passed, scattering the crowd with his huge feet and quarters.
“Seems on top of the world,” said Tracey.
“Wish I was,” said Marion gloomily. “You haven’t seen Rupe’s new girlfriend.”
“What’s she like?”
“Not really his type: redheaded, breedy-looking, quivering with nerves rather like Belgravia. I suppose he is mad about chestnuts and she’s mad about him, but trying desperately to hide it.”
“Sounds like all the rest,” said Tracey.
“Even worse, she’s called Macaulay.”
“Blimey,” said Tracey, leaning forward and giving the last bit of her Wimpy bun to The Bull. “He’s never done that before. Don’t worry, I expect she’ll go the way of all the others. He can’t be that smitten if he was fooling about with Grania Pringle last night.”
Helen was joined by Rupert, Billy, and Mavis in the riders’ stand.
“I wish you’d leave that dog behind, Billy,” said a steward fussily.
“She brings me luck.”
“Can’t see why she can’t bring you luck in your caravan.”
The first riders were crashing their horses over jumps in the practice ring under the oak trees. Members of the public leaned forward to pat their equine heroes as they passed in their colored rugs.
“What was the course like?” asked Helen.
“Bloody. You can park a double-decker bus between the parallel bars,” said Rupert. “There are only two and a half strides between the double, and the wall isn’t as solid as it looks. If you catch it on the way up, you’re in dead trouble.”
“Zee vater must be at least six meters,” said a German rider gloomily. Billy looked green and lit another cigarette.
A man in a felt hat, with long sideburns and a raffish face, stopped on the way to the commentary box. “Hello, boys,” he said in a carefully modulated put-on voice. “Are you going to show them how to do it again today, Rupert?”
“I might, if you don’t describe me as our most brilliant young rider as I come into the ring, in which case I’ll knock up a cricket score.”
The raffish man laughed. “I’d better get upstairs, we’re on the air in two minutes. How did the course walk?”
“Not very good. I don’t like banks in the high street or in a jumping ring, but it may ride better than it walks,” said Rupert.
Surely ride and walk aren’t transitive verbs, thought Helen. “Who’s that?” she asked as he moved on.
“Dudley Diplock — does all the commentaries. He’s a pratt, knows bugger-all about show jumping.”
Everything went quiet as the first rider came in — yesterday’s winner, Ludwig von Schellenberg on Brahms, a splendid horse, impeccably schooled.
“He’s the one to watch,” Billy told Helen. “He’s the best rider in the world, and was virtually unbeaten last season.”
“Kraut horses learn obedience the moment they come out of the womb,” said Rupert.
British spirits were not raised, however, when the mighty Ludwig had a most uncharacteristic twelve faults.
“Shows how bloody difficult the course must be,” said Rupert.
“We’ll all be up in the fifties,” said Billy.
“And here comes the despair of the pony club,” said Rupert, as Ludwig was followed by Humpty Hamilton on Porky Boy.
Humpty certainly rode in a very unorthodox fashion, pouter pigeon chest stuck out, hands held high, feet pointing down like a dancing master, showing a great patch of blue sky as he rose nearly a foot and a half out of the saddle over every fence. Nevertheless he acquitted himself well over the punishing course, and only had two fences down and a foot in the water for the same number of faults as Ludwig.
After that everyone went to pieces. Disastrous round followed disastrous round, slowing the proceedings up because the course had to be rebuilt every time.
Rupert got to his feet. “I’d better go and show them how to do it,” he said.
He kissed Helen on the cheek. “I won’t be long, darling.”
Without his red-hot presence beside her, Helen suddenly felt cold. A brisk wind was unfurling the flags and spreading out the horses’ tails. On television it had looked like a game for children with toy horses and toy fences. The camera had caught nothing of the colossal height of the jumps, the pounding hooves, the heroic splendor and sheer size of the horses thundering about like some Battle of Borodino. Suddenly Helen felt scared for Rupert.
“Aren’t you terrified?”
“Terrified,” said Billy, clutching Mavis for comfort and lighting another cigarette, “particularly as Malise Gordon has just arrived and parked himself below us.”
“Who’s he?”
“One of the selectors and the new chef d’equipe. He manages the British team and goes abroad with them to keep them in order.”
“What’s he like?” said Helen, admiring the taut aquiline features, the high complexion, and the dark hair graying at the temples. “He looks kind of attractive.”
“Bit of a tartar, stickler for discipline, always has spats with Rupe — well, you can never exactly tell what Rupe’s going to do next. Going to bed sober, early, and alone has never been his strong point. Although I’m sure,” Billy added hastily, worried that he might have hurt Helen, “now he’s met you, he’ll mend his ways. Mind you, it’s getting to the stage when Rupe’s so good, Malise can’t afford to leave him out.”
Helen watched Rupert saunter across the concrete below them, then vault over the fence into the collecting ring. Goodness, he must be fit. He walked up to Marion and Belgravia, bending down to adjust the bandages on the horse’s front legs.
“Is he that good?” Helen longed to talk about him.
“Christ, yes. Doesn’t have any nerves, cool as an icicle before every class, and he’s so fast and he meets every fence just right. Knows what risks he can take too. And he’s got the killer instinct. Even in novice classes he’s always out to win.”
Ivor Braine was in the middle of a good round. The television man ran nimbly after him with the boom, recording the grunts and snorts of his horse.
“Sounds like a live sex show,” said Billy. “We always say it’s Ivor’s Dumbo ears that carry him round.”
Ivor was followed by a handsome Frenchman in a blue coat with a crimson collar, who proceeded to demolish the course. As he came thundering down to the water the horse jammed on its brakes and the Frenchman took a leisurely somersault through the air, landing with a huge splash.
In the collecting ring the horse was plunging round, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring, flecks of foam going everywhere.
A colossal cheer went up as Rupert erupted into the ring through the red brick arch. In the private boxes people came out onto the balconies to watch, clutching their gin and tonics. Helen was sure she could detect some Beatle-screaming. Belgravia stood still just long enough for Rupert to take his hat off, fidgeting and stamping to be allowed into action.
Humpty Hamilton sat down beside Helen.
“Belgravia looks completely over the top. Is it true, Billy, his half brother was second in the Grand National?”
Belgravia gave three colossal bucks. Rupert laughed and didn’t move in the saddle. As the Klaxon went off with its eldritch screech the horse bounded forward.
“Complete tearaway,” muttered Humpty. “Steerable, but not stoppable.”
That horse would benefit from some dressage, thought Malise Gordon disapprovingly. “If it weren’t for Rupert’s colossal strength, he’d be quite out of control.”
Over the brush sailed Belgravia, over the post and rails, over the rustic poles, driven on by Rupert’s erotic
