The course seemed enormous. Billy sat in the riders’ stand clutching a Coke and wondered how the hell the riders could coax their horses over such enormous fences. To Rupert’s intense irritation, Jake Lovell jumped a beautiful clear on Macaulay, as did Fen on Desdemona.
“That yard simply can’t put a foot wrong at the moment,” said Malise. “High time you were back to redress the balance, Billy.”
Despite the heat and stuffiness of the arena, Billy began to shiver. He could feel his white shirt drenched beneath his red coat. In the old days, there had been excitement and nerves, not this cold, sickening sensation of leaden nausea. Could everyone see? As he mounted Bugle, he noticed two young riders with Jake Lovell haircuts, swapping stories. Once they had looked up to Billy and would certainly have watched him jumping on a new horse. Now they nodded briefly, carrying on with their conversation.
He jumped one practice fence and, nearly falling off, left it at that. Oh God, they were calling his number. Rupert’s face swam in front of him.
“I think I’ve got a sponsor interested. A Victor Block from the Midlands. He’s the Cutie Cup Millionaire; makes bras and corsets. You may have to change Bugle’s name to Cutie B-Cup, but he’s worth a lot of bread and he’s up in the stands, so don’t have three stops at the first fence.”
“If I ever get to the first fence,” said Billy in a hollow voice.
“For Christ’s sake, hurry up, Billy,” snapped the collecting ring steward. “Don’t spend so long in the bar next time.”
As he rode into the ring, panic assailed him. He should never have agreed to ride. The saddle was hard and unfamiliar, his legs felt cramped and powerless, refusing to meet the leather and blend into it, his hands on the reins were numb and heavy, without any flexibility. In the old days he’d fallen into the rhythm of any horse’s stride. Now he humped along like a sack of cement.
“And here comes Billy Lloyd-Foxe on Dougall. Se-uper, absolutely se-uper, to see you back, Billy. Let’s all give Billy a big hand.”
The applause, albeit tentative, unnerved the inexperienced Bugle. The first fence loomed up higher and higher. Desperately Billy tried to balance himself, hands rigid on the reins, interfering with the horse, pulling him off his stride. Bugle rapped the pole; it swayed but didn’t fall.
“Oh, God,” groaned Tracey, her nails digging into her palms. “Oh, don’t let him be over the hill.”
“Is this the bloke you want me to sponsor?” asked Victor Block. “Doesn’t look much cop to me.”
“You wait,” said Rupert, trying not to show his desperate anxiety.
Bugle approached the second fence, battling for his head. Billy felt the horse steady himself, judge the height, rise into the air and, making a mighty effort, twist over the fence.
“Forgive me,” said Billy in wonder, sending up a prayer of thankfulness.
Now his hold on Bugle’s neck was relaxed, the bay’s pace increased, covering the churned-up tan with long lolloping strides. Suddenly, Billy felt the blessed sustaining confidence start to come back. Fence after fence swept by. He was riding now, helping rather than hindering. Bugle was jumping beautifully. Billy’s heart swelled in gratitude. He was oblivious of the cheering gathering momentum. He took off too far away from the wall, but it flashed, oxblood red, beneath him and Bugle cleared it by a foot.
“What a horse, what a horse.” He had to steady him for the last double and nerves got to him for a second, but he left it to Bugle to find his stride. Over and clear. A huge roar went up.
Billy concentrated very hard on Bugle’s perfect black plaits to stop himself breaking down, as he circled the horse before riding him out of the ring. On the way he passed Guy de la Tour, who was smiling broadly.
“Well done, mon ami, well done,” and riding up to Billy he shook him by the hand, and then, leaning over, kissed him on both cheeks. The crowd broke into a great roar of approval. Billy the prodigal had returned.
Mr. Block turned to a jubilant Rupert. “Happens you’re right. I’ll sponsor him. But I’ll have to organize the money side, so he can get on with the riding.”
In the jump-off, Jake went fastest, with Rupert second, Guy third, and Fen fourth. Billy, anxious not to hurry a young horse, was fifth. As Jake rode back into the ring to collect his rosette and cup, followed by the rest of the riders, Rupert turned to Billy.
“I had to get you back on the circuit,” he said. “One of us has got to break the run of luck of that murdering gypsy bastard.”
37
All runs of luck come to an end. After a brilliant March, in which he swept the board in Antwerp, Dortmund, and Milan, Jake rolled up for the Easter meeting at Crittleden, a course which had never really been lucky for him since Sailor’s death. It had rained solidly for a fortnight beforehand and the ground was again like the Somme.
In the first big class, Macaulay, who was probably a bit tired and didn’t like jumping in a rainstorm, slipped on takeoff at the third element of the combination. Hitting the poles chest on, he somersaulted right over. Jake’s good leg was the padding between the ground and half a ton of horse. Spectators swear to this day that they could hear the sickening splinter of bones. Without treading on Jake, Macaulay managed to scramble to his feet immediately and shake himself free of the debris of wings and colored poles. Most horses would have galloped off, but Macaulay, sensing something was seriously wrong, gently nudged his master, alternately looking down at him with guilt and anguish, and then glancing over his shoulder with an indignant “Can’t you see we need help?” expression on his mud-spattered white face.
Humpty Hamilton reached Jake first.
“Come on, Gyppo, up you get,” he said jokingly. “There’s a horse show going on here.”
“My fucking leg,” hissed Jake through gritted teeth, then fainted.
He came around as the ambulance men arrived. Normally a loose horse is a nuisance at such times, but Macaulay was a comfort, standing stock-still, while Jake gripped onto his huge fetlock to stop himself screaming, looking down with the most touching concern. He also insisted on staying as close as possible, as Jake, putty- colored and biting through his lip in anguish, was bundled into an ambulance.
Fen took one look at the casualty department at Crittleden Hospital and rang Malise, who was in London.
“Jake’s done in his good leg,” she sobbed. “I don’t think a local hospital should be allowed to deal with it.”
Malise agreed and moved in, pulling strings, getting Jake instantly transferred to the Motcliffe in Oxford, where the X-rays showed the kneecap was shattered and the leg broken in five places. The best bone specialist in the country was abroad. But, realizing the fate of a national hero rested in his hands, he flew straight home and operated for six hours. Afterwards, he told the crowd of waiting journalists that he was reasonably satisfied with the result, but there might be a need for further surgery.
Tory managed to park the children, and arrived at the hospital, out of her mind with worry, just as Jake came out of the theater. For the first forty-eight hours they kept him heavily sedated. Raving and delirious, his temperature rose as he babbled on and on.
“Were any of his family in the navy?” said the ward sister, looking faintly embarrassed. “He keeps talking about a sailor.”
Tory shook her head. “Sailor was a horse,” she said.
“When can I ride again?” was his first question when he came around. Malise was a great strength to Tory. It was he and the specialist, Johnnie Buchannan, who told Jake what the future would be, when Tory couldn’t summon up the courage.
Johnnie Buchannan sat cautiously down on Jake’s bed, anxious not in any way to jolt the damaged leg, which was strapped up in the air.
“You’re certainly popular,” he said, admiring the mass of flowers and get-well cards that covered every surface of the room and were waiting outside in sackfuls still to be opened. “I haven’t seen so many cards since we had James Hunt in here.”
