“And how d’you intend to get away? It’s Crittleden next week, Rome the week after.”

“Tory Lovell takes her baby with her.”

“Christ, you should see it. Caravan festooned with nappies, Tory shoving distilled suede boot into some bawling infant, who spits it all out, then bawls all night, keeping every other rider awake.”

“Well, I’ll stop at home then,” sobbed Helen.

Suddenly from next door there was a wail.

“Go and see to him,” snapped Rupert. “Now aren’t you sorry you sacked Nanny?”

Fortunately Billy chose that moment to arrive back from Vienna, trailing rosettes, bringing Rupert’s horses, and panting to see the new baby, so the row was temporarily smoothed over.

“What a little duck,” he said, taking a yelling Marcus from Helen. “Isn’t he sweet? Look at his little hands. No, shush, shush sweetheart, that’s no way to carry on, you’ll upset your mummy.”

Amazingly, the next minute, Marcus shut up, gazing unfocused at Billy, enjoying the warmth and gentle strength.

“Isn’t he a duck?” he said again.

“You’d better take over as Nanny,” said Rupert with a slight edge in his voice. “Then we won’t have to fork out for an ad in The Lady.”

Helen thought for the millionth time how glad she was Billy hadn’t married Lavinia Greenslade. He was such a comfort.

“You will be godfather, won’t you?” she said.

Billy blushed. “Of course, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to point him in a very Christian direction. Who else have you asked?”

“Only my new friend Hilary, so far,” said Helen, shooting a defiant glance at Rupert. “I can’t wait to have you two meet. I’ll know you’ll enjoy her.”

Every night for the next week they were woken continually by Marcus crying, driving Rupert to frenzies of irritation.

“That’s my night’s sleep gone,” he would complain, then drift off to sleep two minutes later. Helen would get up, feed Marcus, soothe him to sleep, and lie awake for the rest of the night.

In April, Billy and Rupert set off for Crittleden, leaving Helen and Marcus alone in the big house, except for one of the girl grooms, whom Rupert had insisted sleep in. Resentful of Rupert, Helen poured all her love into the delicate little boy. Thank goodness Hilary lived only a few miles away, so they spent alternate days together, discussing books, plays, paintings, their babies and, inevitably, Rupert.

Jake Lovell was having his best year yet. His horses couldn’t stop winning. Revenge, brought in from grass, fat, mellow, and almost unrecognizable, was now fit and well muscled again. Even Jake realized his Olympic potential, but in four years’ time.

Tory and Fen, however, were wildly excited when a form arrived for Jake asking him to fill in his measurements for an Olympic uniform, which included a blazer and trousers for the flight and the opening ceremony. Aware that forms had been sent to all the other possibles, Jake had no intention of tempting Providence by returning the form until his selection had been confirmed after Aachen. He was appalled when he discovered that Tory, with her usual efficiency, had filled in the form and posted it.

Despite this tempting of Providence, the first Olympic trial at the Bath and Wells show went well. Both Sailor and Revenge jumped accurately and were only beaten by seventeen-hundredths of a second against the clock by The Bull. Humpty was fourth, Driffield fifth, Ivor Braine sixth, Rupert a poor seventh, not even getting into the jump-off. The rest were nowhere.

Before the second trial in June at Crittleden, Jake was a good deal more edgy. Colonel Carter was never off the telephone, throwing his weight around, trying to organize Revenge’s career, until Jake lost his temper and told the colonel to get stuffed.

More sinister, Jake noticed an unfamiliar missel-thrush singing in the willow tree nearest the stables, the day before they were due to leave for Crittleden. Jake chased it away, but it came back and went on singing. When he lived with the gypsies a missel-thrush had sung all day outside the caravan of the old gypsy grandmother. One day she was in rude health, the next she had died. Jake believed in omens. All day he worried about the children, Isa and little Darklis, who at thirteen months had grown into the most enchanting black-haired, black-eyed gypsy girl, the apple of Jake’s eye.

He even went and fetched Isa from the playgroup himself. He didn’t tell Tory of his fears. They had decided not to bring the children to Crittleden, as Jake and Fen needed a good night’s sleep before the trial, and children around might be distracting.

“Are you sure you don’t mind not coming?” Jake asked Tory.

“I can watch you on television,” she said. “Anyway I’d be so nervous for you, I’d wind you up. I know you’re going to make it.”

Jake hated leaving them all. Whenever would he get over this crippling homesickness every time he went away? As they left on the hundred-and-fifty-mile drive it was pouring with rain and the missel-thrush was still singing. It was even wetter and colder at Crittleden. Jake and Fen spent a lot of time blocking up holes in the horses’ stables.

On the way to the secretary’s tent to declare for the next day, Jake bumped into Marion, fuming as usual with Rupert.

“He’s only got Mayfair in the running now. He used the tack rail on Belgravia so much, one of his legs went septic, so he’s off for a fortnight. Rupert’s talking of using electrodes on Mayfair; the horse is a bundle of nerves.”

“And Macaulay?” said Jake.

“Sold on to an Arab sheik Rupe met playing chemmy at the Claremont. So he’s off to some Middle East hellhole, poor sod. You know what that means?”

“Yes,” said Jake bleakly. “He’ll cart the sheik’s son and heir once too often and end up in the stone quarries. Can you get me the address?”

Marion said she’d try, but Rupert had been very cagey about this deal because Helen, who was in an uptight state, might be upset if she found out the horse had gone.

“Not that she’s showing any interest in anything except Marcus at the moment.”

Jake shook his head. “Why d’you stay with Rupert?”

Marion shrugged. “I guess I’m hooked on the bastard, and at least I can make the lot of his horses a little easier.”

All the next day the rain poured down like a waterfall. The riders put up the collars of their mackintosh coats and shivered. As he finished walking the course, Jake was accosted by a reporter from the local evening paper.

“This is the toughest course ever built at Crittleden, Jake. Anything to say?”

Jake kept walking. “I’m sorry I can’t talk to you before a class.”

“But I’ve got a deadline,” wailed the reporter. “Arrogant sod,” he added furiously.

But Jake didn’t hear, and when he passed Humpty and Driffield he barely nodded, trying to cocoon himself, to get a grip on his nerves. He found Fen holding Revenge and Sailor — three drowned rats. Sailor, who loathed the cold, looked more miserable and hideous than ever.

“You okay?” he asked Fen.

She nodded. “What’s the course like?”

“Not okay,” said Jake. “Dead and holding. It’ll put five inches on all the fences.”

Smug in the covered stands after a good lunch, the Olympic committee smoked their cigars and waited. Jake, who had a latish draw, watched one rider after another come to grief, which did his nerves no good. He noticed that the dye of his cheap red coat was running into his breeches. If he survived this ordeal, he’d bloody well buy himself a mackintosh coat.

Only Porky Boy and The Bull went clear. Revenge went in at Number Twenty and, despite having to carry two stone of lead because Jake was so light, he jumped strongly and confidently, with only a toe in the water for four faults. Jake felt passionate relief that he wouldn’t have to jump again. But in one of the boxes, from which Colonel Carter would not emerge because Molly didn’t want her newly set hair rained on, Jake could see them both looking disappointed.

Rupert went in next, jumping a very haphazard clear, and came out looking none too pleased; he was followed by Driffield, who, despite Olympic-level bellyaching beforehand, had only four faults.

Sailor looked even more fed up as Fen took off his rug. But he nudged Jake in the ribs, as if to say, “I don’t like this any more than you do, so let’s get on with it.”

“I heard Rupert saying it’s like a skating rink in the middle on the far side of the rustic poles,” said Fen, “so jump to the right.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jake, trying to stop his teeth chattering.

“Your breeches look like a sunset,” said Fen.

“Hope that’s not symbolic of my career,” said Jake.

Sailor was cold and it took him the first four jumps to warm up. He gave Jake a seizure when he rapped the double very hard. But fortunately, though the pole trembled, it didn’t come out of the cup and Jake managed to steer him clear of the skating rink at the rustic poles. Although Jake was aware what a tremendous effort Sailor had to make at each fence, carrying so much lead, he completed the course without mishap.

Jake’s heart filled with gratitude. What horse could be more gallant? As he patted him delightedly and gave him half a packet of Polos, he wondered if subconsciously he was holding back Revenge because he so wanted to take Sailor to Colombia.

“Keep him warm and under cover,” he said to Fen and went off to check the jump-off course. He found all the clear-round riders having a frightful row with the Crittleden judges.

“For Christ sake,” said Rupert, “we’ve gone clear. Isn’t that enough for the buggers? It’s like jumping out of quicksand.”