Riders

being an emotional tyro, was blissfully unaware that everyone in the household knew someone was up and were having bets on who he was.

On the twenty-eighth of May Jake returned to the Mill House, having spent three days at the Great Cheshire show, where he had won every big class by day and spent his nights making love to Helen. In three days’ time, which was also the first day of the Lucerne show, the Olympic committee would announce ten short-listed riders from whom the final five would be selected in mid-July. Jake arrived home absolutely shattered. His mended leg ached badly, but that was probably due more to an excess of sex than to show jumping. As he climbed out of the lorry, the sun was setting. Tory ran out of the house to welcome him. With her bulk and her round shining face, she seemed, after Helen’s slenderness, like a Matrioska doll that has suddenly gone two sizes up. He hoped her elation might be due to the news that he’d been selected, but it was purely because she was so thrilled to see him. He was so tired, he kept giving the wrong answers to her questions. As he went into the kitchen, the children surged forward in their pajamas to welcome him, hugging and kissing him, bombarding him with questions about the trip. Realizing he couldn’t cope with the din, Tory sent them off to watch television. Jake poured himself a drink.

“How did Fen do in the Nations’ Cup?”

Tory had prayed he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want him upset so soon after he’d got home.

“They dropped both her rounds.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“She was in floods when she rang. I don’t think it was anything Desdemona did wrong. Fen said it was her fault. She’ll probably ring you after the Grand Prix.”

Jake dropped a couple of ice cubes in his whisky and went out into the yard, watching the horses being put to bed. Macaulay, having rolled and wolfed his dinner, was already dragging up the straw, preparing to lie down. Hardy was still restless. It always took him a long time to settle back, even into his own box. As Jake progressed down the line, each horse came to the half-door to welcome him. Tonight, for once, they didn’t cheer him up. Why hadn’t he heard from Malise?

He went into the tackroom.

“Supper,” called Tory from the kitchen door.

“Won’t be a minute,” Jake called back. Next moment he’d picked up the tackroom telephone. As he waited for Helen to answer he noticed the peeling paint on the door. If Charlene answered, he would put the telephone down.

“Helen, it’s Jake.”

“Darling.” It was worth the risk to hear the ecstasy in her voice. “Where are you?”

“At home. I can’t talk. I just want you to know I miss you like hell.”

Suddenly he saw Tory appearing in the doorway. “I’ll call you tomorrow, bye.”

“Darling,” said Tory, “I could have made that call for you.”

“Think I left my wallet in Humpty’s lorry. I had a drink with him at lunchtime.”

“Your wallet’s in the kitchen, silly,” said Tory. “You must be tired. It’s so sweet you’ve got that photograph of me from the color supplement tucked inside it. It’s an awful picture. I look so fat. D’you really miss me when you’re away?”

“ ’Course I do.”

The photograph in fact was part of a feature on show-jumping wives that had just appeared in the Sunday Times color magazine. On one side of the page were two photographs: one of Tory looking fat, pink, and eager, nailing up rosettes in the kitchen, the other of Janey Lloyd-Foxe, managing to look absurdly sexy in a maternity smock. The other side of the page was devoted entirely to a photograph of Helen on the terrace at Penscombe, gazing wistfully down the valley, looking unbelievably beautiful. It was taken before she met Jake and was the reason he had sloped up to the newsagent to scrounge another copy.

In the kitchen, Jake thanked God that Hannah, Isa, and Darklis were having dinner with them. The children, allowed to stay because it was Sunday tomorrow, were arguing who was going to sit next to him.

“You can both sit next to Daddy,” said Tory, putting a long loaf of garlic bread on the table.

Darklis had painted a picture at school which she showed proudly to Jake.

“It’s you and Macaulay at Los Angeles, Daddy.”

Both he and Macaulay were standing on the rostrum wearing gold medals with balloons coming out of their mouths saying “God save the Queen.”

“I think you’re being a bit premature, but thank you,” said Jake.

As Tory served out beef cooked in beer and the children both helped themselves to too much mashed potato, and Hannah brandished the rosettes they’d won this week, which tomorrow would be nailed to the corkboard, Jake wondered if the last month with Helen had been all a dream.

Suddenly the telephone rang. For a mad moment of panic he thought it might be Helen ringing back. It was Malise, calling from Lucerne.

After two minutes, Tory put Jake’s dinner in the oven. After ten minutes, Tory gave the rest of the beef out in second helpings, knowing Jake wouldn’t want any more.

“Yes,” he said, his back hunched over the telephone, with a curious stillness. “Yes, I see, okay. Yes.”

“We’re going to need another bottle,” said Hannah.

“I don’t know if we’ve got one,” said Tory. “What for?”

“To celebrate, or to cheer ourselves up.”

At last Jake came off the telephone. He looked like a thundercloud. Then he smiled and put his arms round Tory.

“Fen was third in the Grand Prix.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that,” said Tory.

There was a long pause. They all waited. “And I’ve been short-listed for L.A. He wants me to fly out to Lucerne with Hardy and Macaulay tomorrow.”

Tory woke up at four in the morning and, reaching out for Jake, found the bed empty. He was in the study. Cigarettes were piling up in the ashtray. Outside, it was already light, blackbirds were bustling importantly across the lawn, like clerics in a cathedral close.

“Darling, what are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited?”

He shook his head ruefully. “Too much to think about.”

He’d waited so long for that telephone call, despairing that it would ever come. Now it had and he ought to be overjoyed, but all he could think was that he wouldn’t see Helen for at least a fortnight. The prospect appalled him.

By morning, he had the whole thing in perspective and was quite matter-of-fact when he rang her. Helen sounded absolutely shattered and made no attempt to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“I’m thrilled for you, darling, but we won’t be able to have that week in Yorkshire. I can’t bear it.”

“I’ll only be away ten days.”

“But that’s an eternity and then Rupert’ll be back for the Royal and the Royal International. Can I see you this afternoon?”

“It’s a bit tricky.” He sounded detached, as though he was already in Lucerne. “I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. We’re desperately short-staffed anyway, with Fen and Sarah abroad and all the papers to get in order.”

Being superstitious, he hadn’t brought anything up to date in case he wasn’t selected.

“I’ll ring you later,” he said.

Jake didn’t get a moment to ring until seven o’clock. Everyone was in the yard or in the kitchen, so in the end he was reduced to pretending he needed some cigarettes from the pub. Then the pub call box was out of order, so he had to use the one in the High Street to the fascination of all the locals. Helen was in a frightful state.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been frantic. I figured something must have happened.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been hellishly busy.”

“Am I going to see you this evening?”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll come over to you.”

“I haven’t had a night at home for days. I’ve got a hell of a lot still to do. We’re leaving first thing.”