“Did you finish the piece?”
“Yes.” She shot him a sly look. “It wasn’t nearly as complimentary as the one about you.”
“Number Forty-three,” shouted the collecting ring steward. “Where’s Number Forty-three?”
“Billee, they’re calling you!” shouted Hans Schmidt.
“For the last time, Number Forty-three.”
“I think they’re calling you,” said Janey.
Billy came down to earth. “Oh my God, so they are. Don’t move, I won’t be long.”
“I want to watch you.”
“Stop coffeehousing,” said Rupert, “and get into the ring.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Rupe, this is Janey. Will you get her a drink and look after her till I get back?”
“How d’you do?” said Janey. “I hear you had two legs out of the combination. It sounds awfully rude.”
“Oh, please,” Billy prayed as he rode into the ring, “don’t let her fall for him.”
He must concentrate. But joy seemed to surge along the reins and The Bull bounced round the course rapping nothing and the crowd went berserk as Billy pulled off the only British double clear.
“Well done,” said Janey, who was sitting in the riders’ stand with Rupert, clutching a large vodka and tonic. “You were marvelous, and you got a bigger ovation than the Rolling Stones.” She giggled. “I asked Rupert who that fat man in the ring with a tape measure was. He said he’s the course builder. I said, how did he know he was coarse. You do have the
There were six riders in the jump-off. Three Germans, Wishbone, Count Guy, and finally Billy. Ludwig went first and jumped a very fast clear. From then onwards, there were no clears until Hans Schmidt came in.
“They’re so controlled, those German horses, you’d never think they could motor,” said Janey.
“Look at his stride — twice as long as The Bull’s,” said Rupert.
Hans, incredibly, knocked two seconds off Ludwig’s time, cutting every corner.
“Billy won’t make it?” asked Janey.
“I don’t think so. The Bull simply isn’t fast enough.”
Hans came out, a broad grin on his round face. “Beat zat,” he said, as Billy rode into the ring.
“And here comes Billy Lloyd-Foxe on The Bull, our Olympic silver medalist riding for Great Britain,” said Dudley, trying to be heard over the cheers.
“Must be hell having to jump while you’re having a shit,” said Janey.
The cheers continued as The Bull circled, his fluffy noseband like a blob of shaving cream, cantering along on his strong little legs, bottom lip flapping, ears waggling, taking in the applause. Billy gave him a pat. He was a medieval knight jousting for Janey’s hand.
If he wins, everything’ll be all right and he’ll ask me to marry him, said Janey, crossing both fingers. As the bell rang the cheering started; as he rose to the first fence it increased, and it increased in a steady crescendo as he cleared each fence, riding for his life. As he turned for the last two fences, the double and then the huge wall, Billy glanced at the clock, realizing he was in with a chance. The cheer rose to a mighty roar and the whole crowd rose to its feet as one to bellow him home. The Bull was over the double and hurtled over the wall, nearly crashing into the side of the arena, before Billy could pull him up.
The ten thousand crowd turned to the clock. Billy turned around, putting his hands over his eyes. As he took them away a mighty roar took the roof off. He had won by a tenth of a second. The scenes that followed were worthy of a cup final. People were leaping over the stands into the arena, rushing forward to cheer and pat The Bull. Spectators were throwing hats, cushions, handbags into the arena.
Rupert looked at Janey and saw all her mascara had run.
“Wasn’t he wonderful?” she said.
“You do love him, don’t you?”
She nodded, getting out a paper handkerchief.
“Well, mind you look after him.”
Billy and The Bull got another deafening round of applause as they came into the ring to collect their rosette. Then the band played “Little White Bull,” and The Bull, very smug after all the attention, bucketed round the ring twice, deliberately keeping within the circle of the spotlight. Afterwards, Billy came up to see Janey. “You were so wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never been so proud in my life. What an absolutely sweet horse he is.”
From all sides, people were congratulating Billy, but he had eyes only for Janey. “Look, I’ve got to go back into the ring for the personality parade. Will you be all right? How did you get on with Rupert?”
“Great, but he’s not nearly as attractive as you.”
Billy blushed. “He must have been pulling his punches.”
The cavalcade that brings the Horse of the Year show to an end must be the most moving event in the equestrian calendar. Among the celebrities were little Stroller and two of the police horses who’d displayed exceptional bravery in an IRA incident, followed by ponies, hacks, and hunters, the heavy horses and, finally, the Olympic team. Then Malise, not without a tremor of emotion in his voice, read out Ronald Duncan’s beautiful poem: “To the Horse,” and Janey found herself in floods of tears again. What a wonderful, dashing, romantic, colorful world she was moving into, she thought, after three large vodka and tonics on an empty stomach.
As Billy came out to the collecting ring, a man came up to him whom he instantly recognized from Rupert’s description as Kevin Coley.
“Bill Lloyd-Foxe?” he said, pumping him by the hand. “Kev Coley.”
Billy was almost blinded by his jewelry.
“I think Rupe’s spoken about me.”
“Of course,” said Billy, trying not to laugh. “He was
“So was I, by tonight’s win. Great stuff, Bill, great stuff. I’m ready to talk terms. Why don’t we have dinner together?”
Billy’s heart sank. “Well, actually, I’ve got someone with me.”
“Bring her, too,” said Kev expansively. “My wife Enid’s up in the stands. The girls can chat while we talk business.”
Suddenly they were interrupted by an old lady, tears pouring down her face. “Oh, Mr. Lloyd-Foxe, I read in the paper you were thinking of turning professional. You won’t sell The Bull, will you?”
Billy smiled. “Of course not.”
“I’ve bought him some Polos.” She got a dusty packet covered in face powder out of her bag.
“Gosh, that’s terribly kind of you,” said Billy.
“Don’t you worry your head, ma’am,” said Kevin Coley. “If Bill turns professional, he’ll never have to sell The Bull.”
Billy found Janey in the lorry, repairing her face. Tracey had already hung the rosettes up on the string across the window.
“Darling, I cried my eyes out — it was so choke-making.” She mustn’t hug him too hard or her new trousers might rip.
“Sweetheart, do you mind if we go out to dinner with a man who wants to sponsor me?”
“No, yes, I do. I want to be alone with you and see the conquering hero come.” Putting her hand down, she touched his cock.
Suddenly Billy realized that if he married this wonderful girl, he could sleep with her every night for the rest of his life.
“We can do that later on,” he said. “It just means that if I pull this deal off, I can ask you to marry me.”
Rupert joined them, wearing a dark suit, and smelling of aftershave.
“I hear you’ve met up with Medallion Man,” he said, then in an undertone to Billy, “Do you mind frightfully saying that I had dinner with you all tonight if Helen asks? I am sure she won’t.”
“Where are you off to?” said Billy.
“Well, do you remember a little unfinished business called Tiffany Bathgate?” and added, as Billy looked disapproving, “and anyway, I thought I’d make myself scarce, in case you and Janey wanted to use the lorry later.”
At four o’clock in the morning, Billy lay in Janey’s arms in the double bed in her flat. They had just made love
