The cross country phase is something they’ll understand a little better than dressage. I think Dad was the most disappointed of all of them to watch me trotting and cantering in – as he put it – random circles, especially as he’s had to miss a golfing session with Uncle Dudley and use some of his precious petrol coupons.
He did ask, “So what on earth do all those letters mean?” but to be perfectly honest I don’t know who dreamed them up, or why, in the first place. I’m sure Gill does. But she’s not here.
I told him to wait for the jumping bits because he’ll get that.
So now he’s cheering as I take off from the start box like a bullet from a gun. Induna’s flying, and after the first three obstacles we thunder into the woods, then we’ll go over the hill and down into the next valley, so none of them will be able to see us until the finish. I’ve told them all where to go and stand – I’m sure Moira will shepherd them.
By the time we get halfway round the course I have no breath left. The jumps for the Junior Novice class are only tiny, but the adrenaline surge and the tension and the fact that I’m constantly shouting good boy, oh, what a good boy, hup, whoa, left here, left, left, oh good boy has left me with no air in my lungs. Maybe I need to be fitter.
Moira’s there at the finish with her stopwatch and she clicks it with a flourish as we storm past her. I see Mum’s, Dad’s and Rosie’s faces blurred, then we’re careering away from them and I’m standing in the stirrups trying to pull up with arms that have far less energy than my horse has. I reckon he could go round again.
“Great time!” she yells after me as I circle round several times. Induna thinks even this is part of the fun.
“You didn’t have a stop at the water?”
We finally make it to a standstill, Induna blows and acts surprised that we’ve stopped, and I’m unable to speak. I shake my head, dismount by sliding down the saddle and fumble with the girth buckles. Moira’s holding Induna’s head and speaking to Dad.
“There’s always one bogey fence, isn’t there?”
She’s smiling at him, expecting a reply.
“Oh, er, yes,” he agrees, frowning. “Always. Bogey. A bogey fence.”
Mum hugs me from behind and then recoils ever so slightly from my sweaty T-shirt and number bib.
“You were going so fast! I didn’t think you’d ride your horse so fast. Really galloping!”
Is she impressed or is she telling me off? I take a few deep breaths and find my voice again.
“That wasn’t fast, Mum. It was only a canter. Racehorses gallop.”
The results board shows I had no faults across country. I’m in sixth place, on my dressage score.
Show jumping, I let myself get a little too excited by the thought of collecting a rosette and interfere with Induna’s stride in the middle of the double combination. He tries to ignore me, but flattens and takes the top pole off the second element. None of those above me get any faults.
I’m irritated with myself that I’ve ended up seventh, just outside the prizes. Annoyed with myself, adoring my horse, and on such a crazy high. I’ve done it. I’m an event rider like Gill.
*
Helping Moira and George and the other grooms settle all the horses for the night took longer than I’d anticipated. I never took my bike lights with me and now it’s almost completely dark. I’m bloody lucky they haven’t extended the curfew zone any further. They wouldn’t shoot me anyway. Would they?
Fortunately, Rosie’s new tennis coach has just pulled up in the drive, there are shouted greetings going on, the parents are both scurrying about on the patio putting out chair cushions and his Mazda has blazing headlights. I sneak around the back of it and rush my bike off to the shed before anyone can notice I have no lights.
He’s wearing his camouflage fatigues and boots and one of those camo forage caps with the neck-protecting flap that folds up at the back.
“Hi Tessa,” he calls out as he slams the driver’s door. “Your dad says he’s going to pay me some money. Not an opportunity to miss, hey?”
Rosie’s waiting for him, also on the patio, and she’s waving frantically, jumping around like she’s barefoot on an army of ants. Funny, that, after she threatened to give up tennis when her old coach emigrated to South Africa. Since Rob Craddock took over her tuition she’s doubled up her lessons and persuaded Dad to buy her a new tennis dress. A shorter one.
He’s South African, and is, I think, twenty-six years old. He’s a Phys-Ed instructor at St George’s College and in the school holidays he inflicts his rigorous physical training on new army recruits. Rosie was in such a foul mood that first evening he turned up at our house, to introduce himself and discuss lesson arrangements. He was dressed pretty much as he is now, all camo-clad and dusty and – yes – pretty good looking, with his epaulettes flashing in the dying sunlight, and it was the night she’s convinced she fell in love.
I remember her staring down the hill long after his car had disappeared and pushing up the sleeves of her jumper. She sighed. She said, “Isn’t he divine?”
I was incredulous.
“Go on! It’s the uniform. You didn’t even want to meet him. He’s more than twice your age, for Heaven’s sake!”
But she was – still is – completely smitten. She recalls every single word he says to her and she preens herself for an inordinate length of time before each lesson.
He doesn’t stay long tonight. By the time I’ve filled up my bath and am carrying my pyjamas and my book into the bathroom, he’s gone and Rosie is wafting dreamily down the corridor to her room.
“Don’t worry. You’ll survive until the next time you see him.”
She pouts and slams her door.
Rob is quite handsome, I have to admit. I reckon I’m unlikely to develop a crush on him, but I’ve been eyeing up his camouflage forage cap with its back flap because it would be cool to have one to wear at the stables or in the garden. Only trouble is, Dad says civilians are not allowed to wear any item of Rhodesian army uniform so I guess I can’t ask Rob to get me one. Maybe I’ll mention it to Charles.