Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  Rupert got down two glasses and another bottle.

  “I wish you’d stop feeding that bloody dog my Easter egg. She’ll get spots.”

  “And turn into a Dalmatian,” said Billy. Mavis was now lying on her back, with her legs apart, and her head on his shoulder. “Wish I had this effect on women,” he went on, smiling at Helen.

  Once Helen had been given a drink they all ignored her and went back to watching the video, tearing everyone’s round to shreds, which gave her a chance to look at the caravan. It was extremely luxurious with an oven, a fridge, a washing machine, bench seats, a double bed that folded up completely, and a great deal of cupboard space.

  At the end of the tape Rupert switched over to racing, picking up the paper in order to look at his horoscope.

  “ ‘Good day for shopping,’ ” he read. “Perhaps I’d better buy that gray gelding. ‘Evening starred for romance.’ ” He grinned at Helen. “I should bloody well hope so.”

  At that moment Marion walked in, still looking sulky. She was chewing gum, which gave her a particularly insolent air.

  “Have you rung Ladbroke’s?” asked Rupert.

  “I haven’t had time,” snapped Marion.

  “Better buck up. You’ll miss the first race.”

  “Put a fiver each way on Red Chaffinch,” said Billy.

  “Come on, William,” said Joanna Battie, picking up her notebook. “This is going to be a bum interview. Isn’t there anyone, or anything, you dislike in show jumping?”

  “You should have interviewed Rupert,” said Billy, undoing the purple paper from one of the chocolates inside the egg and giving it to Mavis.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with show jumping,” said Rupert, filling up Helen’s glass. “Why don’t the big shows provide the stabling free for the top riders? Cattle and sheep never have to pay a penny for accommodation. They ought to waive our entrance fees too, and pay us appearance money. Our names go on every press release. The crowds have come here to watch Billy, Humpty, Ivor, and mostly me.”

  “You’re so modest,” said Joanna.

  “And another thing,” said Rupert, warming to his subject, “French, German, and Irish riders get a grand every time they win abroad. We don’t get a bean. We’ll never smash the Kraut ascendancy until they start paying us decent money.”

  “Do you agree with this, Billy?” asked Joanna.

  “Well, I don’t feel as strongly as Rupert. Probably because I’m not a member of the British team.”

  “And because you never worry about money,” snapped Rupert. “People who claim not to be interested in money are always bloody good at spending other people’s.”

  “If you want to be a top show jumper,” said Billy, winking at Helen, “you don’t need to ride well, just be Olympic level at bellyaching.”

  Marion came off the telephone to Ladbroke’s.

  “You haven’t met Helen Macaulay, Marion,” said Rupert, a slight note of malice creeping into his voice.

  “I’ve met her namesake,” said Marion sourly. “Arrived Friday morning; bitten me three times already.”

  “My namesake?” asked Helen, bewildered.

  “The black horse I bought at the barracks. He’s been showing Marion who’s boss. I decided to call him Macaulay.”

  Helen blushed crimson. “Oh, how darling of you.”

  “Are you going to make us something to eat?” said Rupert.

  “Haven’t got time,” said Marion. “Class starts in three-quarters of an hour. I’ve got to help Tracey tack up Belgravia and The Bull. There’s smoked salmon in the fridge and brown bread in the bin,” and she flounced out of the caravan, slamming the door behind her.

  “What a lovely nature that girl’s got,” Humpty said, getting up. “We’d better go, Ivor. Thanks for the drink.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Joanna. “You’ll want to get changed. I presume you’re all going to Grania Pringle’s party tonight. Okay then, I’ll have half an hour there with you, Billy. Good luck, both of you.”

  “Do you want me to go out while you change?” asked Helen.

  “As long as you don’t mind underpants,” said Rupert.

  “I’ll make you some sandwiches.” She went to the fridge which was packed with an upmarket medley of pâté, smoked salmon, smoked turkey, and several bottles of champagne. She also noticed a great many empties already in the trash can.

  “Bread’s in the bin on the right,” said Rupert. Lifting her hair, he planted a kiss on the back of her neck, then when she swung round, he kissed her on the mouth, his hands feeling for her breasts. Helen tried to leap away but she was rammed against the oven.

  Rupert laughed and let her go. “Mustn’t raise my blood pressure too much before a class.”

  As Helen spread unsalted butter on slices of bread and placed smoked salmon, red pepper, and a squirt of lemon on top, she allowed herself the brief fantasy of living with Rupert in the little caravan like a couple of gypsies, cooking him ingenious dinners on the stove each night, shutting out the rest of the horsey world except Billy. Billy, she decided, was really nice.

  “How’s Nige?” asked Rupert.

  “Very overadrenalized,” said Helen, cutting the crusts off the sandwiches, “and overly concerned that you’ve appropriated his address book and now have access to all the names and addresses of the saboteur underground.”

  “The only name and add-ress I was after,” said Rupert, mimicking her accent again, “was yours. After that I threw the book into the Thames, so no doubt a lot of fishes are about to reveal the Antis’ darkest secrets in the Angling Times.”

  Helen turned round with the plate of sandwiches to find Billy already dressed in breeches and shirt, tying his white tie, and Rupert wearing nothing at all. She nearly dropped the sandwiches on the floor. Shoving the plate down on the table, she turned back to tidy up and found herself putting the crusts in the fridge.

  “Very good sandwiches,” said Rupert. “D’you want some, Billy?”

  “No thanks,” said Billy, lighting a cigarette. “It never fails to amaze me how you can eat before a big class. I’m about to throw up last night’s dinner.”

  “Nigel had two broken ribs, a black eye, and multiple bruises,” said Helen reprovingly.

  “You ought to have brought me a color photograph,” said Rupert, who was pulling on his boots.

  There was a bang on the door. It was Humpty Hamilton.

  “We can walk the course in five minutes,” he said. “It looks a sod.”

  “I’m definitely going to ask Lavinia Greenslade out tonight,” said Billy, shrugging into his red coat.

  “You’ll have to take her parents along as well,” said Rupert, seizing a couple more sandwiches as they went out of the caravan.

  10

  Helen, as a result of three glasses of wine and no sandwiches, was feeling very unsteady. She was glad Rupert took a firm hold of her arm.

  “Can you remember where I’m jumping?” he asked Billy.

  “Fifteen,” said Billy, “I’ve got to wait until thirty. I’m last. Christ, look at that upright.”

  They left Helen in the riders’ stand while they walked the course. She saw Joanna, the deadpan girl from the Chronicle, pointing her out to some of the other journalists who laughed and shrugged their shoulders. She wished she’d brought a coat; the suede dress wasn’t very warm.

  She watched the riders splaying out over the emerald green arena. There were a few girls in black or very dark navy blue coats, several Irish riders in Army uniform or holly green, but the majority wore coats as red as an Armistice Day poppy. Some of them were pacing out the number of strides between jumps, like seconds in a duel, others put their hands up to rattle a pole to check how firm it was in the cup, others stood eyeing a turn or an angle, seeing how safe it was to cut a corner or come in sharply.

  Several riders climbed up the famous Crittleden bank, like a turned-out avocado mousse, to examine the fence halfway across on the top. The jumps
were absolutely colossal. Humpty Hamilton, looking stouter than ever in a quilted waistcoat, couldn’t even see over half of them.

  And there was Billy, pulling on yet another cigarette, gloomily examining the water jump, while Mavis, thirsty from all that Easter egg, drank frantically, trying to lower the water level.

  The indigo clouds had rolled away, leaving the softest pale blue sky above the acid green wood which had only a few sad gray streaks where the odd tree had died of Dutch elm disease. On the hill she could see the gleaming armadillo of parked cars and the caravan village.

  Mostly her eyes were drawn to Rupert, who seemed to be spending more time ribbing his fellow competitors than studying the course. Unlike the others, he didn’t look bandy-legged or stout, or diminished by not being on a horse. All round the ring, crowds were gathering with binoculars. Helen reluctantly imagined every eye was on Rupert.

  Two men in check suits and bowler hats, flushed from lunch, were going up into the judges’ box.

  As the riders came out joking and laughing on the nervous high before a big class, the cameramen went in, most of them in jeans, gathering round the water jump. A large lady with a huge bust strode round the course with a tape measure, checking the height of each jump.

  Tracey and Marion rode down to the collecting ring, one on the dark bay, Allenby, nicknamed The Bull, the other on the chestnut, Belgravia.

  “God, I hate Rupe before big classes,” said Marion. “He’s so picky, checking and rechecking everything. Stop it, you monster,” she snapped, as Belgravia, oated up to the eyeballs, fidgeted and spooked at everything he passed, scattering the crowd with his huge feet and quarters.

  “Seems on top of the world,” said Tracey.

  “Wish I was,” said Marion gloomily. “You haven’t seen Rupe’s new girlfriend.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Not really his type: redheaded, breedy-looking, quivering with nerves rather like Belgravia. I suppose he is mad about chestnuts and she’s mad about him, but trying desperately to hide it.”

  “Sounds like all the rest,” said Tracey.

  “Even worse, she’s called Macaulay.”

  “Blimey,” said Tracey, leaning forward and giving the last bit of her Wimpy bun to The Bull. “He’s never done that before. Don’t worry, I expect she’ll go the way of all the others. He can’t be that smitten if he was fooling about with Grania Pringle last night.”

  Helen was joined by Rupert, Billy, and Mavis in the riders’ stand.

  “I wish you’d leave that dog behind, Billy,” said a steward fussily.

  “She brings me luck.”

  “Can’t see why she can’t bring you luck in your caravan.”

  The first riders were crashing their horses over jumps in the practice ring under the oak trees. Members of the public leaned forward to pat their equine heroes as they passed in their colored rugs.

  “What was the course like?” asked Helen.

  “Bloody. You can park a double-decker bus between the parallel bars,” said Rupert. “There are only two and a half strides between the double, and the wall isn’t as solid as it looks. If you catch it on the way up, you’re in dead trouble.”

  “Zee vater must be at least six meters,” said a German rider gloomily. Billy looked green and lit another cigarette.

  A man in a felt hat, with long sideburns and a raffish face, stopped on the way to the commentary box. “Hello, boys,” he said in a carefully modulated put-on voice. “Are you going to show them how to do it again today, Rupert?”

  “I might, if you don’t describe me as our most brilliant young rider as I come into the ring, in which case I’ll knock up a cricket score.”

  The raffish man laughed. “I’d better get upstairs, we’re on the air in two minutes. How did the course walk?”

  “Not very good. I don’t like banks in the high street or in a jumping ring, but it may ride better than it walks,” said Rupert.

  Surely ride and walk aren’t transitive verbs, thought Helen. “Who’s that?” she asked as he moved on.

  “Dudley Diplock—does all the commentaries. He’s a pratt, knows bugger-all about show jumping.”

  Everything went quiet as the first rider came in—yesterday’s winner, Ludwig von Schellenberg on Brahms, a splendid horse, impeccably schooled.

  “He’s the one to watch,” Billy told Helen. “He’s the best rider in the world, and was virtually unbeaten last season.”

  “Kraut horses learn obedience the moment they come out of the womb,” said Rupert.

  British spirits were not raised, however, when the mighty Ludwig had a most uncharacteristic twelve faults.

  “Shows how bloody difficult the course must be,” said Rupert.

  “We’ll all be up in the fifties,” said Billy.

  “And here comes the despair of the pony club,” said Rupert, as Ludwig was followed by Humpty Hamilton on Porky Boy.

  Humpty certainly rode in a very unorthodox fashion, pouter pigeon chest stuck out, hands held high, feet pointing down like a dancing master, showing a great patch of blue sky as he rose nearly a foot and a half out of the saddle over every fence. Nevertheless he acquitted himself well over the punishing course, and only had two fences down and a foot in the water for the same number of faults as Ludwig.

  After that everyone went to pieces. Disastrous round followed disastrous round, slowing the proceedings up because the course had to be rebuilt every time.

  Rupert got to his feet. “I’d better go and show them how to do it,” he said.

  He kissed Helen on the cheek. “I won’t be long, darling.”

  Without his red-hot presence beside her, Helen suddenly felt cold. A brisk wind was unfurling the flags and spreading out the horses’ tails. On television it had looked like a game for children with toy horses and toy fences. The camera had caught nothing of the colossal height of the jumps, the pounding hooves, the heroic splendor and sheer size of the horses thundering about like some Battle of Borodino. Suddenly Helen felt scared for Rupert.

  “Aren’t you terrified?”

  “Terrified,” said Billy, clutching Mavis for comfort and lighting another cigarette, “particularly as Malise Gordon has just arrived and parked himself below us.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “One of the selectors and the new chef d’equipe. He manages the British team and goes abroad with them to keep them in order.”

  “What’s he like?” said Helen, admiring the taut aquiline features, the high complexion, and the dark hair graying at the temples. “He looks kind of attractive.”

  “Bit of a tartar, stickler for discipline, always has spats with Rupe—well, you can never exactly tell what Rupe’s going to do next. Going to bed sober, early, and alone has never been his strong point. Although I’m sure,” Billy added hastily, worried that he might have hurt Helen, “now he’s met you, he’ll mend his ways. Mind you, it’s getting to the stage when Rupe’s so good, Malise can’t afford to leave him out.”

  Helen watched Rupert saunter across the concrete below them, then vault over the fence into the collecting ring. Goodness, he must be fit. He walked up to Marion and Belgravia, bending down to adjust the bandages on the horse’s front legs.

  “Is he that good?” Helen longed to talk about him.

  “Christ, yes. Doesn’t have any nerves, cool as an icicle before every class, and he’s so fast and he meets every fence just right. Knows what risks he can take too. And he’s got the killer instinct. Even in novice classes he’s always out to win.”

  Ivor Braine was in the middle of a good round. The television man ran nimbly after him with the boom, recording the grunts and snorts of his horse.

  “Sounds like a live sex show,” said Billy. “We always say it’s Ivor’s Dumbo ears that carry him round.”

  Ivor was followed by a handsome Frenchman in a blue coat with a crimson collar, who proceeded to demolish the course. As he came thundering down to the water the horse jammed on its brakes and the
Frenchman took a leisurely somersault through the air, landing with a huge splash.

  “Il est tombé dans l’eau,” said Billy. “I know that’s going to happen to me and The Bull. Now they’ll have to rebuild the course and Belgravia won’t like the wait.”

  In the collecting ring the horse was plunging round, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring, flecks of foam going everywhere.

  A colossal cheer went up as Rupert erupted into the ring through the red brick arch. In the private boxes people came out onto the balconies to watch, clutching their gin and tonics. Helen was sure she could detect some Beatle-screaming. Belgravia stood still just long enough for Rupert to take his hat off, fidgeting and stamping to be allowed into action.

  Humpty Hamilton sat down beside Helen.

  “Belgravia looks completely over the top. Is it true, Billy, his half brother was second in the Grand National?”

  Belgravia gave three colossal bucks. Rupert laughed and didn’t move in the saddle. As the Klaxon went off with its eldritch screech the horse bounded forward.

  “Complete tearaway,” muttered Humpty. “Steerable, but not stoppable.”

  That horse would benefit from some dressage, thought Malise Gordon disapprovingly. “If it weren’t for Rupert’s colossal strength, he’d be quite out of control.”

  Over the brush sailed Belgravia, over the post and rails, over the rustic poles, driven on by Rupert’s erotic pelvic thrusts. When he came to the massive upright he flew over it as though it was a tiny log.

  At the gate with Crittleden written across it in large red letters he came in too fast, slipped, just righted himself, and rapped the fence hard as he went over. For a second it swung back and forth, making Rupert’s fans gasp, Rupert didn’t even bother to glance round. With his long stride, Belgravia managed the double in three strides. Now he was rounding the corner. Next moment Helen saw Belgravia’s pricked ginger ears appearing over the top of the bank, then his lovely head with the white star, and then Rupert. They were on top, popping over the little fence, then tobogganing down the other side, Belgravia on his haunches. Only Rupert’s superhuman strength again stopped the horse running into the fence at the bottom. He was over; the crowd gave a cheer. Over the wall and the combination, which caused him no trouble. Then he kicked Belgravia into a gallop and sailed over the water, yanking him back to get him in line for the final triple.