wasted so much emotion being jealous of Fen.
* * *
Rupert got up and dressed.
“Where are you going?” said Helen.
“For a walk. It’s hot. I can’t sleep.”
“Oh, darling, you must rest. Shall I come with you?”
“No, go back to sleep.”
A quarter of an hour later he paused beside Fen, her long hair fanning out, already slightly damp from the dew, teddy bear clutched in her arms. He toyed with the idea of waking her, but she needed sleep. He’d put her on ice for a later date. As he pulled the sleeping bag round her, she clutched the teddy bear tighter, muttering, “Don’t forget to screw in the studs.”
When he let himself into the lorry, Dizzy hardly stirred in her sleep, smiled, and opened her arms. Rupert slid into them.
Ludwig von Schellenberg had such self-control that he willed himself into eight hours’ dreamless sleep.
35
World Championship day dawned. There were a couple of small classes in the morning to keep the rest of the riders happy, but all interest was centered on the four finalists. Each box was a hive of activity of plaiting and polishing and everyone giving everyone else advice. It was hotter than ever. In the lorry, Jake watched an Algerian schools program on television, trying to steady his nerves, and wondered if there was any hope of his keeping down the cup of tea and dry toast he’d had for breakfast. Tory was frying eggs, bacon, and sausages for the children (it didn’t look as though anyone would have time to cook them a decent meal before the evening) and at the same time ironing the lucky socks, breeches, shirt, tie, and red coat that Jake had worn in each leg of the competition. The new tansy lay in the heel of the highly polished left boot. Jake had seen one magpie that morning, but had been cheered up by the sight of a black cat, until Driffield informed him that black cats were considered unlucky in France. Milk bottles, tins, eggshells in the muck bucket were beginning to smell. Fen was studying a German dictionary.
“It doesn’t give the German for ‘whoa.’ You’ll have to fall back on dummkopf, lieberlein, and achtung.”
“Or auf wiedersehen,” said Jake, “as Clara bucks me off and gallops off into the sunset.”
“The American for whoa, must be starp, starp,’ she went on.
“You remember that red T-shirt you wore when Revenge won at Olympia?” said Jake.
“I’ve got it here,’ said Fen.
“D’you mind wearing it this afternoon?”
Fen did mind very much. It was impossibly hot and she’d got very burnt yesterday, and the red T-shirt would clash with her face. But it was Jake’s day; she mustn’t be selfish.
“Of course not,’ she said.
Jake was encouraged by the number of telegrams. British hopes rested with Rupert, but Jake had generated an enormous amount of goodwill. People were obviously delighted to see him back at the top again. There were telegrams from the Princess and one from the colonel of the regiment at Knightsbridge Barracks, who’d somehow discovered that their old horse Macaulay had ended up with Jake. The one that pleased him most was from Miss Blenkinsop in the Middle East. He knew that she, as much as he, enjoyed the sheer pleasure of showing the world that he could succeed with a horse Rupert had thrown out. Every time Macaulay won anything, he’d religiously taken 10 percent of the winnings and posted them to Miss Blenkinsop for her Horse Rescue hospital. If he won today, she would get ?1,000.
If he won, “Oh my God,” he said, and bolted out of the caravan, through a crowd of reporters, and into the lavatory, where he brought up his breakfast.
“Why don’t you bloody well go away?” shouted Fen to the reporters. “You know you won’t get any sense out of him before a big class.”
In the end they had to be content with interviewing Darklis, who sat on a hay bale, smiling up at them with huge black eyes.
“My daddy’s been thick four times this morning. He doesn’t theem to like French food. I love it. We’ve had steak and chips every single night.”
At last there was the course to walk, which made Jake feel even worse. It was far bigger than he’d imagined. The water jump seemed wider than the Channel. The heavy, thundery, blue sky seemed to rest on the huge soaring oxblood red wall, and Jake could actually stand underneath the poles of the parallel.
Malise, walking beside him, winced at the French marigolds, clashing with purple petunias and scarlet geraniums in the pots on either side of each jump. How could the French have such exquisite color sense in their clothes and not in their gardening?
A couple of English reporters sidled up to them. “Did you really pull a knife on Rupert, Gyppo.”
“Bugger off,” said Malise. “He’s got to memorize the course. Do you want a British victory or not? That’s tricky,” he added to Jake, looking at the distance between the parallels and the combination. “It’s on a half-stride. The water’s a brute. You’ll get hardly any run in there. You’ll need the stick.”
“Macaulay never needs a stick,” said Jake through frantically chattering teeth. The sheer impossibility of getting Snakepit, let alone President’s Man, over any of the fences paralyzed him with terror.
Rupert walked with Colonel Roxborough, wearing dark glasses, but no hat against the punishing Brittany sun. He seemed totally oblivious of the effect he was having on the French girls in the crowd. The German team walked together, so did the Americans. Count Guy, in a white suit made by Yves St. Laurent, was the object of commiseration. Over his great disappointment now, he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. At least he didn’t have to jump five rounds in this heat and his horses would be fresh for Crittleden the following week.
In the collecting ring, Ivor Braine had been cornered by the press and was telling them, in his broad Yorkshire accent, that he was convinced Jake had been brandishing a knife because the steaks were so tough.
“I wish Saddleback Sam had made it,” said Humpty for the thousandth time.
Driffield was busy selling a horse at a vastly inflated price to one of the Mexican riders.
“Wish it was a wife-riding contest,” said Rupert. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at Mrs. Ludwig, although I would draw the line at Mrs. Lovell.”
Once again he wished Billy were there. He’d never needed his advice more, or his silly jokes, to lower the tension. Obviously drunk at ten o’clock in the morning, Billy had already rung him to wish him luck.
Rupert had asked after Janey. Billy had laughed bitterly. “She’s like a wet log fire. If you don’t watch her all the time, she goes out.”
Next week, reflected Rupert grimly, he was going to have to take Janey out to lunch and tell her to get her act together.
Despite the lack of a French rider in the final, all the publicity had attracted a huge crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat or an inch of rope unleaned over anywhere. Malise sighed. If there was a British victory, all the glare of bad publicity of the feuds between riders might be forgotten. He watched Rupert, cool as an icicle, putting Snakepit over huge jumps in the collecting ring. Jake was nowhere to be seen. He was probably being sick again.
At two o’clock, each of the four finalists came on, led by their own band. Ludwig came first, to defend his title on the mighty Clara, yellow browband matching the yellow knots in her plaits. Her coat was the color of oak leaves in autumn, her huge chest like a steamer funnel. Unruffled by the crowd, her eyes shone with wisdom and kindness.
Then came Dino on the slender President’s Man, who looked almost foal-like in his legginess. The same liver chestnut as Clara, he seemed half her size. Dino lounged, totally relaxed in the saddle, like a young princeling, his olive skin only slightly paler than usual, hat tipped over his nose, as though he was taking the piss out of the whole
