Jake’s world seemed to be falling apart, throwing him straight down to the bottom of the ladder, without even being within clutching distance of the first rung. The two-hour ride had really taken it out of him; his head was pounding and every muscle in his body felt bruised by the fall yesterday.
After a night’s rest and Jake’s marshmallow ointment, Africa’s lameness had nearly gone. Mrs. Wilton had gloatingly told him of Malise’s interest that morning and Sir William had just rung again. No one could do anything about it, as Bobby Cotterel was in France till the end of the week, but it was only a matter of time.
He heard a step and, looking up through the dusty cobwebbed window, saw Fen’s fat sister approaching. That was all he needed. Now she was stopping to comb her hair. Then her great blushing face, like a dutch cheese, appeared round the door.
“Yes?” he said bleakly.
“Did, I mean, I was wondering,” she stammered, “if Fen left her whip here?” The feebleness of the excuse made her blush even more. “It was—er—one our grandmother—gave her for Christmas, so she was worried.”
“I haven’t seen it. She’s so scatty, she probably dropped it on the way home.”
How pinched and dark under the eyes he looked, thought Tory, the red check shirt and the black hair only emphasizing his pallor. Sympathy overcame her shyness. “I’m so sorry about people wanting to buy Africa. Fen told me.”
Jake nodded. She shifted from one foot to another and Jake was enveloped in a waft of Molly’s scent, which did not evoke happy memories.
“Is her leg better?”
“She’s all right.”
Why was she hanging round like a great blancmange? Getting up, he ran the sponge under the tap and plunged it into the saddle soap, adding: “The whip—it isn’t here.”
Tory gazed at her feet, twisting a button on Mrs. Maxwell’s mac. Then she noticed what he was reading.
“Oh, there’s Rupert Campbell-Black. Horrible man.”
Jake looked up, slightly more accommodating. Tory blushed again.
“I’m sorry. Is he a friend of yours?”
There was a pause.
“I hate his guts,” said Jake.
“Oh, so do I,” said Tory. “He’s so vicious and contemptuous and, well, bloody-minded. How did you come across him?”
“We were at school together.”
Tory looked amazed.
“Prep school,” added Jake. “I was a day boy. Mum was the cook, so the headmaster let me in free.”
“Oh, goodness, he must have been an absolutely poisonous small boy.”
Taking a nail, Jake pushed out the saddle soap that had got stuck in the cheek-strap holes.
“Poisonous,” he agreed. “He made Eichmann look like a fairy godmother.”
“He’s so rich,” said Tory, “that lots of mothers are after him, but he’s only after one thing.”
“What’s that?” said Jake, to embarrass her.
Tory swallowed. “Well, bed and things. He’s awfully promiscuous.” She pronounced it promise-kew-us. “And he never answers invitations; just rolls up with his current girlfriend and leaves after half an hour if he’s bored. He let off thunderflashes at Queen Charlotte’s. Lady Surrey was livid.”
“He obviously hasn’t changed,” said Jake. “I should have thought Harrow or the army might have knocked it out of him.”
“I think it made him worse,” sighed Tory. “He gets a little gang of cronies round him and manages to be even nastier.”
Nothing unites people like a good bitch. Jake let her rattle on as he put the bridle together again and hung it up. Then he went to reapply Africa’s poultice. Tory followed him, longingly watching the tender way his hands ran over the mare, caressing her polished shoulder and her sleek veined legs. Africa nuzzled him, breathing through her velvet nostrils with love and trust.
“She’s so beautiful,” said Tory wistfully.
The swelling had practically disappeared. Jake redid the bandages and readjusted her summer rug. He wished Tory would buzz off and leave him alone to nurse
After a night’s rest and Jake’s marshmallow ointment, Africa’s lameness had nearly gone. Mrs. Wilton had gloatingly told him of Malise’s interest that morning and Sir William had just rung again. No one could do anything about it, as Bobby Cotterel was in France till the end of the week, but it was only a matter of time.
He heard a step and, looking up through the dusty cobwebbed window, saw Fen’s fat sister approaching. That was all he needed. Now she was stopping to comb her hair. Then her great blushing face, like a dutch cheese, appeared round the door.
“Yes?” he said bleakly.
“Did, I mean, I was wondering,” she stammered, “if Fen left her whip here?” The feebleness of the excuse made her blush even more. “It was—er—one our grandmother—gave her for Christmas, so she was worried.”
“I haven’t seen it. She’s so scatty, she probably dropped it on the way home.”
How pinched and dark under the eyes he looked, thought Tory, the red check shirt and the black hair only emphasizing his pallor. Sympathy overcame her shyness. “I’m so sorry about people wanting to buy Africa. Fen told me.”
Jake nodded. She shifted from one foot to another and Jake was enveloped in a waft of Molly’s scent, which did not evoke happy memories.
“Is her leg better?”
“She’s all right.”
Why was she hanging round like a great blancmange? Getting up, he ran the sponge under the tap and plunged it into the saddle soap, adding: “The whip—it isn’t here.”
Tory gazed at her feet, twisting a button on Mrs. Maxwell’s mac. Then she noticed what he was reading.
“Oh, there’s Rupert Campbell-Black. Horrible man.”
Jake looked up, slightly more accommodating. Tory blushed again.
“I’m sorry. Is he a friend of yours?”
There was a pause.
“I hate his guts,” said Jake.
“Oh, so do I,” said Tory. “He’s so vicious and contemptuous and, well, bloody-minded. How did you come across him?”
“We were at school together.”
Tory looked amazed.
“Prep school,” added Jake. “I was a day boy. Mum was the cook, so the headmaster let me in free.”
“Oh, goodness, he must have been an absolutely poisonous small boy.”
Taking a nail, Jake pushed out the saddle soap that had got stuck in the cheek-strap holes.
“Poisonous,” he agreed. “He made Eichmann look like a fairy godmother.”
“He’s so rich,” said Tory, “that lots of mothers are after him, but he’s only after one thing.”
“What’s that?” said Jake, to embarrass her.
Tory swallowed. “Well, bed and things. He’s awfully promiscuous.” She pronounced it promise-kew-us. “And he never answers invitations; just rolls up with his current girlfriend and leaves after half an hour if he’s bored. He let off thunderflashes at Queen Charlotte’s. Lady Surrey was livid.”
“He obviously hasn’t changed,” said Jake. “I should have thought Harrow or the army might have knocked it out of him.”
“I think it made him worse,” sighed Tory. “He gets a little gang of cronies round him and manages to be even nastier.”
Nothing unites people like a good bitch. Jake let her rattle on as he put the bridle together again and hung it up. Then he went to reapply Africa’s poultice. Tory followed him, longingly watching the tender way his hands ran over the mare, caressing her polished shoulder and her sleek veined legs. Africa nuzzled him, breathing through her velvet nostrils with love and trust.
“She’s so beautiful,” said Tory wistfully.
The swelling had practically disappeared. Jake redid the bandages and readjusted her summer rug. He wished Tory would buzz off and leave him alone to nurse
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