obviously going to make it in show jumping, just when Jake’s world seemed to be falling apart, throwing him straight down to the bottom of the ladder, without even being within clutching distance of the first rung. The two- hour ride had really taken it out of him; his head was pounding and every muscle in his body felt bruised by the fall yesterday.
After a night’s rest and Jake’s marshmallow ointment, Africa’s lameness had nearly gone. Mrs. Wilton had gloatingly told him of Malise’s interest that morning and Sir William had just rung again. No one could do anything about it, as Bobby Cotterel was in France till the end of the week, but it was only a matter of time.
He heard a step and, looking up through the dusty cobwebbed window, saw Fen’s fat sister approaching. That was all he needed. Now she was stopping to comb her hair. Then her great blushing face, like a dutch cheese, appeared round the door.
“Yes?” he said bleakly.
“Did, I mean, I was wondering,” she stammered, “if Fen left her whip here?” The feebleness of the excuse made her blush even more. “It was — er — one our grandmother — gave her for Christmas, so she was worried.”
“I haven’t seen it. She’s so scatty, she probably dropped it on the way home.”
How pinched and dark under the eyes he looked, thought Tory, the red check shirt and the black hair only emphasizing his pallor. Sympathy overcame her shyness. “I’m so sorry about people wanting to buy Africa. Fen told me.”
Jake nodded. She shifted from one foot to another and Jake was enveloped in a waft of Molly’s scent, which did not evoke happy memories.
“Is her leg better?”
“She’s all right.”
Why was she hanging round like a great blancmange? Getting up, he ran the sponge under the tap and plunged it into the saddle soap, adding: “The whip — it isn’t here.”
Tory gazed at her feet, twisting a button on Mrs. Maxwell’s mac. Then she noticed what he was reading.
“Oh, there’s Rupert Campbell-Black. Horrible man.”
Jake looked up, slightly more accommodating. Tory blushed again.
“I’m sorry. Is he a friend of yours?”
There was a pause.
“I hate his guts,” said Jake.
“Oh, so do I,” said Tory. “He’s so vicious and contemptuous and, well, bloody-minded. How did
“We were at school together.”
Tory looked amazed.
“Prep school,” added Jake. “I was a day boy. Mum was the cook, so the headmaster let me in free.”
“Oh, goodness, he must have been an absolutely poisonous small boy.”
Taking a nail, Jake pushed out the saddle soap that had got stuck in the cheek-strap holes.
“Poisonous,” he agreed. “He made Eichmann look like a fairy godmother.”
“He’s so rich,” said Tory, “that lots of mothers are after him, but he’s only after one thing.”
“What’s that?” said Jake, to embarrass her.
Tory swallowed. “Well, bed and things. He’s awfully promiscuous.” She pronounced it promise-kew-us. “And he never answers invitations; just rolls up with his current girlfriend and leaves after half an hour if he’s bored. He let off thunderflashes at Queen Charlotte’s. Lady Surrey was livid.”
“He obviously hasn’t changed,” said Jake. “I should have thought Harrow or the army might have knocked it out of him.”
“I think it made him worse,” sighed Tory. “He gets a little gang of cronies round him and manages to be even nastier.”
Nothing unites people like a good bitch. Jake let her rattle on as he put the bridle together again and hung it up. Then he went to reapply Africa’s poultice. Tory followed him, longingly watching the tender way his hands ran over the mare, caressing her polished shoulder and her sleek veined legs. Africa nuzzled him, breathing through her velvet nostrils with love and trust.
“She’s so beautiful,” said Tory wistfully.
The swelling had practically disappeared. Jake redid the bandages and readjusted her summer rug. He wished Tory would buzz off and leave him alone to nurse his misery. As he came out of the stable, shutting the door behind him, the rain stopped. He looked at her round, anxious face, her clean flopping hair and enormous bosom straining against the dark blue T-shirt. There was kindness in her eyes. He looked at his watch.
“Let’s go and have a drink.”
Tory looked at him stupidly.
“A drink,” he repeated mockingly. “The pubs are open. You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course I am. Gosh, thanks awfully.”
As they walked to the pub, Jake noticed the hawthorns were rusting slightly but still smelt like fresh soap, and the wet, hot nettles gave off a heady blackcurrant scent. The cricketers were running out onto the pitch, anxious to get all the game they could into the last half hour.
It was the first time Tory had been taken by a man into a pub; in fact, the first time a man had voluntarily asked her out at all. My first date, she thought excitedly. An old woman was buying Guinness and putting it in a black canvas bag. In the corner, two men with sun-reddened faces, their wives wearing white cardigans and lots of cheap jewelry, had decided to break their journey on the way back to London and were drinking Pimm’s. What on earth was she going to drink? She hated beer, her mother said gin and orange was common, and she knew Buck’s Fizz involved champagne, which was expensive. Her mind was a complete blank. She looked desperately around.
“I’d like a Pimm’s,” she said.
Jake sighed. He’d hoped she’d drink something cheap, like cider, or better still, orange juice. That meant he’d have to have beer instead of the double whisky he so badly needed.
Tory sat down, the furry moquette of the bench seat scratching her thighs. The pub was cool and dark and restful inside; the side door had been fastened back, and outside was a little garden full of wallflowers and irises and pale pink clematis scrambling over some rustic poles.
At first, the conversation was very stilted, but after a couple of Pimm’s, Tory’s tongue was loosened and suddenly, like a washing machine that’s been tugged open halfway through its cycle, everything came gushing out. What a disaster she was at dances, how she hated her finishing school, how ghastly Colonel Carter was, and how she couldn’t get on with her mother.
“Mummy likes Fen, because she’s pretty and funny and because she’s so young, but I’m an embarrassment to her and living proof that she’s over forty-five.”
“She made you go to all these dances because she’s looking for a husband,” said Jake. “D’you think she’s found one?”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Tory. “He’s so phony. He was hanging a picture for Mummy the other day and hit his thumb with the hammer and,” she went even redder, “he said booger instead of bugger.”
Jake hadn’t even brushed his hair before he came out, but it fell into place automatically. Tory ached to touch it. She felt as if someone had bewitched her, as if she was drowning and there was no coming up even for the third time. In a panic, she noticed he’d finished his drink. She’d been reading about Women’s Lib and someone called Germaine Greer. It was all right for women to buy drinks these days. She got a fiver out of her bag and handed it to Jake.
“Go on,” she said with a giggle, “we’re all equal.”
Jake shrugged and went to the bar. The cricketers had finished their game and flocked into the pub, and the barmaid was serving them with huge jugs of beer to pass around, so it was a few minutes before Jake got served. Tory sat in a haze of happiness; the longer he took, the longer they’d have. She looked at him slumped against the bar. He was so thin beside the beefy cricketers; she wished she could feed him up; she was sure he wouldn’t grumble about overdone beef and soggy potatoes. On the door near the Ladies’, a group of men were playing darts. Oh, dear, Cupid had scored a double top, straight into her heart.
