hundredth time to see if there was enough tape for Fen’s round.
“Tory, darling,” he called into the bedroom, “Fen’s about to jump. I think you ought to come and see it.”
He could hardly bear to watch her, she looked so small and defenseless as she rode into the ring. He had seen Rupert patting her hand and giving her encouragement. The bastard looked so impossibly handsome and, with his dislocated shoulder, a more romantic figure than ever. And even worse, Billy Lloyd-Foxe was doing the commentary. What the hell was
“And here comes Fenella Maxwell, riding her second round for Great Britain,” said Billy. “Only nineteen and easily our most brilliant and beautiful girl rider, and voted Sports Personality of the Year in 1979. Come on now, Fen, darling.”
“Oh, shut up, Billy,” howled Janey and Dino from different parts of England.
“Please don’t cheer,” Fen prayed to the crowd as Hardy plunged all over the place. “Please don’t distract him. Let us get around. Concentrate, Hardy, my darling.”
Suddenly Hardy decided to behave, jumping over the fences as though they were fallen logs in the wood.
“I want to go clear, oh please, let me go clear,” prayed Fen, getting excited. But Hardy took such an unexpectedly huge jump over the wall that it didn’t give him enough run into the water and he landed well in with a splash. Fen felt her face covered with tepid water. Hardy was drenched. He loathed getting wet. He lashed his tail, ears flattened.
“That’s done it,” groaned Rupert. “He’ll never clear the upright; he’s come in too close.”
Determined to prove Rupert wrong, Hardy did an incredible cat jump; up and up he went as if he was climbing a ladder. Then with a merry flick of his back feet he was over.
Dino put his arm around Tory.
“Go on, Fen,” yelled Darklis.
“Don’t look round,” screamed Isa. “Daddy’ll murder you.” He stopped, remembering, and looked in embarrassed apology at his mother. “I mean, for goodness sake, hurry.”
Fen thundered down to the last triple — she was over.
“Hooray,” yelled Billy, stamping his feet in the commentary box.
The applause was so defeaning, Fen didn’t realize she’d got a time fault.
Once again, everyone got out their calculators.
“That puts us on thirty-five, very much in contention,” said Malise. “The Germans are on thirty-four, the Americans on thirty. But we can’t afford any complacency. The Italians are on thirty-nine, with Piero Fratinelli to come.”
Rupert was seriously worried. The morphine wasn’t having the desired effect this time. He hardly warmed up Rocky at all; every stride was agony. There was no point risking a fall and finishing himself off altogether over a practice fence. He sat in the tackroom on an upturned bucket, with his head in his hands. He daren’t go near the First Aid Post in case they stopped him riding.
“You going to be able to make it?” said the doctor.
“Sure,” said Rupert, “but I hope they bloody hurry.”
Hans Schmidt had eight faults.
“That’s good for us,” Billy was saying in the commentary box.
Then, blighting everyone’s hopes, Piero Fratinelli came in and jumped clear for Italy.
“That’s not at all good for us,” sighed Billy. “Good round though.”
He grinned across at Fen, who was biting her nails in the riders’ stand, and mopped his brow.
In came Peter Colegate, who’d replaced Dino. The American crowd was in a state of hysteria. All across the stands U.S. flags were being waved in encouragement, as the big striding bay thoroughbred, who’d won several races in his youth, ate up the course.
“I don’t fancy anyone’s chances against him if there’s a jump-off,” said Billy.
The thoroughbred’s racetrack origins were his undoing, however. Picking up the tension from his rider, hearing the hysterical yelling of the crowd, he was reminded of his youth and, thundering towards the final fences, he cleared the pink wall with ease, then accelerated and flattened both parts of the double and, hearing the howl and groan of the crowd, only just scraped over the last massive triple.
“Hooray,” said Billy from the commentary box. That’s absolutely marvelous for us, but admittedly not great for the Americans.”
Carol Kennedy turned to Fen, shaking his head. “Our mutual friend would have gone clear.”
“What’s the score?” Fen asked Malise.
“Italians forty, Americans thirty-eight, Germans forty-three.”
They looked at each other for a minute.
“That means if Rupert goes clear we get the gold, four faults we get the silver, eight faults we’ll have to jump off, which will be too much for Rupert.”
Rupert rode into the ring.
“And here comes Rupert Campbell-Black on Popstar,” said Dudley. “He has a dislocated shoulder, which was put back yesterday. The suspense is absolutely killing, but I think we are about to witness a great display of courage.”
“Courage is a quality the Campbell-Blacks have never lacked,” said Billy. “One of Rupert’s ancestors was on the King’s side during the Civil War, and even though he was tortured by Roundheads, he never squealed.”
All the vengeful heat of the sun seemed to be concentrated on Rupert’s black velvet hat. The colored poles and the flower arrangements swam before his eyes. The officials in their coral blazers seemed to be dancing, the derby rising and falling by itself, the red and blue boat sailing away. The pain was excruciating now. If Rocky played up, he was doomed. Somehow he removed his hat, but, as Rocky sidled away, it took hours to get it back on again.
Where the hell was the first fence? For a panic-stricken moment he couldn’t remember. He looked up at the sea of faces, curiously still for once, the peaks of their caps like a million beaks. He had a terrifying hallucination — they were going to swoop down and peck him to death. Everything went black, he swayed, then forced himself to look down at Rocky’s blond plaits. His good hand was shaking violently — like a wanking schoolboy. The thought made him laugh. Thank God, there was the first fence. He kicked Rocky into a canter.
“And there goes Rupert,” said Billy in a voice that was not quite steady. “All our hopes go with him.”
Rocky, aware that his master was wildly untogether, jumped the first fence wrong, rapping it really hard, jarring Rupert’s shoulder appallingly. To a man, the crowd winced. The next jump was almost as unhappy. Rupert lost a stirrup, his balance all awry. Then he jabbed Rocky’s mouth over the sailboat and the horse pecked on landing.
“God, that must hurt,” moaned Billy.
Coming up to the derby, Rupert found his iron and somehow managed to stay on.
“Oughtn’t he to retire?” said Fen in anguish. “It must be killing him.”
Suddenly, with a relentless surge of courage, Rupert cleared the gate, and turned to the water, riding at it like a man possessed, clearing it by two feet. The crowd roared in ecstasy and then in apprehension. Rupert was beginning to do a bit too well. Suddenly an American victory was in jeopardy. Now he was turning towards the big combination: three vast brick-red fences with their clashing bright green pools of ferns. He left the first element to Rocky, who jumped it big, leaving him too close to the second element. With a brilliant shift in the saddle, Rupert swung Rocky to the right so he had more room and could get in an extra stride before clearing it, then swung him back again so he had the same extra diagonal. Rocky clouted the final pole, which was almost indistinguishable from the greenery filling the jump, but it stayed put.
The crowd burst into a spontaneous yell of applause.
“ ‘The gods who live forever,’ ” muttered Malise to himself, “ ‘are on our side today.’ ”
“That was the most glorious piece of riding,” said Billy. “Oh, come on, Rupe. I can’t bear to look anymore. You take over, Dudley.”
There were only three fences between Britain and a medal and, because of this, they all seemed higher than the grandstand.
Rocky was jumping majestically, but Rupert realized he must speed up. He couldn’t afford time faults. Through a haze of pain the three fences receded and came towards him; he’d never judge the distances; he
