder. “I know how you were looking forward to seeing him, and now this. It’s wretched.”

“Can I fly home?”

Malise shook his head. “That’s not part of the deal. You’re still reserve. If anything happens to any of the others you’ll have to jump their horses. I’ll need your help tomorrow to see how the course is riding, to cheer us all up. Griselda isn’t any good at that. She’ll still be sulking because I haven’t picked her.”

“You must be joking,” said Fen. “I’ve been as cheerful as a corpse the last few months.”

“And I need you to look after Jake; keep him calm. D’you think he’s missing Tory?” Malise raised an eyebrow. Fen had the feeling he was fishing.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure he is.”

The same afternoon Rupert went racing with Ludwig and Guy. Jake broke his vow and, submitting to Helen’s pleading, drove her into the mountains. Looking for wildflowers, he was reminded of the picnic he had had with Tory and the children the day before the World Championship. Then he had found the lucky clump of tansy. Now Helen’s gold tansy in the breast pocket of his shirt was warding off evil.

Helen found Jake boringly worried about Fen.

“She’s very young. She’ll have other opportunities.”

“You don’t think that when you’re young,” said Jake, “and she’s had such a sod of a two years. Losing Billy, then being sent to Coventry, then losing Dino, and his not turning up at the Games, and now this. She’s very brave; makes very little fuss.”

I need you far more than she does, Helen wanted to shout. She was fed up with the entire Lovell family. She was jealous of Fen, and she was fed up with Suzy going on about how attractive Jake was, and assuming that he must be madly in love with Tory not to submit to Suzy’s charms.

Not having been alone with Jake for days, she wanted to pour out her troubles. Now she was faced with his total detachment. He seemed to have cocooned himself against the outside world. He wasn’t interested in the news, or plays or the concerts she had been to at the Hollywood Bowl, or even how appallingly Rupert was behaving. She failed to appreciate that the sensitivity with which he had listened to her and taken her to bed during the summer had a flip side of terrible nerves and vulnerability to outside pressures before a big class.

Finally, when tired of walking, they collapsed onto the grass, he lay with his head on her belly, not speaking, just gazing up at the snowy peaks against the stormy dark sky, luxuriating in the cool air until he fell asleep. Unable to bear wasting precious time when they could be making love, Helen woke him up.

“Jake, d’you really love me?”

“Of course I do.”

“You’re not showing it much at the moment.”

Jake sat up on his elbow, his eyes deeply shadowed in his tanned face.

“Can’t you understand that the emotional cauldron of the Olympics either makes or breaks you? I can’t afford distractions.” He took her hand and placed it on his breast pocket so she could feel the gold tansy. “But I keep you next to my heart the whole time.”

“I hoped I’d inspire you,” she wailed.

“You do,” said Jake, then, remembering Dublin, “but you also distract me. I don’t want to spend tomorrow, when I should be concentrating on winning, worrying that I’m going to slip up or betray myself in front of Rupert.”

“Don’t you even want me there?”

“Of course I do. Just don’t expect me to wave and smile during the day. People say I’m rude and ill-tempered. I just want to go inside myself before a class. If I have to worry whether you’re happy, it’ll be one more pressure.”

Seeing her uncomprehending face, he said, “There’s so much at stake—our whole future.”

“I get so lonely at big classes,” said Helen petulantly. “I’m almost glad Mother’s coming tomorrow.”

She pulled Jake towards her. “Please kiss me. I want you so badly.” But kissing was all he would do, which left her feeling profoundly uneasy. When Rupert had been mad about her in the early days, he’d always made love to her before and after and, frequently in the caravan, in the middle of classes.

On his way back from the races that evening, Rupert dropped into the Olympic village to collect his post and found a letter postmarked Perthshire. Ever-cautious Amanda had not used headed writing paper, but she apologized for being “utterly bloody” about the looking glass and admitted that she was missing him very much, that they’d all be staying up to watch him tomorrow, and to wish him good luck. She’d be back in London in September.

Equally cautious, Rupert tore her letter up and was about to throw it in the litter bin when he pieced it together again to see if it were really true. He felt absurdly pleased, and wondered why the hell he’d been playing around with Miss Romania. He had better go back to Arcadia and get some sleep. They were walking the course at seven-thirty.

Malise Gordon was not a religious man, but he prayed before the individual that night. He must try and be a good loser and not make any of the three riders feel too awful if they made a cock-up, and try and keep them calm without transmitting any of his fears and worries. Ivor had a good horse and didn’t usually suffer from nerves, but he lacked fire in his belly. Jake was desperately short of sleep and likely to crack. Rupert was far too confident and Rocky much too fresh. On the right day they were invincible, but Malise felt apprehensive. He felt ridiculously touched that Fen had sent him a good-luck card with a black cat on it. “To the best chef d’equipe in the world,” she had written inside. “We’ll live to fight another day, love, Fen.”