Riders

19

Amonth later Jake Lovell drove through the warm June evening doing sums. Late the previous night, Marion had rung him from a call box to tip him off about a horse called Revenge.

“He’s a sod, but a brilliant one, and you’d better hurry. Rupert’s after him too.”

Wasting no time, Jake had driven all the way down to Surrey to look at the horse, and he liked what he saw. Jake was seldom cheated when buying a horse. His stint with the gypsies had stood him in good stead. They taught him that dealers often disguise lameness, deliberately laming the opposite leg by shoeing it wrong, that they put black marks on a horse’s teeth with hot wires so it’ll pass for a six-year-old, or even shove mustard up its rectum so the animal prances along with its tail up in a travesty of high spirits. They had also taught him never to be carried away by a horse’s looks.

He had to confess, however, that Revenge was the handsomest horse he’d ever seen, a showy red chestnut with a zigzag blaze, a mane and tail that looked as if they’d been dipped in peroxide, and an air of intense self-importance. He had been bought by a doting millionaire for his daughter, when she suddenly decided she wanted to take up show jumping. Revenge had turned out far too strong for her. Allowed to get away with murder, he had learnt to buck and spin at the same time, and tried to drag Jake off under some low-hanging oaks at the top of the field. On the other hand, he had jumped a line of large fences without effort, landing like a cat, and showing not only an ability to get himself out of trouble, but incredible powers of acceleration.

Jake ached all over where the horse had had him off three times, but he still wanted him. Unfortunately, George Masters, the dealer, wanted £5,000, which Jake hadn’t got. He’d just sold two of his best novices in order to put down the deposit on the indoor school. The balance on this would be due by the end of the summer.

Darklis, the new baby girl, was adorable, but she meant more work for Tory. Isa, jealous and playing up, needed extra attention, which meant Tory had less and less time for the horses. Tanya, the one groom, was hopelessly overworked. Jake desperately needed another groom, but to pay her he needed to go to more shows and win more money. To do that he needed another Grade A horse to fall back on when either Sailor or Africa were unfit. There’s a hole in your bank balance, dear Jake, he told himself.

So deep was he in thought on the way home that he suddenly realized he’d taken the wrong turn and was driving through Bilborough. There was Bilborough Hall, russet and mellow in the evening sun, scene of his first show on Africa. If he competed there now, as a member of the British show-jumping team, would he be invited to lunch up at the house with the nobs? There was Brook Farm Riding School. He felt a sick churning relief that he no longer worked for Mrs. Wilton. There was the village green, and the church and Molly Maxwell’s house.

Molly Carter she was now, the colonel’s lady. Diplomatic relations had been resumed between Molly and Tory after Isa was born, but they were still uneasy. Jake had never forgiven the colonel for firing his guns. Molly had never forgiven Jake for running off with her daughter and, even worse, making her happy.

Molly’s marriage to Colonel Carter had not been happy. He was hardly back from his honeymoon at that hotel in Brittany that served English food, before he realized what a bitch she was. Too old and too proud to split up, they were locked together in mutual enmity. The colonel’s retirement from the City had thrown them even more into one another’s company. Molly took refuge in endless bridge. The colonel tried to control Molly’s spending and dickered with the stock market. Fen had been shunted off to boarding school when she was eleven, and was discouraged from visiting Jake and Tory in the holidays because of Molly’s quite unfounded suspicions that Jake would probably seduce her.

Driving slowly past the house, Jake could see his mother-in-law playing bridge with three other harpies in the drawing room. The house had a burglar alarm now, and a yellow rose growing over the porch, and a swimming pool round the back, so the colonel could do his ten lengths every morning, like an old walrus.

Jake suddenly felt hungry. He hadn’t had any lunch and, with a hundred and fifty miles to drive home, he decided to drop into the next pub. Being early evening, he found it half-empty, but as he ordered a pint of beer and a pork pie, he heard a familiar bray of laughter. Not turning, he edged down the bar. There, in the mirror behind the bottles, he could see his stepfather-in-law, arched rather like a golden retriever over a brassy blonde, who certainly wasn’t his mother-in-law.

In amusement, Jake watched the colonel putting his hand over the blonde’s hand and lifting it with a clash of bracelets to his lips. Stupid old goat, he thought. Picking up his pint, he catfooted towards the table.

“Hello, Bernard,” he said softly.

Colonel Carter dropped the blonde like a wasp-filled pear and turned puce. Suddenly the ring on his paisley scarf seemed very tight.

“Hello, Jake,” he said with a great show of heartiness. “Long time no see. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Looking for a horse.”

“You’ve been doing very well this year. Getting your name in the papers. Even saw you on the box the other night. Going to Crittleden, are you? Sailor still going strong?”

“Of course he is,” said the blonde. “He did well in Madrid, didn’t he? Double clear indeed, and Billy getting concussed, naughty boy. Macaulay was off form, though. I think that Rupert Campbell-Black’s dead cruel.”

Jake found himself gazing into the heavily blue-mascaraed eyes of the true show-jumping groupie. She was showing a lot of crinkly bosom in a shiny blue and white dress, her shoe straps were biting into her fat ankles, and she enveloped Jake in wafts of cheap scent, but her face was kinder than Molly’s.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Bernard?” she said.

“Well, as you obviously know, this is my son-in-law, Jake Lovell,” said the colonel even more heartily, “and this is Vivienne, a great friend of my late wife, Jennifer.”

Vivienne didn’t look as though she’d be the great friend of anybody’s wife, thought Jake.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” she said.

“All right, just for a minute, as long as Bernard doesn’t mind,” said Jake maliciously. “How’s Fen?”

“Not too good really,” said the colonel. “Very moody, never brushes her hair, fights a lot with Molly, litters her clothes around the place. Moll sold her pony last week.”

Then, seeing the expression on Jake’s face, he added defensively, “Wretched animal kept jumping out of the field. Had to go and collect it in the middle of the night.”

“Probably lonely. Does Fen know?”

“Not yet.”

“Break her heart,” said Jake.

“Poor little soul,” said Vivienne.

“How’s she getting on at school?”

The colonel shook his head. “Refuses to work. Just draws horses and gazes out of the window. Wrong place for her, really. They don’t have riding there. But Molly insisted.”

“Don’t know why people have kids, then send them away,” said Vivienne, enjoying her disapproval of Molly. Then, turning to Jake: “Pity she can’t live with you if she’s so horse mad.”

Jake, who’d been thinking the same thing, was biding his time. Fen was only thirteen, but was already showing distinct promise. If he could get her under his wing, he could mold her the way he wanted to, and she’d be very useful helping with the horses. They might even be able to avoid getting a second groom.

“What d’you like to drink?” he asked.

“My round really,” said the colonel, not getting up.

“I’d like a gin and Cinzano, Jake, with lots of ice, thanks,” said Vivienne, seizing the opportunity, used to the colonel’s meanness.

“If you twist my arm, I’ll have a whisky and soda,” said the colonel, who’d been drinking a half-pint before.

“Attractive, isn’t he?” Jake heard Vivienne say as he went to the bar.

“Shame about the little girl. Ought to go and live with them.”

“Molly worries about what her friends think,” mumbled the colonel. “Likes to appear the devoted mother.”

“On the other hand,” said Vivienne slyly, “Fen’ll soon be old enough to be competition. Won’t be much fun when Molly’s menopause clashes with Fen’s adolescence.”

The colonel didn’t think so either.

“Tell us about this horse,” said Vivienne, when Jake returned with the drinks.

“He’s called Revenge,” said Jake, “and he’s got acceleration like a Ferrari, and Christ he can jump, but he’s got a very bad temper and has learnt some bad habits.”

“How much do they want?” asked the colonel.

“Five thousand. I’m just wondering how the hell to raise it.”

He looked speculatively at the colonel and then at Vivienne.

“That’s awfully cheap,” said Vivienne: “Three good wins and you’ll get your money back.”

The colonel suddenly felt heady. His masculinity had been badly dented by Molly; she was always accusing him of being an old woman about money. He’d show her. It was time the lion roared.

“I’ll buy it for you, Jake,” he said. “Fun to have a flutter.”

Vivienne clapped her fat hands together with more jangling.

“Oh, what a good idea. You can split the prize money.”

Jake didn’t react, determined not to betray his excitement. “Horse’ll take a bit of sorting out; not going to hurry him; probably won’t see any return for your money for a year or so.”

“Go on, Bernard, it’ll give you an interest. You’ve always wanted to own racehorses.”

“What’ll we tell Molly?” asked Jake flatly. “She wasn’t ecstatic last time a member of her family bought me a horse in a pub.”

“That I bumped into you,” said the colonel, “decided to help you out.”

For a quarter of an hour they discussed technicalities. Rupert might well go higher. If so they’d scrap the whole idea.

Jake looked at his watch. It had Donald Duck on the face, and had been a birthday present to Isa that Tory had thought the child was too young for.

“Ought to get back; Tory’s keeping supper.”

“Bye-bye, Jake. Can I have your autograph?” said Vivienne.

“Nice lady,” said Jake, as the colonel walked him out to the car.

“Old friend,” mumbled the colonel.

“Friend of Molly’s, too?” asked Jake.

“Needn’t mention her to Molly, need we?”

“I never met her,” said Jake. “You saw me going into the pub and you stopped to say hello and we had a drink together.”

“Good man,” said the colonel, patting Jake rather gingerly on the shoulders. “Always felt sorry about that Tory business. Worried about Fen too. You’d be doing her a kindness.”

Jake fingered the colonel’s check in his pocket.

“I’ll think about it.”

Jake waited until morning to ring up Masters. He didn’t wish to appear too keen. He offered £4,000.

“You must be joking,” said Masters. “Anyway Rupert Campbell-Black’s coming to look at him at eleven. He was the first one after the horse, so I ought to let him have a butcher’s.”

“The butcher’s is where that horse will end up if you don’t curb its nasty vicious habits soon,” said Jake. “Four grand is my offer and I’m not topping it. If Rupert offers more, let him have it. I’m going to see another horse over Cheltenham way this afternoon and I want to know if I’ve got the spare cash to buy it, so I’d be grateful if you’d let me know what Rupert says one way or the other.”

“I’ll ring you the moment I hear,” said Masters placatingly. “Don’t rush into that other deal too quickly.”

* * *

Jake then had to spend the morning biting his nails. It was all nerve, allowing the elastic to go slack so the other person started pulling on it. When Masters rang back, he made Tory say he was out and would ring back, which he didn’t. Then Masters rang again.

“That shit Campbell-Black never turned up, never bothered to ring. The horse is yours if you want it.”

“Four thou,” said Jake.

“Four thousand five hundred.”

“Four two-fifty.”

“Done.”

“I’ll come and collect him now.”

It was another hot wearying drive and it took three stable lads, George Masters, and Jake all their persuasive power and a lot of bad language to get Revenge into the lorry, by which time the horse was drenched with sweat. As Jake drove away he could hear him stamping and kicking in rage, and wondered if he’d been mad to buy him.

Two miles on, he was driving along a narrow country lane, brushing the buttercups and the elder flowers, when suddenly a dark blue Porsche hurtled round the corner and only just avoided a head-on collision by skidding onto the verge and nearly removing a wild rosebush.

The driver, a blond man wearing dark glasses, swore and hurtled on. There was no mistaking Rupert, but Jake didn’t recognize the brunette beside him. Maybe she was the reason Marion had rung him up.

“When you get there, mate, you’ll find the cupboard’s bare,” and he threw back his head and laughed. Revenge renewed his kicking and stamping.

“And you’d better be nice to me, boy,” he called back to the horse. “You’ve no idea how lucky you are not to go to that bastard.”

And all the way home, as the dead gnats peppered the windscreen, he kept laughing to himself, until at last, as the sun was setting, he saw the gleaming willows and red pink walls of the Mill House and felt as always that wave of joy at coming home. Christ, he was tired. Darklis was still on four-hourly feeds, so they weren’t getting much sleep. Tomorrow he had to get up early to drive up to a show in Yorkshire, and then the next week on to the Royal at Stoneleigh.

Tory came out to meet him, with Wolf bounding ahead.

“You got him? You must be exhausted.”

When they lowered the ramp, Revenge was cowering in the corner, shivering as though in a fever, despite the heat of the evening.

“Poor old boy, he must have had a bad time. But isn’t he beautiful?” said Tory.

As Jake went towards him, Revenge bared his teeth and darted at Jake like a cobra.

“He’s a bugger,” said Jake. “No one’s to go near him for the next day or so but me.”

Having tied him up securely, Jake rubbed him down, put on a sweat rug, watered and fed him. But the horse didn’t seem remotely interested in food and, once he was let loose, proceeded to pace round and round his box.

“Leave him,” said Jake. “He’ll settle down.”

Thank God for Tory, he thought as he went into the house.

Everything was tidy. The toys that had strewn the hall when he left that morning were now all put away. The only evidence of babies was a pile of fluffy nappies folded in the hall. A smell of shepherd’s pie drifted enticingly from the kitchen.

“How’s things been?”

“Fine really, except for Isa posting all the entry forms down the loo. Fortunately I’d typed them, rather than filling them in in ink, so they didn’t run. They’re drying off in the hot cupboard.”

“By the way,” she said, after she’d given him a glass of beer (they were still too poor to drink wine, except for special occasions), “Fen’s here.”

He looked up. “Run away from school?”

“Yes. She discovered Mummy’d sold the pony.”

* * *

He found Fen, still dressed in her school uniform, slumped sobbing on the bed.

“How could she do it? She forgets my birthday, then next day, she sells Marigold. She won’t even tell me where she’s gone.”

“Probably to a good home. We’ll find out,” said Jake, “and she was too small for you.”

“I know. I really have tried not to put on weight so I wasn’t too heavy, but she was the only thing I’d got. I loved her so much.”

Jake patted her shoulder. For a second she was crying so hard she couldn’t get the words out. Then she said, “I can’t stand school anymore. It’s a horseless, dogless desert, going on and on.” She reached out for Wolf, who’d climbed onto the bed, trying to lick her tears away. “And I can’t live with Mummy anymore. I hate her and I loathe him. Please don’t send me back.”

Jake was shocked by her appearance. Last time he’d seen her, a year ago, she’d been a little girl. Now she was a teenager with lank greasy hair, spots, and a pasty skin flecked with blackheads. Although she was terribly thin, he could see the first swell of breasts beneath the grass green school sweater.

“Please let me come and live with you,” she sobbed. “I won’t be a nuisance. I’ll babysit and I’ll get up early, and work at night and at the weekends.”

Jake stroked her hair. “I’ll talk to Tory. Come downstairs and have something to eat.”

“I can’t, truly. I’d be sick. Oh, Jake, I’m so sorry. You must be knackered, and to be faced with me after that drive. But I keep thinking of Marigold.” Her face crumpled again. “How lonely and bewildered she’ll be.”

“I’ll go and ring your mother,” said Jake.

“Fen’s here,” she heard him say on the downstairs telephone. “No, don’t talk to her tonight. She’s fast asleep; must have walked most of the way.”

Jake overslept next morning. Pulling on his clothes, he went downstairs to see how Revenge had survived the night. As he put on his shoes in the kitchen, he could hear Africa knocking her water bucket about and Sailor pawing the door and neighing, “Where’s my bloody breakfast.”

“All right, all right,” grumbled Jake, “I’m coming.”

Outside he froze with horror. Both halves of Revenge’s door were open. Isa, fascinated by the horses, had developed a dreadful habit of standing on a bucket and letting himself into the boxes. Heart hammering, Jake ran across the yard as fast as his limp would allow. Inside he found Fen, her arms round Revenge’s neck, feeding him carrots and kissing him on the nose.

“Good boy, good boy. You’ll love it here and you’re going to become a great and famous show jumper. Jake’ll see to that.”

“Fen,” said Jake, desperately trying to keep his voice steady, “come out of there.”

She looked up at him with an angelic smile. “He’s so sweet. Can I ride him later?”

Revenge glared at Jake, raised a threatening front hoof, and then darted his big white teeth in the direction of Jake’s arm.

“Stop it,” said Fen firmly, taking his head collar and giving it a shake. “That’s bad manners. You don’t bite your master.”

Revenge debated the matter for a minute, rolling his eyes and looking bootfaced.

“No,” said Fen, even more firmly, “you’re just showing off. You’re an old softy, really.”

Revenge, deciding that perhaps he was, butted Fen in the pockets in search of more carrots.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Revenge.”

Fen grinned. “Revenge is sweet, he really is.”

At that moment Jake decided to keep her.

“If you’re so taken by him, you’d better feed him and skip him out.”

“What’s he been eating?” said Fen.

“Stable boys, mostly,” said Jake, “but I think we’ll try and wean him off that habit.”

* * *

Rupert drove home in a blazing temper. He’d tried everything to make Masters tear up the check, but when the man insisted he’d given the buyer a receipt, and refused to name him, Rupert lost his temper and an undignified shouting match ensued.

On the way home Rupert took it out on Sarah, the brunette he’d met at a show earlier in the week. He’d been furious with himself for bedding her that morning. He’d been on the way home from a dinner in London and had rung Helen to say he’d be late home, as he was making a detour to Surrey to look at a horse. The detour had also taken in Sarah’s flat. He hadn’t enjoyed screwing her at all and he’d fallen asleep afterwards, which made him impossibly late for his appointment with Masters. He’d taken a stupid risk, too. Masters might easily have rung home and Helen smelled a rat and been hurt unnecessarily. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about being unfaithful, but enraged that, through his stupid dalliance, he’d lost a really good horse. He’d have to get his spies out and track Revenge down. By the time he had chewed up a few more people, he might go even cheaper. Since Madrid, Macaulay had been a write-off, losing all his form and confidence. He’d have to go too, he thought, as he dropped Sarah off.

“When’ll I see you again?” she called after him anxiously.

But Rupert had driven off without a word. Even the sight of Penscombe in the height of its summer beauty didn’t soothe him. Helen’s clothes, her endless schemes for the garden — a lilac walk here, a little heated swimming pool there, a seventeenth-century stone nymph there — cost a fortune. Billy worked hard, but he cost a fortune, too, always buying other people drinks and feeding Mavis chicken. The whole shooting match is dependent on me, Rupert thought sulkily. I’ve got to win and win to support it.

He drove straight around to the stables, where he found Billy working one of the novices in a nearby field. He admired Billy’s patience, but why was he resting The Bull and Kitchener this week and not at a show, winning money?

Billy pulled up and rode towards him, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Did you get him?”

“Already sold on.”

“Shit, that was bad luck. Who got him?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

“Might have been more trouble than he was worth. This is going to be a very good horse, by the way.”

“Good. It’s about time he started paying his way.”

He found Marion in the tackroom, cleaning a saddle. She didn’t look up. Still sulking, thought Rupert. For a second he admired the unsupported breasts in the tight blue T-shirt, and the succulent thighs in the denim skirt, which was only just buttoned up enough to hold it up.

“Didn’t get him,” he said. “He was sold on.”

“Who to?” Marion bent over the pommel, so Rupert couldn’t see how much she was blushing.

“Masters wouldn’t say.”

“Just as well. I quite like having two arms and legs.”

“Particularly when they’re such sexy legs.”

She looked up: “Wasn’t aware you’d noticed them recently.”

“I always notice them.”

“How was Sarah?” It was an inspired guess, but it hit home.

Rupert didn’t flicker, then, unable to resist a joke, added, “Rather like Coventry Cathedral — ravishing from the outside, but very disappointing once you got inside.”

Marion started to giggle. “You are frightful.”

He went up behind her, stroking the back of her neck. She leant against him, furious with herself for feeling faint with longing.

“Rupert, darling,” called a voice.

“In here,” said Rupert, moving away from Marion to examine the diet charts.

It was Helen, also in navy blue, in a dress which must have cost fifty times more than my skirt and T-shirt, thought Marion. Helen was looking rather pale, her newly washed hair falling to her shoulders, subtly smelling of Miss Dior, her blue high heels catching in the ridges of the floor.

She’s as out of place here as a tiger lily in a cabbage patch, thought Marion.

“Darling, how did you get on?”

“I’m coming in,” said Rupert. “I’m filthy. You can bring me a drink in the bath.”

He was reading Horse and Hound in a foot of hot, scented water when she walked in. Funny, he reflected, how even after two years she averted her eyes.

“Nice dress.”

“It can go back if you don’t like it.”

“I do. You can take it off in a minute.”

“Here’s your drink,” she said hastily, hoping to distract him.

Rupert took a deep gulp and went on reading Audax on the Derby.

“Why don’t you come and soap my cock?”

Helen blushed. “Billy’ll be in in a minute.”

“So what? Not in here, he won’t. Come on.”

Helen sat on the loo seat and took a birdlike sip of her drink.

“Why are you drinking vodka?” demanded Rupert. (She usually had sherry.)

“It’s Perrier, actually.”

“What on earth for?”

“I went to see Dr. Benson today.”

He looked up sharply. “You ill?”

“No,” she took a deep breath, “I’m going to have a baby.”

“You what?” The next moment he’d reared out of the bath like a great dripping whale and taken her in his arms, drenching her.

“Oh, darling,” he said in a choked voice, “are you sure?”

“Positive — Rupert, you’re soaking me.”

“Christ, that’s fantastic. I can’t believe it.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“You must rest. You mustn’t carry anything heavy. Are you sure you’re up to carrying that glass of Perrier? When did you think you were? Oh, sweetheart, you should have told me.”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“I thought you were on the Pill.”

“I stopped taking it.” Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “I was real scared after the termination,” she almost gagged on the word, “I wouldn’t be able to conceive. Then I started feeling vile in Madrid.” She sat down on the loo seat.

“You never told me.” Still dripping, he crouched beside her, kissing her again and again.

She was so pleased he was pleased, but she wished he’d get dressed. This rampant nakedness seemed incongruous somehow with the momentousness of the occasion.

Finally he stood up. “My father’ll be knocked out. What shall we call him — Eddie?”

“He might be a girl.”

Rupert started doing his sums. “When he’s twenty-four, he’ll be able to ride in the 2000 Olympics.”

He went to the bedroom window and opened it. “Billy, Billy.”

“Put something on,” urged Helen, wrapping a towel around him.

“Billee.”

Next minute Billy appeared at the edge of the lawn, still riding the gray.

“Yes?”

“For Christ’s sake, come here.”

“Not across the lawn,” wailed Helen. “Mr. Higgins’ll do his nut.”

“Helen’s going to have a baby!”

Billy threw his hat high up in the air and rode through some delphiniums.

“Fantastic.”

“You can be the fairy godfather,” said Rupert, “and just think what a wonderful opportunity it’ll be to get Nanny back to look after him.”

Over my dead body, thought Helen.

At that moment one of the Jack Russells wandered into the bedroom and sicked up a few frothy blades of grass on the carpet. And the dogs are going to be kept outside once the baby comes, she said to herself. I’m not having them in the nursery.