Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “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.

  43

  “How many miles to Coventry?” sighed Fen.

  “Threescore miles and ten.

  Will I get there by candlelight?

  Yes—but don’t come b
ack again.”

  It was the last night of the three-day East Yorkshire show. Fen lay in bed with Lester the teddy bear slumped beside her, listening to the rain irritably drumming on the roof of the lorry. Sleep had evaded her again, and even the new Dick Francis had failed to distract her. She put it down and reached for her diary with the tattered photograph of Billy tucked in between September and October. He was laughing, his eyes screwed up against the Lucerne sun.

  Next week was Wembley. It had been a desperate six weeks for Fen. After Crittleden, as good as their word, the British riders had sent her to Coventry. At every show she attended people who’d been her friends cut her dead or deliberately turned their backs. She knew Rupert was behind it. He’d gone out of his way to be kind to her after she’d split up with Billy, and she’d defied him publicly and humiliatingly, which had been a terrible blow to his ego. As the majority of riders were either frightened of Rupert or jealous of Fen’s meteoric rise, they were only too happy to follow his lead.

  Things were not all Campbell-Black, however. Jake’s leg was mending at last; he was expected to be out of hospital soon after Wembley and riding again by the spring. And if the Crittleden victory had enraged the riders, it had enchanted the public. News of the victimization had reached the press, who were all on Fen’s side. Overnight the telephone started ringing, with newspapers, magazines, and television companies clamoring for interviews. Invitations flooded in for her to speak at dinners, open supermarkets, address pony clubs, donate various items of her clothing to raise money at charity auctions. Everywhere she was mobbed by autograph hunters. Her post was full of fan mail from admiring men and little girls, who wanted signed photographs or help with their ponies.

  For a public, hungry for new idols, Fen fitted the bill perfectly. With her slender, androgynous figure with its suggestion of anorexia, jagged cabin-boy hair, and gamin, wistful, extraordinarily photogenic face, she was a true child of her time. Just as the public was drawn to Jake because he was mysteriously enigmatic, they loved Fen because she couldn’t hide her feelings. She was either furious or suicidal or ecstatic, and her naturally friendly nature endeared her to everyone.