Riders (86 page)

J
ake slept fitfully, wracked by half-dreams. It was the opening ceremony and the singer turned into Helen, sobbing into a microphone that Jake didn’t love her. Then he was in the ring with girths breaking and bridles coming off. Finally he dreamed that Hardy had a heart attack in the ring. Lying there in the blazing sun gathering flies, he suddenly turned into Sailor. Jake woke up screaming, crying his eyes out. The next minute one of the weight lifters was sitting on his bed, patting his shoulder with a huge hand, the other was lighting him a cigarette. Having notched up a silver and a bronze the day before, they could afford to be magnanimous. As it was half-past three, they said, there was no point in Jake going back to sleep for an hour, so they might as well have a cup of tea and all chat to take his mind off things. Jake would rather have been left alone, but he was touched by their concern.

The weight lifters were dozing off as, with a feeling of unreality, Jake put on the new socks, the white breeches, the shirt, and tied his tie with trembling fingers. He was all in white like a bride, until he pulled on the gleaming brown-topped boots, and shrugged his way into the new red coat, with the black velvet collar and the Union Jack on the pocket. The day had actually come, as it came to boys going back to prep school, or to men in the condemned cell.

“Good luck,” mumbled the weight lifters sleepily. “We’ll watch you on the box. Sock it to ’em.”

“Good luck,” said the wrestlers, when Jake collected Ivor. “For Christ’s sake, look after him.”

“Good luck,” said the dour security guard at the end of the passage, smiling for the first time since they arrived. “Have a good day.”

It was a good thing they started early for as the sun rose, pale saffron gilding the Santa Monica mountains, cars were already jamming the freeways, and a continuous stream of enthusiasts from every nation—but mostly America—clutching a selection of hats, thermos flasks, coolers, beer cans, sandwiches, transistors, and even portable televisions to sustain them during the long day, poured into the showground. Ticket scalpers were everywhere, and to get to the stables, the team had to fight their way through autograph hunters and people peddling Coca-Cola, chewing gum, hamburgers, hot dogs, and souvenirs.

“If someone else offers me a poster of Dino I shall scream,” said Fen.

By seven o’clock the stands were packed under a hazy, dove-gray sky, which indicated colossal heat to come. Many of the crowd didn’t know one end of a horse from another, but, bitten by Olympic fever, they wanted to see America notch up yet another gold.

At seven-thirty, the riders and their chefs d’equipes walked the course, surging out over the rich brown tan. No one else, not even the press, was allowed into the arena. Royalty, however, brooked no such restrictions.

“Morning, Dudley,” Prince Philip called to Dudley Diplock, who was hovering at the entrance. “Walked the course yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well come on, come on,” said the Prince, striding straight through the cordon of security guards, Dudley hopping after him.

“Look at that crowd,” said Ivor, in a hollow voice.

“Look at that course,” said Jake, as he gazed at the fences, whose massive size wasn’t remotely softened by a riot of trees and flowers.

“Positively awesome,” breathed Carol Kennedy, as he looked at the combination. There were two unusual fences, one built with light and dark brown bricks in the shape of a hot dog and another designed like a boat with sails at either end instead of wings, with the horses jumping over the bows.

“Holy Mother, that’s a turrible thing,” said Wishbone, looking at the hot dog.

Even Rupert was curiously silent as they measured and remeasured the distances.

“You’ve all jumped higher than this,” said Malise, as they gazed at the massive oxer.

“But not every fence,” said Ivor.

Fen suddenly felt overwhelmed with shame that she should have wanted Desdemona to jump this course. It was simply too big and she couldn’t see any way Hardy could get around. She felt horribly frightened for Jake. She wanted to be with him to bolster his confidence, but Malise told her to stick to the riders’ stand, and watch her eyes out for the first dozen or so rounds and pass back any advice.

Jake, icy cold with chattering teeth, despite the heat, kept to himself and talked to no one. He had a very late draw, which was bound to tell on his nerves. Suddenly, he longed for Tory and her quiet sympathy and understanding, she who didn’t mind if he bit her head off. Just as he was going through the security check into the stables he heard a cry and Helen bore down on him. She looked ravishing in a white grecian tunic and a big white hat with the blue spotted scarf round the brim. A few yards behind her was a large handsome middle-aged woman with a bulldog jaw.

“Darling,” Helen cried, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I just wanted to wish you luck and have you meet Mother.”

Jake looked at her incredulously. “What?”

“Meet Mother. I’ve told her so much about you.”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” snapped Jake. “I can’t meet anyone at the moment,” and turned on his heel.

Helen was stunned. “He’s a bit uptight,” she told her mother. “You can meet him later.”

Everyone crowded into the riders’ stand to watch the first round. A hush fell over the arena. A ripple ran through the crowd as the first competitor came in. It was Hans Schmidt—his hat at its usual crooked angle, the jauntiness, belied by the determination on his face, Papa Haydn, the dark bay Hanoverian, totally under control. A groan went up from the German team, as he sent the second fence, a double of uprights, never a German forte, flying, then proceeded to hit the third fence and the fourth and, not getting up speed, had two toes in the water. Unnerved by such an uncharacteristically bad round, Papa Haydn demolished the sail boat and then the hot dog, took a pole out of the massive triple, which was sited away from the collecting ring, and hit the first element of the combination, for a final thirty-six faults.

“And he is ranked number five in the world,” said Wishbone in a trembling voice.

“First competitor nerves,” said Rupert.

The strain of waiting for the course to be rebuilt told on Count Guy, who came next, and who came to grief at the third fence, managed to clear the water, but was going so fast he couldn’t pull up. He proceeded to kick out the sailboat, the hot dog, the massive oxer, and the two last elements in the combination. He was followed by a Japanese rider, who came in with a kamikaze attitude of finishing the course at all costs, and came out to loud cheers with an amazing total of fifty-five faults. One of the young Irish riders coaxed his ugly brown mare round on twenty-four to produce the best round yet. Dino’s replacement, Lizzie Dean, couldn’t carry the weight of expectation piled on her and notched up twenty faults.

“It obviously walked better than it rode,” muttered Ivor, who was as green as one of Suzy Erikson’s avocados.

The heat blazed down, getting more and more murderous, as Spaniards, Swiss, Italians, Canadians followed one another. If they weren’t unhinged by the course, they were distracted by the crowd who, every time anyone cleared a fence, uttered yoo-hoos and Tarzan howls, and yells of “Keep it up, keep it up.”

Ludwig came in and roused a certain interest, when it was announced he had won the gold at the last Olympics, and had been second in the World Championship. Clara looked a picture of health as she trotted into the ring, long ears shining, taking in the huge crowd. It was soon obvious that she was on form, as she delicately picked her way around the course, clearing the sheet of blue water by a foot, but managing to slow up and become the first horse to clear the sailboat. The yells and cheers that greeted this achievement, however, completely unsettled her. She rattled the hot dog badly, crashed into the oxer, and kicked out the vast triple, finishing up with eight faults. All the other riders clapped sympathetically as Ludwig rode out, ruefully shaking his head. All the same, thought Fen, it’s the best round yet. Clear rounds were obviously going to be impossible to come by. She tried to remember exactly how Ludwig had tackled the sailboat so she could tell Jake. As she watched the Mexican named Jesus come hopelessly to grief, she felt sicker and sicker with nerves for him.

Even worse, as Ivor went back to the stables to warm up John, someone moved up beside her and she found herself sitting next to Helen and Mrs. Macaulay.

“This is Jake’s sister-in-law, Fenella,” said Helen. “This is Mother.”

Fen and Mrs. Macaulay nodded at each other without warmth. Fen wondered if Helen had told her mother all about Jake. Helen looked at Fen’s uncommunicative profile.

“Jake seems very uptight,” she said. “I tried to have him meet Mother.”

“The only person he wants to meet at the moment is his maker.”

“He does suffer terribly from anxiety,” said Helen.

“He’s missing Tory,” said Fen. “He tried to ring her this morning, but all the lines were engaged.”

“I thought it was very much a marriage of convenience,” said Helen stiffly.

“Christ, no,” said Fen. “He’s mad about her. Look how berserk he got at Disneyland when Rupert made that crack about her being too fat.”

“And he doesn’t play around?” Helen couldn’t resist asking.

“Oh, no more than the average show jumper,” lied Fen airily. “You know what they’re like. Too many opportunities to expect total fidelity, but he always goes back to Tory.”

Seeing Helen’s twitching, anguished face, Fen decided she’d gone too far. I’ll go to hell for being such a bitch, she thought, but since Dino hasn’t turned up and I’m out of the Olympics, I’m in hell anyway; so what does it matter?

“Oh look, here comes Mary Jo,” said Mrs. Macaulay. “I’m sorry, Helen, but that’s my girl. I refuse to root for Great Britain.”

For five minutes the huge crowd, who’d been getting up and down all morning, halted their pilgrimage for food and drink. Cheered on by their fervor and hysterical enthusiasm, and her own passionate desire to win, Mary Jo and Balthazar went round for four faults, only hitting the hot dog, and going into the lead. Red as her red coat, grinning from ear to ear, throwing her hat in the air and catching it like a drum majorette, she galloped out of the ring, the crowd rising to applaud her.

Unable to face Mrs. Macaulay’s smugness, Fen asked Helen to keep her place and went downstairs to encourage Ivor, who was jumping in a couple of rounds. God, it was hot. As though you’d gone to sleep and forgotten to switch off the electric blanket. The officials in their coral blazers and white panama hats sweated; the colored flags wilted against the snow-topped mountains.

She reached Ivor as a poor little Swiss girl rode past, crying her eyes out, four years of hope shattered by three refusals at the first fence.

Ivor didn’t fare much better. Stricken with stage fright, he rode like a novice. Nor was he helped by the announcement that here was Ivor Braine from Great Britain on the John. The crowd, thinking it hysterically funny that someone should call a horse by their name for the lavatory, went into guffaws of laughter and catcalls. Offended and thoroughly unsettled, John ground to three stops at the hot dog.

“Oh no, John, no, John, no,” said Rupert, and went off to crash Rocky round the practice ring, as usual getting Dizzy to arrange the jumps on exactly the wrong stride, so Rocky hit every one and hurt himself.

“Teach him to be careful,” said Rupert.

A mighty roar from the arena indicated that Carol Kennedy had gone in and was about to jump.

“Now that’s an attractive man,” said Mrs. Macaulay. “There’s something about American men.”

“He’s gay, Mother,” snapped Helen.

Despite being used to the frantic enthusiasm of American crowds, even Scarlett O’Hara was unnerved by the noise. She hit the hot dog, then looked as though she was going clear, but as she sailed over the last element of the combination, the crowd let out such a shout of jubilation that the mare assumed she had finished. It took all Carol’s skill to get her straight for the huge double and she toppled the last pole. Still, he was second on eight faults with Ludwig.

“Isn’t he a prince?” said the girl behind Helen, as Rupert waited to go in. “I saw him on TV last night. You have to hand it to the British. They do have class.”

Quality in every line, Rocky was easily the handsomest horse in the contest. Under the gleaming amber coat his muscles rippled like serpents, and as he danced into the arena, long ears cocked to the unfamiliar sights and sounds, the blend of explosive power with natural grace was unforgettable.

“For Christ’s sake, take it steadily,” warned Malise.

Rocky was the best horse in the contest, but he had never seen a crowd this big, nor heard so much noise, nor seen so many undulating rows of peaked caps, like a wriggling aviary.

His forelegs were sore where Rupert had crashed him over the jumps. His tail switched angrily; he was horribly hot, fed up, and upset. As Rupert circled him twice to steady him, he humped his back and fought for his head.

That horse is overfresh and insufficiently ridden in, thought Fen.

Two minutes later, Rupert rode out of the ring with an incredible twenty-eight faults. Everyone in the riders’ stand and the commentary box was stunned.