“Most of them would never have left the villages they were born in if they hadn’t been brilliant horsemen. Now, as a result of this brilliance, they are kings to the public, household names, ambassadors to their country all over the world. Rome today, Madrid tomorrow, New York the day after, constantly on television; yet most of them haven’t an “O” level between them.
“Often you’ll hear the winner of a competition gabbling to his horses all the way round, coaxing him over those huge jumps. Yet, ask him to describe that round in a television interview afterwards and he’ll be completely tongue-tied. They’re physical people, and they think in physical terms, and they’re far more at home with horses than they are with humans, and they distrust anyone with any kind of learning, because it makes them feel inadequate. But don’t underestimate them. Because they lack the gift of tongues, it doesn’t mean they don’t feel things deeply.”
He paused, frowning at her, then smiled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture you. I know what you’ve been going through today. Ever since I was appointed chef d’equipe last year I’ve been trying to break down these barriers of suspicion. You simply can’t apply Army discipline and expect them to jump into line. They are all deeply individualistic, chippy, very highly strung. Despite their deadpan exteriors, they get terribly het up before a big class. But once they accept you, you’re in for keeps unless you do something very silly.”
He thought it was time to change the subject. “Is your firm publishing any decent books this summer?”
And they went back to talking about literature, which Malise enjoyed because she was so adorably pompous and earnest, and because he could see how she was relaxing and gaining confidence, and just watching that exquisite face gave him pleasure. He was tempted to ask her to sit for him.
“I wish I could meet someone like Rupert Brooke,” she was saying. “I guess he can be regarded as the most charismatic personality of his generation.”
Malise Gordon winced and put another log on the fire. “I wish
Helen laughed. “I guess then that Rupert was the most glamorous character of his generation.”
“Taking my name in vain,” said a voice. Rupert was standing in the doorway, his face quite expressionless.
“No,” said Malise Gordon. “We were discussing another Rupert — a poet.”
“Quite unlike me,” said Rupert lightly. “Helen knows I’m an intellectual dolt, don’t you, darling?” He turned to Helen, still smiling, but she knew beneath that bland exterior he was angry. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
“Talking to me, since Grania — er — borrowed you.”
“How nice,” said Rupert. “So no doubt you’ve discussed every exhibition and play and foreign film on in London. Perhaps you’ve even graduated to Henry James.”
“We hadn’t got round to him yet,” said Malise.
“That’ll have to wait till next time,” said Rupert. “Come and dance,” he added to Helen. It was definitely an order. But before she could move, a sound of screams, whoops, and catcalls rent the air, drowning the deafening pounding of music. The noise was coming from outside. Malise drew back the heavy dark green velvet curtains. A group of men were running through the moonlit cherry orchard carrying something that was wriggling frantically, like a sheep about to be dipped.
“They’re throwing Driffield in the lake,” said Rupert.
“Isn’t that lake polluted?” asked Helen in worried tones.
Rupert laughed. “It soon will be, if they throw Driffield in.” He took Helen’s wrist. “Come on, darling.”
Malise took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.
“We ought to head for home,” he said.
Then she said, all in a rush, “Colonel Gordon’s going back to London tonight. He’s very kindly offered me a lift.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“There isn’t anywhere for me to sleep.”
“Grania’ll give you a bed. Party’s hardly got going yet.”
“Events would bely that,” said Malise, as bellows, guffaws, and sounds of splashing issued from the lake. “I hope Driffield doesn’t catch cold. It’s hardly the weather for midnight bathing. As for Grania putting Helen up, I’m sure every bed and sofa in the house is already heaving with occupants. Shall we go?” he turned to Helen.
She nodded, unable to speak. Part of her longed to stay with Rupert. She’d never seen anyone so angry. His blue eyes narrowed to slits, his face pale as marble. He picked a white narcissus out of the flower vase, examining the crinkly orange center.
“I’ll drive you back to Vagina House,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” said Malise crushingly, “you’ve got classes early tomorrow and you’ve had far too much to drink. Police always patrol the Worthing-London road at this hour of night. Not worth risking your license. You can’t afford to be off the road for a year.”
“I am quite capable of driving,” said Rupert through gritted teeth.
“And then you’d have to turn round and drive all the way back. Be reasonable.”
Rupert turned to Helen. “You really want to go?”
“I guess so.”
Looking down, Rupert found he had shredded the narcissus. One petal was left. “She loves me not,” he said.
“I’ll get my coat,” said Helen.
Fleeing from the room, she nearly fell over Monica Carlton, fast asleep in her red nightgown, propped against the gong. On her lap lay a plate of chocolate mousse which Mavis was busy finishing up.
In the room where she’d left her coat and boots a couple were heaving on the bed.
“Billy, we must be careful,” said a voice. “Mummy will be fuwious if she catches us.”
Billy was going to win his tenner, thought Helen. As she grabbed her belongings and let herself out of the room, Mavis shot through her feet to join in the fun.
Outside she found Hans Schmidt swaying in front of her.
“Fraulein Helen,” he said triumphantly, “come and dance wiz me.” He was just about to drag her off in the direction of the music when Malise and Rupert came out of the library, both looking wintry. To make matters worse, Hans insisted on coming out to the car with them and roaring with laughter when he discovered what was going on.
“You are losing zee touch, Rupert,” he kept saying.
“Fuck off,” snarled Rupert. Then, as Helen got into the car, “Your things are still in the caravan.”
“Only my suede dress,” said Helen.
“I’ll get Marion to post it on to you,” said Rupert and, without even saying good-bye, turned on his heel and stalked back into the house.
“There’s absolutely no need to cry,” said Malise, as the headlights lit up the grass verge and the pale green undersides of the spring trees. “That’s definitely thirty-love to you.”
“D’you think he’ll ever call me again?” said Helen with a sniff.
“ ’Course he will. It’s a completely new experience to Rupert, not getting his own way. Very good for him.”
Malise slipped a Beethoven quintet into the stereo. Helen lay back, reveling in the music and thinking how much Rupert would hate it. Ahead along the winding road she watched the cats’ eyes light up as their car approached.
“All right?” said Malise.
“Sure. I was thinking the cats’ eyes were like girls, all lighting up as Rupert approached.”
“And Rupert never dims his headlights,” said Malise.
“Is it worth it? Me going on with him, that is if he does ring me?”
“Depends if you’ve reached the stage when you can’t not. In which case any advice I give you will be meaningless.”
“Explain him to me,” pleaded Helen. “All I hear is gossip from people who hardly know him.”
“I’ve known his family for years. Rupert’s mother was exquisitely beautiful but deeply silly. She couldn’t cope
