Riders

42

Next day the rain came, stripping off the last pastel frivolity of the blossom, segregating the fluffy white heads of the dandelion clocks, bowing down the cow parsley, muffling the cuckoo, and turning every showground into a quagmire. To Fen, it seemed she was permanently soaked to the skin, always cold, shivering with misery, particularly at night without Billy to love and warm her. Lester, the teddy bear, was reinstated and soaked with tears, like her pillow, as, night after night, she cried herself to sleep. By day, work was the only anodyne. She begged Malise to excuse her from the huge nine-day show at Aachen on the grounds that Billy would be in the team, probably with Janey in tow. Instead Malise left Billy out, giving him a few weeks’ sabbatical to sort out his marriage. Billy, after all, had turned professional and was no longer eligible for Los Angeles, and Malise was determined to get his Olympic squad into shape in plenty of time. On present form, Fen, Rupert, and Ivor Braine were certain to be part of the team. The fourth place he still hoped to keep open for Jake, provided his leg mended in time.

Fen tried to hide her heartbreak from Jake when she visited him in hospital on her return from Lucerne.

“Look what we won,” she said brightly, tossing a carrier bag full of rosettes onto the white counterpane.

Jake took one look at her face.

“Who is it, that bastard, Campbell-Black? I said it would happen. I’ll bloody kill Malise when I see him.”

Fen went over to the window, fighting back the tears.

“It wasn’t Rupert at all. It was Billy.”

“Billy!” For a moment Jake was dumbfounded.

“What happened? You’re not…?”

“No, nothing like that. Janey came back.”

“Christ. I suppose the bitch found out he was going well and didn’t want to miss out.”

“Something like that.”

Jake loved Fen, but so angry was he with Billy and Janey, and so horrified to see Fen’s haggard face, that he took it out on her. He hated himself. He wished he had words to comfort her, but he just wanted to hit out at a world that seemed so manifestly unfair to both of them.

Fen let him rage until he’d run out of reproof and expletives, then collapsed sobbing on the bed.

“I couldn’t help it, Jake. I didn’t mean to fall in love.”

Jake patted her shoulder. “Sorry I came on so strong. I just hate you being hurt. Should never have let you go.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love or hurt by a woman?”

“Never — by a woman.” (Not since his mother had committed suicide, anyway.)

“Not even Tory?”

“Tory couldn’t hurt a fly button.”

Gradually the rosette board filled up the kitchen, as one show followed another — Aachen, Calgary, Wolfsburg. Funnily enough, it was Rupert who saved her in those first weeks. In the evenings abroad, he wouldn’t let her slink back to the lorry to cry her eyes out, but dragged her out to dinner with the team. In his mind she was part of Billy, and therefore to be protected, cherished, and occasionally bullied. He had never really had a woman friend before. Women in his book were to be pursued, screwed, and discarded. Repeatedly, he was on the brink of taking her to bed, because he wanted to and he thought it might blot out the pain, then some rare altruism stopped him.

Fen was confused. Accustomed to hate Rupert, she now discovered in him an unexpected gentleness, particularly in the way he talked about Tabitha.

Billy tackled Rupert the moment he came back to England.

“How’s Fen?” was his first question.

“I took her out to dinner last night.”

“With the team?”

“No, by myself.”

“What the bloody hell for?”

“She needed cheering up.”

“What form did the cheering up take — horizontal?”

“She wanted to talk. She’s still mad about you.”

“Oh, God,” said Billy, trying not to feel pleased.

“But the only way out of this stupid impasse is for her to find someone else.”

Billy was appalled how much the thought upset him, but he said, “You may be right.”

“Damn sure I’m right. Particularly if you persist in this bloody-fool belief that Janey’s the best thing for you.”

Billy wasn’t sure. The night he’d got back to the cottage and found Janey there, they had screwed all night, blotting out all feelings of guilt and remorse. Next day, he’d insisted on driving Fen, white, silent, stunned, back to the Mill House, feeling her almost disintegrating in his arms as he said good-bye to her, saying he’d always adore her — which was a different word than love.

When he got back, Janey’d been through his wallet and found Fen’s photo and was in hysterics.

Billy tried to reason with her. “I never looked at another woman the entire time we were married. Then you file for divorce. I was trying to get over you.”

“Why didn’t you come round and murder Kev?”

“I’m not like that. I missed, the only time I took a slug at him.”

“Was she better in bed than me?”

“She was different,” said Billy tactfully.

“Did you screw her in our bed?”

Billy shook his head.

“But you were coming back to.”

“Look, you’d have thought I was a frightful drip if I hadn’t.”

Billy had changed, thought Janey. The drink blotches, the red face, the sour whisky breath had gone. He was brown, lean, well muscled, tougher, more irritable, but infinitely more attractive.

“You mustn’t see her anymore,” said Janey, pouring herself another glass of vodka, hardly graced by tonic.

“How can I not see her? We’re in the same team. If I worked in an office, or was an engineer or an architect, I could try and find another job in another part of the country, but show jumping’s the only thing I can do. I was totally impotent after you left me. She picked me up from the gutter. She gave me back my confidence, my nerve, my sexuality. I’ve won £20,000 in the last month.”

“What d’you want me to do, ask her to move in?”

“I’m just trying to say it isn’t as simple as that. You can’t just waltz out of my life for nearly a year and expect things to be exactly the same.”

“I’ve finished my book,” said Janey, “and I’ve been offered £30,000 for the serial rights. And my publisher has commissioned another book, so you won’t have to struggle quite so hard, darling.”

She’s not listening, thought Billy in despair. She never listens, except when she’s on to a good story.

Hysterical scenes followed. Janey steamed open letters, counted the Kleenex—‘Perhaps she’s used one’—examined the hairs in the bath: “That’s thicker and curlier than mine.”

“That’s pubic hair, for Christ’s sake,” said Billy.

Janey’s attitude was totally irrational. On endless occasions she had deceived him, betrayed him, made a fool of him, but it was part of her abyss of insecurity that she simply couldn’t believe that he wasn’t sloping off to see Fen when he got the chance.

Nor was it just her insane jealousy of Fen; she was paranoid about the rest of the world. What did Billy’s mother, Helen, Rupert, Malise think about her behavior? Janey liked a place in the sun and a lot of spade work would be required to win back these people’s approval.

Everyone was laying bets that the reconciliation wouldn’t last.

Fen didn’t see Billy again until the Crittleden meeting at the end of July. Rupert had warned her that Janey was coming, so in order to upset herself as little as possible, Fen arrived only just in time to walk the course for the big event, the Crittleden Gold Cup, worth £15,000 to the winner. She found the showground in an uproar. Always with an eye to publicity, Steve Sullivan, who owned Crittleden, had introduced a new fence which all the riders considered unjumpable. Called the moat, it consisted of two grassy banks. The horses were expected to clamber up the first bank, along the top and halfway down the other side, where they were expected to pop across a ditch three foot deep, on to the second bank, which they again had to scale, ride along the top, and down the other side. Here they had to jump a small, three-foot rail a couple of strides away.

Worried that all the show jumpers might load their horses up into their lorries and drive ten miles down the road to Pripley Green, where there was another big show taking place, Steve Sullivan had only put up details of the Gold Cup course an hour before the competition. When the riders saw the moat was included, all hell broke loose.

“I’m not jumping that,” said Rupert.

“Nor am I,” said Billy.

“If they jump the moat, they’ll bank the other fences,” said Ivor Braine.

“Remember the bank at Lucerne?” said Humpty. “They had an oxer immediately afterwards. All the horses treated the oxer like a bank and fell through. One of the Dutch horses had to be shot. I’m not risking Saddleback Sam.”

“That ditch is three foot deep,” said Billy. “If a horse falls in, it’ll put him off jumping water for life.”

“It’s a very gentle slope down,” protested Steve Sullivan. “It’s not slippery. They’ll jump it easily, won’t they Wishbone?” he added, appealing to the Irishman.

“Sure. I can’t see the thing giving much trouble,” said Wishbone.

“There,” said Steve. “I took my old mare across it the other night. She jumped it without turning a hair.”

“She’s due to be turned into cat food at any minute,” snapped Rupert. “Doesn’t matter if she breaks a leg. These are top-class horses. I’m not risking £100,000 for a bloody moat.”

He went off and complained to Malise, who came and examined the course.

“Seems perfectly jumpable to me; an acceptable hunting fence.”

“These aren’t hunters,” said Rupert.

Billy conferred with Mr. Block.

“I haven’t spent eight months getting Bugle right to have him smash himself up in one afternoon. D’you mind if I pull him out?”

“Do what you think best, lad,” said Mr. Block. “Don’t like the look of it myself. First hoss’ll be all right, but once the turf gets cut up, it’ll be like a greased slide in the playground.”

Steve Sullivan’s sponsors, Fuma, the tobacco giants, however, had put a lot of money into the competition and wanted a contest. The telephones were jangling in the main stand. Steve suggested putting up a big wall which the riders could jump instead, as an alternative to the moat.

“Not a fair contest,” said Rupert. “Walls aren’t the same as banks.”

“Handing it on a plate to a little horse,” said Humpty. “Little horses only need two strides between the bottom of the bank and the rail.”

Count Guy declared the moat vraiment dangereuse. Ludwig agreed: “It ees your Eenglish obsession with class, haffing a moat, Steve. Where is zee castle, zee elephant, and zee vild-life safari park?”

Steve Sullivan was sweating. He’d never faced a mutiny before. The riders were all standing grimly on the bank, hands on their hips.

Fen, meanwhile, had been quietly walking the rest of the course. It was a matt, still day, overcast but muggy, the grass very green from the recent storms. Midges danced in front of her eyes. Finally she reached the moat and stood banging her whip against her boots, looking at them in disapproval, hat pulled down over her nose.

All those grown men, including Griselda, making such a fuss, she thought. It was a tabby cats’ indignation meeting. Rupert walked up and kissed her. “Hi, angel, you’ve arrived just in time to join the picket line. We’re going to give Steve his comeuppance.”

At that moment a television minion, wearing a white peaked cap and tight pink trousers, rushed up. “Boys, boys, we simply must get started,” he cried, leaping to avoid a large pile of mud. “Motor racing’s finished, and so has the Ladies’ Singles, and they’re coming over to us at any minute.”

“Go back to your toadstool, you big fairy,” said Rupert.

“But a very rich fairy, you butch thing,” giggled the minion. “Are you going to jump, that’s what we need to know?”

The riders went into a huddle.

Fen stood slightly apart. She had caught sight of Billy. For a second they gazed at each other. He noticed how thin she’d got, her breeches far too large, her T-shirt falling almost straight down from collarbone to waist. Fen moved quickly away, stumbling into a fence, sending the wing flying. As she picked herself up, she heard Rupert say to the BBC man, “Okay, you’re on. We’ll all jump.”

Fen fled back to the collecting ring under the oak trees, where she found Desdemona being walked round by Sarah.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Bloody storm in a challenge cup,” said Fen. “We’re all going to jump, but, from the nasty gleam in Rupert’s eye, I know he’s up to something.”

“You’d better ring Jake.”

“No, he’s bound to tell me not to jump.”

The crowd seethed with rumor and counter-rumor. They had seen the riders gathered round the moat. This was about the most testing competition of the year. Many of them had traveled miles to watch it. The arena nearly boiled over with excitement and a huge cheer went up as Rupert, the first rider, came in. Theatrically, with much flourishing, he took off his hat to the judges and cantered the foaming, plunging, sweating Snakepit around and around, waiting for the bell which was waiting for the go-ahead from the television cameras.

He was off, bucketing over the emerald green grass, jumping superbly, clearing every fence, until he came to the moat.

“He’ll show them how to do it,” said Colonel Roxborough.

“I think not,” said Malise bleakly.

The entire riders’ stand rose to their feet, holding their breaths, as Rupert cantered up to the huge bank, then at the last moment, practically pulled Snakepit’s teeth out and cantered around it, ignoring the shouts of “wrong way,” and cantering slowly out of the ring.

There were thirty-five horses entered for the class. The next twenty riders deliberately missed out the moat, or retired before they reached it. For the first few rounds the crowd scratched their heads in bewilderment, then, as they realized they were witnessing a strike, the deliberate sabotaging of a class, the bewilderment turned to rage and they started to catcall, boo, and slow-hand clap. In the chairman’s box, with its red carpet and Sanderson wallpaper, Steve Sullivan was having a seizure.

“Bastards, bastards! All led by the nose by that fucker, Campbell-Black.”

Malise watched the spectacle with the utmost distaste.

“Behaving like a bunch of dockers and carworkers,” said Colonel Roxborough apoplectically, slowly eating his way through a bunch of grapes in a nearby Lalique bowl. “Most jump jockeys would like Bechers out of the National. They don’t go on strike.”

“Can’t you put the screws on Billy, Mr. Block?” pleaded Steve.

“I troost Billy’s joodgement when it comes to hosses,” said Mr. Block. “There’ll be another class next week.”

Malise went down to the collecting ring. Billy, having followed the other riders’ example, had just come out of the ring, to loud booing from the crowd. He avoided Malise’s eye.

Only Driffield, Ivor, and Fen, of the British riders, were left to jump.

“You’re making complete idiots of the judges and the crowd,” said Malise furiously to the British squad. “If you don’t like the course don’t jump it, but don’t resort to these gutter tactics. D’you want to kill the sport stone dead?”

With £15,000 at stake, Driffield was sorely tempted.

But then Count Guy and Ludwig both went in and retired, and who was he to argue with the experts? Dudley Diplock was in despair in the BBC commentary box. Telephones were ringing on all sides.

“Can’t we go back to tennis?” he pleaded into one receiver. “Or motor racing or cricket? There must be a county match somewhere.”

Another telephone rang. “You sit tight, Dudders,” said the sports editor. “It’s a bloody good story, the news desk have been on to say, “Be sure to interview Campbell-Black afterwards. He seems to be the ringleader.’ ”

Driffield retired.

“Your turn now, darling,” said Rupert to Fen. “Jump as far as the bank. Don’t worry about the crowd — only Italians throw bottles — and then retire. The BSJA can’t suspend all of us.”

Jake lay in his hospital bed, waiting for a telephone call. He had checked with the switchboard five times. The telephonist was a friend of his. They had given him a direct line, but no call had come through. He was livid with Fen. Perhaps she’d seen Billy — he’d caught a glimpse of him walking the course — and been too distracted to ring. And now she was obviously going to join the strike organized by Rupert. The moat looked very dangerous. He’d be furious if she did jump, furious if she didn’t. He got the Lucozade bottle off the bedside cupboard and poured himself a large whisky into a paper cup.

The nurses gathered round the bed. “We’ve just heard on the radio that they’re all on strike.”

“Poor old Dudley,” said Jake, and couldn’t help laughing, even though Matron had just walked into the room.

“Well, this is simply the blackest, most extraordinary day in show jumping,” said Dudley desperately, “and here comes little Fiona, I mean Fenella, Maxwell, on Esmeralda, I mean Desdemona, a really super little mare, who’s been jumping brilliantly all summer. I wonder if she’s going to strike like the other riders.”

The crowd were in an uproar, booing, yelling, screaming.

“Jump, jump, jump,” they yelled, stamping their feet in the stands and slow-hand clapping.

“All this must be upsetting to any horse, particularly a young horse like Esmeralda. Now what’s Fiona going to do?” said Dudley.

Fen raised her whip to the judge, then took one look at the mass of jeering yelling faces. The next minute a beer can landed at Desdemona’s feet.

“If you’d stop making this ghastly din,” she screamed at the faces, “I’d like to try and jump this course.”

Only a handful of spectators heard her, the rest thought she was hurling abuse and stepped up the catcalling. Another beer can landed at Desdemona’s feet. Fen turned, shaking her fist.

“Is she going to be all right?” said Billy in anguish.

“I’m sure she’s tough enough to cope,” said Janey, shooting him a furious glance.

Fen could hardly hear the bell. Fueled by rage, stroking Desdemona’s neck, she set off. Over the wall, over the oxer, over the parallels, over the rustic poles, over the road jump, just avoiding two more beer cans, then over the gate. She rounded the corner, away from the collecting ring, riding towards the moat, but instead of circling it like the other riders, she dug her heels in. Desdemona bounded up the grassy hillock. The first thing the riders saw were her roan ears, then her face and her forelegs arriving on the top.

“Bloody hell,” snarled Rupert.

“Traitor,” thundered Griselda.

“Blackleg,” said Driffield.

“Scab,” said Humpty.

“She’ll get the £15,000,” said Driffield, in anguish.

“She’s not over yet,” said Billy.

“Stupid exhibitionist,” said Janey. “Serve her right if she kills herself.”

As Fen reached the top the crowd went silent, as if a radio had suddenly been switched off. As the little mare trotted along the top, picked her way fastidiously down the other side, and paused above the water, Fen allowed her to have a good look.

“Constitutes a stop,” said Griselda.

“Didn’t take a step back,” said Billy, as Desdemona bounded gaily across to the other bank, slightly unseating Fen, who had to cling onto her mane as she scrambled up and over the other bank. By some miracle she came down the other side, collected, and popped easily over the rail. For a second the crowd were totally silent; then they let out a huge heartwarming cheer.

“Bloody marvelous,” said Billy. “Oh, well done, pet.”

Rupert and Janey turned on him in unison. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side of guts and great horsemanship,” said Billy sulkily.

“You little beauty,” whispered Steve Sullivan.

The colonel ate the last black grape, pips and all. “That girl will go to Los Angeles, or I’ll have something to say about it!”

“I agree,” said Malise.

“Se-uper, absolutely se-uper,” shouted Dudley from the commentary box. “Oh, well done, Felicity. Brilliantly ridden.”

Jake suddenly found he was clinging onto Matron’s hand as, with a huge roar that grew to a crescendo, the crowd cheered Desdemona home. In a businesslike manner she cleared the rest of the jumps. “What a fuss about nothing,” she seemed to be saying, and cantered out of the ring with a buck and a whisk of her tail.

Jake turned to Matron, grinning from ear to ear. “Christ, did you see that? Have a drink.”

“You know you’re not allowed alcohol in hospital, Mr. Lovell.”

“To hell with that,” said Jake, reaching for another paper cup with a shaking hand and pouring the remains of the whisky into it.

“Oh, well, cheers,” said Matron, tapping her cup against his.

“No one speak to her,” ordered Rupert.

“Send her to Coventry,” said Janey.

As Fen came out, a crowd, noticeably short of other riders, swarmed round her. Desdemona disappeared under a deluge of patting hands.

Sarah fought her way towards them.

“Oh, Des, oh, Fen, oh, well done. I was so scared.” She wiped away the tears. “No one will ever speak to us again.”

Fen looked up at the riders’ stand and saw the rows of stormy faces looking down at her.

“Picket line looks fairly grim,” said Fen flippantly. “Coventry, here we come.” But her heart sank.

“Bloody hell,” said Billy, getting to his feet, “don’t be so petty.”

“Sit down,” thundered Rupert.

“Don’t you dare speak to her,” squealed Janey furiously.

Ignoring the cries of protest, Billy walked down the stone steps, vaulted over the collecting ring rail, and fought his way to Fen’s side.

“Well done, beauty. Showed us all up.”

Fen started, turned pale, gazing down at his dear, familiar face with the turned-down, smiling eyes and the sun catching the graying hair. Never had the temptation been so strong to jump off Desdemona and collapse into his arms.

“Oh, Billy,” she croaked, “I miss you.”

He didn’t have time to answer.

Dudley Diplock came rushing up, brandishing a microphone. The crowd separated to let him pass, deferring to television, then, gathering behind him, waving at the cameras, trying to get in shot. Journalists crowded around. “Good on you, Fen.”

Another huge cheer came from the ring. Fen swung round in the saddle. Wishbone had jumped the bank, but had the stile down. Fen was still in the lead. Ivor was about to go in.

“If you can jump it, Fen,” he said adoringly, “reckon I can have a go.”

After that the rest of the riders jumped the moat without mishap.

Hans Schmidt jumped clear on his new horse, Papa Haydn, and in the jump-off was a tenth of a second faster than Fen. But, although he got the £15,000 and the cup, he removed the oak-leaf wreath of victory from Papa Haydn and put it round Desdemona’s neck. The crowd roared their approval.

“I take zee money,” he said, kissing Fen, “but you take zee laurels.”

She was cheered around two laps of honor.

Dudley collared her again. “What made you jump it despite the other riders?”

Fen grinned. “I don’t like a lot of men telling me what to do. I think they behaved like a load of drips.”

“Fighting talk,” said Dudley. “You’re not worried you’ve made yourself very unpopular?”

Fen shrugged. “They could have jumped it if they’d wanted to.”

“Jake told you to have a go, did he?”

“I didn’t ring him,” confessed Fen. “I was terrified he’d tell me not to. Sorry, Jake,” she said into the camera.

“I’m sure you all know,” said Dudley, “that Fiona’s brother-in-law, World Champion Jake Lovell, is in hospital recovering from a nasty broken arm.”

“Leg,” said Fen gently.

“Leg; and we all wish you better, Jake, and hope to see you back soon. This must be the best possible pick-me-up.”

“That deserves another drink,” said Matron. “We seem to have exhausted your whisky, Mr. Lovell. I think I’ve got a drop of brandy in my office.”

* * *

Janey had been drinking all day and, when she and Billy got back to the lorry, she headed straight for the vodka bottle.

“Why the hell did you insist on rushing up and congratulating her in front of all the press and television cameras?” she asked.

“What will people think?” said Billy, trying to make a joke.

“They’ll think you’re still having it off with her.”

“They will if you go on yelling like this.”

“I suppose you were making a date with her in that brief, poignant moment.”

“I was not.”

“Or saying how much you missed her.”

“I merely told her she jumped well. She deserved it. I hate packs ganging up because they haven’t got enough guts to savage someone on their own. I did it many years ago to Jake, and I’ve been bitterly ashamed of it ever since, and I’m not going to do it again.”

“I suppose you fancied her like mad when you saw her.”

He looked at her face, red, shouting, and featureless with rage.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped, “you buggered off for nearly a year.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be long before you threw that in my face again.”

“I’m not,” said Billy wearily, “but if I can forget about Kev why can’t you forget about Fen?”

“I left Kev because it was over, because I was bored with him. You were in full flood with Fen. How do I know it’s over, that you don’t lie beside me at night hankering for her boy’s body?”

Billy filled up the kettle from the tap and turned on the gas. He was so slow lighting a match that he nearly blew his eyelashes off. Even the gas ring was against him. He was tired, he was hungry, he longed for a drink. He was depressed by the knowledge that Bugle could have jumped the moat and he’d have been fifteen grand richer. None of this would matter if Janey would meet him one tenth of the way.

“How do I know it’s all over between you and Fen?” She burst into noisy sobs.

Billy went over and hugged her.

“You’ll have to trust me; it’s you I love, always have loved. I shacked up with Fen because I was dying of loneliness, and you won’t help either of us by regurgitating her memory every five minutes.”

“I know,” sobbed Janey. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

A new syndrome, which Billy imagined Janey’d picked up from Kev, was the mood of sweetness and light, followed by heavy drinking, followed by the hurling of abuse and china, followed by flagellating herself into a frenzy of self-abasement. Billy found it exhausting. He’d had a shattering year. He sometimes wondered if his shoulders were broad enough to carry both their problems. Holding her heaving, tearful, full-blown body, breathing in the vodka fumes, Billy looked out of the window at the Crittleden oaks, tall against a drained, blue sky, and was suddenly overwhelmed with longing for Fen, for her merriness, innocence, and kindness. She’d looked so adorable, flushed and defiant, with her wary greeny-blue kitten eyes, waiting for the other riders to turn on her. The whistling of the kettle made them both jump.