and Mrs. Bodkin, believed that babies should be fed on demand and cuddled a lot. If they couldn’t sleep you took them into bed with you, whereupon Nanny launched into horrific tales about ladyships in the past who’d done the same thing and suffocated their babies.
One day when Rupert was away Marcus wouldn’t stop crying, his frame wracked, his little lungs bawling the house down. How could such a tiny thing make so much noise?
“Leave him. He’ll exhaust himself,” insisted Nanny.
Helen, terrified of losing Marcus, and utterly fed up with this whiskery old boot hanging over him and calling all the shots, summoned the doctor.
Dr. Benson, who was more than a little in love with Helen, was delighted to confirm her fears. “Baby’s hungry; needs more food.”
Afterwards there was a stand-up row and Nanny packed her bags.
Terrified of Rupert’s wrath, Helen rang up Hilary, who offered only praise.
“Best thing you’ve ever done. Don’t let that MCP talk you around.”
Later, Rupert walked into the nursery to find Helen changing a nappy and, with a look of horror, walked out again. Really, he was the most unrole-reversed guy.
With a hand that trembled slightly, she powdered Marcus and rather clumsily put the disposable nappy inside the Harrington square. She fastened the two blue safety pins, tucked him into his cradle, and gave him a kiss. With a gurgle of contentment he fell asleep immediately, obviously not missing Nanny.
Rupert was waiting outside.
“Why the hell are you doing that? Is it Nanny’s afternoon off?”
Helen took a deep breath.
“I gave her notice this morning.”
“You what?” thundered Rupert. “Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“You sacked Nanny without asking me?”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” said Helen, losing her temper. “You’re never here, never take any interest in Marcus.”
“Balls. I haven’t been away from home for more than a night since you had him.”
“You’ve only been back three weeks,” screamed Helen, going into her bedroom.
“You turned her out, just like that?”
“She’s out of date.”
“She was my Nanny and my father’s before that. We’re healthy enough. Can’t be much wrong with her.”
“Why don’t you put her in the antiques fair then? I’m not having her upsetting Mrs. Bodkin and, anyway, Hilary figures for successful parenting…”
“Don’t you quote that bloody dyke at me. Successful parenting, my arse, and who’s going to look after the baby now?”
“He’s called Marcus, right, and I am. Most mothers do look after their kids, you know. I don’t want Marcus growing up caring more for Nanny than me, like you did.”
“And how d’you intend to get away? It’s Crittleden next week, Rome the week after.”
“Tory Lovell takes her baby with her.”
“Christ, you should see it. Caravan festooned with nappies, Tory shoving distilled suede boot into some bawling infant, who spits it all out, then bawls all night, keeping every other rider awake.”
“Well, I’ll stop at home then,” sobbed Helen.
Suddenly from next door there was a wail.
“Go and see to him,” snapped Rupert. “Now aren’t you sorry you sacked Nanny?”
Fortunately Billy chose that moment to arrive back from Vienna, trailing rosettes, bringing Rupert’s horses, and panting to see the new baby, so the row was temporarily smoothed over.
“What a little duck,” he said, taking a yelling Marcus from Helen. “Isn’t he sweet? Look at his little hands. No, shush, shush sweetheart, that’s no way to carry on, you’ll upset your mummy.”
Amazingly, the next minute, Marcus shut up, gazing unfocused at Billy, enjoying the warmth and gentle strength.
“Isn’t he a duck?” he said again.
“You’d better take over as Nanny,” said Rupert with a slight edge in his voice. “Then we won’t have to fork out for an ad in
Helen thought for the millionth time how glad she was Billy hadn’t married Lavinia Greenslade. He was such a comfort.
“You will be godfather, won’t you?” she said.
Billy blushed. “Of course, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to point him in a very Christian direction. Who else have you asked?”
“Only my new friend Hilary, so far,” said Helen, shooting a defiant glance at Rupert. “I can’t wait to have you two meet. I’ll know you’ll enjoy her.”
Every night for the next week they were woken continually by Marcus crying, driving Rupert to frenzies of irritation.
“That’s my night’s sleep gone,” he would complain, then drift off to sleep two minutes later. Helen would get up, feed Marcus, soothe him to sleep, and lie awake for the rest of the night.
In April, Billy and Rupert set off for Crittleden, leaving Helen and Marcus alone in the big house, except for one of the girl grooms, whom Rupert had insisted sleep in. Resentful of Rupert, Helen poured all her love into the delicate little boy. Thank goodness Hilary lived only a few miles away, so they spent alternate days together, discussing books, plays, paintings, their babies and, inevitably, Rupert.
Jake Lovell was having his best year yet. His horses couldn’t stop winning. Revenge, brought in from grass, fat, mellow, and almost unrecognizable, was now fit and well muscled again. Even Jake realized his Olympic potential, but in four years’ time.
Tory and Fen, however, were wildly excited when a form arrived for Jake asking him to fill in his measurements for an Olympic uniform, which included a blazer and trousers for the flight and the opening ceremony. Aware that forms had been sent to all the other possibles, Jake had no intention of tempting Providence by returning the form until his selection had been confirmed after Aachen. He was appalled when he discovered that Tory, with her usual efficiency, had filled in the form and posted it.
Despite this tempting of Providence, the first Olympic trial at the Bath and Wells show went well. Both Sailor and Revenge jumped accurately and were only beaten by seventeen-hundredths of a second against the clock by The Bull. Humpty was fourth, Driffield fifth, Ivor Braine sixth, Rupert a poor seventh, not even getting into the jump-off. The rest were nowhere.
Before the second trial in June at Crittleden, Jake was a good deal more edgy. Colonel Carter was never off the telephone, throwing his weight around, trying to organize Revenge’s career, until Jake lost his temper and told the colonel to get stuffed.
More sinister, Jake noticed an unfamiliar missel-thrush singing in the willow tree nearest the stables, the day before they were due to leave for Crittleden. Jake chased it away, but it came back and went on singing. When he lived with the gypsies a missel-thrush had sung all day outside the caravan of the old gypsy grandmother. One day she was in rude health, the next she had died. Jake believed in omens. All day he worried about the children, Isa and little Darklis, who at thirteen months had grown into the most enchanting black-haired, black-eyed gypsy girl, the apple of Jake’s eye.
He even went and fetched Isa from the playgroup himself. He didn’t tell Tory of his fears. They had decided not to bring the children to Crittleden, as Jake and Fen needed a good night’s sleep before the trial, and children around might be distracting.
“Are you sure you don’t mind not coming?” Jake asked Tory.
“I can watch you on television,” she said. “Anyway I’d be so nervous for you, I’d wind you up. I know you’re going to make it.”
Jake hated leaving them all. Whenever would he get over this crippling homesickness every time he went away? As they left on the hundred-and-fifty-mile drive it was pouring with rain and the missel-thrush was still singing. It was even wetter and colder at Crittleden. Jake and Fen spent a lot of time blocking up holes in the
