Riders (49 page)

“Oh, Christ,” said Janey, clutching her head, “I left them in the launderette in Stroud. The washing machine’s up the spout, too.”

“What time do they open?”

“About eight-thirty.”

“I’ve got to leave at six.”

“I’m sorry, darling, truly I am. Look, give me your breeches and shirts and I’ll wash them by hand. Then we can dry them in front of the fire, and I’ll get up early and iron them.”

“It’s all right. I’ll borrow some from Rupert. I’m only away for a couple of days this time.”

“I’m desperately sorry,” said Janey, suddenly catching sight of two unposted entry forms in her out-tray and shuffling them under a pile of papers. “I’m going to mix you a nice drink.”

After two glasses of vodka and orange squash, which didn’t taste so bad after all, Billy felt fortified enough to open the brown envelopes.

“Janey, darling,” he said, five minutes later, “we shall simply have to pull our horns in. These bills are frightful.”

“Can’t you take a trip to Château Kitsch? Harold Evans caught a finch in the herb garden today and came in with his mouth full of chives and parsley. He’s also got a liver complaint.”

Billy looked up, alarmed. “Have you taken him to the vet then?”

Janey giggled. “No, he’s complaining there’s not enough liver.”

Billy grinned, but was not to be deflected.

“Sweetheart, we must try and cut down. We don’t need a swimming pool. We simply can’t afford the deposit, or even less, to pay for it when it’s finished.”

Janey pouted. “It’ll be so nice for you to flop into the pool when you come back from shows.”

“There’s only about three months a year warm enough to do that in Gloucestershire.”

“I’ve been trying to economize. Mrs. Bodkin’s got flu, and I took her a bunch of daffodils without leaves today, because they were twenty p cheaper.”

“But we haven’t been really living it down, have we? There are five half-opened tins of cat food gathering mold on top of the fridge and Mavis really doesn’t need half a chicken every day. She’s getting awfully fat.”

“Well, Badger often drops in for lunch. You know how Helen starves those dogs.”

“I think we ought to cut down Mrs. Bodkin to half a day a week,” said Billy, ignoring Janey’s frown. “And give up Miss Hawkins. You could do my fan mail.”

“Do your fan mail?” said Janey, outraged. “What about
my
fan mail?”

“Just for a little, till we get straight.”

Janey started to get angry and hysterical. “I’ve got to finish this book. It’s got to be handed in by July. I haven’t got time for anything else. I’m writing every day. I get up at eight and I’ve only just finished this evening. Stupid not to grab inspiration when it takes you.”

She didn’t point out that most of that day had been spent drinking coffee, and later whisky, with one of the builders. After all, she rationalized, she had to get the rough-trade view for her book somehow.

“I know, darling,” said Billy soothingly. “All I’m saying is that we must not do any more to the house at the moment.”

“Go to Kev,” said Janey, emptying the last of the vodka into his glass. “Kev will provide, the great ape. I’m going to make you some scrambled eggs.” She went towards the kitchen. “I say,” she popped her head round the door a moment later, “Helen gave me a chapter of her novel to read today.”

“Any good?”

“She can’t write ‘Bum’ on a wall. She said, ‘Janey, I want you to be real honest with me,’ which meant she wanted me to lie convincingly. She told me a much funnier thing today. She’s got frightfully thick with the new vicar, and evidently when Rupert flew back from Geneva for the night last week, he found the vicar holding a Lenten meeting in the drawing room, with everyone, including Badger, meditating with their eyes shut.”

Billy laughed. “Rupe told me.”

He wandered into the kitchen, trying not to notice the mess or the way Janey threw the eggshells into a huge box, where they joined about a hundred other eggshells. That must account for the odd smell. He picked up a jar of coffee on the dresser and looked at the price. “Christ, coffee’s expensive. I’m going to drink liquor in future.”

Janey came and put her arms round him: “I do love you,” she said. “Don’t worry about money, I’ve got a lovely bottle of St. Emilion.”

After three huge vodkas and a bottle of St. Emilion, the problem didn’t seem so bad. Billy would ride with panache, Janey would write like a maniac while he was away. They would soon get out of their mess.

Spring came, more longed-for than ever after the hardness of the winter, and the woods were filled with violets, anemones, primroses, and birdsong. Chaucer’s people thought about pilgrimages; Janey thought about new clothes. The wild garlic made her feel homesick for drunken lunches in Soho. She knew marriage to Billy was far more precious and durable, but she missed the jokes and the gossip. She lived on the telephone to her mother. She was finding it increasingly difficult to buckle down to her book. She was used to the weekly clapping of journalism, the steady fan mail, people coming up to her at parties and saying, “You were a bit near the knuckle last week.”

In the country, there was no second post, no
Evening Standard,
no Capital Radio; she found it difficult to get used to the slow rhythms. Gloucestershire was a soporific county and she found herself falling asleep in the afternoon. She had her fallopian tubes blown, which was not really painful, but affected her more than she expected. She sank into despondency; and to premenstrual tension was added postmenstrual depression, when she found she wasn’t pregnant.

One afternoon Billy’s mother dropped in with a bridge friend. The cottage looked awful. There was no cake, only some stale bread, no jam, and a teapot already full of leaves. Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe followed her into the kitchen.

“Any news?” she asked. Janey shook her head, but was so upset that she burnt the toast.

“What a beautiful view,” said the bridge friend, looking out of the window.

“The only views I like these days,” said Janey, “are my own.”

The bills poured in. Janey’s tax bill arrived and Billy realized that, as her husband, he was liable for an extra £15,000, with a further £3,000 owing to VAT-man.

Every time Janey went shopping, wherever she looked, baby clothes seemed to be mocking her. She seemed to be alone in a world of mothers. She took her temperature and wrote it down on the back of a Christmas card every day, and Billy was supposed to leap on her when her temperature went up. But invariably she’d mislaid the card or Billy wasn’t there on the right day.

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.”

A
ll 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.

Janey fell asleep immediately afterwards. Billy lay awake and fretted. Mandryka had put in a nasty stop yesterday. He must get to Westerngate early and sort it out. Janey woke up in the morning with a hangover, feeling Billy’s prick nudging her back, his hand stroking her shaven flesh.

“What time ought we to leave?”

“Ten at the latest. I haven’t declared and I promised Kev we’d be there for prelunch drinks.”

Janey didn’t want sex but, to get herself in a more receptive mood, she fantasized she was a schoolgirl in a gym tunic, being ticked off by a very strict headmaster in a dog collar. Next moment the headmaster’s wife walked in and they both decided to have her.

“Shall I tell you a story to excite you?” asked Billy.

“I’m fine,” said Janey, who was deep in headmasters. “Nearly there.” The next moment, pleasure flooded over her. She longed to go back to sleep.

“You look so fantastic,” said Billy, “how about
soixante-neuf
?”

Janey couldn’t face a huge cock down her throat. “I can’t Billy, not with a hangover. Please stay inside me. I want to feel you coming.”

Afterwards they both fell asleep. When they woke it was five to ten.

“What are you doing?” said Billy, when he went into the bathroom five minutes later.

“Washing my hair.”

“But you can’t, we’ve got to leave
now.
”

“You’ll just have to drive a bit faster, or go without me.”

“I can’t,” he said, aghast. “They’re expecting you. Your hair looks fine. It’s only a show. It’s you they want to see, not your hair.”

“I know what they’ll all say, ‘Not as attractive as her photograph, nothing to look at in the flesh,’ ” snapped Janey, who was now upside down, head in the bath, rubbing in shampoo. “I do have a public image to keep up. It was you who wanted bloody sex.” They didn’t leave until after eleven.

“Revving up is actionable,” hissed Janey, coming out of the house.

“So is being an hour late,” snapped Billy.

“And my fringe has separated.”

Billy didn’t think that a striped rugger shirt with a rather dirty white collar, flared jeans, and an old denim jacket were suitable, but he didn’t complain, as he would have had to wait another twenty minutes. Rancid with ill temper, they drove all the way to Westerngate with Janey trying to do her face, snapping at Billy every time he went round a corner. The traffic was terrible. They were held up for thirty-five minutes by a couple of gays unloading some carpet into an antique shop in Broadway High Street.

Billy kept looking at his watch. “Kev’s going to flip his lid. I’m going to be too late to declare.” His stomach was killing him.

They arrived at half-past one. Billy went straight off to try and square the secretary, leaving Janey to park the car in the sponsors’ car park. There was the Moggie Meal tent. There was the awful cat winking on the flag. Oh God, here was Kevin Coley, coming towards her, wearing a suit the color of a caramel cupcake. He looked simply livid.

“Hi, Kev,” she said casually. “The traffic was awful.”

“Where the hell is Billy? He’s been late once too bloody often and they’ve put their foot down. They’ve closed the declaration. They’re already walking the course. That means he’ll probably be dropped for the Royal and for Aachen, and it’s too bloody near the World Championships.”

“He’s gone to talk to the stewards now. They’ll let him in. The crowd have come to see The Bull.”

“Don’t you bank on it. Everyone’s been waiting for you, too. We held lunch until a quarter of an hour ago. It’s not bloody good enough.”

It was with great difficulty that Janey stopped herself shouting back at him. Matters were hardly improved when Billy turned up, abject with apologies, and said they were going to allow him to jump, and he had better go and walk the course.

“See you later, darling,” he said to Janey. “Go and have some lunch.” Face set, she ignored him.

Kevin Coley took her arm, none too gently. “You’d better come along to the tent and repair some of the damage. And smile, for Christ’s sake. You’re being paid for it.”

In the tent, they found customers and staff stuffing roast beef and lobsters. Most of them were already tight. Kevin clones were everywhere, with thatched hair and lightweight and light-colored suits. The wives also all seemed to wear beige or pastel suits. Many wore hats on the back of their heads, with too much hair showing at the front, and high heels which kept catching on the raffia matting and sinking into the damp earth beneath.

Enid Coley, in a brown check suit and yellow shirt with a pussycat bow, was not the only one who looked disapprovingly at Janey’s jeans and rugger shirt. I don’t care, I don’t care, thought Janey. I’m eleven days late, and I’m going to have a baby. The little Coley children or the Sprats, as Billy called them, had all been at the bottle and were rushing around being poisonous. I’ll never let my children grow up like that, Janey thought to herself. Kevin put her between two directors’ wives who were eating strawberries and cream.

“The gardens aren’t as good as the ones at Buckingham Palace,” said one.

“No,” said the second, “although I didn’t really notice the ones at Buckingham Palace the first time I went.”

Next moment Helen walked into the tent looking like a million dollars in an off-white canvas suit and flat dark brown boots.

“I’m real sorry I couldn’t make lunch. You did get the message, didn’t you? But with young kids, it’s so difficult to get away,” she said to Kevin and Enid, who looked as though they’d been kissed under the mistletoe. Enid, pink with pleasure, took Helen on a tour of the more important clients. Helen was so nice to all of them. Then suddenly she saw Janey and her face lit up.