coffee on the dresser and looked at the price. “Christ, coffee’s expensive. I’m going to drink liquor in future.”
Janey came and put her arms round him: “I do love you,” she said. “Don’t worry about money, I’ve got a lovely bottle of St. Emilion.”
After three huge vodkas and a bottle of St. Emilion, the problem didn’t seem so bad. Billy would ride with panache, Janey would write like a maniac while he was away. They would soon get out of their mess.
Spring came, more longed-for than ever after the hardness of the winter, and the woods were filled with violets, anemones, primroses, and birdsong. Chaucer’s people thought about pilgrimages; Janey thought about new clothes. The wild garlic made her feel homesick for drunken lunches in Soho. She knew marriage to Billy was far more precious and durable, but she missed the jokes and the gossip. She lived on the telephone to her mother. She was finding it increasingly difficult to buckle down to her book. She was used to the weekly clapping of journalism, the steady fan mail, people coming up to her at parties and saying, “You were a bit near the knuckle last week.”
In the country, there was no second post, no
One afternoon Billy’s mother dropped in with a bridge friend. The cottage looked awful. There was no cake, only some stale bread, no jam, and a teapot already full of leaves. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe followed her into the kitchen.
“Any news?” she asked. Janey shook her head, but was so upset that she burnt the toast.
“What a beautiful view,” said the bridge friend, looking out of the window.
“The only views I like these days,” said Janey, “are my own.”
The bills poured in. Janey’s tax bill arrived and Billy realized that, as her husband, he was liable for an extra ?15,000, with a further ?3,000 owing to VAT-man.
Every time Janey went shopping, wherever she looked, baby clothes seemed to be mocking her. She seemed to be alone in a world of mothers. She took her temperature and wrote it down on the back of a Christmas card every day, and Billy was supposed to leap on her when her temperature went up. But invariably she’d mislaid the card or Billy wasn’t there on the right day.
In May, Helen gave birth to a daughter, whom they called Tabitha. Rupert was present at the birth, and although to Helen, he seemed to spend more time making eyes over his white mask at the pretty nurses, and seeing how all the machinery worked, he was at least present if incorrect. And from the moment he set eyes on Tabitha and she opened her Cambridge blue eyes, Rupert was totally enchanted. She was indeed the most angelic baby. She gurgled and laughed, and, almost immediately, she slept through the night; and, if she woke, it was Rupert who got up without a murmur, displaying a sweetness and patience Helen had never seen before.
Where Rupert was concerned, it was the great love affair of the century. Here was someone he could love unstintingly, and who adored him back. Later her first word was “Daddy,” and, when she took her first steps, they were towards Rupert. And almost before she could walk she screamed to be put on a pony, and screamed even louder when she was lifted off. Rupert would do anything for her, bathing her, playing with her for hours, watching as she slept, plump, pink-cheeked, blond, and ravishing in her cot. Delighted at first with Rupert’s delight, Helen gradually became irritated by it, drawing even closer to Marcus, who couldn’t understand, at two, why his father didn’t dote on him and bring him presents and cuddle him on his knee. As a result, when Rupert wasn’t around, he would punch and pinch little Tab and fill her cot with toys. One day Rupert caught him trying to suffocate Tab with a pillow and gave him a backhander which sent him flying across the room. Two hours later, Marcus had one of his worst asthma attacks. He recovered, but by that time Rupert had moved on to another show.
The christening upset Janey very much. She was a godmother, but it was such a tribal affair, such a ritualistic celebration of fertility. All the Campbell-Blacks were there in force, going into ecstasies over such a ravishing baby. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe sent Tab a beautiful silver mug. Janey got drunk afterwards and spent all night in floods of tears. Billy was in despair. “We’ve only been married a year and a half, darling. I’ll see a doctor. It might be my fault.”
30
All the riders were now revving up for the World Championship, which was being held at Les Rivaux in Brittany in July. Only six British riders would be selected to go. Considering Billy a certainty, Kevin Coley had reserved a big tent at Les Rivaux and was intending to make a party of it, flying out all his important customers for a jolly.
As it was only May, Billy wasn’t too worried about qualifying. He was bound to hit form soon. The Bull had got over a virus complaint and was back on the circuit. Another key event, from Kevin Coley’s point of view, was Westerngate, a big show in the Midlands, towards the end of May. The Moggie Meal factory was just a few miles outside Westerngate, and Kevin Coley had a tent at the show, where all his senior staff were expected to turn out in their best clothes and mingle with important customers.
The highlight of the day for all of them was to meet Billy and watch his horses, Moggie Meal Al, Moggie Meal Kitch (Kitchener), and Moggie Meal Dick (Mandryka), jumping. They were also keen to meet Billy’s beautiful and famous wife, Janey, whom many of the wives had thought a scream when they read her pieces.
Westerngate was about eighty miles north of Penscombe. Billy was expected to be on parade all three days of the show, and Kevin and Enid Coley were naturally disappointed that Janey was working on Thursday and Friday, but were very much looking forward to seeing her on Saturday for lunch.
“Do I have to come?” grumbled Janey.
“It
“Marg and sliced bread, if you ask me. I hate to leave the book,” she lied, “when it’s going so well.”
“I’ll come home on Friday night and collect you,” said Billy, “and we can drive down in the morning. But we’ll have to leave early; I’ve got a novice class around eleven-thirty.”
On the Monday before the show, Billy had gone to Kevin to ask for an advance of ?20,000 to keep some of his creditors at bay. Kevin thought for a minute. “Yes, I’ll help you out, Billy.”
“That’s terribly kind of you,” said Billy, heaving a sigh of relief.
“It isn’t kind, it’s fucking generous. But I’m not going to help you out that much. I’m only going to give you ?2,000, or you’ll lose your hunger.”
Billy’s heart sank.
“You’ll have to win the rest. Cut down on the booze and lose some weight. It’s a tough world. I’m counting on you for the World Championship. I’ve booked that tent for Les Rivaux, so you’d better start winning, and qualify.”
Billy wished Kevin hadn’t booked the tent; it was tempting providence.
Bad luck seemed to pursue him. He had such a hangover at Fontainebleau, he forgot to check if Tracey had screwed in Kitchener’s studs. Kitchener went into the ring and promptly slipped on takeoff, putting him out for the whole season, which left Billy with only The Bull and Mandryka. Janey was sympathetic when he rang, but she was four days late with the curse, and cocooned in secret expectations.
On Wednesday night, Billy came home from Fontainebleau and found Janey had put three pairs of breeches and four white shirts in the washing machine with one of her scarlet silk scarves, so they came out streaked red like the dawn. Billy was very tired or he wouldn’t have hit the roof.
“I can’t think what you’re worrying about. I’m not complaining,” Janey shouted back at him, “and I’ve ruined a perfectly good scarf. I’ve been so busy, you’re lucky to have your shirts washed at all. Why don’t you go out and win something, then you could afford to send them to the laundry?”
Billy felt that terrible clawing pain in his gut that was becoming so familiar these days. A large glass of whisky seemed the only answer.
