“Christ,” said Tracey, plaiting faster. “I’m never going to be ready in time. Give over Bull, keep still.” The Bull looked up with kind, shining eyes.
“You want a hand?” asked Jake. “I’ve nearly finished Sailor.”
“You haven’t,” said a voice behind him.
It was Malise Gordon, looking elegant, even in this heat, in a pale gray suit, but extremely grim.
“You’re going to have to jump after all,” he said. “That stupid idiot, Billy, sloped off this morning with Rupert to have another crack at bullfighting and got himself knocked out cold.”
Tracey gave a wail and dropped her comb. The Bull jerked up his head.
“It’s all right. He’ll live,” said Malise irritably. “The doctor doesn’t think it’s serious, but Billy certainly doesn’t know what day of the week it is and there’s no chance of him riding.”
Tracey burst into tears. Marion stopped plaiting and put her arms round Tracey, glaring at Jake as though it was his fault.
“He’s got a head like a bullet; don’t worry,” Marion said soothingly.
“Come on,” said Malise, not unkindly. “Pull yourself together; put The Bull back in his box and get moving on whoever Jake’s going to ride. Africa, I presume.”
Jake shook his head. “Her leg’s not right. I’m not risking it. I’ll ride Sailor.”
For a second Malise hesitated. “You don’t want to jump The Bull?”
Catching Tracey’s and Marion’s looks of horror, Jake shook his head. If by the remotest chance he didn’t let the side down, he was bloody well not having it attributed to the fact that he wasn’t riding his own horse.
“All right, you’d better get changed. You’re meant to be walking the course in an hour, but with the general coming and Spanish dilatoriness it’s impossible to be sure.”
Luckily Jake didn’t have time to panic. Tracey sewed the Union Jack onto his red coat. Normally he would have been fretting around, trying to find the socks, the breeches, the shirt and the white tie which he wore when he last won a class. But as it was so long since he had won anything, he’d forgotten which was the last set of clothes that worked. His face looked gray and contrasted with the whiteness of his shirt like a before-and-after laundry detergent ad. His hands were trembling so much he could hardly tie his tie, and his red coat, which fitted him before he left England, was now too loose. Then suddenly, when he dropped a peseta and was searching for it under the forage bin, he found his tansy flower, slightly battered but intact. Overjoyed, he slipped it into his left boot. Aware of it, a tiny bump under his heel, he felt perhaps his luck might be turning at last.
Rupert arrived at the showground in a foul temper. He’d just had a dressing-down from Malise for going bullfighting on the morning of a Nations’ Cup. He was worried about Billy and he realized, with Billy gone, that their chances of even being placed were negligible. Normally he didn’t need to distance himself before a big class, but Helen’s chatter about El Grecos and Goyas, and her trip to Toledo, “with the old houses silhouetted against the skyline,” got on his nerves and he’d snapped at her unnecessarily.
She’d hoped to win him over in a new dress — a Laura Ashley white smock dotted with yellow buttercups, worn with a huge yellow straw hat — but he had merely snapped, “What on earth are you wearing that for?”
“It’s the latest milkmaid look,” said Helen.
“I don’t like milkmaids, only whisky maids; and you’re going to obscure about fifteen people’s view in that hat. No, there isn’t time to change; we’re late as it is.”
“God, it’s hot,” said Lavinia Greenslade, as they sweated in the unrelenting sun, waiting for the go-ahead to walk the course. Her eyes were swollen and pink from crying over Billy’s concussion. It had taken all Malise Gordon’s steely persuasion, coupled with her parents’ ranting, to make her agree to ride.
The rotund Humpty was sweating so profusely that great damp patches had seeped through his red coat under the arms and down the spine.
“Wish we could jump in our shirtsleeves,” he grumbled.
“Not in fwont of the genewal,” said Lavinia. “He’s weally hot on pwotocol.”
Jake clenched his teeth together, so the others couldn’t hear them chattering like castanets. Walking the course didn’t improve his nerves. The fourteen jumps were enormous — most of them bigger than he was — with a huge combination in the middle and a double at the end with an awkward distance. You could either take three small strides between the two jumps or two long ones. He tried to concentrate on what Malise was saying as they paced out the distances.
In a Nations’ Cup, four riders on four horses jump for each country, jumping two rounds each over the same course. There is a draw for the order in which the nations jump. Today it was France, Italy, Spain, Germany then Great Britain last, which meant that a French rider would jump first, followed by an Italian, then a Spaniard, a German, and finally a British rider. Then the second French rider would jump followed by the second Italian, and so on until all the riders had jumped. Each nation would then total the scores of its three best riders, discarding the worst score. The nation with the lowest number of faults would then be in the lead at half time. The whole process is then repeated, each rider jumping in the same order. Once again the three lowest scores are totted up and the nation with the lowest total over the two rounds wins the cup. If two countries tie there is a jump-off. Nations’ Cup matches are held all over Europe throughout the summer and autumn and the side that notches up the most points during the year is awarded the President’s Cup. For the last two years this had been won by Germany.
Malise gave the order for the British team to jump: Humpty, Lavinia, Rupert, Jake.
“If you get a double clear,” Humpty told Jake as they came out of the ring, “you get a free red coat.”
“Can’t see myself having much chance of wearing out this one,” said Jake.
He thought so even more a few seconds later as Lavinia gave a shriek of relieved joy, bounded towards Billy, as he stood swaying slightly at the entrance to the arena, and flung her arms round him.
“Lavinia,” thundered her mother and father simultaneously.
Lavinia ignored them. “Are you all wight? You shouldn’t have come out in this heat. Does your poor head hurt?”
Billy was deathly pale, but he steadied himself against Lavinia and grinned sheepishly at Malise. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“T’riffic,” said Rupert. “You can ride after all.”
“No, he can’t,” said Malise firmly. “Go and sit in the shade, Billy, and take my hat.” He removed his panama and handed it to Billy.
“For Christ’s sake,” snarled Rupert, hardly bothering to lower his voice, “even concussed, Billy’s more valuable than Lavinia or Jake. They simply haven’t the nerve when the chips are down.”
“Thank you, Wupert,” said Lavinia, disengaging herself from Billy. “If it weren’t against the intwests of my countwy, I’d hope you fall off.”
“Are you implying my Lavinia isn’t up to it?” said Mrs. Greenslade, turning even redder in the face.
“Yes,” said Rupert unrepentantly. “And Jake even less so.”
“Shut up, Rupert,” said Malise, losing his temper. “You’re behaving like a yobbo.”
“Well, if you want us to come bottom yet again, it’s up to you,” said Rupert.
“I’m honestly not up to it,” said Billy placatingly. “I can see at least six of all of you.”
Fortunately an ugly scene was averted by a loose horse pounding through the collecting ring, his lead rein trailing and flysheet slipping. Whickering with delight, he shoved the rest of the British team summarily out of the way and rushed straight up to Jake, burying his nose inside his coat and nudging him with delight. It was Sailor; his feet were oiled, his coat polished, his thin mane coaxed into plaits, his sparse tail fell jagged from a tube of royal blue tail bandage.
The next minute Tracey joined them, panting and laughing.
“The moment he saw you he broke away from me.”
“Amazing that someone finds you attractive,” said Rupert.
“That’s enough, Rupert,” said Malise icily. “You’d better warm up before the parade, Humpty.”
18
