Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  In England, however, Jake was on sensational form. Macaulay, blissful to have his master on his back again, was jumping superbly. Hardy, recovered from the operation and still erratic and cantankerous, had some brilliant days. Wherever Jake went, he annihilated the competition. But he was still nagged by the worry that the selectors had forgotten him because he’d been off the circuit so long. How much more would he have to achieve before they began to sit up and take notice?

  Almost, but not entirely, taking the edge off his anxiety was his obsession with Helen. Traveling the British circuit, he was away from home three or four nights a week. Sarah was abroad with Fen. Hannah, Jake’s new young groom, had a convenient crush on one of the Irish riders, spending most nights sleeping under haycocks or in the back of the Irish boy’s lorry. Helen, with a Volvo at her disposal, whizzed up numerous motorways and spent as many nights as possible with Jake, stretched out in his lorry or on a duvet in the back of the Volvo. Sometimes they went to hotels. Often, despite Jake’s reluctance, Helen paid. If she had the money, why not? From the moment she committed herself to Jake she felt absolutely no guilt about being unfaithful to Rupert or spending his money.

  She did feel guilty about neglecting the children, but she was so happy whenever she returned, radiant and talkative, and so loaded down with guilt presents, even choc drops for Badger, that everyone flourished. Helen, being an emotional tyro, was blissfully unaware that everyone in the household knew someone was up and were having bets on who he was.

  On the twenty-eighth of May Jake returned to the Mill House, having spent three days at the Great Cheshire show, where he had won every big class by day and spent his nights making love to Helen. In three days’ time, which was also the first day of the Lucerne show, the Olympic committee would announce ten short-listed riders from whom the final five would be selected in mid-July. Jake arrived home absolutely shattered. His mended leg ached badly, but that was probably due more to an excess of sex than to show jumping. As he climbed out of the lorry, the sun was setting. Tory ran out of the house to welcome him. With her bulk and her round shining face, she seemed, after Helen’s slenderness, like a Matrioska doll that has suddenly gone two sizes up. He hoped her elation might be due to the news that he’d been selected, but it was purely because she was so thrilled to see him. He was so tired, he kept giving the wrong answers to her questions. As he went into the kitchen, the children surged forward in their pajamas to welcome him, hugging and kissing him, bombarding him with questions about the trip. Realizing he couldn’t cope with the din, Tory sent them off to watch television. Jake poured himself a drink.

  “How did Fen do in the Nations’ Cup?”

  Tory had prayed he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want him upset so soon after he’d got home.

  “They dropped both her rounds.”

  “Shit. What happened?”

  “She was in floods when she rang. I don’t think it was anything Desdemona did wrong. Fen said it was her fault. She’ll probably ring you after the Grand Prix.”

  Jake dropped a couple of ice cubes in his whisky and went out into the yard, watching the horses being put to bed. Macaulay, having rolled and wolfed his dinner, was already dragging up the straw, preparing to lie down. Hardy was still restless. It always took him a long time to settle back, even into his own box. As Jake progressed down the line, each horse came to the half-door to welcome him. Tonight, for once, they didn’t cheer him up. Why hadn’t he heard from Malise?

  He went into the tackroom.

  “Supper,” called Tory from the kitchen door.

  “Won’t be a minute,” Jake called back. Next moment he’d picked up the tackroom telephone. As he waited for Helen to answer he noticed the peeling paint on the door. If Charlene answered, he would put the telephone down.

  “Helen, it’s Jake.”

  “Darling.” It was worth the risk to hear the ecstasy in her voice. “Where are you?”

  “At home. I can’t talk. I just want you to know I miss you like hell.”

  Suddenly he saw Tory appearing in the doorway. “I’ll call you tomorrow, bye.”

  “Darling,” said Tory, “I could have made that call for you.”

  “Think I left my wallet in Humpty’s lorry. I had a drink with him at lunchtime.”

  “Your wallet’s in the kitchen, silly,” said Tory. “You must be tired. It’s so sweet you’ve got that photograph of me from the color supplement tucked inside it. It’s an awful picture. I look so fat. D’you really miss me when you’re away?”

  “ ’Course I do.”

  The photograph in fact was part of a feature on show-jumping wives that had just appeared in the Sunday Times color magazine. On one side of the page were two photographs: one of Tory looking fat, pink, and eager, nailing up rosettes in the kitchen, the other of Janey Lloyd-Foxe, managing to look absurdly sexy in a maternity smock. The other side of the page was devoted entirely to a photograph of Helen on the terrace at Penscombe, gazing wistfully down the valley, looking unbelievably beautiful. It was taken before she met Jake and was the reason he had sloped up to the newsagent to scrounge another copy.

  In the kitchen, Jake thanked God that Hannah, Isa, and Darklis were having dinner with them. The children, allowed to stay because it was Sunday tomorrow, were arguing who was going to sit next to him.

  “You can both sit next to Daddy,” said Tory, putting a long loaf of garlic bread on the table.

  Darklis had painted a picture at school which she showed proudly to Jake.

  “It’s you and Macaulay at Los Angeles, Daddy.”

  Both he and Macaulay were standing on the rostrum wearing gold medals with balloons coming out of their mouths saying “God save the Queen.”

  “I think you’re being a bit premature, but thank you,” said Jake.

  As Tory served out beef cooked in beer and the children both helped themselves to too much mashed potato, and Hannah brandished the rosettes they’d won this week, which tomorrow would be nailed to the corkboard, Jake wondered if the last month with Helen had been all a dream.

  Suddenly the telephone rang. For a mad moment of panic he thought it might be Helen ringing back. It was Malise, calling from Lucerne.

  After two minutes, Tory put Jake’s dinner in the oven. After ten minutes, Tory gave the rest of the beef out in second helpings, knowing Jake wouldn’t want any more.

  “Yes,” he said, his back hunched over the telephone, with a curious stillness. “Yes, I see, okay. Yes.”

  “We’re going to need another bottle,” said Hannah.

  “I don’t know if we’ve got one,” said Tory. “What for?”

  “To celebrate, or to cheer ourselves up.”

  At last Jake came off the telephone. He looked like a thundercloud. Then he smiled and put his arms round Tory.

  “Fen was third in the Grand Prix.”

  “Oh, thank goodness for that,” said Tory.

  There was a long pause. They all waited. “And I’ve been short-listed for L.A. He wants me to fly out to Lucerne with Hardy and Macaulay tomorrow.”

  Tory woke up at four in the morning and, reaching out for Jake, found the bed empty. He was in the study. Cigarettes were piling up in the ashtray. Outside, it was already light, blackbirds were bustling importantly across the lawn, like clerics in a cathedral close.

  “Darling, what are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Too excited?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Too much to think about.”

  He’d waited so long for that telephone call, despairing that it would ever come. Now it had and he ought to be overjoyed, but all he could think was that he wouldn’t see Helen for at least a fortnight. The prospect appalled him.

  By morning, he had the whole thing in perspective and was quite matter-of-fact when he rang her. Helen sounded absolutely shattered and made no attempt to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “I’m thrilled for you, darling, but we won’t be able
to have that week in Yorkshire. I can’t bear it.”

  “I’ll only be away ten days.”

  “But that’s an eternity and then Rupert’ll be back for the Royal and the Royal International. Can I see you this afternoon?”

  “It’s a bit tricky.” He sounded detached, as though he was already in Lucerne. “I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. We’re desperately short-staffed anyway, with Fen and Sarah abroad and all the papers to get in order.”

  Being superstitious, he hadn’t brought anything up to date in case he wasn’t selected.

  “I’ll ring you later,” he said.

  Jake didn’t get a moment to ring until seven o’clock. Everyone was in the yard or in the kitchen, so in the end he was reduced to pretending he needed some cigarettes from the pub. Then the pub call box was out of order, so he had to use the one in the High Street to the fascination of all the locals. Helen was in a frightful state.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve been frantic. I figured something must have happened.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been hellishly busy.”

  “Am I going to see you this evening?”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll come over to you.”

  “I haven’t had a night at home for days. I’ve got a hell of a lot still to do. We’re leaving first thing.”

  Next moment he jumped out of his skin as a neighbor tapped on the window, wanting to congratulate Jake on being short-listed.

  “What are you doing in a call box, anyway?” he asked.

  “Ours is out of order,” said Jake.

  “Come and use ours then.”

  “I’ve nearly finished,” Jake banged the door shut. “Darling, I’m sorry, someone banged on the window. Look, I’ll ring you as soon as I get to Lucerne.”

  “I can take a hint,” said Helen in a tight voice. “You’ve only got time for your bloody horses.”

  “Don’t be such a bitch.”

  “I thought you were different,” sobbed Helen, “but you’re behaving just like Rupert.”

  “Hardly surprising, if you carry on like this.”

  But she slammed down the telephone.

  The locals drinking outside the pub were highly diverted to see Jake come out of the telephone box, wander up the street away from his own car, nearly get run over crossing the street, then wander back into the telephone box again.

  Jake was very restless at dinner, snapping at the children, hardly eating anything.

  “You all right?” asked Tory, as she cleared away.

  “I’m sorry.” Jake put an apologetic hand on her back. “It’s just nerves, I guess.”

  “And tiredness,” said Tory, throwing the remains of his ham and baked potatoes into the muck bucket. “You’re jolly well going to bed early.”

  “I will, I promise, but I met Hugh Massey in the street. He says he’s got a video of last year’s show at Lucerne. He promised to show it to me.”

  “Don’t be long,” she said.

  Pretending to collect his car keys, Jake went upstairs. Darklis caught him in the bathroom.

  “Why are you cleaning your teeth, Daddy?”

  “Because I got a bit of ham stuck,” lied Jake.

  In disgust Darklis gazed at her face in the bathroom mirror.

  “I don’t think anyone will marry me when I grow up.”

  “I’ll marry you, sweetheart,” said Jake, dropping a kiss on her head.

  “You’ve already got a woman,” said Darklis gloomily.

  I’ve got two, thought Jake wryly.

  Helen was waiting in the car park of the Goat and Boots, three miles away. She got into his car and they drove half a mile into the country and turned off the road. Helen fell into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m desperately sorry. Please don’t ever let me behave like that again. I just couldn’t bear the thought of your going away.”

  “Hush, pet, hush.” Gradually he calmed her.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. We’ve got to face the fact that I’m going to be horrendously busy for the next two months. For one thing, we desperately need the cash. Fen’s been off form and she needs sorting out. I’ve still got a long way to go with Hardy. I’ve got to kill myself to get a place in that team. To be selfish, if I’m not selected I don’t want to reproach myself for the rest of my life for having blown it because I didn’t work hard enough. I’m not a natural, like your husband. Ever since I’ve been in show jumping it’s been one hell of a struggle to keep going. Fen, the children, the grooms, and most of all Tory, have had to make colossal sacrifices. After that last fall I’ve crawled back from the gates of hell. But only because they made it possible. I owe it to them all to get to L.A. and I want to go.” His voice softened, and he put up his hand to stroke her cheek, which was wet with tears. “Until I met you, I thought I wanted it more than anything else. Allow me three and a half months until the Games are over. There, that’s the longest speech I’ve ever made.”

  “I’ll put up with anything,” said Helen, in a trembling voice. “I just thought you’d gone off me.”

  Jake laughed. “You’re like Macaulay, desperate for reassurance.”

  “That’s the difference between us,” said Helen slowly. “My marriage is absolute purgatory. Yours is perfectly okay. We’re batting from different strengths.”

  There was a pause. Jake was too truthful to disagree with her.

  “Shall I fly out to Lucerne?” she asked with a sudden surge of hope.

  “No, I don’t want any distractions.”

  And with that she had to be content.

  Rupert rang the following evening. He was halfway to Lucerne.

  Rocky, he said, had won the Grand Prix on the Saturday.

  “How’s Fen getting on?” asked Helen.

  “Disastrously. I can’t think why Malise doesn’t pack her off back to junior classes. Mind you, he’s really gone off his head now. He’s just sent for Jake Lovell. ‘Jake Lovell,’ I said to him, ‘couldn’t get a jump in a brothel.’ ”

  Lucerne was a show of mixed fortunes for Jake. Macaulay, who hadn’t flown since Jake brought him half-starved back from the Middle East four years before, obviously thought he was being taken back to the stone quarries and completely freaked out on the flight. Sweating as though in the highest fever, his huge body quivering with terror in the tiny crate, his anguished eyes imploring Jake not to desert him, he reminded his master of nothing so much as Helen. It took all Jake’s skill and patience to stop him kicking the plane out.

  Arriving in Lucerne, Macaulay was pathetically pleased to see such old friends as Fen, Sarah, and Malise. He was further comforted to see Desdemona in situ, and dragged Jake halfway across the yard to check if it were really her. Touching her nose, exchanging breaths, Macaulay was still rigid with disbelief. Only when Desdemona reached up to rest her roan face against his still sweating neck, protective and defensive, did he begin to relax. But he never really recovered his form all week.

  Bearing in mind that there would be a punishing flight to the Olympics and Macaulay was not all that sound in the wind, and a clean-winded horse was essential for the Los Angeles smog, Jake, after long discussions with Malise, decided to pull him out of the contest. He was heartbroken. Most of all he had wanted to win a medal on Macaulay, but his horses always came first, and Jake was not prepared to put the big fellow through the traumas of another plane journey. He’d already made plans to box him home.

  Which meant everything rested on the sleek but irritably twitching gray shoulders of Hardy, who was magnificent on his day, but perfectly capable of carting Jake or kicking every fence out if he so chose. In Lucerne, after a sulky start, he came second in two classes, and jumped an exemplary clear in the first round of the Nations’ Cup. In the second he put in a dirty stop at the water, leaving Jake sitting in the exquisite model lake with a stream of expletives on his lips and a bridle in his hand, while Hardy cavorted round the ring like Tinkerbell, refusing to b
e caught. Having learnt to duck out of his bridle, Hardy suddenly decided what fun it was, and did exactly the same thing in a speed class the following day.

  All this provided wonderful fuel for Rupert, who proceeded to put the boot in on every occasion. Although Fen got very hot under the collar and snapped back at Rupert, Jake refused to rise. He got a quiet satisfaction from the thought of how much better he’d been riding Rupert’s wife at home, and a further laugh when the post arrived one morning and Rupert actually handed him an envelope containing a passionate love letter from Helen. Thank goodness, she’d had the foresight to type the envelope and post it in London.

  Finally, Hardy put a muzzle on all his critics by coming second to Ludwig in the Grand Prix. But all in all, Jake did not feel the week’s adventures had enhanced his Olympic prospects.

  After Lucerne, it was back to the Royal in Birmingham, then out to Aachen, then more shows in England and finally Crittleden at the end of July, after which the team would be announced.

  All this made Jake very uptight and, although he missed Helen appallingly, he had plenty to occupy his mind. Helen, on the other hand, had nothing. She thought about Jake obsessively. It was as if he was the same television program permanently in front of her eyes. His face haunted her dreams. At night she tossed and turned, longing for his hands on her body.

  She had even convinced herself that Jake would make a much better father for the children, particularly Marcus. Rupert had come home from Lucerne and taken both children to the fair. Here he had insisted on riding on all the most frightening things. Tabitha adored every minute of it. Marcus was absolutely terrified and ended up being sick on the top of the big wheel, soaking not only Rupert’s trousers but the couple immediately below them, who took it in very bad part. Rupert returned home in a blazing temper, with Marcus white and shaking and Tabitha in high glee telling everyone what had happened. That evening Marcus had his worst asthma attack ever.