Riders

“Now that’s an attractive man,” said Mrs. Macaulay. “There’s something about American men.”

“He’s gay, Mother,” snapped Helen.

Despite being used to the frantic enthusiasm of American crowds, even Scarlett O’Hara was unnerved by the noise. She hit the hot dog, then looked as though she was going clear, but as she sailed over the last element of the combination, the crowd let out such a shout of jubilation that the mare assumed she had finished. It took all Carol’s skill to get her straight for the huge double and she toppled the last pole. Still, he was second on eight faults with Ludwig.

“Isn’t he a prince?” said the girl behind Helen, as Rupert waited to go in. “I saw him on TV last night. You have to hand it to the British. They do have class.”

Quality in every line, Rocky was easily the handsomest horse in the contest. Under the gleaming amber coat his muscles rippled like serpents, and as he danced into the arena, long ears cocked to the unfamiliar sights and sounds, the blend of explosive power with natural grace was unforgettable.

“For Christ’s sake, take it steadily,” warned Malise.

Rocky was the best horse in the contest, but he had never seen a crowd this big, nor heard so much noise, nor seen so many undulating rows of peaked caps, like a wriggling aviary.

His forelegs were sore where Rupert had crashed him over the jumps. His tail switched angrily; he was horribly hot, fed up, and upset. As Rupert circled him twice to steady him, he humped his back and fought for his head.

That horse is overfresh and insufficiently ridden in, thought Fen.

Two minutes later, Rupert rode out of the ring with an incredible twenty-eight faults. Everyone in the riders’ stand and the commentary box was stunned.

“Talk about the Rocky Horror Show!” said Fen under her breath. Then, horrified by her own lack of patriotism, she shot a sidelong glance at Helen and Mrs. Macaulay and was shattered to see neither of them was looking remotely upset.

“Must go and find Jake,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Wish him good luck,” said Helen. “Don’t forget to tell him,” she called after Fen.

Wishbone was just about to go into the ring. Nearly forty, he’d had a grueling career, and everyone was taking bets on whether the drink or anno domini would get to him first. Today, despite three large whiskys, the heat didn’t seem to affect him or his big bay gelding, Christy Mahon. They too got eight faults.

“Well done,” shouted Fen, as he came out of the ring. “Bloody good round.”

She found Ivor, his face tearstained, in the deepest of glooms. “Where’s Jake?” she asked.

“In the Gents, throwing up.”

“He’s got to jump in twenty minutes. For God’s sake, go and get him.”

Jake crouched over the lavatory, gazing miserably at the white bowl. Having had no breakfast and virtually no supper he was throwing up only bile now. He felt dreadful, shaking from head to foot. Oh God, he wished Tory was here.

Someone was rattling the door. It was Ivor.

“You okay, Jake?”

Jake groaned.

“Fen thought this might help.” Ivor passed a brandy under the door.

“Take it easy,” said Malise’s voice. “In a few hours this’ll be all over.”

“How soon have I got to jump?”

“About four to go.”

“Any clears?”

“No — Rupe knocked up a cricket score,” said Malise bleakly.

So it all depends on me, thought Jake.

He drained the brandy. Amazingly, it seemed to calm his nerves and take the edge off his fears. Outside, he found Fen.

“Now listen, they’ve all come unstuck at the hot dog. I think you ought to come off the corner earlier, giving Hardy a bit more time to size it up and take it in five strides.”

“He seems to have got out of bed on the right side. He’s only given me one nip today,” said Sarah.

Hardy was not a handsome horse, but his chubby dappled quarters and shoulders shone like polished pewter, his tail was whiter than the snow on the mountains, and his plaits, threaded with red cotton, were the neatest in the contest.

For a second, Jake smiled at Sarah as she plugged both the horse’s ears with cotton wool. “You’ve done a good job on him,” he said. “He looks great.”

“Good luck,” said Fen.

“I don’t need to tell you this,” said Malise, “but all our hopes rest on you now.”

Giving Hardy a clap on the rump, Jake went off into the tunnel. Fen just managed to make her seat beside Helen as Jake rode into the ring.

“This is Jake, whom I was telling you about,” Helen said to her mother. “He nearly quit because he had such a frightful smash last year.”

The crowd was tired. They had already sat through nearly three hours of jumping. They had seen all the Americans go and were already drifting away for their lunch.

It’s actually happening, thought Jake, as he cantered towards the first huge fence. Feeling Hardy’s irritation at having his natural ebullience curbed, he let him have his head. Hardy bounded over, he cleared the next and the next, and with a whisk of his hind legs flicked over the water with inches to spare. He’s in top form, thought Jake joyfully. The sailboat caused him no problems. Following Fen’s advice, he then took a very sharp turn off the corner, and taking five strides, rather than everyone’s four, gathered sufficient momentum and bounded over the hot dog with ease.

He was the first horse to clear this fence, which caused such screams of delight, excitement, and hysteria from the crowd that they pierced straight through the cotton wool in Hardy’s ears, temporarily unhinging him. Breaking into a gallop he crashed through the huge oxer and sent every brick of the wall flying.

“Shit,” said Helen.

“Helen Macaulay,” said her mother, appalled.

“I’ve been Campbell-Black for six years, Mother.”

“More’s the pity.”

Fen decided she rather liked Mrs. Macaulay.

Jake, meanwhile, had pulled Hardy almost to a standstill, stroking him and balancing him, the same way he had calmed Macaulay in the World Championship.

“Silly bugger’s going to get time faults,” said Rupert.

“He knows what he’s doing,” snapped Malise.

Jake kicked Hardy into a canter, and proceeded to bounce over the rest of the course, riding out to deafening applause.

“Well done. Marvelous,” said Malise, looking considerably more cheerful than he had ten minutes before. “You’ve saved the day. You’re on eleven.”

Only three rounds followed, two of them hopeless, but the British hopes were slightly dashed when a Nigerian on a huge black gelding went round at a gallop, a broad grin on his face. Despite shooting out of the saddle at every fence, and reducing the crowd to fits of laughter, he managed to clear everything except the water and the hot dog.

Malise got out his score sheet. “That’s Mary Jo on four, Carol, Ludwig, Wishbone, and the Nigerian on eight, and you on eleven, Jake,” he said.

Then there was a grueling, three-hour interval before the second round. Twenty riders went through. Ivor was out, Rupert had just scraped in, Jake was fifth. There would be fewer jumps, but they would be harder.

“Let’s go and have some lunch,” said Malise.

“I’m going to stay behind and sort out Rocky,” said Rupert grimly.

“Must try and keep Wishbone out of the whisky tint,” said Paddy, his groom. Ivor couldn’t speak for despair.