Rupert arrived at the showground in a foul temper. He’d just had a dressing-down from Malise for going bullfighting on the morning of a Nations’ Cup. He was worried about Billy and he realized, with Billy gone, that their chances of even being placed were negligible. Normally he didn’t need to distance himself before a big class, but Helen’s chatter about El Grecos and Goyas, and her trip to Toledo, “with the old houses silhouetted against the skyline,” got on his nerves and he’d snapped at her unnecessarily.

She’d hoped to win him over in a new dress — a Laura Ashley white smock dotted with yellow buttercups, worn with a huge yellow straw hat — but he had merely snapped, “What on earth are you wearing that for?”

“It’s the latest milkmaid look,” said Helen.

“I don’t like milkmaids, only whisky maids; and you’re going to obscure about fifteen people’s view in that hat. No, there isn’t time to change; we’re late as it is.”

“God, it’s hot,” said Lavinia Greenslade, as they sweated in the unrelenting sun, waiting for the go-ahead to walk the course. Her eyes were swollen and pink from crying over Billy’s concussion. It had taken all Malise Gordon’s steely persuasion, coupled with her parents’ ranting, to make her agree to ride.

The rotund Humpty was sweating so profusely that great damp patches had seeped through his red coat under the arms and down the spine.

“Wish we could jump in our shirtsleeves,” he grumbled.

“Not in fwont of the genewal,” said Lavinia. “He’s weally hot on pwotocol.”

Jake clenched his teeth together, so the others couldn’t hear them chattering like castanets. Walking the course didn’t improve his nerves. The fourteen jumps were enormous — most of them bigger than he was — with a huge combination in the middle and a double at the end with an awkward distance. You could either take three small strides between the two jumps or two long ones. He tried to concentrate on what Malise was saying as they paced out the distances.

In a Nations’ Cup, four riders on four horses jump for each country, jumping two rounds each over the same course. There is a draw for the order in which the nations jump. Today it was France, Italy, Spain, Germany then Great Britain last, which meant that a French rider would jump first, followed by an Italian, then a Spaniard, a German, and finally a British rider. Then the second French rider would jump followed by the second Italian, and so on until all the riders had jumped. Each nation would then total the scores of its three best riders, discarding the worst score. The nation with the lowest number of faults would then be in the lead at half time. The whole process is then repeated, each rider jumping in the same order. Once again the three lowest scores are totted up and the nation with the lowest total over the two rounds wins the cup. If two countries tie there is a jump-off. Nations’ Cup matches are held all over Europe throughout the summer and autumn and the side that notches up the most points during the year is awarded the President’s Cup. For the last two years this had been won by Germany.

Malise gave the order for the British team to jump: Humpty, Lavinia, Rupert, Jake.

“If you get a double clear,” Humpty told Jake as they came out of the ring, “you get a free red coat.”

“Can’t see myself having much chance of wearing out this one,” said Jake.

He thought so even more a few seconds later as Lavinia gave a shriek of relieved joy, bounded towards Billy, as he stood swaying slightly at the entrance to the arena, and flung her arms round him.

“Lavinia,” thundered her mother and father simultaneously.

Lavinia ignored them. “Are you all wight? You shouldn’t have come out in this heat. Does your poor head hurt?”

Billy was deathly pale, but he steadied himself against Lavinia and grinned sheepishly at Malise. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“T’riffic,” said Rupert. “You can ride after all.”

“No, he can’t,” said Malise firmly. “Go and sit in the shade, Billy, and take my hat.” He removed his panama and handed it to Billy.

“For Christ’s sake,” snarled Rupert, hardly bothering to lower his voice, “even concussed, Billy’s more valuable than Lavinia or Jake. They simply haven’t the nerve when the chips are down.”

“Thank you, Wupert,” said Lavinia, disengaging herself from Billy. “If it weren’t against the intwests of my countwy, I’d hope you fall off.”

“Are you implying my Lavinia isn’t up to it?” said Mrs. Greenslade, turning even redder in the face.

“Yes,” said Rupert unrepentantly. “And Jake even less so.”

“Shut up, Rupert,” said Malise, losing his temper. “You’re behaving like a yobbo.”

“Well, if you want us to come bottom yet again, it’s up to you,” said Rupert.

“I’m honestly not up to it,” said Billy placatingly. “I can see at least six of all of you.”

Fortunately an ugly scene was averted by a loose horse pounding through the collecting ring, his lead rein trailing and flysheet slipping. Whickering with delight, he shoved the rest of the British team summarily out of the way and rushed straight up to Jake, burying his nose inside his coat and nudging him with delight. It was Sailor; his feet were oiled, his coat polished, his thin mane coaxed into plaits, his sparse tail fell jagged from a tube of royal blue tail bandage.

The next minute Tracey joined them, panting and laughing.

“The moment he saw you he broke away from me.”

“Amazing that someone finds you attractive,” said Rupert.

“That’s enough, Rupert,” said Malise icily. “You’d better warm up before the parade, Humpty.”


18


The general, in true Spanish tradition, was late. So the parade started without him. The Germans came first. The famous four, Hans, Manfred, Wolfgang, and Ludwig. Olympic gold medalists who had not lost a Nations’ Cup competition for two years, they had reason to be proud. They rode with a swagger on their equally famous horses: four beautiful Hanoverian geldings, with satin coats, elegant booted legs, arched necks, and chins apparently soldered to their breastbones. As they passed, their grooms gripped the fence and cheered. They were followed by the French, beautifully turned out with the lighter and less obedient horses, and then the Italians in their impeccably cut coats with the blue collars, riding with slapdash elegance, two of them smoking. Then there was a great earsplitting cheer, sending a great communal waft of garlic up from the crowd, as the Spanish team came in. Beautiful riders on beautiful, powerful horses, their manes flowing free, but somehow not coordinated like the Germans. The crowd, however, thought they were the greatest, and screams and shouts of “Magnifico” and “Olé” followed them all round the ring.

The British team came last. Rupert rode on the magnificent Belgravia, chestnut coat gleaming in the sunshine. Not having been ridden in at all (Marion hadn’t even had the time to walk him around), he was boisterous and uncontrollable, and the crowd, particularly the women, marveled how this handsome Englishman hardly moved in the saddle, as the horse bucked and violently shied beneath him. On his left was Humpty on Porky Boy, then Lavinia on the gray Snowstorm, whose coat was already turning blue with sweat, and then Sailor, shuffling along, looking on his last legs, as though he could hardly stagger as far as the grandstand. The crowd laughed, jeered, and pointed.

Jake gritted his teeth. He’d show them.

The wait that followed was interminable. The teams lined up in front of the grandstand and all, except Lavinia, removed their hats as each country’s National Anthem was played. The band knew their own National Anthem and, confident the Germans would win, had been practicing “Deutschland, Deutschland” all week, but when they got to Great Britain, they launched into the “Star-Spangled Banner,” which everyone thought very funny except the mustachioed bandmaster, who turned an even deeper shade of purple.

The horses meanwhile were going mad in the heat, except Sailor who stood half asleep, one back leg bent, hanging his head, twitching his flea-bitten coat against the flies, and occasionally flattening his ears at Belgravia, who was still barging around like a bee-stung bronco. Jake tried not to look at the jumps. All the women in the audience fanned themselves with their programs. Medallions, nestling in a thousand black hairy chests, glittered in the sunlight.

In the riders’ stand, next to the collecting ring, Helen comforted a disconsolate Billy. “You’d be mad to jump,” she said.

“Must say I’ve got the most awful headache. Jake’s horse looks like I feel,” said Billy.

As the teams came out of the ring, Sailor bringing up the rear, shuffling along, head hanging, Helen looked at Jake’s set face. She hadn’t seen him smile once since he’d arrived. The knight of the sorrowful countenance, she thought.

“He’s like Don Quixote,” she said to Billy, “and that poor beaten-down old horse looks like Rosinante.”

Billy wasn’t interested in literary allusions.

“What a bloody stupid thing to do,” he said. “Malise is livid.”

“Doesn’t look it,” said Helen, watching Malise, in dark glasses, with a gardenia in the buttonhole of his pale gray suit, completely calm as he went from one member of the team to another, steadying their nerves, encouraging them.

“Lavinia’s not wearing anything underneath that black coat,” sighed Billy.

As the British team filed into the riders’ stand, Malise gave Helen the jumping order on a clipboard so she could keep the score. The general still hadn’t arrived, but it was decided to start. The arena went very quiet as the white doors opened and the first French rider came in and took off his hat to the judges. As he went past the start, the clock started ticking. It was soon obvious, as he demolished jump after jump, sending poles and bricks flying, that this was a far from easy course. The Italian who came on second was also all over the place and notched up twenty-eight faults.