Riders (5 page)

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
once
!”

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.”

Another gun exploded.

“Think you might hang on five minutes, Carter,” said Sir William. “Only three horses left to jump.”

“Hold your fire, Colonel,” said the Lady Mayoress, who had put her hands over her ears.

Carter decided he was outnumbered.

“All right, if you want to make a mockery of the whole display we’ll wait another ten minutes.”

“Maniac,” said Christopher Crossley, whose horse was leaping around as if someone was burning the grass under its feet, its nostrils as red as a poppy. Jake, who was trying to sooth a trembling, sweating Africa, admired the way Christopher went into the ring, and jumped a beautiful round, only taking a brick out of the wall.

Lavinia Greenslade’s gray, however, who’d been completely unhinged by the guns, crashed round the course, leaving it as if an earthquake had hit it.

Once again Jake had to wait until it was repaired, the strain telling on both his and Africa’s nerves.

“Bad luck,” said Christopher Crossley, as Lavinia rode out, looking furious.

“I’m going to object,” she said.

Molly Maxwell joined Colonel Carter.

“Are you having a cease-fire?” she said with a giggle.

“Bloody Gordon, insisted on finishing his jumping.”

“You should have started half an hour ago,” said Molly. “I wouldn’t stand for that. Wellington would never have taken Waterloo that way.”

“Oh, my God,” gasped Fen, seeing Mrs. Wilton pushing briskly through the crowd. “Look who’s over there, Tory. She’ll go potty if she sees Jake. We’d better distract her. Hello, Mrs. Wilton, we thought you were in Brighton.”

“Decided to come back. Had a good day?”

“I was fourth in the junior jumping.”

“Your first rosette. Well done. Has anyone else done anything?”

Fen shook her head.

“Where’s Jake?”

“Supervising the gymkhana events, I think,” said Tory desperately.

“Yes, he is. Come and find him, and on the way you can see how sweet Dandelion looks in his rosette,” said Fen, seizing Mrs. Wilton’s red hand. “And then come and see Mummy. I know she wants to buy you a drink. You must be hot after your journey.” She looked a picture of guilt as the words came tumbling out.

“What happened in the open jumping?”

“It’s finished,” said Fen.

The course had been set to rights.

“In you go,” said the collecting ring steward.

Jake rode quietly into the ring.

That’s a nice horse, thought Malise.

“Oh there’s one more competitor,” said Mrs. Wilton.

“Come and see Dandelion,” said Fen desperately.

“Why, it’s Jake,” said Mrs. Wilton in tones of outrage, “and he’s riding Africa.”

Africa bounded up to the first fence, as tense as a catapult at full stretch.

The ten minutes were up. “Fire!” said Colonel Carter for the second time.

The gun went off like a clap of thunder.

A dog bolted into the ring, barking hysterically, a child dropped its ice cream and let out a wail of rage. Africa went straight up on her hind legs, eyes rolling in terror, and dropping again, with a bound bolted towards the first fence clearing it by inches.

Jake sat down in the saddle and tried to hold her. Another gun went off. Africa crashed into the gate and sent the stile flying.

The crowd looked on, helpless. Tory and Fen watched, frozen with horror, as the maddened mare swung around the corner, with Jake hauling futilely on the bit, aware only of Africa’s hooves thundering on the dry earth and the white terrified faces flashing past.

As she raced for the triple, ten yards off, another gun went off. Jake tried to check her, but she’d missed her stride and took it completely wrong, jumping sideways and catching her foreleg in the wing of the jump. The crowd gave a moan of terror.

Africa lay under three poles, legs flailing like a centipede, making desperate attempts to get up. Jake staggered groggily to his feet, stars in his head. Praying against hope that Africa hadn’t broken a leg, he lurched towards her still holding on to the reins.

Another gun went off; Africa threw off the poles and struggled to her feet, standing trembling all over, holding up her off hind hoof.

Malise ran up.

“You all right?” he said.

Jake nodded. “Not so sure about the horse; can’t put her foot down.”

Malise took Africa’s bridle, stroking her gently, then he led her forward a step. Africa hobbled, then stopped. Malise ran his hand down the foot; she winced, but let him touch it.

“Nothing broken. Might have pulled a tendon. Better get the vet.”

Another gun went off. Africa trembled violently but was finished.

“Sorry about that,” said Malise. “She jumped very well in the first round. Look, sit down on the grass,” he added as Jake started to sway.

But the next moment Mrs. Wilton rolled up, marching with a far more military stride than Colonel Carter.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away,” she shouted. “How dare you jump that horse, how
dare
you?”

Jake looked at her. Through a haze of pain he saw her red angry face like a baron of beef receding and coming towards him.

“Leave him alone,” snapped Malise. “Can’t you see he’s in a state of shock.”

Mrs. Wilton turned on Malise furiously.

Jake said nothing and, after another look at Africa’s foot, led her hobbling out of the ring. Mrs. Wilton followed him, shouting abuse. She wanted to sack him on the spot, but she couldn’t afford to, as there’d be no one except that halfwit, Alison, who only worked part time, to look after the horses. Grooms were so hard to get. She’d have to ask her copywriting brother to write a witty advertisement for
Horse and Hound.
She supposed it was her fault for being too lenient with Jake; she should never have offered him a drink in the evenings. As he came out of the ring, Fen rushed forward.

“Oh, poor Jake; are you all right? Are you concussed? Can you remember what day of the week it is and what you had for lunch?”

Next minute Mrs. Thomson came roaring up.

“There was no one to help Sally Ann in the bending. She’s fallen off and hurt her arm. Oh, you’re back, Joyce,” she added in relief. “Things will go more smoothly from now on.” Tory felt so sorry for Jake, gray and shaking and the recipient of such a torrent of abuse from Mrs. Wilton and Mrs. Thomson.

Christopher Crossley passed them going into the ring to collect first prize. He pulled up his chestnut horse for a minute.

“That was bloody bad luck,” he said, “and that’s a very nice mare. If you ever want to sell her I’m in the North Hampshire telephone directory under Crossley. Those bloody soldiers should turn the guns on themselves.”

Jake nodded.

As they approached the horse lines, Fen gave a scream.

“Dandelion—he’s not there!”

Rushing forward, she found his head collar still tied to the fence.

“He’s a valuable horse now that he’s a prize winner,” she wailed. “He’s probably been kidnapped.”

After a nasty quarter of an hour, in which Mrs. Wilton trailed after Jake, calling him every name under the sun, Dandelion was discovered in the brave new world of Lady Dorothy’s vegetable garden. Having laid waste to the herbaceous border, dug holes in the newly sprinkled lawn, cut a swathe through the rose beds and deformalized the formal garden, Dandelion was now imitating an untamed bronco, galloping about, snorting, showing the whites of his eyes, with a large carrot sticking out of his mouth like a cigar.

Every time Jake or Fen got close he whisked out of range, snatching bites to eat.

“He looks like the Hamlet advertisement,” said Fen, quite hysterical with giggles.

By the time Jake had caught him, abuse—from Lady Dorothy, Mrs. Wilton, and Mrs. Thomson—was cascading over his head like Niagara.

At last it was time to go home. Africa had been checked by the vet, who said she was suffering a bad sprain, no more, and should be rested. Malise Gordon then hurried home himself because he was going to the theater. Fen had come second in the potato race and was in a state of ecstasy. Miss Bilborough had a date with one of Colonel Carter’s men. Dudley Diplock had been asked for his autograph three times, but had not been thanked for doing the commentary.

Back at Brook Farm Riding School, a still dizzy Jake was sorting out the ponies.

“Hear you’re in the doghouse,” said Alison, the Irish girl who helped out at weekends. “Old Ma Wilton’s hopping. I knew she’d catch you out sooner or later.”

Jake didn’t answer; he was putting a poultice on Africa. He’d already rubbed one of his gypsy medicines (ointment made from marshmallow flowers) gently into her leg. He was finally sweeping up at about nine-thirty, when Mrs. Wilton turned up. Her faced looked unappetizingly magenta in the naked lightbulb of the tackroom and he could smell whisky on her breath.