Rupert had never been far from his thoughts, however. He had watched him obsessively whenever shows were televised, and read every word about him in the papers, as one outrageous scrape followed another. In fact Jake suspected he had only been picked for the team the May before last (when he’d had to drop out because Africa was unfit) because Rupert and Billy had both been dropped for hell-raising in Paris, and then later getting into some frightful fight at the Royal Plymouth.

Soon afterwards, as though realizing he’d gone too far, Rupert had suddenly married a gorgeous American redhead, who seemed to have had a dramatic effect on his behavior. Gone were the days of womanizing and wild drinking. Rupert appeared less and less often in the gossip pages and more and more on the sports pages, cleaning up at shows all over Europe, appearing as a regular fixture in the British team, and even being tipped as a Probable for the Olympic Games the following year. Jake gnashed his teeth. He had a feeling that Rupert was pulling further and further away from him, that he would never catch up now.

Still, it was too nice a day to worry about Rupert. Ahead, flanked by pale green willows, he could see the Mill House, its ancient red brick weathered to strawberry roan, tossing its shaggy mane of white roses, which no one had time to prune. It was a long low house. He, Tory, little Isa, and Tanya the groom lived on the left-hand side. The right contained the old mill, with its storerooms and huge stone wheel which, fifty years before, had been turned by a fast-rushing stream which still hurtled under the house, through the garden, and eventually into the River Trent.

Behind the house, hidden from view, were the stables, and beyond that a ring of oak trees with huge acid green lichened trunks, which protected them all from the vicious north winds.

Jake’s ambition this year was to build an indoor school. There were too many days in winter, with the dark mornings and long nights, or when it was frosty, wet, or slippery underfoot, when it was impossible to work the horses outside. He’d eaten into Tory’s capital so much, he’d have to get a loan from the bank. But ever since the three-day week and the Socialists coming to power and the economic gloom, the banks had clamped down and were lending money only at colossal interest. He didn’t want to sell more shares at the moment, as they’d have nothing to fall back on and nothing to secure any further borrowing they might need.

He was so deep in thought that it was a few seconds before he realized that Sailor had pricked up his lop ears, Wolf was bounding forward, and Tory was shouting from the house. Popping Sailor across the stream, he cantered up the lawn, which was more of a hayfield these days, as no one had time to mow it.

“Telephone,” she yelled. “Hurry!”

She was standing by the willow tree, which permanently dangled its leaves in the stream. Eight months pregnant with their second child, she was about as fat now as she had been when he first met her. Her face was pink with excitement.

“Who is it?” he said, sliding off Sailor.

“Malise Gordon, ringing from London. I’ll take Sailor.”

Jake handed her the horse and ran into the house as fast as his limp would allow. He mustn’t sound too eager. Probably Malise only wished to say he was coming north on a recce, to watch Jake at some show. The telephone was in the hall, which Tory had painted duck-egg blue last February. Damp patches were already showing through. One day they might be able to afford a carpet.

“Hello,” he said curtly.

“Hello, how are you?” said Malise in his brisk military tones, not stopping for an answer. “You had a good show at Birmingham, I hear. Glad Africa got her form back. Humpty was very irritated to be beaten, but very impressed how she was going.”

“Thanks,” said Jake, feeling Wolf curl up around his feet as he leafed through the neatly typed envelopes on the hall table. Tory had been busy sending off entry forms to the various show secretaries.

“You can’t hide your light under a bushel forever,” said Malise in a slightly hearty voice. “You ought to try some shows further south.”

“I thought of having a crack at Crittleden in July, and perhaps Wembley in October.”

Malise laughed. “I was thinking of much further south. How about coming to Madrid?”

It was a moment Jake had dreamed about for so long. His throat went dry and he had to clutch onto the rickety table for support.

“Madrid?” he croaked.

“Yep, sorry it’s such short notice. Ivor Braine’s horses have all got the cough, and Driffield broke his arm over the weekend, so I thought you might like to go in his place.”

Jake didn’t answer, his mind careering from terror to elation.

“Hello, are you still there?”

“Just,” said Jake. “I’d like to.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thanks very much.”

“The rest of the team’ll be coming on from Rome,” said Malise, “except for Humpty, who’s flying from Heathrow and sending his groom down by train with the horses. It’s a bugger of a journey, takes three or four days, so I suggest you put your groom and your horses in Humpty’s box. His groom, Bridie, can collect yours on the way and they can travel as far as Dunkirk together, then take the train the rest of the way. You can fly out to Madrid with Humpty,” he went on, “and meet the horses there. No point both you and the horses arriving exhausted.”

“No,” said Jake sharply, “I want to travel with the horses.”

“I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Anyway I can’t spare my groom. Tory’s about to have a baby and she can’t look after the yard on her own.”

“Are you sure? You really won’t enjoy that flog.”

“I don’t mind.” Jake had never been abroad and the thought of letting his precious horses out of sight for a second on foreign soil filled him with horror.

“And you’ll bring Valerian and Africa?” asked Malise.

“Valerian’s been a bit pulled down by some virus. I’ve got a much better horse. He was placed in three classes at Birmingham.”

“Okay,” said Malise, “you know your own horses. If we need you for the Nations’ Cup you can jump Africa.”

In the kitchen Jake found Tory talking to Wolf, who was sitting on the kitchen table. She was also opening a bottle of champagne.

“Where did that come from?” he said, shocked at such extravagance.

“Granny Maxwell gave it to me just before she died. She said I wasn’t to open it until you were selected. She had faith in you, too. Oh, Jake,” she put down the bottle and flung her arms around his neck and he could feel the tears on her cheeks. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

In the week that followed, Jake was almost too busy to be nervous. Although Tory repeatedly nagged him, he’d never bothered to get a passport, thinking it was tempting providence until he was actually picked. Now all sorts of strings had to be pulled by the BSJA and trips taken to the passport office. Africa and Sailor had to have passports, too, which included a drawing of the horse. However many times Jake redrew Sailor, he still looked like an old Billy goat. They also had to have blood tests, and their health papers had to be stamped. Then shows had to be canceled and Jake and the horses had to be packed for. With a four-day journey there and possibly back, he would be away for nearly three weeks. He would liked to have rung Humpty and asked his advice about foreign customs and what to wear, but he was too proud. Meanwhile the village dressmaker sat up late every night making him a red coat.

He tried the coat on the night before he left, wishing he was taller and broader in the shoulders. At least he didn’t have a turkey red face that clashed with it, like Humpty.

Tory was putting Isa to bed. Wolf, the lurcher, sat on his curved tail, shivering on Jake’s suitcase, the picture of desolation. Normally he went with Jake to every show, but some sixth sense told him he was going to be left behind tomorrow.

Next minute Isa wandered in, in blue pajamas with a Womble on the front and a policeman’s helmet on his head which he wore all day and in bed at night. His left wrist was handcuffed to a large teddy bear. He was at the age when he kept acquiring new words, and copied everything Jake and Tory said.

“Daddy going hunting,” he announced, seeing the red coat.

“Not exactly,” said Jake. “I’m going away for a few days to Spain, and you must take care of Mummy.”

“Will you be back before Mummy gets her baby out? Will you bring me a present?”

Jake turned so he could look at the coat from the back. He wished he knew how hot it would be in Spain.

“What d’you want?”

“Nuvver lorry.”

“You’ve got about ten,” said Jake. “For Christ’s sake, don’t touch that briefcase.”

“What’s this?”

“Spanish money.”

“Where is Pain?” said Isa, ignoring Jake and spreading out the notes.

“Over the seas. I said leave that case alone.”

Normally he hated snapping at Isa, but last-minute nerves were getting to him.

“Daddy have a whicksey,” said Isa, who regarded a stiff drink as the cure to all grown-up ills, “and get pissed up.”

“I said go and find Mummy.” Jake retrieved the notes and the health papers.

“Mummy’s crying,” said Isa.

Jake felt a burst of irritation. He felt guilty about leaving her, but what else could he do? She wanted him to get on; what the hell was she crying for? He found her in the bathroom bending her bulk down slowly to retrieve plastic ducks, boats, and sodden towels. Her swollen ankles were spilling over her slip-on shoes. She had had those shoes since he married her.