Help, thought Helen in panic. There seemed to be half a dozen men in yellow coats on the gate.
The taxi driver had no such reserve. Winding down the window he shouted: “I’ve got a lidy here for Rupert.”
Immediately one of the yellow-coated men leapt forward and peered into the cab.
“Might ’ave guessed it,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “Rupert certainly goes for lookers,” and getting a sheaf of tenners out of his pocket he handed them to Helen. “I think he’s given me most of his winnings yesterday. If you hang on quarter of an hour, mate, I’ll get you a fare back to London.”
After Helen had paid the taximan sixty pounds, which seemed an appalling amount of money, the man in the yellow coat took her off to find Rupert. It was so muddy she was thankful she’d worn boots.
“I’m a bit late,” she said.
“Not surprised in that traffic. Got a good crowd here today, although it looks like rain later.” He pointed to indigo clouds which were beginning to mass on the horizon above the pale acid green elm wood.
They found Rupert in the practice ring, cantering very slowly round on a magnificent bay gelding, totally oblivious of the crowd, mostly nubile teenagers, who were gazing at him.
The man in the yellow coat was about to call out when Helen stopped him. “I want to watch for a second,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
Rupert was wearing green cords tucked into gum boots, a dark blue quilted waistcoat over a dark blue jersey, and no hat.
“I told you he was lovely,” said a teenage girl eating an ice cream.
“I never thought he’d be that lovely,” said her friend.
“That’s his groom, Marion,” said the first girl, pointing to a sulky-looking blonde who was standing by the practice fence. “She was interviewed in
At a word from Rupert the sulky blonde, who was wearing a red T-shirt with “I only sleep with the best people” printed across her bosom, put up the pole to five foot. Rupert cleared it effortlessly.
“Wish I was the horse,” said the girl with rippling hair.
Helen had had enough.
“Rupert,” she called as he came past.
It was some comfort that he seemed so pleased to see her. Instantly sliding off the bay gelding and handing him to the sulky blonde, he ducked under the railings to join her. Immediately the autograph hunters surged forward.
“Bugger off,” snapped Rupert. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” and, putting his arm round Helen’s shoulders, he pushed impatiently through the crowd.
“How are you?” he said.
“Wonderful,” said Helen, suddenly realizing she was.
“You certainly look it,” he said, running his hand down her suede arm. “I adore that dress. It’s the same texture as Belgravia when he’s just been clipped, but I don’t like that bloody Alice band,” and, removing it from her hair, he tossed it into a nearby dustbin.
Helen gave a cry of protest and ran towards the bin to find the hairband nestling among the remains of hamburger buns and Kentucky fried chicken.
“That was my favorite hairband,” she said, outraged.
“And your last one,” said Rupert.
And he turned her round to face him, running his hands through her red mane so it fell tousled and shining over her forehead and round her face.
For a second she gazed at him mutinously, then she laughed.
“Christ,” said Rupert. “I’d forgotten how beautiful you were,” and drawing her towards him, he kissed her full on the mouth, in front of the crowds.
“We can’t here,” she said, pulling away, blushing furiously.
“We can absolutely anywhere,” said Rupert. “Come on, let’s go back to the caravan and have a drink.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a class in an hour and a half.”
On their way they passed the stables. Horses lolled their heads over the half-doors, gnawing at the wood, flattening their ears at each other and at passersby.
A crowd of people were hanging round one box stable. “That’s Belgravia,” said Rupert.
As he went towards the half-door the crowd dispersed to a respectful distance, but the horse rolled its eyes and took a threatening nip at Rupert’s sleeve.
“Ungrateful sod,” said Rupert, punching him gently on the neck. “He doesn’t like me; I mean hard work to him. You’d better be on form this afternoon.”
Leaving the horses, they walked through the mud up the hill to the caravan village in which the riders lived during the show. Rupert’s was easily the biggest caravan and the only one painted dark blue piped with emerald. In the window hung a string of rosettes.
“We had a good morning,” said Rupert.
Inside the caravan Badger thumped his tail joyfully and, wriggling up to Helen, goosed her briskly. On the table sat Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Mavis, the yellow mongrel, sat perched on his knee being fed pieces of Easter egg. On the bench seats sat a mousy-haired man with big ears and his mouth open, a fat man with short legs, and a pretty brunette with a notepad. They were all watching yesterday’s competition on the video machine. Billy’s horse was coming up to a big oxer and scattering poles.
“Freeze it,” said the fat man. “You went in too close, Billy.”
“Not enough impulsion,” said Rupert. “Got to jump an extra foot in mud like that. I wish you’d all stop cluttering up my caravan. This is Helen Macaulay.”
They all stared at her.
“This,” continued Rupert, “is my unstable companion Billy Lloyd-Foxe.”
Billy grinned. “Hi. I saw you across a crowded meet, but sadly Rupe got in first.”
“This is Joanna Battle from the
Rupert got down two glasses and another bottle.
“I wish you’d stop feeding that bloody dog my Easter egg. She’ll get spots.”
“And turn into a Dalmatian,” said Billy. Mavis was now lying on her back, with her legs apart, and her head on his shoulder. “Wish I had this effect on women,” he went on, smiling at Helen.
Once Helen had been given a drink they all ignored her and went back to watching the video, tearing everyone’s round to shreds, which gave her a chance to look at the caravan. It was extremely luxurious with an oven, a fridge, a washing machine, bench seats, a double bed that folded up completely, and a great deal of cupboard space.
At the end of the tape Rupert switched over to racing, picking up the paper in order to look at his horoscope.
“ ‘Good day for shopping,’ ” he read. “Perhaps I’d better buy that gray gelding. ‘Evening starred for romance.’ ” He grinned at Helen. “I should bloody well hope so.”
At that moment Marion walked in, still looking sulky. She was chewing gum, which gave her a particularly insolent air.
“Have you rung Ladbroke’s?” asked Rupert.
“I haven’t had time,” snapped Marion.
“Better buck up. You’ll miss the first race.”
“Put a fiver each way on Red Chaffinch,” said Billy.
“Come on, William,” said Joanna Battie, picking up her notebook. “This is going to be a bum interview. Isn’t there anyone, or anything, you dislike in show jumping?”
“You should have interviewed Rupert,” said Billy, undoing the purple paper from one of the chocolates inside the egg and giving it to Mavis.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with show jumping,” said Rupert, filling up Helen’s glass. “Why don’t the big shows provide the stabling free for the top riders? Cattle and sheep never have to pay a penny for accommodation. They
