Jilly Cooper - Riders

“That’s that then,” said Rupert. “Let’s go and have a screw, Dizz.”

“For God’s sake get your bat out, Ivor,” Billy was yelling in the commentary box, to the startled delight of the viewers. “One more stop and the whole team’s eliminated.”

Scarlet in the face, as if by telepathy, Ivor pulled his whip out of his boot, in which it was tucked, and gave John half a dozen hefty whacks.

“Good God,” said Malise.

The picture of injured pride, John heaved himself over the parallel, and, swishing his tail in rage, proceeded to go clear, except for bringing down the middle element of the combination.

“Absolutely marvelous. Well done, Ivor,” said Billy, excitedly from the commentary box. “Do you know, he only paid £1,000 for that horse?”

“Ten faults, plus one time fault. That’s not at all bad,” said Malise.

Fen knew she should have some inner tap which could turn off all outside excitement and leave her icily calm. On Desdemona she’d always jumped best when she was angry. But Hardy needed to be kept serene. He seemed a little tired after his medal-winning adventures on Monday, which would at least make him jump more carefully and not start ducking out of his bridle. Following Jake’s lead, she had removed the cotton wool from his ears and let him go to the entrance of the arena, so he could watch the preceding round. It was both inspiring and daunting. Carol Kennedy went clear, to colossal applause, which meant the Americans were on twelve faults at the end of the third round, and could probably scrap Lizzie Dean’s round. The Tarzan howls and the waving American flags had Hardy hopping all over the place.

“The time is incredibly tight,” said Malise. “Don’t waste any of it in the corners. But remember, the important thing is to get round at all costs. If you’re disqualified we’re out.”

“You do say the cheeriest things,” said Fen.

“Good luck,” said Rupert.

Fen felt the butterflies going berserk in her stomach, as the terror finally got to her.

“I can’t face it,” she said in panic. “I simply can’t jump in front of all those people.”

“Yes, you can,” said Rupert, putting his good left hand up to squeeze her thigh. “Come on, darling, you’ll float over them. Hardy’s done it all before. Leave it to him.”

“Are you sure?” Suddenly she looked terribly young.

Rupert smiled. “Quite sure.”

Out in the arena there was nothing like it. Nothing like the fear and the exposure in that blazing white hot heat, watched by 200,000 eyes and millions and millions of television viewers.

Billy, who by now was well stuck into the whisky, admired the slender figure in the black coat, her blond hair just curling under her hat, one of Dino’s pink roses in her buttonhole.

“This is certainly the most beautiful girl rider in the world,” he said. “Riding Hardy, with whom her brother-in-law, Jake Lovell, did so brilliantly on Monday to get the silver medal. Now come on, darling.”

“I told you not to mention Jake,” hissed Dudley, putting his hand over the microphone, “and don’t call Fiona ‘darling.’ ”

The relief of the bell stopped all thought process. Suddenly Fen’s nerves vanished.

“It’s you and me, babe,” she whispered to Hardy as he cleared the first four fences without any trouble, kicking up the tan, following the hoofprints of earlier riders. She steadied him for the derby. He didn’t like it, then decided he did and took a mighty leap, clearing it by a foot. The yell of the crowd distracted him, the heat haze above the gate made judging the distance difficult. Fen asked him to take off too early, he kicked out the fence, and then toppled the wall after that, hurting himself, eyes flashing, ears flattened, tail whisking like an angry cat.

Now she’ll go to pieces, thought Malise in despair.

But Fen held him together and drove him on, picking her way over the obstacles, not touching any of them.

“Look at him,” said Sarah in ecstasy. “He’s really, really trying.”

Coming up to the last fence, Hardy started showing off and gave a huge kick back. The crowd laughed. He kicked back again. Lazily whisking over the last fence, he gave it an almighty clout. For a second the pole shuddered, trembled on the edge, then fell back into the cup.

“God is on our side after all,” said Malise.

“Bloody good,” said Rupert, as Fen slipped off the huge horse, flinging her arms round Hardy’s neck, and taking back all the beastly things she’d ever said about him.

“Until the next time,” said Sarah.

Now the last riders in each team had to jump. Peter Colegate, riding instead of Dino, knocked up a surprising fifteen faults, so his was the round the Americans dropped. Hans Schmidt went clear.

The round, however, the world was waiting for was Rupert’s. Fen straightened his tie and did up one brass button of his red coat which was draped over his damaged right shoulder: “Are you okay? Does it hurt horribly?”

“Yes, but I’ve just had another shot; I’m so spaced out I’ll probably carry Rocky over the fences with one finger.”

Not by a flicker, as he rode into the ring, did Rupert betray his awareness that every camera in the world was trained on him to see what the effect had been of Helen pushing off. If the press had gone to town on Jake that morning, it was without Rupert’s help. He had refused to say a word to them.

He held the reins lightly in his left hand. He carried no whip. The crowd, seeing that he was coming in to jump the most punishing course in history with one arm in a sling, roared their approval and encouragement.

Dropping his reins, he removed his hat. His blond hair glittered golder than any medal. The pain was agonizing. Even the gentlest pop in the collecting ring had jolted his shoulder unbearably, but none of this showed in his face.

Rocky was a gallant and kind horse. Something was different today; perhaps it was the sympathetic, almost helpless way Rupert had jumped him earlier; perhaps it was because for once his master wasn’t carrying a whip. Suddenly there was an expression of deep responsibility on Rocky’s handsome, golden face.

“I will take care of you today,” he seemed to be saying. “Just to make you feel a sod for all the times you’ve beaten me up in the past.”

Over the first two fences Rupert had the greatest difficulty balancing himself, then he settled in. Rocky was jumping carefully, only clearing each fence by an inch or so. Now he was thundering down to the water — and over. Now he was over the derby and the gate, now turning for the huge three-part combination.

“Undoubtedly Rupert is the best rider in the world,” shouted Billy jubilantly in the commentary box. “Look at the power of those leg muscles; he isn’t even shifting in the saddle. Go on, Rupe, go on.”

For a miraculous moment it looked as if he was going to go clear; then Rocky trailed a leg at the last fence and, unlike Fen, brought it down. Out he rode to almost the biggest cheer of the day.

Billy bolted out of the commentary box to congratulate him. “Wait,” wailed Dudley. “There are still the Japs and the Portuguese to jump.”

“That was absolutely brilliant,” said Billy, rushing up to Rupert. “God knows how you did it.”

“Should have been a clear,” said Rupert, kicking his right foot out of the stirrup and wincing and biting his lip as he lowered himself down.

“Tremendous performance, Rupert,” said Malise, looking at his score sheet. “The Yanks are on twelve, the Germans on sixteen, the Swiss on eighteen, the French on twenty. We’re fifth with twenty-two,” he added with quiet satisfaction.

“You shouldn’t be jumping, but I’m sure glad I saw you. Congratulations,” said a voice. It was the doctor from the hospital.