On his way back from the races that evening, Rupert dropped into the Olympic village to collect his post and found a letter postmarked Perthshire. Ever-cautious Amanda had not used headed writing paper, but she apologized for being “utterly bloody” about the looking glass and admitted that she was missing him very much, that they’d all be staying up to watch him tomorrow, and to wish him good luck. She’d be back in London in September.

Equally cautious, Rupert tore her letter up and was about to throw it in the litter bin when he pieced it together again to see if it were really true. He felt absurdly pleased, and wondered why the hell he’d been playing around with Miss Romania. He had better go back to Arcadia and get some sleep. They were walking the course at seven-thirty.

Malise Gordon was not a religious man, but he prayed before the individual that night. He must try and be a good loser and not make any of the three riders feel too awful if they made a cock-up, and try and keep them calm without transmitting any of his fears and worries. Ivor had a good horse and didn’t usually suffer from nerves, but he lacked fire in his belly. Jake was desperately short of sleep and likely to crack. Rupert was far too confident and Rocky much too fresh. On the right day they were invincible, but Malise felt apprehensive. He felt ridiculously touched that Fen had sent him a good-luck card with a black cat on it. “To the best chef d’equipe in the world,” she had written inside. “We’ll live to fight another day, love, Fen.”


58


Jake slept fitfully, wracked by half-dreams. It was the opening ceremony and the singer turned into Helen, sobbing into a microphone that Jake didn’t love her. Then he was in the ring with girths breaking and bridles coming off. Finally he dreamed that Hardy had a heart attack in the ring. Lying there in the blazing sun gathering flies, he suddenly turned into Sailor. Jake woke up screaming, crying his eyes out. The next minute one of the weight lifters was sitting on his bed, patting his shoulder with a huge hand, the other was lighting him a cigarette. Having notched up a silver and a bronze the day before, they could afford to be magnanimous. As it was half-past three, they said, there was no point in Jake going back to sleep for an hour, so they might as well have a cup of tea and all chat to take his mind off things. Jake would rather have been left alone, but he was touched by their concern.

The weight lifters were dozing off as, with a feeling of unreality, Jake put on the new socks, the white breeches, the shirt, and tied his tie with trembling fingers. He was all in white like a bride, until he pulled on the gleaming brown-topped boots, and shrugged his way into the new red coat, with the black velvet collar and the Union Jack on the pocket. The day had actually come, as it came to boys going back to prep school, or to men in the condemned cell.

“Good luck,” mumbled the weight lifters sleepily. “We’ll watch you on the box. Sock it to ’em.”

“Good luck,” said the wrestlers, when Jake collected Ivor. “For Christ’s sake, look after him.”

“Good luck,” said the dour security guard at the end of the passage, smiling for the first time since they arrived. “Have a good day.”

It was a good thing they started early for as the sun rose, pale saffron gilding the Santa Monica mountains, cars were already jamming the freeways, and a continuous stream of enthusiasts from every nation — but mostly America — clutching a selection of hats, thermos flasks, coolers, beer cans, sandwiches, transistors, and even portable televisions to sustain them during the long day, poured into the showground. Ticket scalpers were everywhere, and to get to the stables, the team had to fight their way through autograph hunters and people peddling Coca-Cola, chewing gum, hamburgers, hot dogs, and souvenirs.

“If someone else offers me a poster of Dino I shall scream,” said Fen.

By seven o’clock the stands were packed under a hazy, dove-gray sky, which indicated colossal heat to come. Many of the crowd didn’t know one end of a horse from another, but, bitten by Olympic fever, they wanted to see America notch up yet another gold.

At seven-thirty, the riders and their chefs d’equipes walked the course, surging out over the rich brown tan. No one else, not even the press, was allowed into the arena. Royalty, however, brooked no such restrictions.

“Morning, Dudley,” Prince Philip called to Dudley Diplock, who was hovering at the entrance. “Walked the course yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well come on, come on,” said the Prince, striding straight through the cordon of security guards, Dudley hopping after him.

“Look at that crowd,” said Ivor, in a hollow voice.

“Look at that course,” said Jake, as he gazed at the fences, whose massive size wasn’t remotely softened by a riot of trees and flowers.

“Positively awesome,” breathed Carol Kennedy, as he looked at the combination. There were two unusual fences, one built with light and dark brown bricks in the shape of a hot dog and another designed like a boat with sails at either end instead of wings, with the horses jumping over the bows.

“Holy Mother, that’s a turrible thing,” said Wishbone, looking at the hot dog.

Even Rupert was curiously silent as they measured and remeasured the distances.

“You’ve all jumped higher than this,” said Malise, as they gazed at the massive oxer.

“But not every fence,” said Ivor.

Fen suddenly felt overwhelmed with shame that she should have wanted Desdemona to jump this course. It was simply too big and she couldn’t see any way Hardy could get around. She felt horribly frightened for Jake. She wanted to be with him to bolster his confidence, but Malise told her to stick to the riders’ stand, and watch her eyes out for the first dozen or so rounds and pass back any advice.

Jake, icy cold with chattering teeth, despite the heat, kept to himself and talked to no one. He had a very late draw, which was bound to tell on his nerves. Suddenly, he longed for Tory and her quiet sympathy and understanding, she who didn’t mind if he bit her head off. Just as he was going through the security check into the stables he heard a cry and Helen bore down on him. She looked ravishing in a white grecian tunic and a big white hat with the blue spotted scarf round the brim. A few yards behind her was a large handsome middle-aged woman with a bulldog jaw.

“Darling,” Helen cried, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I just wanted to wish you luck and have you meet Mother.”

Jake looked at her incredulously. “What?”

“Meet Mother. I’ve told her so much about you.”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” snapped Jake. “I can’t meet anyone at the moment,” and turned on his heel.

Helen was stunned. “He’s a bit uptight,” she told her mother. “You can meet him later.”

Everyone crowded into the riders’ stand to watch the first round. A hush fell over the arena. A ripple ran through the crowd as the first competitor came in. It was Hans Schmidt — his hat at its usual crooked angle, the jauntiness, belied by the determination on his face, Papa Haydn, the dark bay Hanoverian, totally under control. A groan went up from the German team, as he sent the second fence, a double of uprights, never a German forte, flying, then proceeded to hit the third fence and the fourth and, not getting up speed, had two toes in the water. Unnerved by such an uncharacteristically bad round, Papa Haydn demolished the sail boat and then the hot dog, took a pole out of the massive triple, which was sited away from the collecting ring, and hit the first element of the combination, for a final thirty-six faults.

“And he is ranked number five in the world,” said Wishbone in a trembling voice.

“First competitor nerves,” said Rupert.

The strain of waiting for the course to be rebuilt told on Count Guy, who came next, and who came to grief at the third fence, managed to clear the water, but was going so fast he couldn’t pull up. He proceeded to kick out the sailboat, the hot dog, the massive oxer, and the two last elements in the combination. He was followed by a Japanese rider, who came in with a kamikaze attitude of finishing the course at all costs, and came out to loud cheers with an amazing total of fifty-five faults. One of the young Irish riders coaxed his ugly brown mare round on twenty-four to produce the best round yet. Dino’s replacement, Lizzie Dean, couldn’t carry the weight of expectation piled on her and notched up twenty faults.

“It obviously walked better than it rode,” muttered Ivor, who was as green as one of Suzy Erikson’s avocados.

The heat blazed down, getting more and more murderous, as Spaniards, Swiss, Italians, Canadians followed one another. If they weren’t unhinged by the course, they were distracted by the crowd who, every time anyone cleared a fence, uttered yoo-hoos and Tarzan howls, and yells of “Keep it up, keep it up.”

Ludwig came in and roused a certain interest, when it was announced he had won the gold at the last Olympics, and had been second in the World Championship. Clara looked a picture of health as she trotted into the ring, long ears shining, taking in the huge crowd. It was soon obvious that she was on form, as she delicately picked her way around the course, clearing the sheet of blue water by a foot, but managing to slow up and become the first horse to clear the sailboat. The yells and cheers that greeted this achievement, however, completely unsettled her. She rattled the hot dog badly, crashed into the oxer, and kicked out the vast triple, finishing up with eight faults. All the other riders clapped sympathetically as Ludwig rode out, ruefully shaking his head. All the same, thought Fen, it’s the best round yet. Clear rounds were obviously going to be impossible to come by. She tried to remember exactly how Ludwig had tackled the sailboat so she could tell Jake. As she watched the Mexican named Jesus come hopelessly to grief, she felt sicker and sicker with nerves for him.