Riders by Jilly Cooper Read Free Book Online Page B

ponies.
    “Hear you’re in the doghouse,” said Alison, the Irish girl who helped out at weekends. “Old Ma Wilton’s hopping. I knew she’d catch you out sooner or later.”
    Jake didn’t answer; he was putting a poultice on Africa. He’d already rubbed one of his gypsy medicines (ointment made from marshmallow flowers) gently into her leg. He was finally sweeping up at about nine-thirty, when Mrs. Wilton turned up. Her faced looked unappetizingly magenta in the naked lightbulb of the tackroom and he could smell whisky on her breath.
    “I want to talk to you, Jake,” she said, speaking slowly to show she was quite sober. “Do you realize you’ve ruined the reputation of Brook Farm Riding School?”
    “What reputation?” said Jake. “You can’t descend from the basement.”
    “Don’t be cheeky. No need to answer back.”
    Jake swept up the straw on the floor. Phrases like “absolute shambles,” “endangering best horse in the yard,” and “duty to our young pupils” flowed over his head. His face had taken on an almost Asiatic aloofness.
    Why can’t he ever show any contrition? thought Mrs. Wilton. If he apologized just once it would make a difference.
    The diatribe continued: “Taking advantage,” “wonder who’s employing whom,” “use my house as an hotel,” “after all I’ve done for you.” Jake mimicked her under his breath.
    Oh, God, she was getting very close now; he hoped she wasn’t going to start anything.
    “I’m very disappointed in you, Jake,” she went on. “I really trusted you, gave you some responsibility and you just kick me in the teeth. Yet I still feel deep down that you really like me.” For a second her voice was almost obscenely conciliatory.
    “No, I don’t,” Jake said flatly. “Deep down it’s much worse.”
    Mrs. Wilton caught her breath. Next minute, vindictiveness was warming her blood. She played her trump card. “You’d better get Africa’s leg better; she won’t be with us much longer.”
    Jake looked up, eyes narrowed.
    That jolted him, she thought.
    “Sir William’s just rung. I thought he was going to raise hell about Lady Dorothy’s garden, but he only wanted to know how Africa was and if we’d be interested in selling. He wants her for his youngest son to hunt next season. She might do very well with a decent rider on her back.”
    Turning, she walked unsteadily out of the tackroom. Jake felt suddenly exhausted, near to tears, overwhelmed with black despair.
    Going out of the tackroom, he walked down past the loose boxes until he came to Africa. Even though she was feeding, she left her manger and hobbled over to him, whickering with joy, nuzzling at his pockets. He put his arms round her neck and she laid her head against his cheek. Soppy old thing; she’d stay like that for hours, breathing softly while he scratched her behind the ears.
    In his mind, he jumped that beautiful first round again, reliving that wonderful, amazing last jump. What a star she was; he couldn’t give her up, and he knew more than ever that the only thing he could ever be in this world was a show jumper. Working for Mrs. Wilton for over a year, he was constantly aware of time running past, time wasted. He had left the orphanage at eighteen and spent two years in a racing stable. It was there he made the discovery that difficult horses became easy when he rode them, and that he could communicate with them as he never could with people. Even having his first girl, and subsequently others, wasn’t nearly as exciting as that sudden breakthrough when a horse that had been written off as hopeless became responsive under his touch. Finally there was the joy, over the past months, of discovering Africa and slowly realizing how good she was. It was worth putting up with the horrible little girls and their frightful mothers. No mother had ever protected and fussed over him like they did, he thought bitterly.
    And now he’d blown it; it was only a matter of time