Riders

23

The more Rupert rode Revenge the better he liked him. He’d never sat on such a supple, well-schooled animal. It was like playing a Stradivarius after an old banjo. They clicked the moment he got on the horse’s back. It was easier for Revenge to carry Rupert’s twelve stones than Jake plus two unmovable stones of lead. The horse also loved jumping against the clock. He had already won one class at the Royal Highland, where he had trounced all the other possibles. Now he was in Aachen with the probables, for the final trial, and attracting a huge amount of interest from the world’s press. How would Gyppo Jake’s horse go with Rupert over such huge fences?

Rupert, in fact, had received a lot of flak. After Sailor’s tragic death, the public felt it was very unfair on Jake that the other horse he’d spent so much time bringing on should be snatched from under his nose. As soon as Marion heard that Rupert had appropriated Revenge, she handed in her notice, properly this time, then went straight to Fleet Street and told them exactly how much Rupert had paid for the horse, an offer the frightful colonel couldn’t refuse, and then went on to give them some choice titbits about the cruelty of Rupert’s training methods. The News of the World felt the material was too hot to print but Private Eye had no such scruples. Rumors were rife.

No one could get any comment from Jake on the subject, so the reporters besieged Rupert.

“Well, I’ll concede Jake Lovell’s a good trainer,” he said diplomatically, “but the horse needed an experienced rider on his back. Winning’s about taking chances. Jake wasn’t even prepared to take the horse to Colombia. As for the cruelty charges, they’re too ridiculous to discuss. Horses won’t jump if they don’t want to.”

And now it was the eve of the trials and Rupert knew perfectly well that if Revenge beat the rest of the international field as well as the English probables tomorrow and was picked for Colombia, people would conveniently forget how the horse had been acquired. Helen was so wrapped up in little Marcus that she hardly appreciated the furor. Rupert had hoped she might leave Marcus with Mrs. Bodkin and fly out to Aachen, but she was still looking desperately tired and said she didn’t feel quite confident enough to leave him.

Rupert, however, was finding consolation in his new groom, Petra, whom he had nicknamed Podge. He was glad Marion had gone; he was fed up with her tantrums and her beady eyes following him all the time. Podge, on the other hand, with her chunky body and legs, though not as upmarket or as handsome as Marion, had a nice smooth skin and was always smiling, and she adored the horses, almost more than she worshiped Rupert. Naturally, Revenge was homesick at first; any horse coddled as Jake’s were would feel the draft when he left the yard. But Podge had made a huge fuss of the horse and after a few days kicking his box out and spurning his food, he had settled in.

It was the eve of the Aachen trials and, having seen the horses settled, Rupert and Billy took a taxi back to their hotel. There was something about a hotel bedroom that made Rupert want to order a bottle of champagne and a beautiful girl to drink it with.

“What shall we do tonight?”

Billy pushed aside Rupert’s clothes, which littered both beds, and collapsed onto his own bed.

“Go to bed early. I’m absolutely knackered.”

“Ludwig’s having a barbecue at his house.”

“I don’t want a hangover tomorrow.”

“But just think of all that Kraut crumpet.” Rupert went to the window and gazed down the tidy village street, then said casually, “Thought I might take Podge.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, leave her alone. You know how it rotted up your relationship with Marion. Pity there isn’t a Gideon Bible, then I could read you the seventh commandment all over again.”

“Well, I’m not getting much joy out of my wife at the moment. She’s temporarily closed, like the M4.”

Billy put his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear. You know I adore your wife.”

The telephone rang. Rupert picked it up.

“Hello, darling. I was just talking to Billy about you.” Next moment the lazy smile was wiped off his face.

“It’s Marcus,” sobbed Helen. “He’s been hospitalized. He can’t breathe and he’s gone purple in the face. Oh Rupert, I know he’s going to die. Please come back.”

“I’ll be on the next plane. You’re at Gloucester Hospital? Don’t worry, darling, he’ll pull through. The Campbell-Blacks are very tough.”

He rang Malise in his room, who came over straightaway.

“You must go back at once.”

“I’m sorry. Helen’s in a frightful state.”

“Hardly surprising. They’re terrifying, these illnesses of little children. I remember going through them with Henrietta and,” he paused, “with Timmy. I hope everything’ll be all right. Give Helen our love and sympathy.”

Rupert was lucky enough to get a plane at once and he reached the hospital by midnight. He hadn’t bothered to change; he was still wearing boots, breeches, and a tweed coat over his white shirt and tie.

“My name’s Campbell-Black,” he said to the receptionist. “My wife came in this afternoon with our baby, named Marcus. He may be in the operating theater.”

His hand shook as he brushed his hair back from his forehead. The girl looked down her list, wishing she’d bothered to wash her hair that morning. She remembered Rupert from earlier in the year, when he’d caused such a stir when Helen had the baby.

“Marcus’s in the children’s ward on the fourth floor.”

The lift was occupied with a patient coming back from the operating theater. Rupert ran up the stairs. The sister met him in the passage.

“My son, Marcus Campbell-Black,” he panted, “he was brought in this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes.” With maddening lack of haste the sister went back into her room to check the chart.

“He’s in Room Twenty-five.”

“Is he, is he?” Rupert choked on the words, “going to be all right?”

“Of course he is. He had an attack of croup.”

“What’s that?”

“No one quite knows why it comes on. The baby goes blue and can’t breathe. Parents invariably think he’s swallowed something and is choking to death. All he needs is to inhale some moisture. We’re keeping him in the humidifying tent for tonight. Dr. Benson says he’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.

“Are you all right?” she asked staring at Rupert’s horrified expression. “It must have been a terrible shock for you. Mrs. Campbell-Black will be so pleased you’ve come back. She was very upset, but Dr. Benson’s given her something to calm her down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

And she brought me all the way back for this, thought Rupert, in the middle of the final Olympic trial. In Room Twenty-five, he found Marcus lying happily in a huge cellophane tent, inhaling friar’s balsam from a humidifier. Helen was sitting on the edge of the bed wiggling Marcus’s toes. She got up and ran to Rupert.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came. I was so frightened. I thought he was going to die.”

Rupert patted her shoulder mechanically. Nanny would have recognized croup, he thought darkly. Behind her on the bed, he could see his son and heir pinkly gurgling, digging his pink starfish fingers into his shawl, and felt a black rage.

“Look,” said Helen fondly, diving under the tent and holding Marcus up in a sitting position. “He can hold his head up now. Don’t you want to cuddle him?”

“I’m sure he ought to be kept quiet,” said Rupert.

He listened while she poured out her worries and tried not to contrast the innocent fun he’d be having in Aachen, getting tight with Billy at Ludwig’s barbecue, with the terrifying world of children’s illness and the dark claustrophobic intensity of Helen’s love.

“I’m sorry I brought you back,” she said. “I was so terrified you might find him dead. I needed you so badly. I’m sorry I’ve been offish lately, but it must be worth coming all this way just to see him. He’s so cute, isn’t he? Do you think he’s grown?”

“I need a drink,” said Rupert. Next moment Dr. Benson walked in.

“Hello, Rupert,” he said heartily. “You must have been worried stiff, but, as you can see, he’s all right. Nothing to worry about. You need a drink? Come on, I’m sure Matron’s got something tucked away.”

Benson obviously wanted a heart-to-heart. Matron had only sweet sherry, but at least it was alcohol. Immediately Benson launched into the subject of Helen.

“Bit worried about her. Only twenty-four. Very young to cope on her own with a big house and a young baby. She misses you, you know.”

“I miss her,” said Rupert, somewhat shirtily, “but Christ, she won’t come to shows with me. I got her a marvelous nanny and she promptly sacked her. I asked her to come to Aachen. I’ve got an Olympic trial tomorrow. I’ll have to fly back in the morning.”

Benson looked pained. “So soon?”

“I do have a living to earn.”

“I know,” said Benson soothingly. “I do think it would help if you could get a nanny: a young cheerful girl, who Helen wouldn’t feel threatened by. Then in time she’d feel confident enough to leave Marcus.”

“She needs a holiday.”

“Best holiday she could have would be for the baby to get well and strong. But I’m afraid all the indications are that he’s going to be an asthmatic.”

“Christ, are you sure?”

“Pretty certain. We’ll do some tests while he’s in here. And you know that’s not a condition helped by the mother’s anxiety. With any luck he should grow out of it, or at least be able to handle it, as he gets older.”

Rupert drained the glass of sherry, pulling a face.

“Want another?” asked Benson,

Rupert shook his head. He felt absolutely shattered. He had been up at five that morning.

“What’s your schedule?”

“Well the trial’s tomorrow, then the International in London. Then, if I’m picked for Colombia, a brief rest for the horses before we fly out.”

“And after that, you could take her and Marcus away for a long holiday?”

Rupert shook his head. “Virtually impossible in the middle of the season. Horses lose their precision if you rest them too long.”

Benson nodded. “Appreciate your problem. I’ve got patients on the tennis circuit. Has she got a friend she can stay with?”

Rupert thought of Hilary. He guessed she had been stirring things.

“Not really. I’ll have to find her a nanny. Can I take her home this evening?”

“Good idea. The child’s in no danger now. Do her good.”

Helen was aghast when Rupert told her he’d be flying back in the morning. She lay in the huge double bed, with that pinched defiant look of roses touched by the frost in December. Then, as Rupert joined her, she lay back, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be soothed and comforted and told she was being splendid.

Rupert comforted her in the only way he knew, by trying to make love to her. After a few minutes she started to cry.

“Christ, what’s the matter now?”

“I’m too worried about Marcus. I can’t switch off, and now you’re going back.”

“Darling, the trial’s tomorrow afternoon.”

“Horse, horse, horse.” She was suddenly almost hysterical. “Surely Marcus is more important than a horse trial?”

It was a debatable point, thought Rupert, but he merely said, “Benson says there’s nothing to worry about.”

Rupert left at nine o’clock and ran into bad weather, arriving only just in time to walk the course. Once again he contrasted Podge’s lovely smiling welcome with Helen’s set, martyred face as she’d said good-bye that morning.

“How’s Marcus?” asked Podge. “Oh, I’m so relieved he’s okay We was all so worried. Revvie and I missed you. He was restless last night, so I slept in his box—’spect I look like it.”

“Lucky Rev,” said Rupert. “He looks in the pink anyway.”

“He’s great, on top of the world. You’ll just have to sit on his back.”

What a contrast to Marion, thought Rupert.

For the first time in his life he was suffering from nerves. It must be tiredness. He longed for a stiff drink, but Podge had made him a large cup of strong black coffee instead. He knew the world’s press was watching as he rode into the ring.

His fears were groundless. Revenge jumped like an angel, literally floating over the vast fences. After the trial, the selectors went into a huddle. Elated, almost sure of a place, Rupert went off to ring Helen, now back in the hospital with Marcus. He carefully spent five minutes asking how they both were before telling her Revenge had come first, beating even Ludwig, going like a dream and muzzling any critics.

“I’m very glad for you,” said Helen in a tight little voice.

“Who’s that in the background” said Rupert.

“Hilary and the kids,” said Helen. “She’s driving Marcus and me home from hospital and staying the night. She’s being so supportive.”

As he came off the telephone, a German reporter accosted him.

“Meester Black, it is unusual for zee English to beat zee Germans in this country, no?”

“No,” said Rupert coldly, “I think you’re forgetting the last two world wars,” and stalked off.

Feeling utterly deflated, he went back to the stable where an ecstatic Podge was chattering to Revenge as she settled him for the night.

“Didn’t you do well, darling? It’s Colombia here we come. We’ll have to make you a sun hat to keep off the flies.”

“Don’t count your chickens,” said Rupert, checking Revenge’s bandages.

“You look really tired,” said Podge, then, blushing, added, “I bet you didn’t eat last night, nor this morning. I made you a shepherd’s pie for tonight. It’s not very good and I’m sure you’d rather go out with Billy.”

Rupert pulled the half-door behind him: “I’d much rather stay in, right in,” he said softly, drawing her towards him, “and I absolutely adore shepherd’s pie.”

“Oh, we can’t,” squawked Podge, “not here, not in front of Rev.”

“Want to bet?” said Rupert, pushing her against the wall.

Jake Lovell heard the news on the tackroom wireless as he was filling in the diet sheets. Fen, who was cleaning tack, didn’t dare look at him.

“After a successful trial in Aachen, Germany,” said the announcer, “the following riders and horses have been picked for the Olympics in Colombia: Charles Hamilton and Porky Boy, Billy Lloyd-Foxe and The Bull, Rupert Campbell-Black on Revenge.” Fen gave a gasp of horror. “Brian Driffield on Temperance with Ivor Braine as reserve.”

Fen went over and put her arms round Jake. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “It was you who made him a great horse. Rupert just had to get on his back.”

Molly Carter, delighted that Revenge had been selected, felt a trip to Colombia would be in order.

“We must give a celebration party for Rupert and Helen before he leaves. ’Phone him up, Bernard, and fix an evening he’s free, and then we can invite everyone else. And do ask him about hotels in Bogota, and say to make sure we get tickets to watch Rev.”

Colonel Carter came off the telephone, magenta in the face. “Most peculiar. Rupe says Revenge belongs to him now, and there is no possible way he’s coming to any party.”

“Oh, Bernard,” snapped Molly. “You know what a tease Rupert is. He must have been joking. I’ll ring him up.”

“Rupert,” she said archly, two minutes later, “Bernard must have got the wrong end of the stick. We want to give a little celebration party for you.”

“Well, you can count me out,” said Rupert curtly. “I never mix business with pleasure and you and the colonel were strictly business, believe me.”

“You can say that?” spluttered Molly. “After all we’ve done for you?”

“Yes,” said Rupert. “Go and spend your forty-five grand on buying a few friends. It’s the only way you’ll get them,” and hung up.

Billy couldn’t believe he’d been selected for the Olympics. For days he floated on a cloud of bliss. He felt sorry for Lavinia — not being picked. But it would make things much easier in Colombia if she wasn’t there to upset him.

All the team had been much too superstitious to fill in their clothes measurement forms, so there was a last-minute panic to get the uniform in time. Rupert made a terrible fuss about the clothes.

“I am not going to wear a boating jacket with a badge on,” he said disdainfully, throwing the royal blue Olympic blazer across the room. “And these trousers make us look like Wombles.”

Billy didn’t care. He was so enchanted to be in the team, he’d have worn a grass skirt, if necessary.

The only blot on the horizon was the tension in Rupert’s marriage. Billy didn’t like Hilary one bit. He thought she was bossy, strident, and disruptive, and having a very bad effect on Helen. She was always around the house these days, breast-feeding her baby in the drawing room, or shoveling brown rice down little Germaine. Despite disapproving of Rupert’s stinking capitalist habits, she had no compunction about drinking his drink or using his washing machine all day. You couldn’t get a pair of breeches washed these days for revolving nappies.

The excuse for Hilary’s presence was that she was doing a painting of Helen. Like the sketch she had done before, she made Helen look the picture of victimized misery — Belsen thin, her face all eyes, tears streaking her wasted cheeks. Rupert, who, like most rich people, detested freeloaders, grew so irritated that, after half a bottle of whisky one night, he crept in and painted a large black mustache and a beard on the picture, with a balloon coming out of Helen’s mouth saying: “Monica Carlton had me first.”

Billy fell about laughing, Helen was absolutely livid. Hilary merely looked pained, assumed a They-know-not-what-they-do attitude and started another painting. So Rupert achieved nothing.

One evening when she was giving Marcus his late bottle, Billy tackled Helen.

“Angel, I don’t want to interfere, but I think you ought to come to Colombia.”

“I can’t leave Marcus.”

“Well, bring him.”

“He’s too little. He’d never cope with the climate.”

Billy tried another tack. “I know Rupe seems very tough on the outside, but he needs the applause, most of all from you. He’s too proud to plead, but I know he’s desperate for you to go. Hilary could look after Marcus.”

Helen cuddled Marcus tighter, a look of terror on her face. “When Marcus had croup the other day and I thought he was dying, I made a pact I’d never leave him.”

“You do have a husband as well.”

But Helen wouldn’t be persuaded.

The last show before the Olympics was the Royal International. Rupert and Billy left The Bull and Revenge to enjoy a well-earned rest in Gloucestershire, and drove up to London with Kitchener and Belgravia and a handful of novices. On the Wednesday, Billy and Kitchener won the King George V Cup, an all-male contest and one of the most prestigious in the world.

The following evening, while the women riders were competing for the Queen Elizabeth Cup, all the British Olympic team, except Rupert, who had other unspecified plans, went out on the tiles together. They started in a West End pub called the Golden Lion. Ivor, Billy, and Humpty had all bought rounds of drinks and were deliberately hanging back to see if they could make Driffield put his hand in his pocket.

“That’s mine,” said Billy, as the barman tried to gather up the second half of Billy’s tonic. “I’m hoping someone is going to buy me the other half.”

Looking pointedly at Driffield, he put the tonic bottle into his breast pocket. He was still coming down to earth after his win. Everyone was hailing and congratulating him on that and on getting picked to go to Colombia. Looking around the bar, he was aware of some wonderful girls in summer dresses eyeing him with considerable enthusiasm. He wished he could ask one of them out. It was a glorious July evening. The setting sun was lighting up the dusty plane trees in the square, the door of the bar was fixed open, and people were drinking in the streets.

“I’m thirsty, Driff,” he said.

“I’m thirsty, too,” said Humpty.

“I didn’t know you were thirty-two,” said Ivor, surprised. “I thought you were only thirty, Humpty.”

“I was saying I was thirsty, Driff,” said Billy, winking at the others.

He flicked his still-lit cigarette end in the direction of the open door, but it missed and landed in the lap of a girl in a cyclamen pink dress who was sitting on a bench nearby.

“Oh, Christ!” Billy bounded towards her. “I’m frightfully sorry,” but as he leaned forward to remove the cigarette end, the tonic from the bottle in his pocket cascaded forward, all over her dress.

“For God’s sake, look what you’re doing,” said her companion.

“Oh, hell,” said Billy, “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

The girl burst out laughing. “It really doesn’t matter; it’ll dry in a sec. It’s so hot, it’s nice to have an impromptu shower.”

Billy looked into her face and his heart skipped several beats. She was certainly one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. She had a smooth brown skin with a touch of pink on each high cheekbone, slanting dark brown eyes, a turned-up nose, a mane of streaky tortoiseshell hair, and a big mouth as smooth and as crimson as a fuchsia bud. Her pink dress showed at least three inches of slim brown thigh and a marvelous Rift valley of cleavage.

Billy couldn’t tear his eyes away. “I’m most awfully sorry,” he repeated in a daze.

“It couldn’t matter less,” said the girl, highly delighted at the effect she was having on him.

Billy pulled himself together. Getting out one of Rupert’s blue silk handkerchiefs, he started to wipe away the ash, but it all smeared into the tonic.

“Oh, dear, that’s much worse. Look, let me buy you another dress.”

“There’s no need for that,” snapped her companion. He was about thirty-five, with a pale sweating face that was even more rumpled than his gray suit.

“Then let me buy you a drink — both of you. What would you like?”

“You’ve caused quite enough trouble already,” the man said. “Why don’t you buzz off?”

“Don’t be beastly, Victor,” said the girl, in her soft husky voice. “We’d love a drink.”

The man looked at his watch. “We’ll be late. The table’s booked for nine and they don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“They’ll wait for me,” said the girl blandly.

“Anyone would,” said Billy. “Have a quick one.”

But the man had got to his feet. “No, thank you very much,” he said huffily.

“I must have a pee,” said the girl. “You go and get a taxi, Vic.”

There was a great deal of ally-ooping and badinage from the rest of the riders, as Billy waited for her to come out. What would Rupert do in the circumstances? he wondered. Probably accost her and get her telephone number, but he couldn’t do that with the frightful Victor hovering.

As she came out he caught a heady new waft of scent. She’d teased her tortoiseshell hair more wildly and applied more crimson lipstick. He wanted to kiss it all off. Perhaps that luscious mouth would pop like a fuchsia bud. He took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“My name’s Billy Lloyd-Foxe.”

“The great show jumper,” she said mockingly. “I know. You won the King’s Cup yesterday.”

He blushed scarlet. “I’d adore to see you again.”

As she smiled, he noticed the gap in the white, slightly uneven teeth, the raspberry pink tongue of the good digestion.

“You will.” She patted his cheek with her hand. “I promise you. Oh, look, Victor’s managed to get a taxi. How extraordinary.” She ran out into the street and he hadn’t even asked her name. Nil out of ten for initiative. If Rupert had been here he would have lynched him. On the other hand, if Rupert had been here, the girl would have gone off with Rupert instead.

Billy spent the rest of the week at the International, feeling horribly restless, praying the girl from the Golden Lion might turn up. After Lavinia, he’d vowed he’d never let another girl get under his skin, and here he was, moping around again. Even in the excitement of setting out for Colombia, he was unable to get her out of his mind.

In the weeks leading to the Olympics, Jake Lovell sank into deep depression. Then, unable to face the razzmatazz and hysterical chauvinism of the actual event, he flew off to the Middle East to try and find Macaulay. He had located the sheik, but when he got there, after a lot of prevarication, he discovered that Macaulay had indeed blotted his copy book by savaging the sheik himself, and had been sold on less than six weeks before to a dealer who kept no records and couldn’t or probably didn’t want to remember where Macaulay had gone.

Jake went to the British Embassy, who were very unhelpful. With a big oil deal going through, they didn’t want to rock the boat. After repeated nagging, they sent Jake to Miss Blenkinsop, who ran a horse rescue center in the capital, and, as far as Jake could see, was a constant thorn in the authorities’ flesh, as she waged a one-woman battle against appalling Middle Eastern cruelty and insensitivity towards animals.

Miss Blenkinsop was a gaunt, sinewy woman in her late fifties, totally without sentimentality, and with the brusque, rather de-sexed manner of someone who has always cared for animals more than people.

She gave Jake a list of sixty-odd addresses where he might find the horse.

“Hope your nerves are strong. You’ll see some harrowing sights. Arabs think it’s unlucky to put down a horse, so they work them till they drop dead, and they don’t believe in feeding and watering them much either. Horse has probably been sold upcountry. You’ve as much chance of finding him as a needle in a haystack, but here are all the riding schools and the quarries, the most likely spots within five miles of the city. I’ll lend you one of my boys as interpreter. He’s a shifty little beast, but he speaks good English, and you can borrow my car, if you like.”

For Jake it was utter crucifixion. He was in a bad way emotionally anyway, and he had never seen such cruelty. Like some hideous travesty of Brook Farm Riding School, he watched skeletons, lame, often blind, frantic with thirst, shuffling around riding school rings, or tugging impossibly heavy loads in the street or in the quarries, being beaten until they collapsed, and then being beaten until they got up again.

For five days he went to every address Miss Blenkinsop had given him, bribing, wheedling, cajoling for information about a huge black horse with a white face, and one long white sock. No one had seen him. Sickened and shattered, he returned every night to his cheap hotel where there was no air-conditioning, the floors crawled with cockroaches, and drink was totally prohibited. As the coup-de-grâce, on the fifth night, he couldn’t resist watching the Olympic individual competition on the useless black and white hotel television. As Billy rode in, the picture went around and around, but sadistically, it held still for Rupert and Revenge, who produced two heroic rounds to win the Bronze. Ludwig got the gold on his great Hanoverian mare, Clara; Carol Kennedy, the American number one male rider, got the silver.

Black with despair and hatred, Jake went up to his cauldron of a room and lay on his bed smoking until dawn. He had nearly run out of money and addresses. Today he must go home empty-handed. Around seven, he must have dozed off. He was woken by the telephone.

It was Miss Blenkinsop. “Don’t get too excited, but I may have found your horse. He’s been causing a lot of trouble down at the stone quarries.” She gave him the address.

“If it is him, don’t bid for him yourself. They’ll guess something’s up and whack up the price. Give me a ring and I’ll come and do the haggling.”

At first Jake wasn’t sure. The big muzzled gelding was so pitifully thin and so covered in a thick layer of white dust as he staggered one step forward, one step back, trying to shift a massive cartload of stone, that it was impossible to distinguish his white face or his one white sock. Then the Arab brought his whip down five times on the sunken quarters, five black stripes appeared and with a squeal of rage, Macaulay turned and lunged at the driver, showing the white eye on the other side.

That’s my boy, thought Jake with a surge of excitement. They’ll break his back before they break his spirit.

Miss Blenkinsop had a hard time making the Arab owner of the quarry part with Macaulay. Although vicious, he was the strongest horse they’d ever had and probably still had six months’ hard labor in him, but the price the hideously ugly Englishwoman was offering was too much for him to refuse. He could buy a dozen broken-down wrecks for that.

When Jake took Miss Blenkinsop’s trailer to collect him, Macaulay was too tall to fit in. So Jake led him very slowly back through the rush-hour traffic.

Macaulay twice clattered to the ground with exhaustion, and several times they narrowly missed death as the oil-rich Arabs hurtled by in their huge limousines. But Macaulay displayed no fear, he was beyond that now, and most touchingly, he seemed to remember Jake from the time he’d treated his lacerations after Rupert’s beating-up in Madrid. When Jake came to fetch him, his lackluster eyes brightened for a second and he gave a half-whicker of welcome.

That night, after he had made the horse as comfortable as possible, Jake had supper with Miss Blenkinsop. She drew the curtains and produced an ancient bottle of Madeira. After two glasses, Jake realized he was absolutely plastered. After Arab food, the macaroni cheese she gave him seemed the best thing he had ever eaten.

Jake always found it difficult to express gratitude, in case it was construed as weakness.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he finally mumbled.

“Don’t bother,” said Miss Blenkinsop. “Do something about it. Spread the word when you get back to England. We need cash, not sympathy, and a law banning the exporting of all horses to the Middle East.”

“If I can get Macaulay back on the circuit,” said Jake, “the publicity for you will be so fantastic, the money’ll start flooding in.”

“He’s in a very bad way. Think you’ll be able to do it?”

Jake shrugged. “He’s young. My grandmother cured a mare with a broken leg once, bound it in comfrey and she went on to win four races. I’m going to have a bloody good try.”

For a second he stared at his glass, miles away, then he said, “I had a horse called Sailor once. He was near death when he arrived, but he did pretty well in the end.”

Even when Jake and Macaulay got back to England, the news that Great Britain had won the team silver medal, Billy clinching it with a brilliant clear, didn’t upset him very much.