Riders

22

Back at the Mill House, good as his word, Jake turned his horses out for a rest. It pleased him to see them really enjoying their grass. Even Revenge dropped his belly like an old hunter. In February, a program was announced for Olympic possibles. The riders mustn’t overjump their horses and they must take part in the Olympic trials at the Bath and Wells show and Crittleden in June. The probable team would then be chosen for a trial over the huge, demanding fences at the Aachen show in Germany in July, after which the Olympic team — four riders and a reserve — would finally be selected.

Officially, the Olympic committee told Jake, they were interested in both Sailor and Revenge. Unofficially, Malise rang Jake and asked him if, in the event of one of the other riders, say Rupert, being selected without a decent horse, would Jake be prepared to jump Sailor and lend Revenge to Rupert. The answer was an extremely curt negative. If Revenge made sufficient progress to be selected, over Jake’s dead body would he let anyone else ride him, particularly Rupert. Malise appreciated his sentiments and reported back to the Olympic committee, who felt somewhat differently. Colonel Roxborough, the chairman, master of the Westerham, a bronze medalist before the war, who’d never moved an inch to get any of his five wives, was not the only member who felt Jake was behaving in a thoroughly unsportsmanlike fashion. After all, Belgravia and Mayfair, who’d both been overjumped, were not as good as they used to be, and Macaulay, after a dazzling start, had suddenly lost form altogether.

The committee were heartened, however, by Billy Lloyd-Foxe at last hitting top form. Trying to forget Lavinia, avoiding parties where he might bump into her and cutting down on his drinking, he had concentrated on his horses, with dramatic results. The Bull, and often Kitchener, were in the money at every show they went to, and both were regarded as Olympic possibles.

Among the other possibles were Humpty, Driffield, Ivor Braine, and Lavinia de la Tour, who had married Guy in March. Billy managed to be abroad for the wedding, but sent them a king-size duvet as a wedding present, adding a wry little private note for Lavinia: “If I can’t spend the rest of my life lying on top of you, at least my present can.”

As a newlywed, no doubt subjected to endless demands by Guy, Lavinia lost form. It was agony for Billy to see her with Guy on the circuit, but he found his heart didn’t ache quite so much if he was beating the hell out of both of them.

In March, while Rupert was driving from Dortmund to Vienna, Helen went into labor. As his lorry was snowbound on a mountain road, no one managed to contact him for thirty-six hours. Flying straight back to Gloucestershire, he found that Helen had nearly died after a long and very difficult birth, and that the baby was in the intensive care unit. Seeing her paler than her white pillow, her red hair dark with sweat and grease, Rupert was overwhelmed with remorse. How could he have done this to her?

“I guess Nanny was right about good child-bearing hips. I’m sorry, darling,” he said, taking her hand.

Not by a single word did she reproach him, but he saw the hurt in her huge eyes and knew that his absence would be held against him later. As he sat with her in her private room, various doctors came and talked to him, and nurses popped in to have a gaze. Actually the sister in charge was frightfully pretty, but after three hours Rupert was rigid with boredom, and turned on the television. It was Benny Hill, who always made him laugh, but when he looked around and saw Helen was crying, he turned it off.

He was delighted to have a son, particularly after his smooth and expensive GP friend, Dr. Benson, had turned up and assured him that both child and mother should pull through.

“But I really think you should stick around for a bit, Rupe. She’s had an awful time and constantly called out for you.”

“I appreciate your advice,” said Rupert coolly.

“You can do better than that,” said Benson, equally coolly. “You can act on it, unless you want Helen to wind up in a bin.”

Rupert rang Billy and told him he wouldn’t be coming to Vienna and would he bring back Rupert’s horses.

“What’s the baby like?” asked Billy.

“Got red hair, so we know it’s Helen.”

Then Rupert sat down and wrote letters, putting baby Marcus Rupert Edward down for St. Augustine’s and Harrow. Looking at the tiny baby, with his sickly face like a howling lemon and the bracken-red stubble of hair, it seemed impossible that he would ever attain such heights.

In the evening, Rupert went home to Penscombe and slept for fourteen hours, but after that scrupulously visited Helen every day. She seemed pathetically grateful for the attention, but was distressed that she was unable to breast-feed.

“What the hell does it matter?” asked Rupert. “How do you think Cow and Gate became millionaires? I thought you wanted your figure back.”

He was further irritated that Helen had struck up a friendship with another mother called Hilary Stirling. In her early thirties, Hilary denied her unquestionable good looks by wearing no makeup and scraping her dark hair into a bun. A passionate supporter of the women’s movement, a braless, undeodorized vegetarian, with unshaven legs and armpits, she had just had her second baby, Kate, named after Kate Millett, by natural childbirth—“A wonderfully moving experience,” she told Helen.

Hilary’s husband Crispin, who appeared to do everything in the house — cook, clean, and look after Germaine (their first child) — had been present at the birth. He was very earnest, with long thinning hair and a straggly beard, and came to visit Hilary in hospital with Germaine, now age eleven months, hanging from his neck in a baby sling. Helen thought him extraordinarily unattractive, but at least, unlike Rupert, he had been caring and supportive.

It suddenly seemed to Rupert that every time he rolled up to see Helen, bringing bottles of champagne, gulls’ eggs, smoked salmon, and armfuls of spring flowers from the garden, that Hilary was sitting on Helen’s bed, breast-feeding her disgusting baby and flashing her goaty armpits.

Admittedly she was ultrapolite. “It’s so kind of Helen to let me take refuge in her private room, although we personally wouldn’t dream of using anything else but the NHS.”

Admittedly, she immediately made herself scarce, despite Helen’s protestations. “I’ll leave you, dear. You see little enough of Rupert alone as it is. I’ll come back after he’s gone.” But every word was spat out with contempt.

Helen thought she was wonderful.

“She’s a very talented painter. Look at this little sketch she did of me this morning.”

“Looks as if you’ve been peeling onions.”

“Oh, Rupert, don’t be silly. She’s real clever too; got several degrees.”

“And every one below zero,” snapped Rupert.

In between visiting Helen, he had not been idle. He worked the novices and kept up his search for an Olympic horse, which included dining with Colonel Carter and even forcing himself to flirt with the appalling Molly.

After a fortnight, Helen was allowed home and baby Marcus was installed in Rupert’s old cradle, newly upholstered in white frills, in his beautiful buttercup yellow nursery, next to Rupert and Helen’s bedroom, with Rupert’s old Nanny, who had already settled in to look after him, sleeping in the room on the other side.

Rupert thought this was insane.

“How can Billy and I wander around with no clothes on if Nanny’s two doors down? Billy might easily come home plastered and wander into her room by mistake. The baby ought to be on the top floor with Nanny, like Adrian and I were.”

“But I’d never see him,” protested Helen. “I want him near me. You can’t expect poor Nanny to stagger along the passage and down two flights of stairs every time he cries.”

Helen grew stronger physically, but sank into postnatal depression. She had ears on elastic. Every time a lamb bleated out in the fields she thought it was Marcus crying and raced upstairs. Rupert had the lambs and ewes moved to another field out of earshot. But Helen was still impossibly jumpy. Rupert was hustling her to sleep with him again and was furious when, egged on by Hilary, she refused. A power struggle, too, was developing between her and Nanny. If Marcus cried in the night, often they hit head-on over the cradle, like shiny red billiard balls. Nanny insisted on putting Marcus in long white dresses and refused to have anything to do with disposable nappies. She also wanted a strict routine — you had to show the baby early on who was master. Helen, again egged on by Hilary and Mrs. Bodkin, believed that babies should be fed on demand and cuddled a lot. If they couldn’t sleep you took them into bed with you, whereupon Nanny launched into horrific tales about ladyships in the past who’d done the same thing and suffocated their babies.

One day when Rupert was away Marcus wouldn’t stop crying, his frame wracked, his little lungs bawling the house down. How could such a tiny thing make so much noise?

“Leave him. He’ll exhaust himself,” insisted Nanny.

Helen, terrified of losing Marcus, and utterly fed up with this whiskery old boot hanging over him and calling all the shots, summoned the doctor.

Dr. Benson, who was more than a little in love with Helen, was delighted to confirm her fears. “Baby’s hungry; needs more food.”

Afterwards there was a stand-up row and Nanny packed her bags.

Terrified of Rupert’s wrath, Helen rang up Hilary, who offered only praise.

“Best thing you’ve ever done. Don’t let that MCP talk you around.”

Later, Rupert walked into the nursery to find Helen changing a nappy and, with a look of horror, walked out again. Really, he was the most unrole-reversed guy.

With a hand that trembled slightly, she powdered Marcus and rather clumsily put the disposable nappy inside the Harrington square. She fastened the two blue safety pins, tucked him into his cradle, and gave him a kiss. With a gurgle of contentment he fell asleep immediately, obviously not missing Nanny.

Rupert was waiting outside.

“Why the hell are you doing that? Is it Nanny’s afternoon off?”

Helen took a deep breath.

“I gave her notice this morning.”

“You what?” thundered Rupert. “Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“You sacked Nanny without asking me?”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” said Helen, losing her temper. “You’re never here, never take any interest in Marcus.”

“Balls. I haven’t been away from home for more than a night since you had him.”

“You’ve only been back three weeks,” screamed Helen, going into her bedroom.

“You turned her out, just like that?”

“She’s out of date.”

“She was my Nanny and my father’s before that. We’re healthy enough. Can’t be much wrong with her.”

“Why don’t you put her in the antiques fair then? I’m not having her upsetting Mrs. Bodkin and, anyway, Hilary figures for successful parenting…”

“Don’t you quote that bloody dyke at me. Successful parenting, my arse, and who’s going to look after the baby now?”

“He’s called Marcus, right, and I am. Most mothers do look after their kids, you know. I don’t want Marcus growing up caring more for Nanny than me, like you did.”

“And how d’you intend to get away? It’s Crittleden next week, Rome the week after.”

“Tory Lovell takes her baby with her.”

“Christ, you should see it. Caravan festooned with nappies, Tory shoving distilled suede boot into some bawling infant, who spits it all out, then bawls all night, keeping every other rider awake.”

“Well, I’ll stop at home then,” sobbed Helen.

Suddenly from next door there was a wail.

“Go and see to him,” snapped Rupert. “Now aren’t you sorry you sacked Nanny?”

Fortunately Billy chose that moment to arrive back from Vienna, trailing rosettes, bringing Rupert’s horses, and panting to see the new baby, so the row was temporarily smoothed over.

“What a little duck,” he said, taking a yelling Marcus from Helen. “Isn’t he sweet? Look at his little hands. No, shush, shush sweetheart, that’s no way to carry on, you’ll upset your mummy.”

Amazingly, the next minute, Marcus shut up, gazing unfocused at Billy, enjoying the warmth and gentle strength.

“Isn’t he a duck?” he said again.

“You’d better take over as Nanny,” said Rupert with a slight edge in his voice. “Then we won’t have to fork out for an ad in The Lady.”

Helen thought for the millionth time how glad she was Billy hadn’t married Lavinia Greenslade. He was such a comfort.

“You will be godfather, won’t you?” she said.

Billy blushed. “Of course, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to point him in a very Christian direction. Who else have you asked?”

“Only my new friend Hilary, so far,” said Helen, shooting a defiant glance at Rupert. “I can’t wait to have you two meet. I’ll know you’ll enjoy her.”

Every night for the next week they were woken continually by Marcus crying, driving Rupert to frenzies of irritation.

“That’s my night’s sleep gone,” he would complain, then drift off to sleep two minutes later. Helen would get up, feed Marcus, soothe him to sleep, and lie awake for the rest of the night.

In April, Billy and Rupert set off for Crittleden, leaving Helen and Marcus alone in the big house, except for one of the girl grooms, whom Rupert had insisted sleep in. Resentful of Rupert, Helen poured all her love into the delicate little boy. Thank goodness Hilary lived only a few miles away, so they spent alternate days together, discussing books, plays, paintings, their babies and, inevitably, Rupert.

Jake Lovell was having his best year yet. His horses couldn’t stop winning. Revenge, brought in from grass, fat, mellow, and almost unrecognizable, was now fit and well muscled again. Even Jake realized his Olympic potential, but in four years’ time.

Tory and Fen, however, were wildly excited when a form arrived for Jake asking him to fill in his measurements for an Olympic uniform, which included a blazer and trousers for the flight and the opening ceremony. Aware that forms had been sent to all the other possibles, Jake had no intention of tempting Providence by returning the form until his selection had been confirmed after Aachen. He was appalled when he discovered that Tory, with her usual efficiency, had filled in the form and posted it.

Despite this tempting of Providence, the first Olympic trial at the Bath and Wells show went well. Both Sailor and Revenge jumped accurately and were only beaten by seventeen-hundredths of a second against the clock by The Bull. Humpty was fourth, Driffield fifth, Ivor Braine sixth, Rupert a poor seventh, not even getting into the jump-off. The rest were nowhere.

Before the second trial in June at Crittleden, Jake was a good deal more edgy. Colonel Carter was never off the telephone, throwing his weight around, trying to organize Revenge’s career, until Jake lost his temper and told the colonel to get stuffed.

More sinister, Jake noticed an unfamiliar missel-thrush singing in the willow tree nearest the stables, the day before they were due to leave for Crittleden. Jake chased it away, but it came back and went on singing. When he lived with the gypsies a missel-thrush had sung all day outside the caravan of the old gypsy grandmother. One day she was in rude health, the next she had died. Jake believed in omens. All day he worried about the children, Isa and little Darklis, who at thirteen months had grown into the most enchanting black-haired, black-eyed gypsy girl, the apple of Jake’s eye.

He even went and fetched Isa from the playgroup himself. He didn’t tell Tory of his fears. They had decided not to bring the children to Crittleden, as Jake and Fen needed a good night’s sleep before the trial, and children around might be distracting.

“Are you sure you don’t mind not coming?” Jake asked Tory.

“I can watch you on television,” she said. “Anyway I’d be so nervous for you, I’d wind you up. I know you’re going to make it.”

Jake hated leaving them all. Whenever would he get over this crippling homesickness every time he went away? As they left on the hundred-and-fifty-mile drive it was pouring with rain and the missel-thrush was still singing. It was even wetter and colder at Crittleden. Jake and Fen spent a lot of time blocking up holes in the horses’ stables.

On the way to the secretary’s tent to declare for the next day, Jake bumped into Marion, fuming as usual with Rupert.

“He’s only got Mayfair in the running now. He used the tack rail on Belgravia so much, one of his legs went septic, so he’s off for a fortnight. Rupert’s talking of using electrodes on Mayfair; the horse is a bundle of nerves.”

“And Macaulay?” said Jake.

“Sold on to an Arab sheik Rupe met playing chemmy at the Claremont. So he’s off to some Middle East hellhole, poor sod. You know what that means?”

“Yes,” said Jake bleakly. “He’ll cart the sheik’s son and heir once too often and end up in the stone quarries. Can you get me the address?”

Marion said she’d try, but Rupert had been very cagey about this deal because Helen, who was in an uptight state, might be upset if she found out the horse had gone.

“Not that she’s showing any interest in anything except Marcus at the moment.”

Jake shook his head. “Why d’you stay with Rupert?”

Marion shrugged. “I guess I’m hooked on the bastard, and at least I can make the lot of his horses a little easier.”

All the next day the rain poured down like a waterfall. The riders put up the collars of their mackintosh coats and shivered. As he finished walking the course, Jake was accosted by a reporter from the local evening paper.

“This is the toughest course ever built at Crittleden, Jake. Anything to say?”

Jake kept walking. “I’m sorry I can’t talk to you before a class.”

“But I’ve got a deadline,” wailed the reporter. “Arrogant sod,” he added furiously.

But Jake didn’t hear, and when he passed Humpty and Driffield he barely nodded, trying to cocoon himself, to get a grip on his nerves. He found Fen holding Revenge and Sailor — three drowned rats. Sailor, who loathed the cold, looked more miserable and hideous than ever.

“You okay?” he asked Fen.

She nodded. “What’s the course like?”

“Not okay,” said Jake. “Dead and holding. It’ll put five inches on all the fences.”

Smug in the covered stands after a good lunch, the Olympic committee smoked their cigars and waited. Jake, who had a latish draw, watched one rider after another come to grief, which did his nerves no good. He noticed that the dye of his cheap red coat was running into his breeches. If he survived this ordeal, he’d bloody well buy himself a mackintosh coat.

Only Porky Boy and The Bull went clear. Revenge went in at Number Twenty and, despite having to carry two stone of lead because Jake was so light, he jumped strongly and confidently, with only a toe in the water for four faults. Jake felt passionate relief that he wouldn’t have to jump again. But in one of the boxes, from which Colonel Carter would not emerge because Molly didn’t want her newly set hair rained on, Jake could see them both looking disappointed.

Rupert went in next, jumping a very haphazard clear, and came out looking none too pleased; he was followed by Driffield, who, despite Olympic-level bellyaching beforehand, had only four faults.

Sailor looked even more fed up as Fen took off his rug. But he nudged Jake in the ribs, as if to say, “I don’t like this any more than you do, so let’s get on with it.”

“I heard Rupert saying it’s like a skating rink in the middle on the far side of the rustic poles,” said Fen, “so jump to the right.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jake, trying to stop his teeth chattering.

“Your breeches look like a sunset,” said Fen.

“Hope that’s not symbolic of my career,” said Jake.

Sailor was cold and it took him the first four jumps to warm up. He gave Jake a seizure when he rapped the double very hard. But fortunately, though the pole trembled, it didn’t come out of the cup and Jake managed to steer him clear of the skating rink at the rustic poles. Although Jake was aware what a tremendous effort Sailor had to make at each fence, carrying so much lead, he completed the course without mishap.

Jake’s heart filled with gratitude. What horse could be more gallant? As he patted him delightedly and gave him half a packet of Polos, he wondered if subconsciously he was holding back Revenge because he so wanted to take Sailor to Colombia.

“Keep him warm and under cover,” he said to Fen and went off to check the jump-off course. He found all the clear-round riders having a frightful row with the Crittleden judges.

“For Christ sake,” said Rupert, “we’ve gone clear. Isn’t that enough for the buggers? It’s like jumping out of quicksand.”

“Porky Boy might easily slip,” said Humpty.

“It’s a sod of a course,” agreed Billy.

But the judges were adamant: the Olympic committee wanted them to jump again. This time Porky Boy had three fences down, Rupert and Driffield two and Jake and Billy one each.

“Can’t ask us to go again,” said Billy, grinning at Jake. “At least that’s a grand in each of our pockets.”

“Sailor’s finished,” said Jake. “Couldn’t even jump over a pole on the ground.”

Billy nodded. “Don’t worry, they’re not that crazy.”

But once again the Olympic committee, or rather Colonel Roxborough, who had once won a bronze medal, wanted a duel to the death.

“Seems a bit extreme when Jake’s horse is carrying so much lead,” protested Malise. “They really are ghastly conditions.”

“Could be just as ghastly in Colombia,” said the colonel. “Are we conducting an Olympic trial, or are we not? You couldn’t divide a gold medal.”

Malise had to go down and tell Billy and Jake they had to jump again, knowing he must not transmit the grave doubts he felt.

“I’m retiring Sailor,” said Jake.

“Then you’ll scupper your Olympic chances,” said Malise. “Just take it very slowly.”

Sailor was too exhausted even to look appalled as Jake rode him through the driving rain back into the collecting ring. Jake couldn’t bear to watch Billy, but he heard the subdued cheers as he rode out with twelve faults.

Rain was dripping in a steady stream from Malise’s hat as he walked up to Jake.

“Now, I mean it, take it really slowly.”

“He’s got no bloody choice after what you’ve put him through,” snapped Fen.

Malise knew he should have slapped her down, but she was speaking the truth.

Jake hated having to ask Sailor to do it. He felt like a murderer as he cantered slowly into the ring. Tory must be watching at home and worried too. If only that bloody missel-thrush had shut up. Rain at fifty degrees was making visibility almost impossible.

“I’m sorry, boy, I’m sorry.” He ran a reassuring hand down Sailor’s dripping gray plaits.

There were only seven fences. Sailor managed the first and second, but the ground was so churned up that he slipped on take-off at the third, the wall, and sent all the bricks and nearly himself flying. It was like riding on a kitchen floor after you’ve spilt hot fat. Frightened now, Sailor knocked down the oxer and rapped the upright, which trembled, but as in the first round, didn’t fall. Perhaps they were in luck after all. Somehow he nursed Sailor over the rustic poles; now he was coming down to the combination. By some miracle, despite a nasty skid, he cleared the three elements. Now it was only the parallel. Ears flattened against the rain, tail swishing in irritation, Sailor looked for a second as though he was going to stop.

“Go on, baby, go on,” muttered Jake.

Sailor made a mighty effort, girding his loins, then with an extra wiggle, threw himself with a groan over the fence.

Only eight faults. They had won. Despite the deluge, the crowd gave him a tremendous cheer as Jake pulled Sailor to a walk, patting him over and over again. Then just in front of the selectors’ box, like some terrible nightmare, Sailor seemed to stop, make an effort to go on, then physically shrink beneath Jake and collapse in the mud. Jake, whose good leg was trapped beneath him, took a few seconds to wriggle free. Scrambling up, covered in mud, he limped over to Sailor’s head, cradling it in his arms. Sailor just lay there. Then he opened his walleye, tried to raise his head, gave a half-choked knucker, and his head fell back.

“Sailor!” whispered Jake. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’ll be okay in a minute. Where’s the vet?” he howled, looking around frantically at the horrified blur of the crowd.

The next minute the vet ran onto the course through the torrent of rain, carrying his bag.

“Quickly; it must be his heart; do something,” pleaded Jake.

The vet opened Sailor’s eye and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s dead.”

“He can’t be,” said Jake through pale trembling lips, “he can’t be, not Sailor,” and suddenly, his face crumpled and tears were mingling with the raindrops.

“Sailor,” he sobbed, kneeling down, putting his arms round Sailor’s neck, “don’t die, please, you can’t, don’t die.”

In an instant the immaculate Crittleden organization swung into gear. The tractor and trailer were chugging through the mud from the collecting ring and the arena party ran on, putting eight-foot screens round Jake and the horse, and the loudspeaker started booming out music from South Pacific.

The crowd stood stunned, not moving. Colonel Roxborough descended from the stands, Malise ran in from the collecting ring, but Fen got there first, flinging her arms round Jake and Sailor, cuddling them both, sobbing her heart out too.

“Any hope?” asked Malise.

The vet shook his head. “Heart attack, I’m afraid.”

Fen turned round. “It’s your fault,” she screamed at Malise and Colonel Roxborough, “your bloody bloody fault. Jake didn’t want to jump him. Now what have you proved?”

Malise went up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Awfully sorry, very bad luck, might have happened at any time.”

“Don’t touch me,” hissed Fen, shaking him off. “You’re all murderers.”

Malise went over to Jake, who was still cradling Sailor’s head in his arms, crying great strangled sobs. “It was the missel-thrush,” he kept saying over and over again. He seemed almost deranged.

“Come on, Jake,” said Malise gently. “Bloody bad luck, but let’s get him out of the ring.”

It took three of the arena party to pull Jake off, and the rest of them to get Sailor into the trailer.

Half the crowd and all the grooms were in tears. The riders were visibly shaken. The organizers were in a tizzy about who’d won.

“It’s in the FEI rules, Jake wasn’t mounted when he left the ring,” said Grania Pringle, who was about to present the prizes.

“Then Billy’s got to get it,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Let’s get on with it, get people’s minds onto something more cheerful. Bloody good thing it happened today. Just think if he’d collapsed in Colombia. That’s what Olympic trials are for.”

Grania Pringle turned on him, her beautiful makeup streaked with tears. “Bloody well shut up, Roxie. Don’t be so fucking insensitive.”

As the tractor came out with its grisly burden Billy, near to tears himself, rode up to Jake: “Christ, I’m sorry. Of all the ghastly things to happen. We all knew how you felt about him. But I’m not taking first prize, Malise. Jake won it. He must have it.”

“Very kind of you, Billy, but we have to abide by the rules.”

He looked at Jake. It was hard to tell now which was downpour or tears. The rain had washed all the mud from the white shrunken face.

“Bastard,” Jake spat at Malise, and turned in the direction of his lorry. Suddenly he turned back. “Where are you taking Sailor?” he demanded.

“Don’t worry your head about that,” said Malise. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

“You’re not taking his body away for cat food.”

“He won’t go for cat food,” said Malise reasonably. “They’ll take him to the Hunt kennels.”

Jake shot him a look of pure hatred. “As if that were any better. Take him to my lorry.”

Fen dried Revenge off and fed him, while Jake loaded the two novices into the box. She couldn’t bear to watch them loading Sailor, so she went and rang Tory to tell her they were coming home. As she came out of the telephone box, Malise was waiting for her. She was about to walk past him when he said, “Look, I know how you both feel.”

“I should doubt it,” said Fen coldly. “And don’t try telling Jake it’s only a horse. He loved Sailor more than any human.” She added suddenly, with a wisdom beyond her years, “He felt they were both ugly, both laughed at, both despised and rejected. Together they were going to show the world.”

Malise looked at her thoughtfully. “He’s very lucky to have you. Can’t you stop him driving in this condition? It’s simply not safe.”

“You didn’t worry too much about Sailor’s safety, did you?” snapped Fen. “So I don’t think you’re a very good judge. And in this condition, which you put him into, all he needs is Tory.”

Jake didn’t speak a word on the way home. Fen found it unbearable the way Revenge kept nudging Sailor’s body, waiting for his wise old friend to scramble, grumbling, to his feet and tell him not to worry. They reached the Mill House at midnight. Jake drove the box straight around to the orchard. The rain had stopped, leaving a brilliant clear night. Moonlight flooded the dripping apple trees and the grave, which had already been dug for them by the next-door farmer. He stayed to help them unload Sailor, which was a good thing, as he was stiff and cold now, and terribly heavy. It was so bright you could see the flecks on his flea-bitten coat, his mane still neatly plaited. Jake wrapped him in his white and maroon rug and patted him good-bye. Jake’s face was set and expressionless as he covered the body with earth, pressing it down neatly. Later, when he’d unloaded and settled the other horses, he made a cross and put it on the grave.

By a supreme effort, Tory managed not to cry in front of him, and when they finally fell into bed around four o’clock he just groaned, laid his head on her warm, friendly breasts, and fell asleep.

Next day he spent a long time digging up wildflowers to plant around Sailor’s grave. Outwardly he appeared calm, but Tory knew he was bleeding inside. In the afternoon Malise rang up. Jake refused to talk to him.

“How is he?” asked Malise.

“All right,” said Tory, “but he won’t talk about it.”

“Well, it might cheer him up to know he and Revenge have been selected to go to Aachen. Probably he’s suffering from shock. He’ll be okay in a day or two.”

He rang up again two days later. “Just confirming Jake and Revenge are available for Aachen.”

“Well, it’s a bit awkward,” said Tory.

“Let me speak to him.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t want to talk to you. And he’s completely gone off the idea of going to the Olympics.”

“But that’d give him an interest, best possible therapy,” said Malise. “He can’t deprive his country of a horse like that.”

Colonel Carter was less reticent. He rang repeatedly, complaining about Jake refusing to take Revenge to Aachen and poor Tory, who had to field the calls, received a torrent of abuse.

“It’s preposterous. Fellow’s a milksop, blubbing in the ring. Suppose he’s lost his nerve.”

For once Tory lost her temper. “Don’t you realize they’ve broken his heart?”

The village sent a wreath to put on Sailor’s grave. Letters of sympathy poured in. “We all loved him,” wrote one woman. “To us Sailor was show jumping.”

“I’m sending you my pocket money,” wrote one little girl. “I expect the other horses are missing him, and you might like to buy them some Polos.”

On the Thursday morning after Sailor’s death Fen, having spent two hours on the novices in the indoor school, was just eating a piece of toast and marmalade, and dashing off an essay on Mercutio before racing off to school, when Wolf started barking frenziedly and she heard the sound of wheels on the bridge. Going out, she found a plump blonde with a sweet round face, and two tough-looking men getting out of a horse box.

“Yes?” she said.

They all looked faintly embarrassed, then the girl said, “I’m Petra, Rupert Campbell-Black’s new groom. We’ve come for the horse.”

“What horse?”

“Revenge.”

Whimpering, Fen bolted back upstairs to wake Tory and Jake. Jake, unable to sleep, had only dropped off with the aid of a sleeping tablet at six o’clock. He came down zombielike, eyelids swollen, eyes leaden with sleep, wearing only jeans. Noticing his sticking-out ribs, Fen thought how much weight he’d lost recently.

“What did you say?”

“They’ve come for Revenge.”

“Don’t be bloody silly,” said Jake, going to the open back door. “Bugger off, all of you.”

The girl went very pink. “We understood you’d been told.”

“What?”

“That Rupert Campbell-Black bought Revenge yesterday.”

Jake went very still. “Are you certain?”

She nodded, pitying him. Jake had long been one of her heroes.

“I don’t believe it,” snapped Jake. “Just one of Rupert’s silly games. I’ll go and ring up Bernard.”

The colonel was out. Molly answered, hard put to conceal her elation.

“Bernard’s been trying to get through to you for three days, Jake.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes. Rupe’s been after Revenge for months.”

It was “Rupe” now, was it? Jake leant against the hall table, suddenly dizzy with hatred.

“I’ll buy him. Offer him to me.”

“I hardly think you can top Rupe’s offer.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five thousand pounds,” said Molly maliciously.

“You’re crazy. He’ll ride that horse off its feet in six months.”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter, now that Bernard’s got the cash,” said Molly. “Anyway, I’m sure Rupert won’t. He’s taking him to the Olympics. Bernard’s set his heart on that. We tried to talk to you last night to say the deal had finally gone through, but you wouldn’t come to the telephone. Oh, Bernard’s just come in. Have a word with Jake.”

The colonel picked up the telephone. “ ’Fraid it’s true, Jake. Had the feeling you were a bit chicken about the Olympics, bit out of your depth really. He who dares wins you know. Campbell-Black’s man enough to have a go.”

“He’s a sadist,” said Jake.

“Rubbish. He’s a brilliant horseman with a lot of experience. Not fair to Revenge to hold him back.”

Jake hung up and rang Malise.

“Rupert’s told me. I tried to dissuade him, but the deal had gone through. I’m awfully sorry, Jake, but there’s not much I can do. It’s Carter’s horse.”

Jake got dressed and went out to the yard, to find Fen standing outside Revenge’s box with a twelve-bore in her hands and Wolf snarling beside her.

“Keep away from that door,” she hissed. “This is our horse. If you lay a finger on him I’ll blast you full of lead.”

“You’ve been watching too many westerns, love,” said the taller of the two men, but he backed away slightly.

Jake strolled across the yard. “Put that gun down, Fen.”

“No! He isn’t their horse to take.”

“I’m afraid he is,” he said. “Bernard’s sold him to Rupert.”

It was too much for Fen. Revenge was her baby, the horse she’d transformed from a nervous, napping wreck to a loving, happy, and willing horse. She dropped the gun with a clatter and rushed up to the men. “Please don’t take him away,” she sobbed. “We lost Sailor last Saturday. Please don’t take away Revenge, too.”

“I’m sorry, love, I know it’s hard, but orders is orders.”

Jake turned to Tanya. “Go and get Revenge.”

It took only a few minutes to put one of Rupert’s rugs and a head collar on Revenge. Jake went to the book they kept in the tackroom, describing each horse’s likes and dislikes, and the training and the feed he’d been getting, and which of Jake’s medicines he needed. Numbly he wondered whether to give it to Rupert. It would certainly help the horse. Then, he thought, sod it, and, tearing out the page, he crumpled it up and threw it in the bin.

It gave him a terrible pang to see how merrily and confidently Revenge bounced up the ramp of the lorry, thinking he was going to a show. He’d been such a devil to load when he’d arrived. He looked worth every penny of £45,000 now.

Jake went up and stroked him and gave him a handful of stud nuts. It gave him an even worse pang to think how Revenge would react when he got to the other end and didn’t find Fen to welcome him. He couldn’t look as the lorry drove off over the bridge, through the fringe of willows.

Africa was the first to notice Revenge’s absence. She’d been looking out for Sailor since Jake came back, leaving her manger after a quick mouthful, coming to the half-door with a puzzled expression on her black face and calling out for him. Now Revenge was gone too, she was irritated and nervy, circling her box, picking up straw, letting it hang from her mouth like the village idiot. Jake went up and put his arms round her neck, fighting back the tears. “I miss them, too,” she seemed to be saying with her wise kind eyes, “but you still have me; please love me because I’m the one who always loved you best.”

And suddenly Jake felt ashamed. Africa, the goodest, truest, gentlest of them all, and he’d been neglecting her recently, because Sailor and Revenge seemed so much more important. He went into the tackroom, looking at the rows and rows of rosettes. Across the yard in the sitting room, lovingly polished by Tory, were all his silver cups. Pride of place had been given to the cup he’d won at Olympia with Sailor. Then, he’d been king of the castle. Now he was at the bottom of the heap again, with only Africa and half a dozen novices to his name. He looked up at the cupboard on the opposite wall where, well out of reach, he kept all his poisons: belladonna, henbane for galls, hemlock, and the ground-down toadstools, which if sparingly administered could cure colic or purge a sick horse to recovery.

In an old silver snuffbox he kept warty caps. One spore of the fungus would attach itself to Rupert’s throat, giving all the symptoms of consumption, but causing death in a few weeks. It was a nice thought. But he preferred to beat Rupert in other ways.

He went upstairs to Fen’s room, noticing the threadbare landing carpet. Tory was desperately trying to comfort her. Poor little Fen; first Marigold, then Revenge. He put a hand on Tory’s cheek and stroked it. She looked up startled, blushing at the unexpected tenderness, relieved he wasn’t as shattered as she’d expected.

“Fen,” he said, “I’ve got an idea. I think it’s high time Africa had a foal.”

Fen didn’t react. She just lay there, slumped, her shoulders heaving.

“And it’s high time you had your own horse,” he went on. “Think I’ve found one for you. She’s only five, and roan, not a color I like, but her mother was a polo pony, so she turns on a sixpence and she jumps like a cricket already.”

Almost blindly Fen reached out for Jake. “It’s so terribly, terribly kind of you,” she sobbed, “but it’s no good. I can’t stop thinking about Revenge.”