Jilly Cooper - Riders

“Not after that frightful cock-up.”

He shrugged. “Happen to anyone.”

Having fallen off, Griselda went on to notch up a further four faults.

“Just get around this time. That’s all that matters,” said Malise, as Fen went in. She had never felt so ill in her life.

“Keep the white flag on your left, keep the white flag on your left,” she said to herself over and over again.

Somehow she got over the first seven fences, including the bogey parallel. But as she approached the combination a child at the edge of the crowd let go of her gas balloon and, with bellows of misery, watched it float out like a spermatozoa just in front of Macaulay. For a second he glanced at it, confused, put in a short stride, found himself under the fence and took a colossal cat jump which nearly unseated Fen. Losing her reins, but clutching onto his mane for grim death, she managed to stay on as he cleared the second element, but her foot went straight through the iron. His last huge leap over the final element completely unseated her and she went crashing to the ground, but, with her foot trapped, was dragged, bumping horribly, for several yards before Macaulay, realizing what had happened, jammed on his brakes. Two officials ran up and disconnected her. Blood was pouring from her nose onto her white shirt, tie, and breeches. Staggering to her feet, she looked dazedly round for Macaulay.

“I must get back on; got to finish.”

There he was, looking apologetic and worried. His white face seemed to come towards her and go away. Stumbling over to him, she tried to clamber on, but as he was 17.2 it was like climbing the Matterhorn.

“Give me a leg up,” she screamed to the steward. “I’ll run out of time.”

The stewards, in broken English, told her she mustn’t jump and looked desperately around for the first-aid man. Just as he came running on, she somehow managed to get her foot in the stirrup and heaved herself up, blood still streaming from her nose.

Heedless to the cries to stop, she turned to the last row of jumps.

“Get her out of the ring,” said Billy, as white as his shirt. “She’ll kill herself.”

The crowds were screaming in horror. Fen had lost so much blood it seemed that she was dressed all in red. Somehow she cleared the next two fences. She looked around, bewildered and swaying. There was only the oxer left. Fortunately Macaulay took charge. He could see the collecting ring and he wanted to get back there as soon as possible. Trotting briskly around the oxer, with Fen clinging round his neck, he carried her carefully out of the ring.

Malise, Billy, and Rupert rushed forward.

“It’s only a nosebleed,” muttered Fen into Macaulay’s blood-soaked mane. “You were right about there only being four and a half strides between the stile and the combination.” As they lifted her off, she fainted.

“Get an ambulance,” said Billy in anguish. “We must get her to hospital. I’m going with her.”

“Don’t be so fucking silly,” said Rupert and Malise in unison. “You’ve still got to jump.”

They decided to keep Fen in hospital overnight. After they’d cleaned her up, it was found she was suffering only from a severe nosebleed and slight concussion. Later, when Billy turned up to visit her, he found her in a clean white nightgown, slumped in bed, red-eyed, with her swollen face turned to the wall.

“Fen, it’s me, Billy.”

“Is Macaulay all right?”

“Blooming. I saw he got his five lemon sherbets. I’ve brought you these.”

He held a bunch of yellow roses in front of her face.

“Thanks.” She hunched up her shoulders, pulling the sheet up over her eyes. Billy put the roses in the washbasin and sat down on the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

She looked round, her eyes swollen with crying, her lips puffy and bruised where she’d hit the ground, her face covered in bruises.

“Terrible.”

Billy smiled. “You look as though you’ve just done ten rounds with Henry Cooper.”

“It’s very kind of you to come and see me, but I want to be on my own.”

“Just wanted to see if you were all right.”

“Perfectly,” she snapped.

Billy got to his feet. As he reached the door she gave a strangled sob. Billy sat down again and took her in his arms.

“I’m so ashamed,” she wailed, burying her face in his shoulder. “Such an awful thing to do. But I was so fed up with being chaperoned and everyone treating me like a baby. In fact, a baby would have behaved with more responsibility. Getting eliminated twice in a Nations’ Cup, I’ve let you all down: Macaulay, Jake, Malise, all the team, Great Britain.”

“Fen,” Billy stroked her hair, “can I tell you something?”

“No, I want to talk. I lied to you last night. I was just boasting because I was drunk and fed up. Umberto, that’s the minister of the arts, was awfully sweet, but his boyfriend died two months ago and he misses him terribly. All he wanted to do was to talk about him. He did the talking. I was listening, and you tend to drink a lot when you’re listening. He didn’t lay a finger on me except for kissing my hand. But when I got back Rupert was so bloody censorious, just assuming I’d been behaving like a whore, after all he’d been up to — and I was jealous of you chatting up that beastly redhead — I just lost my temper. But I promise I didn’t sleep with him.”

For a minute Billy couldn’t speak for relief.

“So I don’t want Malise calling Umberto out, or anything.”

“He’s hardly likely to after Umberto gave him a ticket to hear Placido Domingo,” said Billy.

“Don’t make jokes,” sobbed Fen. “It’s not funny.”

“So you’re still intacta.”

Fen nodded dolefully. “Not much else to boast about, with cock-ups in every other direction.”

“Except from Umberto.”

“Oh, shut up,” sniffed Fen.

Suddenly she realized he was still wearing boots and breeches spattered with her blood. He’d taken off his white tie and exchanged his red coat for a dark-blue jersey with a hole in the elbow, but he’d forgotten to take off his spurs.

“You came straight from the show. You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m sorry about your breeches.”

“Fenella,” said Billy gently, “if you’d keep your trap shut for one second, I’ve got something for you.”

He put his hand in his pocket, then dropped a red rosette and a little silver model of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus.

“W-what’s this?”

“We won.”

“But how could we? Griselda was on twelve and I was eliminated.”

Billy grinned. “The Germans went to pieces and I jumped another clear.”

Fen opened her mouth and shut it again; then she flung her arms round his neck. “But that’s wonderful, and with Mr. Block watching. Oh, I’m so, so pleased.”

“Malise is going round like the Cheshire cat that’s just wolfed the canary.”

Fen picked up the rosette. “Is he still livid with me?”

“On the contrary. He now thinks you were very brave to jump at all. Rupert told him you’d swallowed a bad oyster last night and soldiered on because there wasn’t anyone else to jump.”

“Rupert did?” said Fen incredulously. “That was extraordinarily kind of him.”

Billy laughed. “Rupert loves winning, so now Malise thinks you’ve been very plucky.”

“I haven’t,” muttered Fen. “I’ve been an idiot.” She looked at the rosette again; it matched the spattered blood. “I had no part in getting this. I don’t deserve it.”

“You deserved the one at the beginning of the week which Ludwig got, so this one makes up for it.”

But the tears were starting again.

“Angel, please don’t cry.” He pulled her into his arms again, letting her tears drench his shirt. He was so warm, so comforting and rocklike, she couldn’t bear him to go.

A nun came in, saying time was up and that Fen ought to rest.

Billy looked up. “Duo momenti, grazie.” He turned back to Fen. “I’ll come and collect you tomorrow morning.”

“Could you bring me some clothes to wear, preferably a yashmak?”

“And tomorrow night I’ll take you out to dinner and treat you like a grown-up.”

It was a very pale, subdued Fen that came out of hospital next morning. Billy brought her some clothes, but what he’d thought in his haste was a dress turned out to be a cotton nightgown with the pink panther on the front. Her lips and nose were still swollen and blackened.

“Don’t look at me, I’m so ugly.”

The nuns bundled her bloodstained clothes into a carrier bag. “I hope we don’t get arrested,” said Fen.

“I’m afraid the taxis are on strike,” said Billy, putting his arm through hers, “so we’ll have to bus back to the Villa Borghese.”

“Ouch,” said Fen, as a passing Italian pinched her bottom.

The bus came crashing along, fighting for survival in the surging thrusting jam of cars.

“It’s illegal to hoot in Rome,” said Fen.

“Bad luck for owls,” said Billy, as they fought and pummeled their way into the bus. For at least ten seconds they were separated, then Billy fought his way back to her.

“You okay?”

“I need a pencil sharpener for my elbows, and I’ve been goosed by six men.”

“You mean geesed.”

The bus doors closed, shooting another ten people into the body of the bus and ramming Fen against Billy. She arched away from him in embarrassment, but it was no good, the crowd pushed her forward again and she lost hold of the bus strap, cannoning into his arms, which closed round her.

“I’m going to complain to sardine’s lib,” she mumbled in embarrassment.