Jilly Cooper - Riders

In May, Helen gave birth to a daughter, whom they called Tabitha. Rupert was present at the birth, and although to Helen, he seemed to spend more time making eyes over his white mask at the pretty nurses, and seeing how all the machinery worked, he was at least present if incorrect. And from the moment he set eyes on Tabitha and she opened her Cambridge blue eyes, Rupert was totally enchanted. She was indeed the most angelic baby. She gurgled and laughed, and, almost immediately, she slept through the night; and, if she woke, it was Rupert who got up without a murmur, displaying a sweetness and patience Helen had never seen before.

Where Rupert was concerned, it was the great love affair of the century. Here was someone he could love unstintingly, and who adored him back. Later her first word was “Daddy,” and, when she took her first steps, they were towards Rupert. And almost before she could walk she screamed to be put on a pony, and screamed even louder when she was lifted off. Rupert would do anything for her, bathing her, playing with her for hours, watching as she slept, plump, pink-cheeked, blond, and ravishing in her cot. Delighted at first with Rupert’s delight, Helen gradually became irritated by it, drawing even closer to Marcus, who couldn’t understand, at two, why his father didn’t dote on him and bring him presents and cuddle him on his knee. As a result, when Rupert wasn’t around, he would punch and pinch little Tab and fill her cot with toys. One day Rupert caught him trying to suffocate Tab with a pillow and gave him a backhander which sent him flying across the room. Two hours later, Marcus had one of his worst asthma attacks. He recovered, but by that time Rupert had moved on to another show.

The christening upset Janey very much. She was a godmother, but it was such a tribal affair, such a ritualistic celebration of fertility. All the Campbell-Blacks were there in force, going into ecstasies over such a ravishing baby. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe sent Tab a beautiful silver mug. Janey got drunk afterwards and spent all night in floods of tears. Billy was in despair. “We’ve only been married a year and a half, darling. I’ll see a doctor. It might be my fault.”

All the riders were now revving up for the World Championship, which was being held at Les Rivaux in Brittany in July. Only six British riders would be selected to go. Considering Billy a certainty, Kevin Coley had reserved a big tent at Les Rivaux and was intending to make a party of it, flying out all his important customers for a jolly.

As it was only May, Billy wasn’t too worried about qualifying. He was bound to hit form soon. The Bull had got over a virus complaint and was back on the circuit. Another key event, from Kevin Coley’s point of view, was Westerngate, a big show in the Midlands, towards the end of May. The Moggie Meal factory was just a few miles outside Westerngate, and Kevin Coley had a tent at the show, where all his senior staff were expected to turn out in their best clothes and mingle with important customers.

The highlight of the day for all of them was to meet Billy and watch his horses, Moggie Meal Al, Moggie Meal Kitch (Kitchener), and Moggie Meal Dick (Mandryka), jumping. They were also keen to meet Billy’s beautiful and famous wife, Janey, whom many of the wives had thought a scream when they read her pieces.

Westerngate was about eighty miles north of Penscombe. Billy was expected to be on parade all three days of the show, and Kevin and Enid Coley were naturally disappointed that Janey was working on Thursday and Friday, but were very much looking forward to seeing her on Saturday for lunch.

“Do I have to come?” grumbled Janey.

“It is important,” urged Billy. “They’re our bread and butter.”

“Marg and sliced bread, if you ask me. I hate to leave the book,” she lied, “when it’s going so well.”

“I’ll come home on Friday night and collect you,” said Billy, “and we can drive down in the morning. But we’ll have to leave early; I’ve got a novice class around eleven-thirty.”

On the Monday before the show, Billy had gone to Kevin to ask for an advance of £20,000 to keep some of his creditors at bay. Kevin thought for a minute. “Yes, I’ll help you out, Billy.”

“That’s terribly kind of you,” said Billy, heaving a sigh of relief.

“It isn’t kind, it’s fucking generous. But I’m not going to help you out that much. I’m only going to give you £2,000, or you’ll lose your hunger.”

Billy’s heart sank.

“You’ll have to win the rest. Cut down on the booze and lose some weight. It’s a tough world. I’m counting on you for the World Championship. I’ve booked that tent for Les Rivaux, so you’d better start winning, and qualify.”

Billy wished Kevin hadn’t booked the tent; it was tempting providence.

Bad luck seemed to pursue him. He had such a hangover at Fontainebleau, he forgot to check if Tracey had screwed in Kitchener’s studs. Kitchener went into the ring and promptly slipped on takeoff, putting him out for the whole season, which left Billy with only The Bull and Mandryka. Janey was sympathetic when he rang, but she was four days late with the curse, and cocooned in secret expectations.

On Wednesday night, Billy came home from Fontainebleau and found Janey had put three pairs of breeches and four white shirts in the washing machine with one of her scarlet silk scarves, so they came out streaked red like the dawn. Billy was very tired or he wouldn’t have hit the roof.

“I can’t think what you’re worrying about. I’m not complaining,” Janey shouted back at him, “and I’ve ruined a perfectly good scarf. I’ve been so busy, you’re lucky to have your shirts washed at all. Why don’t you go out and win something, then you could afford to send them to the laundry?”

Billy felt that terrible clawing pain in his gut that was becoming so familiar these days. A large glass of whisky seemed the only answer.

Going upstairs in the faint hope of finding some clean shirts, he saw instead the beautiful new iron bedhead above the spare room bed.

“Where did that come from?”

“I bought it weeks ago.”

“And paid for it?”

“Not yet.” Janey didn’t meet his eyes.

“Why d’you buy bloody bedheads when I can’t afford boots?”

“Why don’t you buy cheap vino instead of paying £3 a bottle? Why are you always buying drinks for people, giving them the shirts off your back, even if they are streaked red like the dawn? As I said, why don’t you win something? I’m fed up with playing second fiddle to a string of bloody horses.”

Billy went back upstairs. When she joined him, he was lying in bed wearing pajamas buttoned up to the neck. Even though his face was turned to the wall she caught a waft of bad digestion and drink fumes.

“Billy,” she said apologetically. He didn’t answer, but she knew he was awake. Nothing, however, could dent her happiness. She was eight days late. She woke up in the night and Billy was so still she thought he’d committed suicide, so she woke him up in a panic and, half-asleep, he instinctively put his arms round her, forgetting the dreadfulness of the row.

He left before she woke in the morning to go to Westerngate, but returned on Friday night in better spirits. The Bull had come second in a big class, so perhaps his luck was turning.

Janey was delighted. “Who beat you?”

“Jake Lovell, of all people. He’s back on the circuit.”

“Who’s he?”

“You know Jake. Oh, I’d forgotten. You probably never met him. He was a cert for the Colombia Olympics, with two top-class horses. Then one had a heart attack at Crittleden. Appalling bad luck. Should never have been jumped. And then Rupert set his heart on the second.”

“And got it, no doubt,” said Janey. “He always gets anything or anyone he wants.”

“Yes, he did. It was Revenge actually. Belonged to Jake’s stepfather-in-law. Rupert made him an offer he couldn’t refuse; left Jake without any horses. Now he’s really back on form. I’m glad. I always felt bad about that business.”

Cheered up by Billy’s second, they got mildly tight together. “I’m so pleased you’re coming tomorrow,” said Billy. “They’re all dying to meet you. I want to show you off.”

Janey didn’t feel like being shown off. She felt fat and bloated; perhaps it was the first stirrings of pregnancy. In anticipation of maternity, and to cover the bulges (she was ten days late now), she was wearing one of Billy’s streaked shirts and nothing else.

“Do you like short hair?” she said, pausing at the Daily Mail fashion page.

“I do on Mavis. Can I shave your bush tonight?”

It was all rather erotic. Billy had bought her a porn magazine to read and laid her on a towel on the bed and used his razor and masses of soap and hot water. Wincing in case he nicked her, she read a story about a Victorian maid and her boss, which was too absurd for words and full of misprints and anachronisms, which she kept reading out to Billy: “ ‘I want to lock your bunt,’ said the vicar, his hot six rearing up.” But it soon had her bubbling over inside; the libido was an awfully bad judge of literature, Janey decided.

“Christ, you look fantastic,” said Billy as he rinsed away the last soap and hairs. Janey peered at herself. “Rather like an old boiler chicken.”

“It’ll be fantastic going down on you. Did you ever allow any of your other boyfriends to do this to you?” asked Billy, as he leapt on her. “Can we play for a long time?”

Janey, however, having come quickly herself, wanted to get it over with. She was suddenly tired and wriggled frantically trying to bring him to the boil, and then exciting him with a story of how Pardoe took her in the back of his Jaguar one summer night.