Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  Outside, a lovely day mocked her: the surgery lawns were white with snowdrops, their sweet drooping heads opening like parasols in the morning sun.

  Pretending she was going to buy a dress for the Cheltenham Festival, the great jump-racing bonanza, next month, Taggie set off to see Mr Minter. In a waiting room surrounded by people accompanied by friends and with scarves and hats hiding their heads, she picked up a colour mag, which somewhat tactlessly had a piece celebrating the emergence of the cleavage. Would Rupert, who’d always adored her breasts, still love her if she lost one? Next moment, a girl came out of Mr Minter’s consulting room in floods. Gazing into space, shaking violently, Taggie only responded when her name was called a third time. The other patients glanced at her. This must be the child bride of the notorious Rupert – awfully peaky, not a great looker.

  Mr Minter, who had sleek grey hair and kind, very dark eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, was also interested in meeting the beauty who had allegedly held the love of the irresistible, once wildly promiscuous Rupert for twenty-odd years, and had worn his best pink silk tie in her honour. She looked about twelve, tall and leggy as a baby giraffe, her big grey eyes swollen and red.

  Used to imparting bad news, he’d seldom been more reluctant than after feeling Taggie’s breasts and subjecting her to a mammogram and then a scan, to tell her it was almost certainly cancer.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Campbell-Black. We won’t know what type it is until we do a biopsy.’

  This involved plunging a needle deep into her breast to draw off a small sample. No worse perhaps than Forester’s long claws, but very painful. After this, Taggie was told she’d have to wait three weeks for the results coming back on 5 March.

  ‘Thank you,’ stammered Taggie.

  Was she planning to drive herself home? asked Mr Minter, who’d liked to have driven her himself.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like us to ring your husband?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Here are some leaflets,’ said the breast nurse. ‘Try not to worry.’

  Taggie walked out into the street and was nearly run over, and as if sleepwalking, went to Cavendish House and bought a dress the colour of mango chutney and three sizes too large for her.

  Both yard and stud at Penscombe were thrumming with gossip. Taggie had allegedly gone shopping in Cheltenham and returned as white as a shroud, growing increasingly thin and pale and most uncharacteristically biting the head off anyone who asked if she were OK. Bao had also confided that he kept hearing her crying at night. Gala felt riddled with guilt. Had Taggie sussed her and Rupert?

  Rupert and Jan were still both away. Taggie confided in no one, but panicked inside. What would happen if she died? Who would look after Xav and Bianca, and Declan and Maud across the valley, and all the grandchildren, and the new great-grandchild when Eddie’s baby turned up? Who would look after the dogs, and feed the birds and the badgers and visit the little foals on their wobbly legs? She had so many dependants.

  On 5 March she went back to Cotchester. This time, Mr Minter was wearing a primrose-yellow tie decorated with black birds, and was even kinder.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Campbell-Black? We’ve fixed up for you to have an operation on March the twenty-sixth. The good news is that as the lump is only about three centimetres, we should get away with a lumpectomy, so you may not have to lose your breast. But to discover if the cancer has spread to the lymph glands we’ll have to locate them by injecting blue dye into your breasts on the twenty-fifth, the day before. This will flow into your armpit, so when I do the op I can identify and whip out from the armpit a couple of lymph nodes that have turned blue.’

  ‘I see,’ whispered Taggie. The twenty-fifth was the day before the World Cup. How could she disguise anything from Rupert if she had a blue breast?

  ‘Will I turn blue for long?’

  ‘Only where the injection went in. With luck all you’ll have is a little scar under your arm and around the nipple.’

  She looked such a baby to be married to that reprobate.

  ‘You’re not to worry. There are so many better ways of treating cancer these days and we’ve caught it early. Probably the biggest bore is all the forms you have to fill in.’

  Jan was due back on 14 March. The same day, a fat envelope arrived from Cotchester Hospital containing pages and pages of forms. It was the last straw. Taggie could just decipher the title Treating Breast Cancer on a leaflet. How could she possibly fill everything in?

  Hearing a step, she shoved the envelope into the drying-up-cloth drawer, then Jan walked in. He was wearing the brown cashmere jersey she’d given him, and had a tan almost as dark. But the huge smile lighting up his face vanished as Taggie burst into tears.

  ‘Darling, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’

  ‘You are not.’ Leading her into the drawing room, he drew her into his arms.

  ‘What is it? Rupert and Gala?’

  For a second Taggie looked bewildered.

  ‘No, no.’ She was crying even harder. ‘I found a lump. They say it’s cancer. I’ve got to have a lumpectomy.’

  ‘Cancer,’ breathed Jan, the colour draining from his suntan, his eyes filling with horror then with tears. Nothing could have convinced her more that he loved her.

  ‘Oh my darling.’ Breathing in through clenched teeth, he gained control of himself, then gathered her back into his warm, comforting embrace. ‘I’m so sorry, but it’s curable these days. When are they going to do the op?’ He was kissing her forehead and stroking her hair.

  ‘The day of the World Cup.’

  ‘Have you told Rupert?’

  ‘No, no!’ shrieked Taggie. ‘He’s got far more important things, the last chance of Love Rat getting the Global award. He might feel he had to stay here, and I don’t want to stop him going. No one knows. Please Jan, you mustn’t tell anyone. I don’t want the press to find out – they were so vile after the surprise party.’ She was almost hysterical.

  Jan shook his head.

  ‘You ought to tell him, he’ll never forgive himself.’

  ‘No one knows. But the hospital have sent me all these forms to fill in and I can’t understand them; it’s so shaming. Then there’s this blue dye that turns my boob blue. I’ll never be able to hide it from him.’

  ‘Plenty of blue tits on the bird-table,’ Jan sounded more like Rupert and when Taggie half laughed, ‘Give me those forms. I’d better get upstairs and see to your father-in-law, but this evening we’ll sit down with a pen and sort them out.’

  Later, armed with two large gin and tonics, they got to work on the sofa. Forester insisted on wedging himself between them.

  ‘I’ll have to use you as a desk,’ said Jan, settling the first form on Forester’s brindle shoulder. ‘Now what are you, Mrs Campbell-Black? Bisexual, homosexual, heterosexual, transgender or don’t want to disclose? I wonder how many people put bisexual. Could form the basis of a dating agency. Cheer up, darling.’

  He wrote in: ‘heterosexual thank goodness’. ‘Next, ethnic origin?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Taggie.

  ‘Nationality, goes on for half a page. Are you Black African, Black Pakistani, Chinese Asian or Black Indian?’

  ‘I’m Campbell-Black.’ Taggie took a slug of gin. She was beginning to smile slightly.

  ‘So you are – probably a legit category; Rupert’s fathered enough children to warrant a category of their own.’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘What serious illnesses have you had?’

  ‘I haven’t really.’

  ‘Marriage to Rupert?’

  ‘Stop it,’ protested Taggie, but she laughed.

  ‘Here you are – White English.’

  ‘No, I’m White Irish. Oh thank God you’re home.’

  ‘As I promised, I’m going to take care of you. Once we’ve finished these I’m off to make you a prawn omelette. You’ve lost far too much weight – and we’
re keeping on Local Janet to look after your father-in-law. You’re my priority now.’

  82

  Rupert had a huge amount to occupy him. Apart from scouring the world to see his horses running, the covering season had begun on 15 February, with mega-star mares pouring in from equally far-flung places and the stud staff working overtime, eyes glued to the foaling cameras, waiting to deliver offspring.

  Nor were matters helped by Love Rat being reluctant to cover even a couple of mares a day, when by contrast, Titus Andronicus had become so dangerously randy, he’d bitten a stud hand’s finger off last week.

  Even worse, Old Eddie, getting a new lease of life from Shannon, a buxom new carer who’d replaced Local Janet, and the approach of spring, kept wandering down to see Love Rat and leaving doors open … or was it someone else?

  It was Bao’s last week. Everyone was going to miss him, and he seemingly them as he toured yard and stud photographing staff and animals, particularly Love Rat, Safety Car, ‘Quickry’ and Forester.

  Ivory and gold had lost popularity in China recently, with diamonds becoming the new vogue purchase. On his penultimate day, finding Taggie in the kitchen, Bao gave her a diamond necklace from which glittered more diamonds in the shape of a rose as a leaving present.

  ‘I can’t accept this,’ gasped Taggie. ‘It’s far too beautiful.’ And she started to cry.

  Whereupon Bao led her to the sofa, handing her some kitchen roll, then sitting down beside her, he took her hand.

  ‘Please Taggie Mrs, you of all peoples have made my visit in Britain Great a big joy. You are the loveliest woman in the world and the best mother, the kindest heart. I would like to have mother like you. You have taught me to love animals.’ He stroked Forester’s brindle head. ‘I hope one day, I can show you China.’

  ‘Oh Bao.’ Taggie continued to mop up her tears. ‘We will all miss you. You’ve worked so hard and you’ve been so kind teaching Timon and Sapphire Mandarin – such a good start for them. You’ll be welcome back here at any time.’ She squeezed his hands. ‘But Bao, I can’t accept this lovely rose.’

  Taking it from her, Bao put it round her neck and did up the clasp, then he laughed. ‘I have very good win yesterday on Sha Tin Cup in Hong Kong. Mr Campbell-Black also make nearly half million dollars.’

  So Rupert, who was due back later in the day, would be happy, thought a relieved Taggie.

  Leaving work on the same evening in the faint hope a returning Rupert might pop in, Gala chatted on the way to Gee Gee.

  ‘How’s Fleance getting on in his new role as a stallion?’

  ‘Yesterday he mounted a French mare from the nearside,’ sighed Gee Gee, ‘and then from the right and ejaculated. This afternoon he got it right, sweet boy. Bloody Titus, however, ought to be in a straightjacket.’

  Wandering on, Gala marvelled at the luminous pale-grey sky with a sliver of a new moon to the south, Jupiter in the east and Venus in the west, shining into each other’s eyes. Surely spring must come one day. Then she heard terrible screaming, issuing from the stud behind her. Love Rat, having escaped from his box, was having an idle pick of grass when Titus, on his way to the covering barn, had broken away from his terrified young stud hand and flung himself on Love Rat, tearing him apart with his front hooves, plunging his teeth into, and leaving great gashes in, his gentle rival’s shoulders and neck.

  ‘Titus,’ shouted Gala, racing back, ducking under the rail, seizing Titus’ chain lead and trying to separate them. ‘Titus, it’s me!’

  Next moment, Titus had wheeled round, knocking her to the ground, kneeling down on her, squealing furiously, about to bury his teeth in her face.

  I’m going to die, thought Gala.

  ‘Help!’ she cried.

  ‘You bloody fool!’ yelled a voice.

  The next moment, a heavy chain was being slashed back and forth across Titus’ head until he was distracted enough for Pat to grab the maddened stallion’s own lead chain, yanking at the agonizingly painful bit, dragging a squealing Titus back to his box while Gav tugged Gala to safety.

  ‘You bloody fool!’ he yelled again, seeing blood gushing from her cheek. ‘Where else did he get you?’

  ‘Nowhere – I’m fine. Love Rat’s what matters. Get the vet,’ she cried to the appalled stud hand.

  Poor Love Rat lay on the ground, trembling violently, deep wounds everywhere, nostrils ripped, white coat drenched with blood which had stained the grass for yards around.

  ‘Poor old boy,’ sobbed Gala, crouching down, stroking his face. When Sammy Radcliffe roared up five minutes later, however, Love Rat, never a fan of vets, struggled to his feet, stumbled back to his box and collapsed again.

  Even when Sam’s father, Charlie, arrived it took hours to clean him up, both vets expressing great concern as they dressed his wounds.

  ‘Thank God Titus didn’t get his testicles. He’s had a terrible shock – he’s an old horse, shouldn’t cover anything until he’s fully recovered, if at all.’

  Bleeding Sire. Pat was doubly devastated. He adored Love Rat but there would be all the hassle of finding replacement stallions to cover his mares.

  Even when Gee Gee mopped up her cheek with Dettol and put on a big plaster, Gala refused to leave Love Rat.

  ‘Sorry I yelled at you,’ said Gav. ‘You saved his life, but I think we should leave him to rest.’

  ‘Let me stay a little longer,’ pleaded Gala.

  As she smoothed his bloodstained forelock, Love Rat pressed his head against her, then knuckered as Rupert appeared in the doorway.

  When he heard the details, Rupert went ballistic.

  ‘How the hell did Love Rat get out? Someone must have left his door open.’

  ‘Your father was down here,’ said Pat, ‘and Bao was everywhere taking photographs. He’s leaving tomorrow.’

  No one was in the mood to hold a farewell party for Bao. Rupert, too preoccupied to notice Taggie’s pallor, refused to leave Love Rat. His dogs, all fond of the old horse, slept huddled together for warmth outside his stallion box.

  83

  Gala felt totally ill-equipped for the coldest winter in years. Even smothered in six thermal vests with a roaring beech-log fire in the sitting room, she felt she would only be warmed by Rupert’s arms around her. But he had been abroad so much chasing winners, and so frantic at home, worrying about Love Rat, she had hardly seen him. He was probably desperate to make his marriage work after all the appalling press following the surprise party.

  Returning to Lime Tree Cottage later in the week, she was just lighting the fire and wondering whether there was more to life than a baked potato, Holby City and half a bottle of cheap white, when her mobile rang, and was in shock dropped in the log-basket.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ said a light clipped voice, then just, ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She’d been too thrown to ask how long he’d be.

  She’d been getting up so early, the place was a tip. The hyacinths Taggie had given her already had brewers’ droop, their pink heads lying among a pile of unwashed clothes on the kitchen table. A mountain of washing-up waited to go into a full dishwasher. She was just frantically plumping cushions, chucking more logs on the fire, drawing curtains, gathering up abandoned bras and pants and Gropius’ half-eaten breakfast, when she decided she herself was more important.

  At least her hair was clean. Whipping off pants and jeans, she leapt into the bath, frantically directing the shower between her legs, sliding deodorant under her armpits, and then washing between her legs again in case he went down on her and tasted shower gel. Then she splashed herself in the lovely Mandarine scent Taggie had given her for Christmas … why did everything come back to Taggie?

  She was just about to tear off her multi thermal vests when there was a thundering on the door – he was here. She tugged back on her jeans. Hell, she hadn’t cleaned her teeth. She was just fishing a Polo out of a jacket
pocket when she heard banging again.

  ‘Coming, com-ing,’ she shouted.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ mocked Rupert as she opened the door.

  ‘Hi, how did you get here so quickly?’

  ‘I sneaked out here so often in the old days, I know the way round every tree. This place used to be known as Knocking Cottage, particularly when Billy and I were showjumping and Janey entertained her lovers.’

  There was snow all over his Puffa and his hair, proving he’d still be divine, even when he went white.

  ‘I didn’t know it was snowing.’ Gala licked Polo chippings off her teeth.

  ‘Sorry not to give you more notice – I’m off to Singapore tomorrow.’

  There was a crackle and a flare as flames found a nail in a log.

  ‘I suddenly couldn’t bear not to see you. I missed you.’ And as he drew her into his arms, kissing her on and on, she realized he tasted of toothpaste, reeked of English Fern and his hair was wet, not just from a scattering of snow so he must have showered specially. He must love her a bit to bother.

  Next door they found Gropius on the bed, who totally ignored Rupert’s order to get off and growled irritably when the Paddington duvet was tugged from under him.

  ‘Good boy, to defend your mistress from everyone else but me,’ said Rupert, chucking Paddington down in front of the still crackling, spitting fire.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about sparks?’ asked Gala.

  ‘Any sparks will come from us.’

  ‘It’ll take ages to undress me,’ Gala warned as he delved under the layers of thermals and unhooked her bra, his fingers stroking her ribs before gathering up her breasts.

  ‘Christ, these are gorgeous,’ pulling off vests, bra and tracksuit top, he buried his lips in her bare shoulder.

  ‘Please take care of this Bear,’ giggled Gala.

  ‘Let me look at you – oh my God.’ In the flickering firelight, her body was soft gold.

  She gasped as his warm hands slid under the elasticated waist of her jeans, gold signet ring catching the light, as he fingered her belly button before creeping into the slippery cavern between her legs.