“Don’t lie to me; who put you up to it?”
“No one. It’s my money. Why shouldn’t I buy a horse if I want to?”
“And I can’t afford to buy little Fen a little pony.” Molly spat out the “little.” “Get up, you fat lump.” She reached forward and tugged Tory to her feet by her hair.
“It was that little swine, Jake Lovell, wasn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“ ’Course it was.” Molly Maxwell was shaking Tory by the shoulders until she thought her head would snap off. “He’s obsessed with that horse, spends all his time on it. But he won’t much longer,” she added, her eyes suddenly lighting up with venom. “Mrs. Wilton’s just given him the sack.”
“Oh, no,” said Tory, aghast. “It was nothing to do with him. I rang Bobby Cotterel. I did everything myself.”
“Why?” hissed Molly, powder from her drying, cracking face pack drifting down to the floor. “You’ve got a crush on that boy. I saw you mooning over him on Saturday at the show. That’s why you’ve been such a colossal flop at all those dances, not trying with all those suitable young men, because you’ve got hot pants for some common stable boy. Well, you won’t get him by buying him expensive presents.”
Tory couldn’t bear to look at her mother anymore, the hideous contrast with the twitching, disintegrating white face and the angry red turkey neck. She gazed down at her mother’s feet, noticing the newly painted scarlet nails, cotton wool keeping each toe apart.
“He’s a friend,’ she sobbed. “Nothing more.”
“Well, he’s not having Africa. He’s going back.”
“He’s a she and she’s not.”
“Sir William and Colonel Gordon are both prepared to top your offer. I’m going around to see Bobby Cotterel to make him tear up that check.”
Molly pictured herself, in a new dress, rather low cut, driving up to Bobby Cotterel’s house and pleading with him.
“My daughter’s not responsible for her actions.”
And Bobby Cotterel, who she suspected was between marriages, would pour her a stiff drink and comfortingly say, “Tell me all about it, preferably over dinner.”
She was brought back from her reverie by Tory sobbing. “It’s my money and I can do what I like with it.”
“And how are you going to look after a horse?” hissed Molly. “It can’t live in the potting shed, and now Jake Lovell’s lost his job, he’ll be moving on.”
Tory was in such despair she hardly heard her mother’s tirade about all the expense and trouble she’d gone to to give Tory a season until, catching sight of her face which resembled a dried-up riverbed, in the mirror, Molly realized she had better get her pack off. Tugging open the door, she found Fen, who’d been listening avidly at the keyhole and nearly fell into the room on top of her. Fen gave a giggle and, waving in time with a half-eaten frozen lolly, started singing: “My mother said that I never should play with the gypsies in the wood.”
“Shut up,” screeched Molly. “It’s your fault too for always hanging round the stables. You’re not going down there tonight. Go to your room, do your homework, and don’t talk to Tory. I must ring Bernard. I can’t possibly go out and play bridge after all this.”
“Want to bet?” said Fen, as her mother went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Immediately they heard the ping of the telephone, followed at intervals by other pings.
Molly couldn’t get through to Bobby Cotterel but, if she couldn’t get him to tear up the check, there was always the possibility of reselling Africa to Sir William or Malise.
That had possibilities, too, she reflected. She’d like to meet Sir William again and for Malise Gordon she still had the hankering of the summarily rejected. She saw herself with less makeup and a higher neckline than for Bobby Cotterel, and Malise’s hawklike face softening, as he took her hand, saying: “When I first met you at Bilborough, I thought you were just a lovely face.”
After all, Colonel Carter hadn’t popped the question; it would be good to make him jealous.
As Tory predicted, the colonel talked her mother into going out for dinner.
“Bernard’s friends have gone to a lot of trouble cooking and they’d be so disappointed if we cried off at the last moment,” she told Tory coldly, as if she was making a supreme effort to go out. Not that she’d enjoy a second of it, with all this worry (as well as Bernard’s friends’ cooking) on her plate.
Tory was still sitting on her bed, in her bra and panties, as if turned to stone.
“Do you hear me, Tory? I’m putting you on your honor not to talk to Fen and not to telephone anyone or put a foot outside the house while I’m away.”
She said it three times, but she wasn’t sure it had registered.
Jake sat in the tackroom, chain-smoking, and watching the moon peering in through the window. Round and pink, with turned-down eyes in an anxious chubby face, it reminded him of Tory. Poor kid, he hoped that cow of a mother wasn’t giving her too bad a time. He’d like to have got in touch with her to find out the score, but he didn’t dare ring the house. Africa was much better; he’d turned her out for a few hours and just laid down thick clean straw in her loose box next to the tackroom. He was just going to fetch her when he heard a step outside, and Tory came timidly through the door. Christ, she looked all blotchy like a swede that’s been beaten up by the frost. The next minute, she was sobbing in his arms.
“I’m so sorry I got you sacked.”
“Doesn’t matter. I was going to leave anyway. Plenty more fishwives in the sea.”
“But you haven’t anywhere to go.”
“Mrs. Wilton can’t chuck me out till she’s found someone else; she’s too idle, and it’s too late to put an ad in
Tory nodded. “She’s determined to give Africa back, or sell her.”
She was shaking so violently, Jake sat her down on the rickety chair and made her a strong cup of coffee with four tablespoons of sugar. She didn’t normally take sugar, but she found the sweetness comforting.
Jake lounged against the food bin, watching her.
“Look,” he said, dropping his half-smoked cigarette down the sink, “why did you buy me that horse?”
Tory lowered her eyes. “Because I like you,” she whispered.
Jake took her hands, which felt damp and chilled.
“How much?” he said gently.
Tory glanced up. He was so beautiful with his thin watchful face and his glinting earrings.
“Oh, so very much,” she said.
And suddenly, like a horse that’s been locked up in a stable for a long time and sees the door opening onto a huge field of clover, the idea that he’d been battling against all week overwhelmed him. A rich wife, that’s what he needed. Not very rich, but enough to buy him a few horses and give him a start, so he could get to the top and wipe that self-satisfied smile off Rupert Campbell-Black’s face.
And rather in the way a swimmer holds his nose and plunges into the water and finds it pleasantly warm, his arms were suddenly full of Tory. She was kissing him, sucking at him like a great vacuum cleaner — Christ, she’d pull his teeth out soon — and her arms had him in a vise and the huge friendly breasts were pressing against him.
“Oh, Jake, oh, Jake.”
Without fumbling, he undid the buttons of her dress and switched off the light, and they were on the bed of deep clean straw, with the light of the moon now filtering in through the skylight. He unfastened her bra and the splendid breasts overflowed, soft and sweet-swelling, like a river bursting its dam.
For a small, slight man, Jake was sexually well endowed, but he spent enough time fingering a spot which Tory afterwards discovered was her clitoris, and she was so slippery with longing that she hardly felt any pain after that first sharp thrust inside her. She’d always heard it was awful the first time, but despite the scratching of the straw on her bare back she felt only ecstasy.
“Now I know why it’s called a loose box,” said Jake, extracting himself and wiping her with a handful of hay from the rack.
“Any minute Africa’ll wander in and say, who’s been sleeping in my bed,” said Tory with a giggle.
