by Jilly Cooper
“Stop him,” screamed Helen. “Someone do something.”
Rupert had shot into the oxer now, hiding behind the brush part, peering out from a lot of sky blue cinerarias like Ferdinand the Bull. Macaulay was too fly to be thwarted. He cantered round to the other side, where Rupert was protected only by a large pole, and went for him, darting his head under the pole, missing him only by inches.
Rupert ran out of the oxer, belting towards the combination, taking refuge in the third element, which was a triple, only two hundred and fifty yards from the collecting ring.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t take up athletics,” said Fen. “He’d certainly qualify for the Olympics.”
Malise strode up to the French chief steward.
“You must send in the arena party to head him off,” he said.
“And get them keeled?” said the steward. “He is still within the time limit.”
The squeak of the elimination hooter went off at that moment, making everyone jump out of their skin. Macaulay was prowling around and around the triple, darting his head at Rupert, tail swishing furiously, quivering with rage.
“That horse doesn’t seem very keen on Rupert,” said Ivor Braine.
“Hardly surprising,” said Humpty. “It used to belong to him.”
Four gendarmes entered the ring, gingerly fingering their pistols. Macaulay turned, revving up for another charge. Rupert snatched up one of the poles. It was extremely heavy, like a caber. As Macaulay advanced, Rupert brandished it at him.
The collecting ring steward rushed up to Jake. “I theenk, Meester Lovell, you better go and collect your horse.”
At that moment Macaulay reared up, striking at Rupert, missing him only by inches, knocking the pole from his hands.
Rupert backed away; he had no protection now.
Jake walked into the ring, a small figure, totally insignificant without a horse.
“Watch this,” said Fen to Dino.
As Macaulay turned to go in for the kill, Jake put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Macaulay stopped in his tracks, looking wistfully at Rupert for a second, then, turning, trotted back across the arena, whickering with pleasure, nudging Jake in the stomach, licking his face. The crowd, having been frozen with terror, suddenly burst into a huge collective roar of laughter.
“Well done,” said Jake softly and, not even bothering to take hold of Macaulay’s bridle, he walked out of the ring. Macaulay trotted after him, giving him great sly digs in the ribs as if to say, “Didn’t I do well?”
Malise turned to Colonel Roxborough. “Even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.”
“I’ve just lost a hundred and we’ve lost the championship. I don’t know why you’re looking so bloody cheerful.”
“Tarry a little,” said Malise.
Rupert came out of the ring, his face like marble. Helen rushed forward. “Darling, are you all right?”
“No, I am bloody not,” spat Rupert, pushing her out of the way. “I’m going to object. That was deliberate sabotage on Jake’s part.”
The reporters surged forward, clamoring for a quote.
“What are you going to do, Rupe?”
“Lodge an objection. That horse should be put down instantly. It’s a total delinquent. Jake put it in deliberately to fuck me up.”
He was so angry he could hardly get the words out. The collecting ring was in an uproar.
Malise elbowed his way to his side.
“I’m going to object,” said Rupert.
Malise shook his head. “Can’t make it stand up. Macaulay’s no more difficult a horse than Snakepit. He was all right with all the other riders. He’s like a lamb with the Lovell children.”
“Well, Jake trained him to do it, then. You saw how he called the bugger off when he wanted. He tried to kill me the other night, and he tried to kill me now.”
The reporters were avidly writing down every word.
“The competition isn’t over, Rupert,” said Malise, lowering his voice. “Jake’s got to ride Clara.”
“To hell with him,” snarled Rupert. “If the jury won’t accept an objection, I’ll have the law on him for attempted murder.” And he stalked off in the direction of his lorry.
Jake rode Clara into the ring, holding his hands up high, sitting very straight in the saddle, trying to copy Ludwig’s style of riding.
“It seems a shame to ask you to beat your master,” he said.
“Oh, Clara, please do a cleara,” said Fen.
The crowd had witnessed near tragedy and then high comedy. The commentator had to put everyone back on course. Ludwig had sixteen faults after four rounds, Dino had thirty-five; Rupert Campbell-Black had been eliminated. Jake, after three rounds, was half a fault lower than Ludwig. He could not afford a single fence down if he was to win. He kicked Clara into a canter. Over the first fence she sailed, over the second, over the third. She gave the parallel a clout but the bar didn’t budge. Ludwig, smoking frantically, stood with his back to the arena, the rest of the German team giving him a running commentary.
Fen, eyes tight shut, was slightly moving her lips.
“What are you doing?” asked Dino.
“Asking God to help Jake,” said Fen, not opening her eyes.
“Rather unfair to Jake,” said Dino. “I guess he can do it by himself.”
Malise suddenly turned to Driffield. “For Christ’s sake, stop selling that horse and come and watch this.”
Alone in the ring, it was as though Jake was in another world. He was conscious only of the joy of riding this beautiful, beautiful horse, thinking he could clear the stands, even the Eiffel Tower, on her. He turned for the water.
“Come on lieberlen, or dummkopf, I forget which it is.”
Clara took a great leap, happy to have an expert on her back. Jake was aware of the blue water going on forever and the anxious, upturned faces of the photographers. But he found the perfect stride and was safely over. The crowd couldn’t forbear a cheer, then shushed themselves. The three elements of the combination, then the huge triple and he was home. Overcome with nerves, he made Clara take off too early at the first element. She only just cleared it, so he turned her to the left at the next element, giving her room for an extra stride and placing her perfectly at the last element.
He was over.
“Magic riding,” raved Malise. “Oh, come on, Jake.”
Unable to restrain itself the crowd broke into a huge roar. The triple seemed to rush towards him. He lifted the mare up and up. The poles flew beneath him.
That’ll do, he thought in ecstasy. I’m World Champion.
All around the thunderously cheering arena, Union Jacks were waving as he rode out of the ring, patting the gallant mare over and over again.
“He won,” screamed Fen, hugging Tory and then flinging her arms round Dino and kissing him.
Dino, taking advantage, kissed her back. “That’s almost worth only coming third,” he said.
All the British team, except Rupert, were going mad with excitement. Malise and Colonel Roxborough were throwing their hats in the air. Jake came out of the ring and slid off Clara into Tory’s arms. For a second they clung to each other, not speaking. He could feel her hot tears on his cheek and the thunder of congratulatory hands raining down on his back.
A magnum of champagne was thrust into his hands. He opened it and soaked everyone around, then they all had a swig.
There was no sign of Malise or Rupert. They were closeted with a member of the international jury, Rupert shouting in only too fluent French and Malise trying to pacify him. But there was no case, said the Frenchman. There was nothing in the rules about not putting in a difficult horse. Macaulay plainly hadn’t liked Rupert, but he’d behaved with all the other riders, and Snakepit certainly hadn’t been an easy ride for anyone, except Jake. Jake was undeniably the winner and they’d better get on with the presentation. Muttering that he was going to report Jake to the BSJA, Rupert stormed out of the ten
t.
“Where are you going?” said Malise.
“Not back into the ring to get the booby prize,” snarled Rupert.
“My dear boy,” said Malise gently, drawing him aside, “I’m sorry. It was bad luck. You’ve had a great disappointment and probably a very frightening experience.”
“Balls,” said Rupert. “I’ve been robbed.”
“You must have beaten Macaulay severely for him to go for you like that.”
“He was my horse. What fucking business is that of anyone’s?”
“The RSPCA for a start, and the FEI, not to mention the BSJA. It won’t do your image any good, nor will a lot of emotive stuff about selling Macaulay to the Middle East, and him starving and ending up in the stone quarries.”
“If you believe that story.”
“I do,” said Malise, “and it could ruin you. The press are longing to get you, and you know what the English are like about cruelty to animals. It’ll take a lot of guts, but go back into the ring and keep your trap shut. Bet you’ll get a lot of marks.”
Back came the bands, but this time the four horses were too tired to be disturbed by the drums and the cymbals. Ludwig shook Jake by the hand. “Well done, my friend, well done.”
“Clara was the best-trained horse. You should have won it,” said Jake.
“You fought back from a terrible start; zat is more important.”
Dudley Diplock ran up to Jake. “Seuper, absolutely seuper,” he cried, giving Macaulay a wide berth. “Can I interview you immediately after the presentation?”
Rupert rode in last. The crowd gave him almost the biggest cheer in sympathy. He was handsomer than Robert Redford, he had jumped three spectacular clears, and certainly most of the women in the audience had wanted him to win.
Jake rode forward, leaving the other riders lined up behind him, and removed his hat as the band played the National Anthem. His hair was drenched with sweat and there was a red ring on his forehead left by his hat. In a daze, he was given an assortment of rosettes, so you could hardly see Macaulay’s white face for ribbons. There was also a purple sash, which clashed with Jake’s scarlet coat, and a huge laurel wreath for Macaulay’s neck, which he tried to eat. Then, to Jake’s intense embarrassment, one beautiful girl in matching green suits after another came up and presented him with prize after prize: a gold medal, a Sèvres vase, a Limoges tea set, a silver tray, a magnum of champagne, an enormous silver cup and, finally, a check for £10,000.
There was nothing except one rosette and much smaller checks for the others.
“Can’t we each have one of those girls as consolation prizes?” said Dino.
Even when Prince Philip came up and shook him by the hand, Jake was too euphoric even to be shy and managed to stumble a few sentences out. Aware that the place was swarming with photographers and television cameras, Macaulay resolutely stuck his cock out and refused to put it in again.
“Just like Rupert,” said Fen.
As Jake came out of the ring, he was cornered by Dudley Diplock. “May I personally shake Macaulay by the hoof. How the hell did you get him to do it?” he added, lowering his voice. “I’ve been waiting ten years for someone to give that shit Campbell-Black his comeuppance. The whole show-jumping world will club together and give you a medal.”
Gradually it was dawning on Jake that most people seemed more delighted Rupert had lost than that he had won. After the television interview with Dudley, which was not very articulate but so full of euphoria and gratitude to Macaulay and Tory and all the family and Malise, that it charmed everyone. Malise joined them. Neither he nor Jake were demonstrative men, but for a second they hugged each other.
“You were brilliant,” said Malise in a strangely gruff voice. “Sorry I didn’t get to you earlier but I’ve been with Rupert. He wanted to object.”
“Nothing to object about,” said Dudley.
“Quite,” said Malise. “But that’s never deterred him in the past. Fortunately, they weren’t having any of it. But he has been badly humiliated, so I think the less crowing about that side of it the better. Come on,” he added to Jake, “everyone’s waiting to talk to you.”
“Who?”
“The world’s press, for a start.”
“I want to ride Mac back to the stable. I’ve got nothing to say to them. I won. Isn’t that enough?”
Malise looked at him. Was there a flicker of pity in his eyes? “It won’t have had time to sink in,” he said, “but things are never going to be the same again. You’re a superstar now, a world beater. You’ve got to behave like one.”
On the way, they passed Helen Campbell-Black; she was crying. Both Malise and Jake hoped that Rupert wasn’t going to take it out on her. As they fought their way into the crowded press tent, euphoric English supporters, stripped to the waist, including Humpty, Ivor Braine, and Driffield, were already getting plastered.
“Fucking marvelous! You beat the bugger,” said Driffield, thrusting a glass into Jake’s hand, while Ivor overfilled it with champagne.
“Three cheers for the champion,” said Humpty. “Hip-hip-hooray.” Everyone joined in. The noise nearly lifted the roof off.
“Lovell for prime minister,” yelled an ecstatic British supporter. Opening another magnum, he sprayed the entire press conference with champagne.
Jake was carried shoulder-high to the table with the microphones. He collapsed into a chair and was bombarded with questions. He answered the foreign ones through an interpreter.
He was extremely happy, he said, but very, very tired. One didn’t sleep much before a championship. He’d won because he was very lucky. Macaulay was a great horse, perhaps not in the class of any of the other horses, but he had been rested all year. Clara was the best-trained horse. She didn’t knock down a single fence, she ought to get a special prize.
Everyone was still clamoring for information about Macaulay.
Jake said carefully that he’d always liked the horse, and when Rupert sold the horse on, he’d tracked him down and bought him.
“Did you deliberately put him in to sabotage Rupert?” asked Paris Match.
Jake caught Malise’s eye. “Of course not. I’d no idea how he’d feel about Rupert.”
“Did you know Rupert had sold the horse because he was vicious?” asked Joanna.
Jake looked up, the somber black eyes suddenly amused. “Who’s vicious?” he said. “Rupert or the horse?”
Everyone laughed.
Later a celebratory party went on until four o’clock in the morning, but Rupert and Helen gave it a miss and flew home.
Soon all that was left of the World Championship was a few wheel tracks and a bare patch at the corner of the collecting ring, where all week ecstatic grooms had snatched up handfuls of grass to reward their successful charges, as they came out of the ring.
36
Aweek after the riders came back from the World Championship, Billy went up to London to speak at the Sportswriters’ Association Lunch. If they’d known I was going to be dropped, they probably wouldn’t have asked me, he thought wryly. Janey needed the car to go shopping (“Only food from the market; it’s so much cheaper,” she added quickly), so she dropped Billy off at the station. He couldn’t face Horse and Hound; it’d be too full of the World Championship, so he bought Private Eye, which always cheered him up, except when they were foul about Rupert. As he sat on the station platform, he turned to Grovel. He read a marvelous story about a member of the Spanish Royal family’s sexual perversions, and another, even more scurrilous, about a trade union leader and a pit pony. Then his heart stopped beating. The next story began:
“Ex-slag-about-Fleet Street, Janey Henderson, sacked for the size of her expenses, is now trying to write a book about men. Despite encyclopedic knowledge of the subject, Janey felt the need for further research and recently returned from four days in Marbella with loathsome catfood tycoon Kevin Coley. Meanwhile her amiable husband, Billy Lloyd-Foxed (as he’s known on the circuit), is forced
to turn a blind drunk eye. Coley is his backer to the tune of £50,000 a year.”
Billy started to shake. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t—not Janey. She’d always laughed at Kev. Private Eye got things wrong; they were always being sued. He read it again. The words misted in front of his eyes. He didn’t even hear the train come in. The ticket collector tapped him on the shoulder. “You want this one, don’t you, Billy?”
“Yes, no, I don’t know. No, I don’t.”
Running, pushing aside the people coming off the train, he rushed out of the station, flagging down the first taxi. “Take me home.”
“All right, Mr. Lloyd-Foxe.”
No one was there. Janey was still out shopping. He pressed the LR button on her telephone to find out the last number she’d rung. It was Kevin Coley’s, at the head office. Hating himself, he looked in her top drawer. Janey had started a letter which she’d crumpled up.
“Darling Kev, I won’t see you today, so I’m writing. God, I miss you, I’m just coming down to earth after Marbella. Can’t you think of somewhere nice and far to send Billy?”
He gave a moan of horror. His legs were trembling so much he could hardly stand. The bottle clattered against the glass and the whisky spilt all over the carpet. He drained it neat in one gulp, then he ran all the way to Rupert’s. He found him in the yard, selling a horse to an American.
One look at Billy’s face and Rupert said to the buyer, “Sorry, I’ve got to go. If you’re interested in the horse, give me a ring later.” Then, putting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he led him inside.
As soon as the drawing room door was shut behind them Billy said, “Did you know Janey was being knocked off by Kevin Coley?”
“Yes.”
“How the hell?”
“Helen saw them lunching together in Cheltenham, and Mrs. Bodkin’s been chuntering. And Mrs. Greenslade said in Les Rivaux that she saw them coming off a plane.”