“Why doesn’t someone turn down those bloody bells?” she croaked. “They can’t be Christians to make a din like that.”
Her breeches, which she’d taken to the launderette the previous day, were still hanging over the balcony. She winced with pain as she opened the shutters. The sunlight hit her like a boxing glove. She staggered back to the bed and, picking up the telephone, dialed Billy’s number.
“Billy, it’s Fen — I think. Get me an ambulance.”
He laughed. “Is it that bad?”
“I’ve never known pain like it.”
“I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
He found her white and shuddering. “Here lies one whose name is writ in Krug,” she moaned. “Take me to the nearest pharmacy and tell me the Italian for Alka-Seltzer. I’ve got to jump, Billy. More likely, to jump over that balcony.”
“Drink this. It’s disgusting, but it should help.” He handed her some Fernet Branca in a toothmug.
“Ugh, it is disgusting. I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you’re not. Keep your head up, take deep breaths.”
“Do you think there’s any hope of the arena party going on strike?” said Fen.
Billy looked at the bruises on her thighs, wondering if they were the result of amorous pinches from the minister of arts. Fen seemed to read his thoughts and blushed. “I got them falling off Macaulay.”
She was not helped by a sudden heatwave hitting Rome. As she tottered the course beside Billy three hours later, the temperature was in the nineties. The sun seemed to be beating down only on her head. There was no shade. The colored poles danced before her eyes.
“Where did you go last night, Fen?” said Griselda bullyingly, as they examined a vast wall.
“I don’t remember the name, but I had shellfish,” said Fen faintly.
“Hum,” said Griselda in disbelief.
“This course is designed to make riders think every inch of the way,” said Malise, as they examined the huge water jump floating with water lilies, known as the bidet. “It’s going to take very accurate jumping. The stile’s only four and a half strides before the combination. Macaulay’ll probably do it in four, Fen. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine,” said Fen, clinging onto the wing of the fence. “It’s just the heat.”
Poor kid, suffers from nerves as badly as Jake, thought Malise, looking at her green face.
Eight teams came out for the Nations’ Cup. Fen, after the previous day’s triumph, got a rousing cheer as she rode in the parade, flanked by Rupert and Billy.
The playing of each National Anthem seemed to go on forever.
“It’s you, not our gracious Queen, that needs saving today,” said Rupert out of the corner of his mouth.
Great Britain’s fortunes were varied. Rupert jumped an effortless clear which brought more rousing cheers — even from the most partisan crowd in Europe.
Waiting, pouring with sweat, teeth chattering, wondering whether to be sick again, Fen felt too ill even to be pleased that Griselda had nearly fallen off at the bidet and had notched up twelve faults. She came out furiously tugging Mr. Punch’s head from side to side.
Britain was in third place when Fen went in.
“Go for a steady clear,” said Malise. “I’d like to drop Griselda’s round.”
Fen felt like a Christian after the Roman emperor had made that terrible thumbs-down sign of death. Alone in the ring, under those towering stands which had just become a sea of faces, she could feel the lions stealthily padding towards her.
Macaulay, who always felt a great responsibility for the rider on his back, understood that Fen needed help. Watching his earnest white face appearing over each jump, Billy realized he was taking Fen around. He was about to take five strides after the stile, then changed to four, bouncing easily over the combination, but causing Fen to lose a stirrup. Slowing fractionally so she could find it again, he rounded the corner. For a minute Fen looked perplexed, then she turned him sharp right towards the huge yellow wall. A million times afterwards she relived that moment. She seemed to hear a shout from the collecting ring, but it was too late. Gathering Macaulay together, she cleared the wall, then looked around in bewilderment for the next jump. In front, a triple was facing backwards with a red flag on the left. Excited officials were waving their arms at her; the crowd gave a groan of sympathy. And suddenly it dawned on Fen — she’d taken the wrong course.
Head hanging, fighting back the tears, white-faced, she cantered out of the ring.
“Fucking imbecile,” said Rupert.
“You’ve ruined our chances,” said Grisel, her mouth full of hot dog.
Fen slid off Macaulay, loosening his girths, giving him his lemon sherbets, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.
“Bad luck,” said Sarah, “you were going so well.”
Malise came up. “I hope that won’t happen in the second round,” he said bleakly.
“I must not cry, I must not cry,” said Fen, and fled to the loo, where she was sick for the fifteenth time that day.
On her return, she found everyone more cheerful, particularly Mr. Block, Billy’s sponsor, who’d flown out to watch the Nations’ Cup. Billy and Bugle had gone clear, bouncing over the fences like a jack-in-the-box. At the end of the first leg the Germans were in the lead, the Italians second, and the English and the Swiss tying for third place.
Fen couldn’t face the riders’ stand. She sat on an upturned bucket, under the thick canopy of an umbrella pine, with her head in her hands. Macaulay, led by Sarah, came up and nuzzled her.
“Poor old boy,” said Fen listlessly. “It’s bloody hot.”
Macaulay looked longingly as an ice-cream seller came by.
“Oh, get him one,” Fen told Sarah. “He deserves it.”
At that moment Rupert came up, keeping his distance because Macaulay promptly rolled his eyes and stamped his foot threateningly. “I hope you’ll know better in future than to get plastered and seduced by geriatric wops,” said Rupert viciously.
Already the sun was beginning to slant sideways through the pines, throwing treacherous shadows across the fences, particularly the parallel.
On his mettle, Rupert jumped just as brilliantly in the second round. He was unlucky to hit the second pole of the parallel and notch up four faults. He came out in a furious temper.
“Horse was going superbly, but he simply couldn’t see what he was jumping at the parallel. I’m going to object.”
Nor did the Germans or the Italians fare any better. The unaccustomed hot weather and the punishing course were tiring them all out. Griselda finished her second hot dog and rode off into the ring.
“How the hell can she stuff herself like that before a class?” said Fen.
“Her nerve ends are so coated with fat they don’t function properly,” said Sarah. “Oh, whizzo, she’s fallen in the bidet. Look at her covered in water lilies.”
“You’re being very unpatriotic,” reproved Billy. “She is on our side.”
He put a hand on Fen’s forehead. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Not after that frightful cock-up.”
He shrugged. “Happen to anyone.”
Having fallen off, Griselda went on to notch up a further four faults.
“Just get around this time. That’s all that matters,” said Malise, as Fen went in. She had never felt so ill in her life.
“Keep the white flag on your left, keep the white flag on your left,” she said to herself over and over again.
Somehow she got over the first seven fences, including the bogey parallel. But as she approached the combination a child at the edge of the crowd let go of her gas balloon and, with bellows of misery, watched it float out like a spermatozoa just in front of Macaulay. For a second he glanced at it, confused, put in a short stride, found himself under the fence and took a colossal cat jump which nearly unseated Fen. Losing her reins, but clutching onto his mane for grim death, she managed to stay on as he cleared the second element, but her foot went straight through the iron. His last huge leap over the final element completely unseated her and she went crashing to the
