For a second he stared at his glass, miles away, then he said, “I had a horse called Sailor once. He was near death when he arrived, but he did pretty well in the end.”

Even when Jake and Macaulay got back to England, the news that Great Britain had won the team silver medal, Billy clinching it with a brilliant clear, didn’t upset him very much.


24


Kings, they came home. After a grueling thirty-hour journey from Colombia to Stansted Airport, The Bull and Revenge, accompanied by Tracey and Podge, had a good night’s sleep at Colonel Roxborough’s yard. Next day they drove the horses in the lorry to Heathrow to meet Rupert and Billy. They had quite a wait, because of scenes of hysterical excitement at the airport. Press and television cameras were everywhere; police had to keep back the huge crowd. Britain hadn’t notched up that many medals at Colombia not to be very proud of her show-jumping bronze and silver.

At last, they all set off for Penscombe, at around four o’clock in the afternoon, in tearing spirits, sharing several bottles of champagne on the way. Tracey was soon laughing like a hyena. Only Podge was sad. In a couple of hours she would have to give most of Rupert back to Helen, but there’d be other shows, she tried to tell herself. Outside Cirencester, Rupert was stopped by a policeman for speeding, who solemnly got out his notebook, then asked for their autographs. Every time people saw their lorry with the lettering “Rupert Campbell-Black and Billy Lloyd-Foxe, Great Britain” they started cheering. Even Rupert was thrown by the welcome as they neared home. As they entered Chalford there were crowds all along the route, cheering, waving British flags, and holding up placards saying “Well done, Billy and Rupert.” “Three cheers for The Bull and Revenge.”

Rupert looked at Billy. “Shall we ride home?”

Billy nodded, too moved to speak.

The horses were still tired, but delighted to be out of the lorry and in familiar territory. The Bull proceeded to stall and stall in the middle of Chalford High Street to the delighted screams of the crowd and the photographers.

And they were cheered all the three miles home, Rupert and Billy riding in front, followed by Tracey and Podge in the lorry, hooting victory salutes on the horn. Two miles out, Henrietta, one of the junior grooms, arrived with an ecstatic Badger and Mavis, red, white, and blue bows attached to their collars. Billy scooped up Mavis onto the saddle in front of him, where she ecstatically licked his salty face. After that, The Bull had to guide himself home because Billy needed one hand to clutch Mavis and the other to wipe his eyes. The Bull didn’t care. With garlands of flowers round his massive neck, he must have put on a stone between Chalford and Penscombe with all the sweets, carrots, and sugar that were fed him along the route.

To Rupert, Penscombe had never looked so lovely as on that golden September afternoon, with the valley softened and blurred by a slight blue mist, and great pale cream swathes of traveler’s joy. There was the weather cock glinting on Penscombe church. And suddenly towards them came the village band, sweating in their red tunics, playing “Land of Hope and Glory” somewhat out of tune.

“This is really too much,” said Billy, half laughing and half crying, as the band shuddered to a straggly halt in front of them, then turned round, striking up “Rule Britannia” to lead them in. The village was decked out like a Royal wedding: every house had put out the flags, a huge streamer stretched across the village street saying “Welcome Home Our Four Heroes.” Photographers ran along the pavement, snapping as they went. By the War Memorial the mayor was waiting for them. Shaking them both by the hand, he read a speech of welcome that Revenge tried to eat. Rupert was looking everywhere for Helen. Can’t even bother to come and meet me, he thought, savagely.

And suddenly, there she was on the pavement, in a yellow sleeveless dress, holding Marcus in her arms, looking apprehensive and not at all sure of her reception. In an instant, Rupert was off Revenge and kissing her passionately, but not too hard in case he squashed Marcus, and the photographers went crazy.

“Show us your medals, Rupe,” they yelled.

So Rupert, ultracasual, got them out of his hip pocket and hung them round Marcus’s neck. But when he tried to pick up the baby and cuddle him, Marcus arched his back rigidly and started to yell, so Rupert handed him back to Helen. Helen looked up at Rupert incredulously. Hilary had spent so much time putting the boot in that she had imagined some devil would roll up. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, even after a long drive and an even longer flight. As he came through those hysterically cheering crowds, laughing and joking, he seemed like a god again. It was only just coming home to her, the magnitude of his achievement.

She picked up the bronze and the silver medals and examined them wonderingly.

“You made it, you honestly made it. Oh, Rupert, I missed you so much,” and suddenly she knew she was speaking the truth as she realized she’d kept him at a distance since she got pregnant, and maybe it was her fault.

“Did you?” said Rupert, his face suddenly serious.

“Horribly. Can we really try and spend some time together, and make a go of it?”

Rupert kissed her again. He felt ridiculously happy.

“As long as you give Thrillary the bullet.”

Helen looked disapproving, then giggled. “We’re not quite so close. She is rather overly directive.”

“She’s more of a male bloody chauvinist pig than I am,” said Rupert.

Next day, after all the excitement, Billy was ashamed to find himself overwhelmed with a feeling of restlessness and anticlimax. After checking the horses, he decided to give himself a day off and spent most of the morning opening mail. As a result of his silver medal, there were countless offers of free stud nuts, tack, rugs, breeches. A lorry manufacturer was offering him a large sum of money to do a press campaign. Several television companies were waving fat fees to make films of his life.

“I shall have to turn professional,” he told Miss Hawkins, their secretary, half-jokingly.

Perhaps the depression was caused by the fact that everyone in the world seemed to have written to congratulate him — except that wonderful girl he’d seen at the Golden Lion. He hoped each letter might be from her, but as he didn’t know her name he couldn’t identify her anyway. For the thousandth time, he kicked himself for not being more forceful at the time.

“Some man from the press named Jamie Henderson’s written to ask if he can come down and interview you,” said Miss Hawkins. “I penciled in next Sunday. I thought you could take him up to the pub for lunch, as he’s coming all the way down from London. It’s the only day you’ve got really. You’ll be off to Athens, Portugal, and Germany the next day.”

She was highly delighted that Billy was for once getting as much attention as Rupert. “His lordship still in bed?” she went on in surprise. “Are those two having a second honeymoon?”

When his depression didn’t lift in the days that followed, Billy thought it might well be due to the fact that Rupert and Helen suddenly seemed to be madly in love again. Helen had agreed to get a nanny; Rupert had agreed to come home more often, and for them to do more things together. Billy was happy that they were happier, but it only emphasized his own isolation. What was the point of being a conquering hero if you didn’t make any conquests?

The Sunday Jamie Henderson was due, Billy rose early because it was so hot, worked all the horses that needed it, then hacked The Bull out because it was such a beautiful day. The stream at the bottom of the valley was choked with meadowsweet, and as he rode home he could hear Badger howling at the church bells.

As part of their new togetherness campaign, Helen and Rupert were just leaving to go out to lunch with Marcus as Billy walked in through the front door.

“We’ll be at the Paignton-Lacey’s,” said Helen, “so you and this press man will have the house to yourselves. There’s no need to lunch out. There’s cold chicken and potato salad in the larder, and I’ve washed a lettuce. All you’ve got to do is pour French dressing over it. And don’t leave the butter in the sun,” she added.

“This baby needs more luggage than a horse,” said Rupert, tramping out to the car with a blue plastic chamber pot in one hand, a packet of disposable nappies in the other, and several bottles under his arm. “One never gets enough to drink at the Paignton-Laceys’.”

Billy took the carrycot from Helen and put it in the back. As he waved them off to the accompaniment of Marcus yelling and Vivaldi on the car radio, Rupert looked at him and raised his eyes to heaven.

Billy had a bath and put on a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. He was nervous, for he never knew what to say to reporters. Sitting outside with a jug of Pimm’s, he read the Sunday papers, which were still full of Olympic news. There was a nice picture of him in the Sunday Express, and a piece in the Telegraph with a headline about Rupert’s shadow coming out of the shadows. He was pleased about that, too. He took off his shirt; might as well try to top up his Olympic tan.

In no time at all he seemed to have finished the jug. The valley looked even more beautiful now. The apples were reddening in the orchard, the dogs panted on the lawn, insects hummed in the Michaelmas daisies. September was such a lovely month; why wasn’t there someone here to share it with him?

He watched an emerald green Volkswagen pause on the road running along the top of the valley towards Penscombe. He looked at his watch; Jamie Henderson was late.