raise the sky. Jake must have gone clear.
Marion ran beside him, sobbing.
“The bastard, the bastard. It was his fault.”
“Go and saddle up Belgravia quickly. Rupert’ll have to ride him in the parade.”
The white hot stone of the stables seemed to burn Billy’s eyes. For a second he felt dizzy and thought he was going to faint. Then he heard the terrified screaming of a horse, and the sickening thud of a whip on flesh. He streaked across the yard. Both the half-doors of Macaulay’s box were shut.
“Rupert, let me in.”
“Fuck off.”
“Bloody well let me in,” shouted Billy, pushing his huge shoulders against the door.
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Billy stepped back and ran at the bottom half-door. It began to give. Then he hurled his shoulders at it, nearly taking his head off as it caved in. For a second, after the dazzling sunlight, he couldn’t see a thing. Then he gave a flying leap and landed on Rupert, winding him and rolling him on the ground.
“Fucking horse,” gasped Rupert. “Give me that whip or I’ll use it on you.”
“You bloody won’t.” Billy scrambled to his feet.
Macaulay was a pitiful sight. Cowering in the corner, the lather turned red with blood, he had weals all down his shoulder, and one across his face just above the nostrils which were extended and as red as a poppy. His eyes were rolling in terror, his veins swollen, his sides heaving.
“You poor bastard,” said Billy, going up to him. The horse cringed away in terror. “It’s all right,” he said, catching his bridle. “It’s all over.” Rupert got to his feet, his face murderous. “Give me that whip, I haven’t finished.”
“You put him at it wrong,” said Billy quietly. “You were a stride off; no horse could have jumped that fence. It’s all right, boy.” He stroked Macaulay’s trembling neck. “It’s all right. You stupid bugger,” he added over his shoulder, “you could be prosecuted for this.”
“I’ll deal with my horses as I choose,” snarled Rupert. He was about to make a dive for the whip when they heard a clattering of hooves outside. It was Marion with Belgravia.
“Go on,” said Billy. “Don’t you realize we’ve won? Jake went clear.”
“So what?”
“You’ve got to go and collect the cup. You won it too, you know. You only got eight faults in the first round. Go on, Belgravia’s waiting.”
“I’m not going.”
“Stop behaving like a teenager,” said Billy, echoing Malise. “Do you want everyone saying you’re a stinking loser?”
For a second he thought Rupert was going to take a slug at him. Instead he ducked out of the half-door and vaulted onto Belgravia’s back.
“Here’s your hat,” called Billy after him.
Marion took it and handed it up to Rupert.
“You’re a bastard,” she hissed. “I’m giving in my notice.”
Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade, Malise, and all the grooms were cheering like schoolboys as the British team rode into the ring. Even Helen, now over the disappointment of Rupert’s twenty faults, was jumping up and down and waving her yellow hat in the air. Sailor, the hero of the afternoon, walked on the outside, walleye looking suspiciously at the crowd but accepting the deluge of cushions, flowers, and handkerchiefs that descended around him with equanimity. Jake managed to catch two pink carnations and threaded them into Sailor’s browband.
As they lined up in front of the general’s box, a cushion flew through the air, and Rupert had to duck to avoid it. Jake turned to him. “Rather reminds me of pillow fights in the dormitory of St. Augustine’s,” he said softly.
Rupert gave him a look of pure loathing which would have withered most people, but Jake was beyond withering.
“They were also very keen at St. Augustine’s on people being good losers,” he said, and laughed in Rupert’s face.
The British team stood in front, with the other teams fanned out behind them. Jake choked back the tears as the Union Jack rose in a series of jerks up the flagpole, and the National Anthem was played for the second time that afternoon, very badly and this time in a minor key.
“God jolly well ought to save our Queen fwom foweign bands,” said Lavinia.
Afterwards, they had to walk rather apprehensively between an avenue of machine guns and meet the very distinguished general, who, despite his great age and the punishing heat, rose to his feet and congratulated them in perfect English. Rupert he appeared to know already, and inquired after his beautiful mother. But before Rupert could reply, a second commotion that afternoon was created by Sailor, who, dragging the unfortunate official who was trying to hold him, refused to be separated from Jake and, undeterred by the armed guard, followed his master halfway up the stairs.
Fortunately the general had a sense of humor and allowed two of his minions to help him down the stairs to pat Sailor on the nose. Jake smiled. The general smiled, Sailor nudged the general in the pocket as though checking if he were armed too, and the photographers went wild.
“Sailor among soldiers,” said the headlines next morning and the press went wild because it was the first time anyone had beaten the Germans for two years. The Germans, who were all very sporting, came up and shook Jake by the hand.
“I think we will have to pull the stocking up, no?” said Hans.
“Are you thinking of selling that horse?” said Ludwig.
As they finally galloped round the ring, rosettes streaming, sashes across their left shoulders, Jake clutched a solid silver bear, the symbol of Madrid, his prize as leading rider.
“I don’t care what you say,” said Humpty, swelling his chest at each cheer, “that horse must have some good blood somewhere.”
“I must telephone Tory,” said Jake as they rode out of the ring. “God, I hate those telephones.”
“Mummy’ll do it for you,” said Lavinia.
“She speaks Spanish.” Billy was waiting for them.
“Well done,” he said to Jake. “Good thing I got a concussion. I’d never have pulled off a double clear.”
That night at dinner they went over every fence in every round and the Nations’ Cup was filled and drunk out of again and again. And everyone, even Billy, who’d deadened his headache with four aspirin, was relieved that Rupert and Helen excused themselves from the celebration on the very genuine excuse that the general had asked them to dinner.
Much later, not entirely sober, Jake went down to the stables to check on his horses. Earlier he’d added salt and electrolytes to Sailor’s feed to make him drink because he’d been very dehydrated after sweating so much in the afternoon. Now he found his water bucket was empty, and kicked over. Jake filled it up again. Rather laboriously he repoulticed Sailor’s legs to take away the aches brought on by such strenuous jumping.
Then he went and looked at his darling Africa, walking her up and down. Her leg was better; she’d be okay for the Grand Prix tomorrow. He couldn’t resist going into the tackroom and shining his flashlight on the red rosette he’d won earlier, rubbing its shiny ribbon along his face, kissing the hard cardboard center.
Maudlin idiot, he told himself, but he was still walking on air.
As he came out he saw a light in Rupert’s box. Creeping towards it, he looked over the half-door and found Marion redressing Macaulay’s weals. Jake winced in distaste. His shoulder looked as though someone had been playing noughts and crosses with a knife.
Macaulay saw him first and cowered into the corner. Marion swung round, instinctively pulling the rug over the damage.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking at my horses. I suppose that’s Rupert’s work?”
For a second Marion hesitated between discretion and outrage. Outrage won. “Of course it was, the bastard.” She peeled back the rug and went on applying cream to the wounds.
“I’ve got some better stuff for that,” said Jake. Returning to his trunk in the tackroom, he got out a jar of ointment, which had turned liquid in the heat.
