“Too quick,” muttered Fen.
But Africa was over safely and Jake’s eyes were already trained on the post and rails ahead, which she cleared easily. At the gate, catching sight of a balloon in the crowd, she stopped concentrating and rapped her hock hard. The gate swung, but miraculously didn’t come down.
“That’ll teach her,” said Fen, as Africa dragged her leg for a couple of paces.
“Rides well,” said a voice in the crowd.
“Horse carrying a lot of condition.”
“Isn’t that Jake Lovell?” said Molly Maxwell.
Africa slowed down at the wall, then changed her mind and cleared it with a violent jerky cat jump, which would have unseated most riders.
Haven’t seen that boy before, thought Malise. Handles that horse very well. She’s not at all an easy ride. With increasing pleasure he watched Africa clear the post and rails and the parallel bars and sail over the water jump and the wall.
But, as Jake turned her towards the triple, Malise realized it was unnaturally high. One of the arena stewards, who’d been crossed in love and in the beer tent all afternoon, had just seen his beloved saunter past on the arm of a rival and had put the top bar up to six feet.
Malise Gordon stepped forward to protest but it was too late. Africa had turned and was approaching the triple at a steeple-chaser’s pace, her feet drumming on the ground, fighting for her head.
“Steady, darling,” crooned Jake.
The top bar, white against pitted gray-green turf, was higher than Africa’s ears. For a second she hesitated, caught on a short stride, then, like a helicopter, rising off her hocks, she made a colossal jump. It seemed to the gaping crowd that she had taken off like a bird into the sky and bore no relation to the white poles below her.
“Christ,” said Malise.
At the same time Sir William’s binoculars fastened on Africa. He checked his program: From Brook Farm Riding School, of all unlikely places. She might do very well for Mikey next season.
The crowd gave a long sigh of rapture and sent up a great cheer.
Colonel Carter looked at his watch.
“Bloody good round,” said Christopher Crossley.
Jake jumped off Africa, patting her, determined not to betray the surge of exultation that was sweeping over him.
“That’s it,” Malise Gordon told the arena party. “Restrict it to six jumps, raise the pole over the first jump and the gate, put another row of bricks on the wall, and put the triple at five feet. Buck up, or Carter will start letting off his guns.”
“That’s seven clear rounds,” said Fen, counting on her fingers.
Colonel Carter heaved himself out of his deck chair.
“Are you off?” said Molly.
“Enemy wouldn’t wait, would they? The men will start the display in ten minutes,” he said, striding past Malise.
“Don’t be bloody silly,” snapped Malise. “If you fire a single shot before the last horse has jumped, you’ll cause chaos — and accidents.”
“Quarter of an hour; should give you ample time.”
“I’ll send someone to give you the okay.”
Colonel Carter ground his big yellow teeth. He was tired. Last night, with Molly, had been wonderful but rather exhausting. He hadn’t had much sleep; the effects of Sir William’s hospitality at lunchtime had worn off and, worst of all, he resented Malise’s complete refusal to take his display seriously.
In ring three, near the chestnut trees, the gymkhana events were already starting, with a burst of music for musical chairs.
“Can you help me saddle up Swindle, Mr. Lovell?” said Patty Beasley.
“Give me quarter of an hour,” said Jake.
The horses waited in the collecting ring, maddened by flies, the heat, and the rumble of approaching thunder.
“If you win, will you tell Mrs. Wilton?” asked Fen.
“God, no. If she knew how good Africa was, she’d persuade Bobby to sell. Wish I could buy her myself, but I’d have to win the football pools or marry an heiress.”
“Marry Tory,” said Fen with a giggle. “She’s going to be frightfully rich one day, and you could keep lots of horses, and I could come and live with you.”
“Fen,” said Tory, going crimson.
She was a champion blusher, thought Jake.
Fen watched Sally Ann Thomson bumping off to take part in the musical chairs.
“Good thing Mrs. Wilton’s in Brighton,” she said. “She’d be jolly cross if she knew you weren’t keeping your eyes on her darling pupils.”
Mrs. Wilton eased her car through the traffic. It had been a most unsatisfactory day. Her rich homosexual uncle, irritated by the heat and the stubbornness of his male hairdresser friend, had been so quarrelsome at lunchtime that she had walked out in a huff. One look at Brighton beach, packed with day trippers avid for time in the sun, and she had decided to drive back home to avoid the rush-hour traffic. The journey, in fact, had been so easy that she decided to look in at the Bilborough show. It never hurt to turn up unexpectedly; it kept Jake up to the mark. She rummaged in her bag for lipstick and applied it without even looking in the mirror.
Colonel Carter’s blood pressure rose with the temperature. Bugger Malise Gordon. He would not only lose the respect of his soldiers, dying of the heat in their battle dress, but also of the sizable crowd, who’d turned up at five to witness some bangs and were now drifting away.
“People are getting bored with waiting, sir,” said his adjutant.
“Take this to Colonel Gordon,” said Colonel Carter, handing him a note: “The guns will be fired at seventeen- twenty hours. Carter.”
It was just like the Charge of the Light Brigade, thought the young soldier, as he returned two minutes later with the same bit of paper, on the back of which Malise Gordon had scrawled: “Imperative to wait end of last round. Gordon.”
Colonel Carter tore up the note in a fury.
The girl with the big boobs had seven faults, Sir William’s son had eight. The horse whose rider jabbed him in the mouth had had enough and refused the brush fence twice, the stile once, and was eliminated. The old lady covered in makeup went next; she took a brick off the wall and knocked the bar of the triple.
Mrs. Wilton parked her car. It looked as though the open jumping was still going. Colonel Carter examined his watch.
Christopher Crossley was about to start his round.
“Shall we divide, Lavinia,” he said, “if we both go clear?”
“Fire!” The word of command rang out on the midgy, steamy air. Crash went the twenty-five pounders, causing immediate pandemonium in the collecting rings, horses rearing, bucking, plunging, and scattering the crowd.
Lavinia Greenslade’s gray was barging about like a dodgem car with rabies. Jake jumped straight off Africa and was clinging on to her bridle trying to calm her.
White with anger, Malise Gordon left Miss Squires and the green baize table and sprinted across to ring two, where he was joined by Sir William asking, “What the hell is going on?”
“That megalomaniac Carter,” said Malise, striding up to Colonel Carter. “What the bloody hell are you playing at? Stop those guns at
Colonel Carter’s reply was drowned in another crash.
A horse that had dumped its rider bolted past them reins and stirrups flying, followed by the girl with the big boobs who was also being carted.
“Look at that,” said Malise. “There’ll be a serious accident in a minute.”
“Your people should be able to control their mounts,” said Colonel Carter. “If you’re incapable of keeping to a time schedule, you should accept the consequences.”
