“Bring the children back at once. Someone’s come to photograph them.”
“I can’t in the middle of tea, and then there’s the conjuror and Tom and Jerry.”
“Well, bring them back as soon as possible.”
They were nearly out of Earl Gray and the only biscuits were shaped like animals and topped with different colored icing. All the cups were in the dishwasher, which wasn’t turned on. She’d have to have a word with Charlene; things were getting awfully slack.
She was just drying the cups when Miss Crabtree wandered into the kitchen.
“It’s rather hot out there, so I thought I’d come and help you. They’re so lovely and cool, these old houses.”
Any moment, thought Helen in panic, Jake would come down the backstairs into the kitchen, and where the hell had Miss Taylor gone?
“How old are your children?”
Helen dragged her mind back.
“Um — four and two.”
“What a lovely age.”
“They’ll be back soon. They’ve gone to a party. I thought we could talk in peace first.”
“I hope you don’t mind. Miss Taylor’s gone upstairs to find a toilet.”
Helen gave a whimper of horror. “Oh dear. I hope there’s a clean towel up there.” She was just rushing out of one kitchen door when she heard steps on the backstairs.
“Why don’t you go and sit in the drawing room,” she pleaded to Miss Crabtree. “It’s awfully cool in there. I’ll bring the tea in.”
“It might help if you put some tea in the pot,” said Miss Crabtree with a jolly laugh, not budging an inch.
Tripping over Action Man and an ancient teddy bear, placed on the stair to be taken up to the nursery, Jake fell into the kitchen. To Helen’s amazement, he was carrying a bucket and a J-cloth. She gazed at him despairingly.
“All right, Mrs. C-B,” he said, putting on a strong cockney accent. “I’ve finished. I’ve done all the upstairs winders, even that little blighter on the top landing. Fort I’d swing to my death.”
“Oh-oh,” Helen mouthed ineffectually. “Oh, how much is that?”
Jake scratched his head. “Fifteen pounds,” he said. “There’s a lot of winders.”
Helen got a fiver and a tenner out of the housekeeping pot.
“Here you are. Thank you so much.”
Miss Crabtree, who’d taken matters into her own hands, had made the tea.
“Would you like a cup?” she added to Jake. “Cleaning windows is an awfully thirsty business, although…” her voice trailed off. He didn’t seem to have cleaned the downstairs windows at all.
“No, thanks,” said Jake. “I’ll be off.”
“There are quite a few smears here,” said Miss Crabtree bossily.
“Only did the top two floors,” said Jake. “I leave the bottom to Mrs. Bodkin. When do you want me again? In a monf’s time?”
Helen nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Well, cheerio, then.” Jake nodded to Miss Crabtree.
“I’ll see you out,” mumbled Helen.
Quite helpless with laughter, they collapsed outside the back door.
“I’d no idea you were such a good actor,” she said, as he shoved the money back into the pocket of her dress.
Jake kissed her again. “I’ll ring you after the class is finished tonight.”
In the kitchen Miss Crabtree was joined by Miss Taylor.
“What a lovely house. Where’s our hostess?”
“Saying good-bye to the window cleaner. They’re awfully unclass conscious, aren’t they, the Americans? I mean she’s just as charming to him as she is to us.”
54
As the day of the last Olympic trial at Crittleden approached, Jake grew more and more nervous. Hardy’s off days were fewer and Fen had had some good wins on Desdemona. But equally Griselda Hubbard had hit amazing form, and two young short-listed riders, Ralph Naylor and Fiona McFadden, had both jumped brilliantly under pressure at Aachen and several newspapers were agitating for their inclusion in the team. Rupert and Ivor Braine had been so consistent all year, so they were virtually certain of a place.
Fen was terribly down because Joanna Battie had written a bitchy piece headlined: “Fen — resting on her Laurel,” pointing out that she hadn’t had a decent win on Laurel since the previous year at Wembley, and that Desdemona was too small for an Olympic course. Knowing how desperate Fen was to go, Jake felt almost more apprehensive for her than for himself.
Rupert, on the other hand, was irritated because Helen refused to make up her mind whether or not she was going to Los Angeles. She used as an excuse the Los Angeles smog being bad for Marcus’s asthma, but in reality she wanted to see if Jake were selected. If he wasn’t, she’d stay behind. Rupert, who was trying to persuade Amanda Hamilton to fly out for a few days, wanted a decision one way or the other.
The course for the final trial was unnecessarily huge. There were a number of very unhappy rounds before Jake came in. Griselda was on twelve, Ivor eight. Fen had one stop, because she’d come in too fast, and two elements of the combination down. Everyone was grumbling that the combination was unjumpable. Then Jake rode in and proved them wrong by going clear. Thus encouraged, Rupert, Wishbone, and Ludwig went clear. But in the final jump-off, Jake really set Hardy on fire on the long run-up to the last fence to score the fastest time.
“Well done,” said Fen, desperately trying to be enthusiastic. “You must be picked after that.”
Jake shook his head. He was horribly afraid it wouldn’t be good enough. They wanted dependability at the Olympics. The selectors locked themselves away. The riders waited and waited for the promised announcement. After an hour biting their nails, Jake and Fen, who were jumping at Stoneleigh early the following morning, decided to push off. If they were selected they’d hear soon enough. If they weren’t it didn’t matter anyway.
The jams were terrible. They seemed to get caught up in all the holiday traffic. Nobody talked very much. After an hour’s delay on the M4 they decided to cut across country. Bored with tapes, Sarah turned on the lorry radio.
Fen looked miserably out at the great rolling cornfields, deepened to red gold by the rain. When would she ever see Dino again. When would she ever be happy? Idly she listened to the eight o’clock news. Mrs. Thatcher, the prime minister, would be spending a few days up at Balmoral, staying with the Queen during the summer recess. The Russians had launched another satellite. The unemployed had risen by 20,000 as a result of school leavers.
“The Olympic show-jumping committee tonight announced their team for Los Angeles,” said the announcer.
Everyone stiffened. Fen grabbed Sarah’s hand, crossing her fingers on the other. “Oh, please, please God.”
“The five riders and their horses include: Rupert Campbell-Black and Rock Star, Griselda Hubbard and Mr. Punch,” Sarah gave a groan. “Ivor Braine and John.” The announcer rustled his notes, “Jake Lovell and Hardy and Fenella Maxwell and Desdemona.”
Giving a whoop of joy, Jake nearly drove off the road.
The car behind them was trying to overtake and hooted furiously.
Speechless, Sarah and Fen hugged each other, then Sarah hugged Jake. Then they all started shouting at the tops of their voices and bellowing: “California, here we come.”
Jake drove to the next village where they found an off-license and bought a bottle of wine.
