had the stile down. Fen was still in the lead. Ivor was about to go in.
“If you can jump it, Fen,” he said adoringly, “reckon I can have a go.”
After that the rest of the riders jumped the moat without mishap.
Hans Schmidt jumped clear on his new horse, Papa Haydn, and in the jump-off was a tenth of a second faster than Fen. But, although he got the ?15,000 and the cup, he removed the oak-leaf wreath of victory from Papa Haydn and put it round Desdemona’s neck. The crowd roared their approval.
“I take zee money,” he said, kissing Fen, “but you take zee laurels.”
She was cheered around two laps of honor.
Dudley collared her again. “What made you jump it despite the other riders?”
Fen grinned. “I don’t like a lot of men telling me what to do. I think they behaved like a load of drips.”
“Fighting talk,” said Dudley. “You’re not worried you’ve made yourself very unpopular?”
Fen shrugged. “They could have jumped it if they’d wanted to.”
“Jake told you to have a go, did he?”
“I didn’t ring him,” confessed Fen. “I was terrified he’d tell me not to. Sorry, Jake,” she said into the camera.
“I’m sure you all know,” said Dudley, “that Fiona’s brother-in-law, World Champion Jake Lovell, is in hospital recovering from a nasty broken arm.”
“Leg,” said Fen gently.
“Leg; and we all wish you better, Jake, and hope to see you back soon. This must be the best possible pick- me-up.”
“That deserves another drink,” said Matron. “We seem to have exhausted your whisky, Mr. Lovell. I think I’ve got a drop of brandy in my office.”
* * *
Janey had been drinking all day and, when she and Billy got back to the lorry, she headed straight for the vodka bottle.
“Why the hell did you insist on rushing up and congratulating her in front of all the press and television cameras?” she asked.
“What
“They’ll think you’re still having it off with her.”
“They will if you go on yelling like this.”
“I suppose you were making a date with her in that brief, poignant moment.”
“I was not.”
“Or saying how much you missed her.”
“I merely told her she jumped well. She deserved it. I hate packs ganging up because they haven’t got enough guts to savage someone on their own. I did it many years ago to Jake, and I’ve been bitterly ashamed of it ever since, and I’m not going to do it again.”
“I suppose you fancied her like mad when you saw her.”
He looked at her face, red, shouting, and featureless with rage.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped, “you buggered off for nearly a year.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be long before you threw that in my face again.”
“I’m not,” said Billy wearily, “but if I can forget about Kev why can’t you forget about Fen?”
“I left Kev because it was over, because I was bored with him. You were in full flood with Fen. How do I know it’s over, that you don’t lie beside me at night hankering for her boy’s body?”
Billy filled up the kettle from the tap and turned on the gas. He was so slow lighting a match that he nearly blew his eyelashes off. Even the gas ring was against him. He was tired, he was hungry, he longed for a drink. He was depressed by the knowledge that Bugle could have jumped the moat and he’d have been fifteen grand richer. None of this would matter if Janey would meet him one tenth of the way.
“How do I know it’s all over between you and Fen?” She burst into noisy sobs.
Billy went over and hugged her.
“You’ll have to trust me; it’s you I love, always have loved. I shacked up with Fen because I was dying of loneliness, and you won’t help either of us by regurgitating her memory every five minutes.”
“I know,” sobbed Janey. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
A new syndrome, which Billy imagined Janey’d picked up from Kev, was the mood of sweetness and light, followed by heavy drinking, followed by the hurling of abuse and china, followed by flagellating herself into a frenzy of self-abasement. Billy found it exhausting. He’d had a shattering year. He sometimes wondered if his shoulders were broad enough to carry both their problems. Holding her heaving, tearful, full-blown body, breathing in the vodka fumes, Billy looked out of the window at the Crittleden oaks, tall against a drained, blue sky, and was suddenly overwhelmed with longing for Fen, for her merriness, innocence, and kindness. She’d looked so adorable, flushed and defiant, with her wary greeny-blue kitten eyes, waiting for the other riders to turn on her. The whistling of the kettle made them both jump.
43
“How many miles to Coventry?” sighed Fen.
“Threescore miles and ten.
Will I get there by candlelight?
Yes — but don’t come back again.”
It was the last night of the three-day East Yorkshire show. Fen lay in bed with Lester the teddy bear slumped beside her, listening to the rain irritably drumming on the roof of the lorry. Sleep had evaded her again, and even the new Dick Francis had failed to distract her. She put it down and reached for her diary with the tattered photograph of Billy tucked in between September and October. He was laughing, his eyes screwed up against the Lucerne sun.
Next week was Wembley. It had been a desperate six weeks for Fen. After Crittleden, as good as their word, the British riders had sent her to Coventry. At every show she attended people who’d been her friends cut her dead or deliberately turned their backs. She knew Rupert was behind it. He’d gone out of his way to be kind to her after she’d split up with Billy, and she’d defied him publicly and humiliatingly, which had been a terrible blow to his ego. As the majority of riders were either frightened of Rupert or jealous of Fen’s meteoric rise, they were only too happy to follow his lead.
Things were not all Campbell-Black, however. Jake’s leg was mending at last; he was expected to be out of hospital soon after Wembley and riding again by the spring. And if the Crittleden victory had enraged the riders, it had enchanted the public. News of the victimization had reached the press, who were all on Fen’s side. Overnight the telephone started ringing, with newspapers, magazines, and television companies clamoring for interviews. Invitations flooded in for her to speak at dinners, open supermarkets, address pony clubs, donate various items of her clothing to raise money at charity auctions. Everywhere she was mobbed by autograph hunters. Her post was full of fan mail from admiring men and little girls, who wanted signed photographs or help with their ponies.
For a public, hungry for new idols, Fen fitted the bill perfectly. With her slender, androgynous figure with its suggestion of anorexia, jagged cabin-boy hair, and gamin, wistful, extraordinarily photogenic face, she was a true child of her time. Just as the public was drawn to Jake because he was mysteriously enigmatic, they loved Fen because she couldn’t hide her feelings. She was either furious or suicidal or ecstatic, and her naturally friendly nature endeared her to everyone.
Fen was flattered by the fame and adulation, but all her energies were centered on the horses; all she cared about was Billy.
The horses were going superbly, except for Hardy, who was growing more ungovernable. He was too strong
