Helen, while sorry for Billy, could not help being secretly delighted. She had never really approved of Janey. Now with Billy back in the house, they would have fun together like the old days.

But it was not the same. It was like sending your son off to the wars all youthful, glorious, and confident in his plumed uniform, and having him come home in the royal blue suit and red tie of the wounded, hobbling around on a stick. Billy talked incessantly about Janey, Mandryka, and his failures. He didn’t drink anymore. He was quiet, sad, and pathetically grateful. Helen once again marveled at Rupert’s kindness and gentleness.

One evening in early December, when she’d been talking to Higgins the gardener, Helen heard shouting from the indoor school. Peering around the door, she found Billy walking around the willful eight-year-old bay thoroughbred named Bugle, which Rupert had picked up in America. Unable to get a tune out of him, Rupert had handed him over to Billy. Now he was haranguing Billy because of his reluctance to take Bugle over a line of jumps, all well over five foot.

Billy was shivering like a whippet on a cold day. “I simply can’t do it yet, Rupe,” he groaned. “Give me a few more weeks.”

“Get moving and get over those bloody jumps,” yelled Rupert. “This is not a holiday camp.”

“Oh, Rupert, don’t force him,” Helen began.

“And you can bugger off,” said Rupert, turning on her furiously.

Helen retreated to the drawing room and tried to read the Times Literary Supplement. Twenty minutes later, Rupert walked into the room, ashen and trembling even more than Billy had been.

“What’s the matter?” asked Helen, in horror.

Rupert poured himself three fingers of neat whisky which he drained in one gulp.

“He jumped them,” he said. “He jumped them beautifully and all clear, half a dozen times. I’m sorry I shouted at you, but I just can’t afford to let him see how scared I am for him.”

The problem was to find Billy a sponsor. Janey’s departure, the failure of the horses, and the heavy drinking had been so widely publicized that Billy would have to show himself in the ring, sober and successful, before anyone would come forward.

“You can ride for me for the rest of the year,” said Rupert.

“I have my pride,” said Billy, “and I’ve bummed quite enough off you and Helen.”

Billy made his comeback at the Olympia Christmas show, not the best occasion to return, with the merrymaking and hell-raising, and the memories it evoked of both Lavinia Greenslade and Janey. All the other riders and grooms were very friendly and welcomed him. But he knew that, behind his back, they were saying how much he’d aged, that he’d lost his nerve and would never make the big time again.

Never had he been more desperate for a drink than half an hour before the first big class. Rupert, who’d been watching him like a warder, frog-marching him away from the bars, had just been called away to do a quick television interview. Tracey was walking Bugle around the collecting ring. Inside the ringside bar, Billy could see Christmas drinkers knocking back doubles, slapping each other on the back, guffawing with laughter. Surely one drink wouldn’t hurt, one quick double to steady his nerves. If he was this strung up, he’d transmit his fears to young Bugle. Rupert gave him pocket money now. Easing his last fiver out of his breeches pocket, he was just going into the bar when a voice said, “Hello, Billy. How lovely to see you back.”

For a second he didn’t recognize the plumpish but ravishingly pretty girl, with the long, light brown hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon, like the young Mozart.

“It’s Fen, Fenella Maxwell. How are you?” Stepping forward, she kissed him on both cheeks. “Are you in the next class?”

He nodded.

“So am I. Malise has persuaded Jake to let me jump. I’m absolutely terrified.”

“Makes two of us,” said Billy, still staring at her.

“Rupert says you’re riding a super new horse.”

“Yup, he’s super, all right. Whether I’ll be able to get him around is another matter.”

Suddenly they were surrounded by a group of ecstatic teenagers. “It’s Fen,” they screamed, pushing Billy out of the way. “Can we have your autograph? How’s Desdemona?”

As she signed their books, with a new and rather flashy signature which she’d been practicing during the long journeys in the lorry, she saw Billy sliding away.

“Here,” she said to the teenagers, “don’t you want his as well?”

The teenagers looked inquiringly at Billy, then politely handed him their books.

“Who’s he?” muttered one of the teenagers, as they wandered off, examining Billy’s signature more closely.

“Billy someone,” said her friend, also examining the autograph. “Didn’t he used to ride The Bull?”

“He’s the best rider in England,” Fen shouted after them.

Billy shook his head ruefully. Fen tucked her arm through his. “I told you it was high time you came back,” she said. “Let’s go and walk the course.”

The course seemed enormous. Billy sat in the riders’ stand clutching a Coke and wondered how the hell the riders could coax their horses over such enormous fences. To Rupert’s intense irritation, Jake Lovell jumped a beautiful clear on Macaulay, as did Fen on Desdemona.

“That yard simply can’t put a foot wrong at the moment,” said Malise. “High time you were back to redress the balance, Billy.”

Despite the heat and stuffiness of the arena, Billy began to shiver. He could feel his white shirt drenched beneath his red coat. In the old days, there had been excitement and nerves, not this cold, sickening sensation of leaden nausea. Could everyone see? As he mounted Bugle, he noticed two young riders with Jake Lovell haircuts, swapping stories. Once they had looked up to Billy and would certainly have watched him jumping on a new horse. Now they nodded briefly, carrying on with their conversation.

He jumped one practice fence and, nearly falling off, left it at that. Oh God, they were calling his number. Rupert’s face swam in front of him.

“I think I’ve got a sponsor interested. A Victor Block from the Midlands. He’s the Cutie Cup Millionaire; makes bras and corsets. You may have to change Bugle’s name to Cutie B-Cup, but he’s worth a lot of bread and he’s up in the stands, so don’t have three stops at the first fence.”

“If I ever get to the first fence,” said Billy in a hollow voice.

“For Christ’s sake, hurry up, Billy,” snapped the collecting ring steward. “Don’t spend so long in the bar next time.”

As he rode into the ring, panic assailed him. He should never have agreed to ride. The saddle was hard and unfamiliar, his legs felt cramped and powerless, refusing to meet the leather and blend into it, his hands on the reins were numb and heavy, without any flexibility. In the old days he’d fallen into the rhythm of any horse’s stride. Now he humped along like a sack of cement.

“And here comes Billy Lloyd-Foxe on Dougall. Se-uper, absolutely se-uper, to see you back, Billy. Let’s all give Billy a big hand.”

The applause, albeit tentative, unnerved the inexperienced Bugle. The first fence loomed up higher and higher. Desperately Billy tried to balance himself, hands rigid on the reins, interfering with the horse, pulling him off his stride. Bugle rapped the pole; it swayed but didn’t fall.

“Oh, God,” groaned Tracey, her nails digging into her palms. “Oh, don’t let him be over the hill.”

“Is this the bloke you want me to sponsor?” asked Victor Block. “Doesn’t look much cop to me.”

“You wait,” said Rupert, trying not to show his desperate anxiety.

Bugle approached the second fence, battling for his head. Billy felt the horse steady himself, judge the height, rise into the air and, making a mighty effort, twist over the fence.

“Forgive me,” said Billy in wonder, sending up a prayer of thankfulness.

Now his hold on Bugle’s neck was relaxed, the bay’s pace increased, covering the churned-up tan with long lolloping strides. Suddenly, Billy felt the blessed sustaining confidence start to come back. Fence after fence swept by. He was riding now, helping rather than hindering. Bugle was jumping beautifully. Billy’s heart swelled in gratitude. He was oblivious of the cheering gathering momentum. He took off too far away from the wall, but it flashed, oxblood red, beneath him and Bugle cleared it by a foot.

“What a horse, what a horse.” He had to steady him for the last double and nerves got to him for a second, but he left it to Bugle to find his stride. Over and clear. A huge roar went up.

Billy concentrated very hard on Bugle’s perfect black plaits to stop himself breaking down, as he circled the horse before riding him out of the ring. On the way he passed Guy de la Tour, who was smiling broadly.

“Well done, mon ami, well done,” and riding up to Billy he shook him by the hand, and then, leaning over, kissed him on both cheeks. The crowd broke into a great roar of approval. Billy the prodigal had returned.

Mr. Block turned to a jubilant Rupert. “Happens you’re right. I’ll sponsor him. But I’ll have to organize the money side, so he can get on with the riding.”

In the jump-off, Jake went fastest, with Rupert second, Guy third, and Fen fourth. Billy, anxious not to hurry a young horse, was fifth. As Jake rode back into the ring to collect his rosette and cup, followed by the rest of the riders, Rupert turned to Billy.

“I had to get you back on the circuit,” he said. “One of us has got to break the run of luck of that murdering gypsy bastard.”


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