Jilly Cooper - Riders

“Tell me how stupid I am,” she said to Lester the teddy bear, as she tied her tie.

But Lester didn’t answer.

“Have a nice day,” she said to him as she left the room. “It’s more than I shall have.”

Malise was standing by the car. Ivor was already in the back, looking green. “I slept like a log,” he said in a surprised voice.

“Lucky you,” said Fen.

The press surged forward.

“Any news from Jake?”

“Nothing,” said Malise bleakly. “We shall only be fielding three riders. It’s too late for him to declare now.”

Rupert was glad when the night was over. He’d always assumed he would be able to withstand torture; now he wasn’t sure. He wondered if the doctor had trapped a nerve when he’d put the shoulder back.

At five-thirty he had a bath. The hot water helped to relax him, but after a quarter of an hour he found he couldn’t get out. The slightest move to raise himself produced absolute agony in his shoulder. Another half hour passed, as he slumped between each thwarted attempt. He was terrified of slipping. With his left foot he pulled out the plug, waiting for the enamel surface to dry, so he might have more grip. It must be getting on for six-thirty. They’d be walking the course in an hour. He’d have to yell for Suzy, who probably had a hangover and wouldn’t wake up. He was almost sobbing with pain and frustration. If only he could crawl to the bedroom, he could give himself another shot of morphine. Then he heard the doorbell go, then again. He made another attempt to get out. Then he heard Suzy’s door open.

“Suzy,” he croaked. Then he heard voices in the hall.

Probably Malise, wondering where the hell he was.

“He’s not in his room, so he must be in the bath,” Suzy was saying sleepily.

Thank God he hadn’t locked the door. Suzy banged on it.

“Someone to see you, Rupe.”

“Who the hell is it?” he said.

“It’s me,” said a blissfully familiar voice, and there in the doorway stood Billy.

For a second Rupert gazed at him, dumbfounded.

“Christ, do I ever need you!” he said in an unsteady voice.

“I know. I’m terribly sorry about Helen.”

“No, to get me out of this bloody bath,” said Rupert. “But give me a shot of morphine first. It’s on the chest of drawers in my bedroom.”

The sting of the needle entering his shoulder was the most wonderful sensation he could imagine.

“How the hell did you manage to get out of Janey’s clutches?” he asked.

Billy grinned. “I told her that sometimes water was thicker than blood.”

“Draw’s good,” said Malise. “We’re fourteenth out of sixteen.”

All the other riders were tremendously sympathetic and friendly.

“They can afford to be,” said Rupert. “They think we’ve had it.”

“Who are the favorites?” asked Fen.

“Americans, Germans, Swiss,” said Rupert. “We’re about a million to one. I’ve put a monkey on.”

“Don’t let Fen see any of the papers,” hissed Malise. “They’ve all crucified Jake.”

“Good,” said Rupert. Then, shooting a sidelong glance at Malise, he said, “It’s not the winning that matters, it’s the being taken apart.”

It was a tremendous boost to the British team to see Billy.

“Can’t you jump?” said Ivor.

“I’m going to sit in the commentary box with Dudley,” said Billy, “and be wildly partisan.”

“At least you’ll get the names right,” said Fen.

“I’m glad you think so, Fiona,” said Billy. “How’s Rupe bearing up?” he added in an undertone.

“He won’t talk about either Helen or Jake except to make the odd flip crack. He probably will with you. I think he’s going through hell, but I can’t quite work out if it’s violent possessiveness or murdered pride, or whether he’s suddenly realized he loves her.”

At seven-thirty they walked the course. Everyone agreed it was the biggest ever built in show jumping. Fen could walk straight underneath the parallel without bumping her head. Close up, for the first time she realized how huge the fences were.

“Can’t think why they don’t stage the Olympic swimming contest in the water jump,” she said.

Ivor’s mouth was open wider than ever. “It’s even worse than the individual.”

In front sauntered the American team. In their white short-sleeved shirts and breeches, showing off their mahogany suntans, long bodies, and thoroughbred legs, laughing and exuding quiet confidence, they looked as though they’d been fed on peaches and T-bones all their life. The crowd gave them a colossal cheer of encouragement as they passed. The German team looked equally together as they goose-stepped out the distances. But for the first time Fen felt there was real solidarity among the British team.

The arena was like an oven already. By the time I go in, thought Fen, it’ll be turned up to Regulo 10.

“That’s going to cause the most trouble,” said Malise, looking at the fence constructed in the shape of a huge brown derby hat. “It’s so unfamiliar, you’ll have to ride them really hard at it; then there’s that big gate immediately after.”

“At least they’ve scrapped the hot dog,” said Ivor, in relief. “All these flowers are giving me hayfever.”

Rupert broke off a frangipani and gave it to Fen.

“You’ll be had up for demolishing the course even before you start,” she said.

* * *

Malise was right. The derby fence upset everyone. Ludwig, the German pathfinder, expected to go clear, was nearly brought down by it, and knocked up sixteen faults.

“Roll on ze next Olympics,” he said ruefully, as he came out of the ring. “I am very bored of being ze good loser.”

Canadian, Australian, Italian, and French riders all came to grief. Jesus the Mexican had a punishing fall. The first American rider, Lizzie Dean, came in and cleared the derby, but ran slap into the gate and had eight faults at the combination.

“I can’t watch anymore. My self-confidence is in tatters,” said Fen. “The only good thing about this competition is Billy doing the commentary. He keeps saying “Hooray” every time a foreign rider kicks out a fence.”

“You’ll be jumping in three-quarters of an hour,” said Malise. “Better go and warm Hardy up. By the way, some flowers arrived for you. They’re in the tackroom.”

He allowed himself a small smile as Fen bolted the 400 yards to the stables. The flowers were two dozen pale pink roses and the card inside said, “To darling Fen, Good Luck, I love you, Dino.”

“How the hell did they get them delivered here?” she said.

“Carol Kennedy bought them,” said Sarah. “He promised Dino he’d make sure you got them. Stop grinning like a Cheshire cat. This is no time to be worrying about the opposite sex.”

“Having got these,” said Fen, putting them in a bucket of water, “I can now stop worrying about it.”

Because they were fielding only three riders, the British team started jumping with the second riders of the other teams. Among these, Hans Schmidt only had a couple of poles down for eight faults and Mary Jo came in and showed everyone how to do it, with a glorious clear.

“That should encourage Ivor,” said Fen, who had jumped off Hardy for a second to watch him.

Ivor rode in blinking. Not a seat was empty. After Mary Jo’s gold earlier in the week, and her clear now, the huge crowd was at fever pitch.

“I always enjoy Ivor’s intellectual approach to the sport,” said Rupert, from the shade of the riders’ stand. “Now Ivor has removed his hat, will he ever find his head again?”

After Tuesday’s fiasco, Ivor started well and rode with colossal determination. The sailboat, the derby, the high gate, the huge wall, the massive blue water jump caused him no trouble at all. Then he unaccountably stopped twice at the parallels.