Riders (92 page)

“Having got these,” said Fen, putting them in a bucket of water, “I can now stop worrying about it.”

Because they were fielding only three riders, the British team started jumping with the second riders of the other teams. Among these, Hans Schmidt only had a couple of poles down for eight faults and Mary Jo came in and showed everyone how to do it, with a glorious clear.

“That should encourage Ivor,” said Fen, who had jumped off Hardy for a second to watch him.

Ivor rode in blinking. Not a seat was empty. After Mary Jo’s gold earlier in the week, and her clear now, the huge crowd was at fever pitch.

“I always enjoy Ivor’s intellectual approach to the sport,” said Rupert, from the shade of the riders’ stand. “Now Ivor has removed his hat, will he ever find his head again?”

After Tuesday’s fiasco, Ivor started well and rode with colossal determination. The sailboat, the derby, the high gate, the huge wall, the massive blue water jump caused him no trouble at all. Then he unaccountably stopped twice at the parallels.

“That’s that then,” said Rupert. “Let’s go and have a screw, Dizz.”

“For God’s sake get your bat out, Ivor,” Billy was yelling in the commentary box, to the startled delight of the viewers. “One more stop and the whole team’s eliminated.”

Scarlet in the face, as if by telepathy, Ivor pulled his whip out of his boot, in which it was tucked, and gave John half a dozen hefty whacks.

“Good God,” said Malise.

The picture of injured pride, John heaved himself over the parallel, and, swishing his tail in rage, proceeded to go clear, except for bringing down the middle element of the combination.

“Absolutely marvelous. Well done, Ivor,” said Billy, excitedly from the commentary box. “Do you know, he only paid £1,000 for that horse?”

“Ten faults, plus one time fault. That’s not at all bad,” said Malise.

Fen knew she should have some inner tap which could turn off all outside excitement and leave her icily calm. On Desdemona she’d always jumped best when she was angry. But Hardy needed to be kept serene. He seemed a little tired after his medal-winning adventures on Monday, which would at least make him jump more carefully and not start ducking out of his bridle. Following Jake’s lead, she had removed the cotton wool from his ears and let him go to the entrance of the arena, so he could watch the preceding round. It was both inspiring and daunting. Carol Kennedy went clear, to colossal applause, which meant the Americans were on twelve faults at the end of the third round, and could probably scrap Lizzie Dean’s round. The Tarzan howls and the waving American flags had Hardy hopping all over the place.

“The time is incredibly tight,” said Malise. “Don’t waste any of it in the corners. But remember, the important thing is to get round at all costs. If you’re disqualified we’re out.”

“You do say the cheeriest things,” said Fen.

“Good luck,” said Rupert.

Fen felt the butterflies going berserk in her stomach, as the terror finally got to her.

“I can’t face it,” she said in panic. “I simply can’t jump in front of all those people.”

“Yes, you can,” said Rupert, putting his good left hand up to squeeze her thigh. “Come on, darling, you’ll float over them. Hardy’s done it all before. Leave it to him.”

“Are you sure?” Suddenly she looked terribly young.

Rupert smiled. “Quite sure.”

Out in the arena there was nothing like it. Nothing like the fear and the exposure in that blazing white hot heat, watched by 200,000 eyes and millions and millions of television viewers.

Billy, who by now was well stuck into the whisky, admired the slender figure in the black coat, her blond hair just curling under her hat, one of Dino’s pink roses in her buttonhole.

“This is certainly the most beautiful girl rider in the world,” he said. “Riding Hardy, with whom her brother-in-law, Jake Lovell, did so brilliantly on Monday to get the silver medal. Now come on, darling.”

“I told you not to mention Jake,” hissed Dudley, putting his hand over the microphone, “and don’t call Fiona ‘darling.’ ”

The relief of the bell stopped all thought process. Suddenly Fen’s nerves vanished.

“It’s you and me, babe,” she whispered to Hardy as he cleared the first four fences without any trouble, kicking up the tan, following the hoofprints of earlier riders. She steadied him for the derby. He didn’t like it, then decided he did and took a mighty leap, clearing it by a foot. The yell of the crowd distracted him, the heat haze above the gate made judging the distance difficult. Fen asked him to take off too early, he kicked out the fence, and then toppled the wall after that, hurting himself, eyes flashing, ears flattened, tail whisking like an angry cat.

Now she’ll go to pieces, thought Malise in despair.

But Fen held him together and drove him on, picking her way over the obstacles, not touching any of them.

“Look at him,” said Sarah in ecstasy. “He’s really, really trying.”

Coming up to the last fence, Hardy started showing off and gave a huge kick back. The crowd laughed. He kicked back again. Lazily whisking over the last fence, he gave it an almighty clout. For a second the pole shuddered, trembled on the edge, then fell back into the cup.

“God is on our side after all,” said Malise.

“Bloody good,” said Rupert, as Fen slipped off the huge horse, flinging her arms round Hardy’s neck, and taking back all the beastly things she’d ever said about him.

“Until the next time,” said Sarah.

Now the last riders in each team had to jump. Peter Colegate, riding instead of Dino, knocked up a surprising fifteen faults, so his was the round the Americans dropped. Hans Schmidt went clear.

The round, however, the world was waiting for was Rupert’s. Fen straightened his tie and did up one brass button of his red coat which was draped over his damaged right shoulder: “Are you okay? Does it hurt horribly?”

“Yes, but I’ve just had another shot; I’m so spaced out I’ll probably carry Rocky over the fences with one finger.”

Not by a flicker, as he rode into the ring, did Rupert betray his awareness that every camera in the world was trained on him to see what the effect had been of Helen pushing off. If the press had gone to town on Jake that morning, it was without Rupert’s help. He had refused to say a word to them.

He held the reins lightly in his left hand. He carried no whip. The crowd, seeing that he was coming in to jump the most punishing course in history with one arm in a sling, roared their approval and encouragement.

Dropping his reins, he removed his hat. His blond hair glittered golder than any medal. The pain was agonizing. Even the gentlest pop in the collecting ring had jolted his shoulder unbearably, but none of this showed in his face.

Rocky was a gallant and kind horse. Something was different today; perhaps it was the sympathetic, almost helpless way Rupert had jumped him earlier; perhaps it was because for once his master wasn’t carrying a whip. Suddenly there was an expression of deep responsibility on Rocky’s handsome, golden face.

“I will take care of you today,” he seemed to be saying. “Just to make you feel a sod for all the times you’ve beaten me up in the past.”

Over the first two fences Rupert had the greatest difficulty balancing himself, then he settled in. Rocky was jumping carefully, only clearing each fence by an inch or so. Now he was thundering down to the water—and over. Now he was over the derby and the gate, now turning for the huge three-part combination.

“Undoubtedly Rupert is the best rider in the world,” shouted Billy jubilantly in the commentary box. “Look at the power of those leg muscles; he isn’t even shifting in the saddle. Go on, Rupe, go on.”

For a miraculous moment it looked as if he was going to go clear; then Rocky trailed a leg at the last fence and, unlike Fen, brought it down. Out he rode to almost the biggest cheer of the day.

Billy bolted out of the commentary box to congratulate him. “Wait,” wailed Dudley. “There are still the Japs and the Portuguese to jump.”

“That was absolutely brilliant,” said Billy, rushing up to Rupert. “God knows how you did it.”

“Should have been a clear,” said Rupert, kicking his right foot out of the stirrup and wincing and biting his lip as he lowered himself down.

“Tremendous performance, Rupert,” said Malise, looking at his score sheet. “The Yanks are on twelve, the Germans on sixteen, the Swiss on eighteen, the French on twenty. We’re fifth with twenty-two,” he added with quiet satisfaction.

“You shouldn’t be jumping, but I’m sure glad I saw you. Congratulations,” said a voice. It was the doctor from the hospital.

Rupert smiled, but the doctor, noticing his pallor and how much he was sweating, waved his medical kit. “I thought you’d probably need something stronger to face this afternoon.”

“I need an enormous whisky,” said Rupert.

“Not too enormous,” said Malise.

A
fterwards Fen couldn’t recall if she ate any lunch. Ivor ate his way solemnly through two steaks without realizing it. Billy came too, cracking jokes with Rupert, keeping up everybody’s spirits. They knew they wouldn’t win, the margin was too big, but they were quietly elated. They had conducted themselves with honor.

Prince Philip, who was an old friend of Rupert’s, came up and congratulated them.

“Really tremendous! Well done, all of you! Don’t know why you bother to ride with any hands at all, Rupert.”

“I’d better go back and wind up Dudley,” said Billy, getting to his feet. “He says I must be more enthusiastic about the other nations. Good luck, everyone. Take care of yourself, Rupe.”

Rupert raised his hand. He wished Billy could stay. He was beginning to feel desperately tired and the pain was really getting to him.

“Can you give me something?” he said to the doctor.

“It’d be better nearer your round or the effect might wear off. I daren’t give you two shots or you’ll pass out in the ring.”

When the riders came out for the second round, it was soon apparent that the first round had overstretched the horses. Despite menacing clouds on the horizon and the rumble of thunder, the sun was at its height, beating down on to the stadium at a heat of over 100 degrees.

Only the top ten teams went through, but it still meant nearly forty rounds for the crowd to watch. The Americans, who had been led to believe that their team couldn’t lose, came back in anticipation of slaughter. Bored now by foreign rounds, screaming and hysterically cheering on their own riders, their chauvinism was equaled only by Billy’s in the commentary box.

“He’s a nice guy, he deserves it,” he said when Ludwig went clear, dashing British hopes, but he was unashamedly delighted when Mary Jo put in an unexpected twelve faults, and Lizzie Dean hit two fences and put in a stop, and the early French and Swiss riders knocked up cricket scores.

Ivor came in so elated by his first round success that he knocked up only eight faults.

“Marvelous,” said Billy. “That’s really marvelous. Now, with all the second riders gone, Great Britain’s edged up to third place, and the Germans are moving right up behind the Americans.”

As it became apparent that a duel to the death was setting in, people ran in from the halls and the stands filled up to bursting.

“I must have another shot,” said Rupert.

“You can’t risk it,” said the doctor.

Carol Kennedy went clear again. Once again Fen had to follow him.

“The Americans are on thirty-one; we are on thirty,” Malise told her.

Fen’s nerves were in tatters. Last time they’d had so little to lose; now they were in with a chance. If Hardy started kicking out fences, all was lost.

“Kiss me, Hardy, e’er I die of fright,” she said.

In England, they were televising only the second round of the competition. Dino checked the video for the hundredth time to see if there was enough tape for Fen’s round.

“Tory, darling,” he called into the bedroom, “Fen’s about to jump. I think you ought to come and see it.”

He could hardly bear to watch her, she looked so small and defenseless as she rode into the ring. He had seen Rupert patting her hand and giving her encouragement. The bastard looked so impossibly handsome and, with his dislocated shoulder, a more romantic figure than ever. And even worse, Billy Lloyd-Foxe was doing the commentary. What the hell was
he
doing in America?

“And here comes Fenella Maxwell, riding her second round for Great Britain,” said Billy. “Only nineteen and easily our most brilliant and beautiful girl rider, and voted Sports Personality of the Year in 1979. Come on now, Fen, darling.”

“Oh, shut up, Billy,” howled Janey and Dino from different parts of England.

“Please don’t cheer,” Fen prayed to the crowd as Hardy plunged all over the place. “Please don’t distract him. Let us get around. Concentrate, Hardy, my darling.”

Suddenly Hardy decided to behave, jumping over the fences as though they were fallen logs in the wood.

“I want to go clear, oh please, let me go clear,” prayed Fen, getting excited. But Hardy took such an unexpectedly huge jump over the wall that it didn’t give him enough run into the water and he landed well in with a splash. Fen felt her face covered with tepid water. Hardy was drenched. He loathed getting wet. He lashed his tail, ears flattened.

“That’s done it,” groaned Rupert. “He’ll never clear the upright; he’s come in too close.”

Determined to prove Rupert wrong, Hardy did an incredible cat jump; up and up he went as if he was climbing a ladder. Then with a merry flick of his back feet he was over.

Dino put his arm around Tory.

“Go on, Fen,” yelled Darklis.

“Don’t look round,” screamed Isa. “Daddy’ll murder you.” He stopped, remembering, and looked in embarrassed apology at his mother. “I mean, for goodness sake, hurry.”

Fen thundered down to the last triple—she was over.

“Hooray,” yelled Billy, stamping his feet in the commentary box.

The applause was so defeaning, Fen didn’t realize she’d got a time fault.

Once again, everyone got out their calculators.

“That puts us on thirty-five, very much in contention,” said Malise. “The Germans are on thirty-four, the Americans on thirty. But we can’t afford any complacency. The Italians are on thirty-nine, with Piero Fratinelli to come.”

Rupert was seriously worried. The morphine wasn’t having the desired effect this time. He hardly warmed up Rocky at all; every stride was agony. There was no point risking a fall and finishing himself off altogether over a practice fence. He sat in the tackroom on an upturned bucket, with his head in his hands. He daren’t go near the First Aid Post in case they stopped him riding.

“You going to be able to make it?” said the doctor.

“Sure,” said Rupert, “but I hope they bloody hurry.”

Hans Schmidt had eight faults.

“That’s good for us,” Billy was saying in the commentary box.

Then, blighting everyone’s hopes, Piero Fratinelli came in and jumped clear for Italy.

“That’s not at all good for us,” sighed Billy. “Good round though.”

He grinned across at Fen, who was biting her nails in the riders’ stand, and mopped his brow.

In came Peter Colegate, who’d replaced Dino. The American crowd was in a state of hysteria. All across the stands U.S. flags were being waved in encouragement, as the big striding bay thoroughbred, who’d won several races in his youth, ate up the course.

“I don’t fancy anyone’s chances against him if there’s a jump-off,” said Billy.

The thoroughbred’s racetrack origins were his undoing, however. Picking up the tension from his rider, hearing the hysterical yelling of the crowd, he was reminded of his youth and, thundering towards the final fences, he cleared the pink wall with ease, then accelerated and flattened both parts of the double and, hearing the howl and groan of the crowd, only just scraped over the last massive triple.

“Hooray,” said Billy from the commentary box. That’s absolutely marvelous for us, but admittedly not great for the Americans.”

Carol Kennedy turned to Fen, shaking his head. “Our mutual friend would have gone clear.”

“What’s the score?” Fen asked Malise.

“Italians forty, Americans thirty-eight, Germans forty-three.”

They looked at each other for a minute.

“That means if Rupert goes clear we get the gold, four faults we get the silver, eight faults we’ll have to jump off, which will be too much for Rupert.”

Rupert rode into the ring.

“And here comes Rupert Campbell-Black on Popstar,” said Dudley. “He has a dislocated shoulder, which was put back yesterday. The suspense is absolutely killing, but I think we are about to witness a great display of courage.”

“Courage is a quality the Campbell-Blacks have never lacked,” said Billy. “One of Rupert’s ancestors was on the King’s side during the Civil War, and even though he was tortured by Roundheads, he never squealed.”

All the vengeful heat of the sun seemed to be concentrated on Rupert’s black velvet hat. The colored poles and the flower arrangements swam before his eyes. The officials in their coral blazers seemed to be dancing, the derby rising and falling by itself, the red and blue boat sailing away. The pain was excruciating now. If Rocky played up, he was doomed. Somehow he removed his hat, but, as Rocky sidled away, it took hours to get it back on again.

Where the hell was the first fence? For a panic-stricken moment he couldn’t remember. He looked up at the sea of faces, curiously still for once, the peaks of their caps like a million beaks. He had a terrifying hallucination—they were going to swoop down and peck him to death. Everything went black, he swayed, then forced himself to look down at Rocky’s blond plaits. His good hand was shaking violently—like a wanking schoolboy. The thought made him laugh. Thank God, there was the first fence. He kicked Rocky into a canter.

“And there goes Rupert,” said Billy in a voice that was not quite steady. “All our hopes go with him.”

Rocky, aware that his master was wildly untogether, jumped the first fence wrong, rapping it really hard, jarring Rupert’s shoulder appallingly. To a man, the crowd winced. The next jump was almost as unhappy. Rupert lost a stirrup, his balance all awry. Then he jabbed Rocky’s mouth over the sailboat and the horse pecked on landing.

“God, that must hurt,” moaned Billy.

Coming up to the derby, Rupert found his iron and somehow managed to stay on.

“Oughtn’t he to retire?” said Fen in anguish. “It must be killing him.”

Suddenly, with a relentless surge of courage, Rupert cleared the gate, and turned to the water, riding at it like a man possessed, clearing it by two feet. The crowd roared in ecstasy and then in apprehension. Rupert was beginning to do a bit too well. Suddenly an American victory was in jeopardy. Now he was turning towards the big combination: three vast brick-red fences with their clashing bright green pools of ferns. He left the first element to Rocky, who jumped it big, leaving him too close to the second element. With a brilliant shift in the saddle, Rupert swung Rocky to the right so he had more room and could get in an extra stride before clearing it, then swung him back again so he had the same extra diagonal. Rocky clouted the final pole, which was almost indistinguishable from the greenery filling the jump, but it stayed put.

The crowd burst into a spontaneous yell of applause.

“ ‘The gods who live forever,’ ” muttered Malise to himself, “ ‘are on our side today.’ ”

“That was the most glorious piece of riding,” said Billy. “Oh, come on, Rupe. I can’t bear to look anymore. You take over, Dudley.”

There were only three fences between Britain and a medal and, because of this, they all seemed higher than the grandstand.

Rocky was jumping majestically, but Rupert realized he must speed up. He couldn’t afford time faults. Through a haze of pain the three fences receded and came towards him; he’d never judge the distances; he couldn’t really gallop on with only one hand.

“He can either go carefully and risk time faults, or risk knocking them down,” said Billy. “Knowing Rupe, I bet he chooses the latter.”

Rupert did. He came thundering down to the first fence.

“Oh, steady,” said Malise in anguish.

“Too fast,” gasped Fen. “Oh, God help him.”

Rupert was over the first fence, meeting it absolutely perfectly.

“We’ll have to jump off for the bronze,” shouted Billy excitedly.

Rupert was somehow over the two treacherous uprights of the double.

“We’ve got the silver,” yelled Billy. “Come on, Rupe, come on.”

Rocky gathered himself together, took a mighty leap, and sailed through the air, over the triple and into the history books. Pandemonium broke out in the commentary box. Billy was hugging Dudley, both yelling at once. Dizzy burst into tears.

“I’m awfully sorry, ma’am,” said Fen, realizing she was hugging Princess Anne. Suddenly she heard a hoarse strangulated sound behind her; it was Ivor, cheering like an old mule.

“We got the gold!” screamed Fen, jumping up and down. “We got the gold!”

As Rupert rode out of the arena at a walk, the whole stadium rose to their feet to applaud him. The cheers went on for a full five minutes. Naturally disappointed the home team hadn’t made it, the crowd were prepared to honor such a display of courage.

Rupert rode up to Malise. His face was expressionless.

“What price fairies now?” he said.

Malise grinned up at him. “On the day, my fairies came good. Bloody marvelous.” Then, surprised at Rupert’s lack of excitement, “You went clear you know. We’ve got the gold.”

Rupert shook his head. A loudspeaker confirmed his victory. He stayed absolutely calm. He didn’t smile or give Rocky great slaps of joy on the neck which was his normal practice. His hand didn’t even tremble. He slid off the horse, gave him a quick pat, and leant his head for a second against the red-gold satin neck. Everyone swarmed round him, cheering and yelling.