Jilly Cooper - Riders

Rupert smiled, but the doctor, noticing his pallor and how much he was sweating, waved his medical kit. “I thought you’d probably need something stronger to face this afternoon.”

“I need an enormous whisky,” said Rupert.

“Not too enormous,” said Malise.

Afterwards Fen couldn’t recall if she ate any lunch. Ivor ate his way solemnly through two steaks without realizing it. Billy came too, cracking jokes with Rupert, keeping up everybody’s spirits. They knew they wouldn’t win, the margin was too big, but they were quietly elated. They had conducted themselves with honor.

Prince Philip, who was an old friend of Rupert’s, came up and congratulated them.

“Really tremendous! Well done, all of you! Don’t know why you bother to ride with any hands at all, Rupert.”

“I’d better go back and wind up Dudley,” said Billy, getting to his feet. “He says I must be more enthusiastic about the other nations. Good luck, everyone. Take care of yourself, Rupe.”

Rupert raised his hand. He wished Billy could stay. He was beginning to feel desperately tired and the pain was really getting to him.

“Can you give me something?” he said to the doctor.

“It’d be better nearer your round or the effect might wear off. I daren’t give you two shots or you’ll pass out in the ring.”

When the riders came out for the second round, it was soon apparent that the first round had overstretched the horses. Despite menacing clouds on the horizon and the rumble of thunder, the sun was at its height, beating down on to the stadium at a heat of over 100 degrees.

Only the top ten teams went through, but it still meant nearly forty rounds for the crowd to watch. The Americans, who had been led to believe that their team couldn’t lose, came back in anticipation of slaughter. Bored now by foreign rounds, screaming and hysterically cheering on their own riders, their chauvinism was equaled only by Billy’s in the commentary box.

“He’s a nice guy, he deserves it,” he said when Ludwig went clear, dashing British hopes, but he was unashamedly delighted when Mary Jo put in an unexpected twelve faults, and Lizzie Dean hit two fences and put in a stop, and the early French and Swiss riders knocked up cricket scores.

Ivor came in so elated by his first round success that he knocked up only eight faults.

“Marvelous,” said Billy. “That’s really marvelous. Now, with all the second riders gone, Great Britain’s edged up to third place, and the Germans are moving right up behind the Americans.”

As it became apparent that a duel to the death was setting in, people ran in from the halls and the stands filled up to bursting.

“I must have another shot,” said Rupert.

“You can’t risk it,” said the doctor.

Carol Kennedy went clear again. Once again Fen had to follow him.

“The Americans are on thirty-one; we are on thirty,” Malise told her.

Fen’s nerves were in tatters. Last time they’d had so little to lose; now they were in with a chance. If Hardy started kicking out fences, all was lost.

“Kiss me, Hardy, e’er I die of fright,” she said.

In England, they were televising only the second round of the competition. Dino checked the video for the hundredth time to see if there was enough tape for Fen’s round.

“Tory, darling,” he called into the bedroom, “Fen’s about to jump. I think you ought to come and see it.”

He could hardly bear to watch her, she looked so small and defenseless as she rode into the ring. He had seen Rupert patting her hand and giving her encouragement. The bastard looked so impossibly handsome and, with his dislocated shoulder, a more romantic figure than ever. And even worse, Billy Lloyd-Foxe was doing the commentary. What the hell was he doing in America?

“And here comes Fenella Maxwell, riding her second round for Great Britain,” said Billy. “Only nineteen and easily our most brilliant and beautiful girl rider, and voted Sports Personality of the Year in 1979. Come on now, Fen, darling.”

“Oh, shut up, Billy,” howled Janey and Dino from different parts of England.

“Please don’t cheer,” Fen prayed to the crowd as Hardy plunged all over the place. “Please don’t distract him. Let us get around. Concentrate, Hardy, my darling.”

Suddenly Hardy decided to behave, jumping over the fences as though they were fallen logs in the wood.

“I want to go clear, oh please, let me go clear,” prayed Fen, getting excited. But Hardy took such an unexpectedly huge jump over the wall that it didn’t give him enough run into the water and he landed well in with a splash. Fen felt her face covered with tepid water. Hardy was drenched. He loathed getting wet. He lashed his tail, ears flattened.

“That’s done it,” groaned Rupert. “He’ll never clear the upright; he’s come in too close.”

Determined to prove Rupert wrong, Hardy did an incredible cat jump; up and up he went as if he was climbing a ladder. Then with a merry flick of his back feet he was over.

Dino put his arm around Tory.

“Go on, Fen,” yelled Darklis.

“Don’t look round,” screamed Isa. “Daddy’ll murder you.” He stopped, remembering, and looked in embarrassed apology at his mother. “I mean, for goodness sake, hurry.”

Fen thundered down to the last triple — she was over.

“Hooray,” yelled Billy, stamping his feet in the commentary box.

The applause was so defeaning, Fen didn’t realize she’d got a time fault.

Once again, everyone got out their calculators.

“That puts us on thirty-five, very much in contention,” said Malise. “The Germans are on thirty-four, the Americans on thirty. But we can’t afford any complacency. The Italians are on thirty-nine, with Piero Fratinelli to come.”

Rupert was seriously worried. The morphine wasn’t having the desired effect this time. He hardly warmed up Rocky at all; every stride was agony. There was no point risking a fall and finishing himself off altogether over a practice fence. He sat in the tackroom on an upturned bucket, with his head in his hands. He daren’t go near the First Aid Post in case they stopped him riding.

“You going to be able to make it?” said the doctor.

“Sure,” said Rupert, “but I hope they bloody hurry.”

Hans Schmidt had eight faults.

“That’s good for us,” Billy was saying in the commentary box.

Then, blighting everyone’s hopes, Piero Fratinelli came in and jumped clear for Italy.

“That’s not at all good for us,” sighed Billy. “Good round though.”

He grinned across at Fen, who was biting her nails in the riders’ stand, and mopped his brow.

In came Peter Colegate, who’d replaced Dino. The American crowd was in a state of hysteria. All across the stands U.S. flags were being waved in encouragement, as the big striding bay thoroughbred, who’d won several races in his youth, ate up the course.

“I don’t fancy anyone’s chances against him if there’s a jump-off,” said Billy.

The thoroughbred’s racetrack origins were his undoing, however. Picking up the tension from his rider, hearing the hysterical yelling of the crowd, he was reminded of his youth and, thundering towards the final fences, he cleared the pink wall with ease, then accelerated and flattened both parts of the double and, hearing the howl and groan of the crowd, only just scraped over the last massive triple.

“Hooray,” said Billy from the commentary box. That’s absolutely marvelous for us, but admittedly not great for the Americans.”

Carol Kennedy turned to Fen, shaking his head. “Our mutual friend would have gone clear.”

“What’s the score?” Fen asked Malise.