They had eight days to kill before the individual event. It was a bit like being on holiday, knowing war was going to break out any minute. Griselda sweated and became more and more bad-tempered. Fen wilted. Ivor fell asleep on the beach and woke up scarlet down one side of his face. Jake, being dark-skinned, fared better. For the first time in his life he was really brown. Suzy Erikson was constantly phoning him. Rupert went skiing, racing, surfing, pursued Miss Romania, and played endless games of poker with Ludwig, Count Guy, Carol Kennedy, and Wishbone to the despair of their chefs d’equipes, who felt that nations should stick together. At each game, honoring Dino’s absence, they left an empty chair. But he didn’t show up.
Fen kept hearing little bits of news of him. There was a huge piece headlined “The Agony of Dino Ferranti” in the
“I guess he’s still in shock,” he said. “I offered him Whittier to ride, but he’s simply not interested.”
Countless times a day Fen looked in her pigeonhole at the Olympic village, hoping that, among the telegrams and cards from well-wishers, there might be a letter from him.
Jake had frightful trouble sleeping in the Olympic village. The weight lifters were so fed up with his chain- smoking that they made him go outside and smoke in the passage. Often he didn’t bother to go to bed at all, just staying up to watch television. Once Ivor discovered you could watch cartoons all night, Malise had great difficulty getting him to bed, as well.
Malise organized a team trip to Disneyland, and Fen had to hold Ivor’s hand when he got scared in the haunted house and during the pirates’ battle, and calm him down when he became overexcited after shaking hands with Mickey Mouse. In amazement, Fen gazed at the massive overweight Americans, stuffing themselves with hamburgers, hot dogs, and ice cream, and exhorting her through capacious mouthfuls to “Have a nice day.”
“Have you ever seen people so fat?” she whispered to Jake. “D’you think Griselda’s got any Los Angeles blood?”
“No,” said Rupert, overhearing, “Griselda’s far too unpleasant. They remind me more of your wife, Jake.”
Just for a second Fen thought Jake was going to spring at Rupert.
“Don’t rise,” she pleaded, putting a hand on Jake’s arm. “He’s only trying to wind you up.”
Everywhere they went they were mobbed by autograph hunters, mostly Americans who had no idea who they were, but who were currently obsessed by anything Olympic. Rupert, because of his dazzling looks, his beautiful American wife, and his earlier successes on the American circuit was the one whom they recognized. But not always.
“I know you,” screamed a crone with a blue rinse, as they were leaving Disneyland. “You’re in television?”
“No, I’m in shorts,” snapped Rupert.
Rupert kept up his jogging every morning and was soon joined by Miss Romania. Progress was obviously being made. After a week he produced a pair of pale blue panties for Ludwig. “That tag inside says ‘Made in Romania.’ ”
“How do ve know?” grumbled Ludwig. “I don’t speak Romanian. It might say somezing quite different, like ‘Made in Los Angeles.’ ”
“It’s Miss Romania who’s being made in Los Angeles,” said Rupert.
“Vot is her English like?” asked Hans.
“Nonexistent, thank God,” said Rupert. “But she thinks our vicked capitalist vays are absolutely marvelous!”
The eight days dragged by. Gradually, Hardy and Desdemona seemed to be coming together, as Fen and Jake waited on tenter-hooks to see which three British riders of the five would be selected to jump in the individual. As Americans went on winning medals by the bucketful in every contest and the “Star-Spangled Banner” was played over and over again, the commentators reached new levels of chauvinistic hysteria. They seemed hardly to recognize that other countries existed, so there was a hardening of purpose among the British team.
On Friday, to break the monotony, they had a mock competition — two rounds, then a jump-off. Carol Kennedy, riding his dark brown mare, Scarlett O’Hara, beat everyone by five seconds in the jump-off.
“Either he’s a lunatic risk taker or that mare is phenomenally fit,” said Rupert. “If it’s the latter, we’re in trouble.”
Hardy, overfresh and full of himself from his long rest, knocked a fence down in the first round, but Jake was very pleased with him. Rocky jumped superbly. Apart from one silly mistake in the jump-off, he didn’t put a hoof wrong. Desdemona, also on tremendous form, came fourth, sailing over the fences with all her old bounce, somewhat reviving Fen’s spirits.
“All right,” said Malise. “That’s the team for the individual: Rupert, Jake, and Fen.”
Fen didn’t dare look at Griselda.
Arriving at the stables on the Saturday, however, Fen found Sarah with a long face. Desdemona couldn’t put her near hind down. She must have bruised it.
Fen, Sarah, and Jake stayed up all night, poulticing her foot and trying to reduce the swelling, walking her out to test the stiffness under the huge Los Angeles stars. By morning Fen thought she was all right. The British vet and the American national vet thought otherwise, and went into a huddle with Malise. Fen felt her presence was purely incidental.
“She’s stiff behind and there’s swelling. I think she may have chipped a bone,” said the national vet.
“She needs at least a week’s rest,” said the British vet.
“A week,” said Fen, aghast. “That rules out the team event, too.”
“I guess so,” said the American. “I’ll have another look on Friday, in case you’ve wrought miracles, but I’m afraid tomorrow is definitely out.”
For Fen, who’d been up all night, it was too much.
“Fucking bureaucrats,” she screamed. “You don’t know a bloody horse from your elbows. Give her a shot of bute. She’ll be fine. She’s often stiff in the morning.”
The American vet, nettled, accused Fen of treating her horse like a machine.
Jake and Sarah took Fen’s part, and a very undignified yelling match ensued, listened to with glee by all the surrounding grooms and riders, who were frantically translating for one another.
Finally Malise removed Fen by the scruff of the neck and took her off for a cup of coffee in a quiet corner of the British Supporters’ Club.
“You must pull yourself together,” he told her.
“There’s nothing left of myself to pull,” wailed Fen. “Desdemona’s okay She’s my horse. I ought to know.”
“When you see the course tomorrow,” said Malise gently, “you’ll understand. You might get by in a Nations’ Cup or in a Grand Prix, but Desdemona’s forte is speed, not jumping huge, daunting fences, which she’d really have to stretch herself to get over. I know you love that pony, but I can’t let you ride if you’re going to be nervous about pushing her every inch of the way.”
“Everyone goes on and on about winning not being important and the taking part is all that matters. I’m not even allowed to take part.”
“You’ve got years ahead.”
“But I may never get a horse as good as Des.”
“If you don’t ruin her tomorrow, you’ll probably have a chance of another two cracks at the Olympics on her. How would you live with yourself if you jumped her and lost her for good, like poor Dino?”
At the mention of his name, Fen put her head down on the table and sobbed her heart out. “I’ve tried, truly I have, I’ve tried to be cheerful. I’ve taken Ivor to Disneyland three times. But I did hope to see Dino. We were a bit close once.”
Malise patted her shoulder. “I know how you were looking forward to seeing him, and now this. It’s wretched.”
“Can I fly home?”
Malise shook his head. “That’s not part of the deal. You’re still reserve. If anything happens to any of the others you’ll have to jump their horses. I’ll need your help tomorrow to see how the course is riding, to cheer us all up. Griselda isn’t any good at that. She’ll still be sulking because I haven’t picked her.”
