Jilly Cooper - Riders

Suddenly, as the gold hand of the church clock edged towards eleven o’clock, there was a murmur of excitement as a dark blue Porsche drew up.

“There he is,” hissed Maureen, as two men got out. Helen caught a glimpse of gleaming blond hair and haughty, suntanned features, as the taller of the two men vanished in a screaming tidal wave of teenagers brandishing autograph books. Others stood on the bonnets of their parents’ cars, or clambered onto each others’ shoulders trying to take photographs or get a better look.

“Worse than that Dick Jagger,” snorted an old lady, who’d been nearly knocked off her shooting stick by the rush.

A girl stumbled out of the melée, her face as bright pink as the page of the autograph book she was kissing. Half a minute later she was followed by her friend.

“He used this pen,” she sighed ecstatically. “I’m never going to use it again.”

Gradually the crowd dispersed and through a gap Helen was able to get a better look. The man had thick blond hair, brushed straight back and in two wings above the ears, emphasizing the clear, smooth forehead and the beautiful shape of his head. His face, with its Greek nose, high cheekbones, and long, denim blue eyes, was saved from effeminacy by a square jaw and a very determined mouth.

Totally oblivious of the mayhem he had caused, he was lounging against the Porsche, talking continuously but hardly moving his lips, to a stocky young man with light brown curly hair, a broken nose, sleepy eyes, and a noticeably green complexion. The blond man was signing autograph books so automatically and handing them onto his companion, that when the queue dried up, he held his hand out for another pen and a book.

“What a beautiful, beautiful guy,” gasped Helen.

“Yes, and knows it,” snapped Maureen. “That’s R.C.B. and his shadow, Billy Lloyd-Foxe.”

The landlord pressed forward with the tray.

“Morning Rupe, morning Billy. Want a hair of the dog?”

“Christ, yes.” Reaching out, the stocky, light-brown-haired boy grabbed two glasses, one of which he handed to Rupert. Then, getting out a tenner and two flasks from his pocket, he handed them to the landlord, adding: “Could you bear to fill them up with brandy, Les? I’ll never fight my way through Rupe’s admirers.”

“Bit under the weather, are you, Billy?” said the landlord.

“Terrible. If I open my eyes, I’ll bleed to death.”

A groom was lowering the ramp of a nearby box and unloading a magnificent bay mare, sweating in a dark blue rug edged with emerald green with the initials R.C.B. in the corner, and looking back into the box, whinnying imperiously for her stable companions. Rupert turned around.

“How is she, Frenchie?”

“Bit over the top, sir,” said the groom. “She could use the exercise.”

He swept the rug off the sweating, shuddering mare and slapped on a saddle. Suddenly she started to hump her back with excitement, dancing on the spot as the hunt arrived in a flood of scarlet coats, burnished horses, and jolly, grinning hounds, tails wagging frenziedly, circling merrily, looking curiously naked without any collars.

Helen felt her heart lift; how beautiful and glamorous they all looked.

“Little people get on big horses and think they’re gods,” said Nigel thickly in her ear. “Those hounds haven’t been fed for three days.”

But Helen was gazing at Rupert Campbell-Black, who was taking off his navy blue jersey and shrugging himself into a red coat. Goodness, he was well constructed. Usually, men with such long legs had short bodies, but Rupert, from the broad flat shoulders to the lean muscular hips and powerful thighs, seemed perfectly in proportion.

Just as he and Billy mounted their horses the local photographer arrived, pushing his way through the ring of admirers.

“Hello, Rupert, can I have a photograph of you and Billy?”

“Okay,” said Rupert, gazing unsmiling into the camera.

“I’m not looking my best,” grumbled Billy. “I haven’t washed my hair.”

“Good chance for publicity,” said Maureen sententiously, and barging her way through, she handed Rupert an anti-hunting leaflet.

“Thank you very much,” he said politely. “Can I have one for Billy?”

Maureen turned round to face the camera between them.

“Can I borrow your lighter, Billy?” said Rupert. Next minute he had set fire to the two leaflets and dropped them flaming at Maureen’s feet.

“You’re not even man enough to read them,” she said furiously.

Rupert looked her up and down. “It’s rather hard to tell what sex you are,” he drawled, “but you’re certainly not good-looking enough to hold such extreme views. Go away, you’re frightening my horse.”

The crowd screamed with laughter. Maureen flounced back to Helen. “The bastard, did you hear what he said?”

Over Maureen’s head, for a second, Rupert’s eyes met Helen’s. Then he looked away without interest. They’re right. He’s poisonous, she thought.

At that moment a beautiful, but over-made-up woman, her black coat straining over a splendid bosom, trotted up to Rupert with a proprietorial air.

“Darling, how are you feeling? I actually made it.”

Simultaneously the landlord arrived with the two filled flasks. As he handed one of them to Rupert she grabbed it, taking a large swig.

“Don’t drink it all,” snapped Rupert.

“Darling,” she said fondly, screwing back the top, and handing it to him, “you can come home later and drink as much of ours as you like.”

Rupert put a long booted leg forward and pulled up the mare’s girths.

“I don’t know if I’ll need Monty as well,” he said to the groom. “With these bloody hunt saboteurs about, we may not get much action. If you lose us, wait at the Spotted Cow.”

The next moment the hunt clattered off. Helen was amazed to see Nigel suddenly leap out of a hawthorn bush and squirt the hounds with Anti-mate. Next minute a little girl had rushed up and kicked him so hard on the ankles that he dropped the aerosol can with a yell.

“Stop it, you horrid man,” she screamed.

Rupert Campbell-Black, who was passing, grinned down at her: “Well done, angel. I’ll marry you when you grow up.”

The saboteurs leapt into their five cars.

“Keep your eyes peeled for foxes,” hissed Paul. Nigel was still grumbling about his ankle.

Hurtling down a country lane, sending the catkins shivering, they found hounds being put into the palest green larch covert. The saboteurs parked above it and the next moment a posse, including Nigel and Paul, vaulted over the fence and, armed with Anti-mate, disappeared after them. Judging by the expletives and the shaking of fists, they were causing havoc in the woods. The master decided to move on.

“Out of my way,” he said bossily to a group of girl riders, “you’re not with the pony club now. I expect you’ve only come out to gaze at Rupert Campbell-Black.”

The saboteurs moved off in search of fresh sport. Stopping in a layby to spray pepper, they got stuck in the mud. Two foot-followers, not realizing who they were, pushed them out.

The next two hours were like being at a race meeting, permanently under starter’s orders. Every time the hunt picked up a scent the Antis managed to foil them.

Later, Maureen and Helen hung over a gate watching a sluggish stream choking its way through overhanging osiers and pussy willows. Fat celandines were pushing their way through the dead leaves. Helen gloried in the spring sunshine beating through her dark green jersey.

“Are the saboteurs anti-fishing as well?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Maureen earnestly. “Our more extreme members feel it’s cruel to the worm.”

Helen’s stomach gave an ominous rumble.