horses’ stables.
On the way to the secretary’s tent to declare for the next day, Jake bumped into Marion, fuming as usual with Rupert.
“He’s only got Mayfair in the running now. He used the tack rail on Belgravia so much, one of his legs went septic, so he’s off for a fortnight. Rupert’s talking of using electrodes on Mayfair; the horse is a bundle of nerves.”
“And Macaulay?” said Jake.
“Sold on to an Arab sheik Rupe met playing chemmy at the Claremont. So he’s off to some Middle East hellhole, poor sod. You know what that means?”
“Yes,” said Jake bleakly. “He’ll cart the sheik’s son and heir once too often and end up in the stone quarries. Can you get me the address?”
Marion said she’d try, but Rupert had been very cagey about this deal because Helen, who was in an uptight state, might be upset if she found out the horse had gone.
“Not that she’s showing any interest in anything except Marcus at the moment.”
Jake shook his head. “Why d’you stay with Rupert?”
Marion shrugged. “I guess I’m hooked on the bastard, and at least I can make the lot of his horses a little easier.”
All the next day the rain poured down like a waterfall. The riders put up the collars of their mackintosh coats and shivered. As he finished walking the course, Jake was accosted by a reporter from the local evening paper.
“This is the toughest course ever built at Crittleden, Jake. Anything to say?”
Jake kept walking. “I’m sorry I can’t talk to you before a class.”
“But I’ve got a deadline,” wailed the reporter. “Arrogant sod,” he added furiously.
But Jake didn’t hear, and when he passed Humpty and Driffield he barely nodded, trying to cocoon himself, to get a grip on his nerves. He found Fen holding Revenge and Sailor — three drowned rats. Sailor, who loathed the cold, looked more miserable and hideous than ever.
“You okay?” he asked Fen.
She nodded. “What’s the course like?”
“Not okay,” said Jake. “Dead and holding. It’ll put five inches on all the fences.”
Smug in the covered stands after a good lunch, the Olympic committee smoked their cigars and waited. Jake, who had a latish draw, watched one rider after another come to grief, which did his nerves no good. He noticed that the dye of his cheap red coat was running into his breeches. If he survived this ordeal, he’d bloody well buy himself a mackintosh coat.
Only Porky Boy and The Bull went clear. Revenge went in at Number Twenty and, despite having to carry two stone of lead because Jake was so light, he jumped strongly and confidently, with only a toe in the water for four faults. Jake felt passionate relief that he wouldn’t have to jump again. But in one of the boxes, from which Colonel Carter would not emerge because Molly didn’t want her newly set hair rained on, Jake could see them both looking disappointed.
Rupert went in next, jumping a very haphazard clear, and came out looking none too pleased; he was followed by Driffield, who, despite Olympic-level bellyaching beforehand, had only four faults.
Sailor looked even more fed up as Fen took off his rug. But he nudged Jake in the ribs, as if to say, “I don’t like this any more than you do, so let’s get on with it.”
“I heard Rupert saying it’s like a skating rink in the middle on the far side of the rustic poles,” said Fen, “so jump to the right.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jake, trying to stop his teeth chattering.
“Your breeches look like a sunset,” said Fen.
“Hope that’s not symbolic of my career,” said Jake.
Sailor was cold and it took him the first four jumps to warm up. He gave Jake a seizure when he rapped the double very hard. But fortunately, though the pole trembled, it didn’t come out of the cup and Jake managed to steer him clear of the skating rink at the rustic poles. Although Jake was aware what a tremendous effort Sailor had to make at each fence, carrying so much lead, he completed the course without mishap.
Jake’s heart filled with gratitude. What horse could be more gallant? As he patted him delightedly and gave him half a packet of Polos, he wondered if subconsciously he was holding back Revenge because he
“Keep him warm and under cover,” he said to Fen and went off to check the jump-off course. He found all the clear-round riders having a frightful row with the Crittleden judges.
“For Christ sake,” said Rupert, “we’ve gone clear. Isn’t that enough for the buggers? It’s like jumping out of quicksand.”
“Porky Boy might easily slip,” said Humpty.
“It’s a sod of a course,” agreed Billy.
But the judges were adamant: the Olympic committee wanted them to jump again. This time Porky Boy had three fences down, Rupert and Driffield two and Jake and Billy one each.
“Can’t ask us to go again,” said Billy, grinning at Jake. “At least that’s a grand in each of our pockets.”
“Sailor’s finished,” said Jake. “Couldn’t even jump over a pole on the ground.”
Billy nodded. “Don’t worry, they’re not that crazy.”
But once again the Olympic committee, or rather Colonel Roxborough, who had once won a bronze medal, wanted a duel to the death.
“Seems a bit extreme when Jake’s horse is carrying so much lead,” protested Malise. “They really are ghastly conditions.”
“Could be just as ghastly in Colombia,” said the colonel. “Are we conducting an Olympic trial, or are we not? You couldn’t divide a gold medal.”
Malise had to go down and tell Billy and Jake they had to jump again, knowing he must not transmit the grave doubts he felt.
“I’m retiring Sailor,” said Jake.
“Then you’ll scupper your Olympic chances,” said Malise. “Just take it very slowly.”
Sailor was too exhausted even to look appalled as Jake rode him through the driving rain back into the collecting ring. Jake couldn’t bear to watch Billy, but he heard the subdued cheers as he rode out with twelve faults.
Rain was dripping in a steady stream from Malise’s hat as he walked up to Jake.
“Now, I mean it, take it really slowly.”
“He’s got no bloody choice after what you’ve put him through,” snapped Fen.
Malise knew he should have slapped her down, but she was speaking the truth.
Jake hated having to ask Sailor to do it. He felt like a murderer as he cantered slowly into the ring. Tory must be watching at home and worried too. If only that bloody missel-thrush had shut up. Rain at fifty degrees was making visibility almost impossible.
“I’m sorry, boy, I’m sorry.” He ran a reassuring hand down Sailor’s dripping gray plaits.
There were only seven fences. Sailor managed the first and second, but the ground was so churned up that he slipped on take-off at the third, the wall, and sent all the bricks and nearly himself flying. It was like riding on a kitchen floor after you’ve spilt hot fat. Frightened now, Sailor knocked down the oxer and rapped the upright, which trembled, but as in the first round, didn’t fall. Perhaps they were in luck after all. Somehow he nursed Sailor over the rustic poles; now he was coming down to the combination. By some miracle, despite a nasty skid, he cleared the three elements. Now it was only the parallel. Ears flattened against the rain, tail swishing in irritation, Sailor looked for a second as though he was going to stop.
“Go on, baby, go on,” muttered Jake.
Sailor made a mighty effort, girding his loins, then with an extra wiggle, threw himself with a groan over the fence.
Only eight faults. They had won. Despite the deluge, the crowd gave him a tremendous cheer as Jake pulled Sailor to a walk, patting him over and over again. Then just in front of the selectors’ box, like some terrible nightmare, Sailor seemed to stop, make an effort to go on, then physically shrink beneath Jake and collapse in the
