Riders

ought to waive our entrance fees too, and pay us appearance money. Our names go on every press release. The crowds have come here to watch Billy, Humpty, Ivor, and mostly me.”

“You’re so modest,” said Joanna.

“And another thing,” said Rupert, warming to his subject, “French, German, and Irish riders get a grand every time they win abroad. We don’t get a bean. We’ll never smash the Kraut ascendancy until they start paying us decent money.”

“Do you agree with this, Billy?” asked Joanna.

“Well, I don’t feel as strongly as Rupert. Probably because I’m not a member of the British team.”

“And because you never worry about money,” snapped Rupert. “People who claim not to be interested in money are always bloody good at spending other people’s.”

“If you want to be a top show jumper,” said Billy, winking at Helen, “you don’t need to ride well, just be Olympic level at bellyaching.”

Marion came off the telephone to Ladbroke’s.

“You haven’t met Helen Macaulay, Marion,” said Rupert, a slight note of malice creeping into his voice.

“I’ve met her namesake,” said Marion sourly. “Arrived Friday morning; bitten me three times already.”

“My namesake?” asked Helen, bewildered.

“The black horse I bought at the barracks. He’s been showing Marion who’s boss. I decided to call him Macaulay.”

Helen blushed crimson. “Oh, how darling of you.”

“Are you going to make us something to eat?” said Rupert.

“Haven’t got time,” said Marion. “Class starts in three-quarters of an hour. I’ve got to help Tracey tack up Belgravia and The Bull. There’s smoked salmon in the fridge and brown bread in the bin,” and she flounced out of the caravan, slamming the door behind her.

“What a lovely nature that girl’s got,” Humpty said, getting up. “We’d better go, Ivor. Thanks for the drink.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Joanna. “You’ll want to get changed. I presume you’re all going to Grania Pringle’s party tonight. Okay then, I’ll have half an hour there with you, Billy. Good luck, both of you.”

“Do you want me to go out while you change?” asked Helen.

“As long as you don’t mind underpants,” said Rupert.

“I’ll make you some sandwiches.” She went to the fridge which was packed with an upmarket medley of pate, smoked salmon, smoked turkey, and several bottles of champagne. She also noticed a great many empties already in the trash can.

“Bread’s in the bin on the right,” said Rupert. Lifting her hair, he planted a kiss on the back of her neck, then when she swung round, he kissed her on the mouth, his hands feeling for her breasts. Helen tried to leap away but she was rammed against the oven.

Rupert laughed and let her go. “Mustn’t raise my blood pressure too much before a class.”

As Helen spread unsalted butter on slices of bread and placed smoked salmon, red pepper, and a squirt of lemon on top, she allowed herself the brief fantasy of living with Rupert in the little caravan like a couple of gypsies, cooking him ingenious dinners on the stove each night, shutting out the rest of the horsey world except Billy. Billy, she decided, was really nice.

“How’s Nige?” asked Rupert.

“Very overadrenalized,” said Helen, cutting the crusts off the sandwiches, “and overly concerned that you’ve appropriated his address book and now have access to all the names and addresses of the saboteur underground.”

“The only name and add-ress I was after,” said Rupert, mimicking her accent again, “was yours. After that I threw the book into the Thames, so no doubt a lot of fishes are about to reveal the Antis’ darkest secrets in the Angling Times.”

Helen turned round with the plate of sandwiches to find Billy already dressed in breeches and shirt, tying his white tie, and Rupert wearing nothing at all. She nearly dropped the sandwiches on the floor. Shoving the plate down on the table, she turned back to tidy up and found herself putting the crusts in the fridge.

“Very good sandwiches,” said Rupert. “D’you want some, Billy?”

“No thanks,” said Billy, lighting a cigarette. “It never fails to amaze me how you can eat before a big class. I’m about to throw up last night’s dinner.”

“Nigel had two broken ribs, a black eye, and multiple bruises,” said Helen reprovingly.

“You ought to have brought me a color photograph,” said Rupert, who was pulling on his boots.

There was a bang on the door. It was Humpty Hamilton.

“We can walk the course in five minutes,” he said. “It looks a sod.”

“I’m definitely going to ask Lavinia Greenslade out tonight,” said Billy, shrugging into his red coat.

“You’ll have to take her parents along as well,” said Rupert, seizing a couple more sandwiches as they went out of the caravan.

10

Helen, as a result of three glasses of wine and no sandwiches, was feeling very unsteady. She was glad Rupert took a firm hold of her arm.

“Can you remember where I’m jumping?” he asked Billy.

“Fifteen,” said Billy, “I’ve got to wait until thirty. I’m last. Christ, look at that upright.”

They left Helen in the riders’ stand while they walked the course. She saw Joanna, the deadpan girl from the Chronicle, pointing her out to some of the other journalists who laughed and shrugged their shoulders. She wished she’d brought a coat; the suede dress wasn’t very warm.

She watched the riders splaying out over the emerald green arena. There were a few girls in black or very dark navy blue coats, several Irish riders in Army uniform or holly green, but the majority wore coats as red as an Armistice Day poppy. Some of them were pacing out the number of strides between jumps, like seconds in a duel, others put their hands up to rattle a pole to check how firm it was in the cup, others stood eyeing a turn or an angle, seeing how safe it was to cut a corner or come in sharply.

Several riders climbed up the famous Crittleden bank, like a turned-out avocado mousse, to examine the fence halfway across on the top. The jumps were absolutely colossal. Humpty Hamilton, looking stouter than ever in a quilted waistcoat, couldn’t even see over half of them.

And there was Billy, pulling on yet another cigarette, gloomily examining the water jump, while Mavis, thirsty from all that Easter egg, drank frantically, trying to lower the water level.

The indigo clouds had rolled away, leaving the softest pale blue sky above the acid green wood which had only a few sad gray streaks where the odd tree had died of Dutch elm disease. On the hill she could see the gleaming armadillo of parked cars and the caravan village.

Mostly her eyes were drawn to Rupert, who seemed to be spending more time ribbing his fellow competitors than studying the course. Unlike the others, he didn’t look bandy-legged or stout, or diminished by not being on a horse. All round the ring, crowds were gathering with binoculars. Helen reluctantly imagined every eye was on Rupert.

Two men in check suits and bowler hats, flushed from lunch, were going up into the judges’ box.

As the riders came out joking and laughing on the nervous high before a big class, the cameramen went in, most of them in jeans, gathering round the water jump. A large lady with a huge bust strode round the course with a tape measure, checking the height of each jump.

Tracey and Marion rode down to the collecting ring, one on the dark bay, Allenby, nicknamed The Bull, the other on the chestnut, Belgravia.

“God, I hate Rupe before big classes,” said Marion. “He’s so picky, checking and rechecking everything. Stop it, you monster,” she snapped, as Belgravia, oated up to the eyeballs, fidgeted and spooked at everything he