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stile, a gate, parallel bars, the road-closed sign put up to a nasty five foot, another brush with a pole on top, a water jump which had been drained by various dogs, a wall, and a triple.
    The two stars, Lavinia Greenslade and Christopher Crossley, stood side by side slightly apart from the other competitors.
    “The jumps are much too low and flimsy,” said Lavinia. “Bound to be loads of clear wounds. We won’t get away for at least an hour and I did want to look in at Henwietta’s dwinks’ party.”
    “Not much competition anyway,” said Christopher, adding to the groom, who was holding his horse, “Cindy, can you adjust that bandage?”
    The first competitor trotted out, an enormously fat girl with a huge bosom.
    “Give herself a couple of black eyes every time she jumps with those boobs,” said Christopher.
    The girl went clear.
    “I told you there were going to be loads of clear wounds,” said Lavinia petulantly.
    “I can’t see, I can’t see,” said Fen in a shrill voice.
    “You come through here then,” said a man on a shooting stick, making a gap in the crowd through which Fen dragged a desperately embarrassed Tory to the ropes.
    A chestnut came in, ridden by a boy with a big nose who jabbed his horse in the mouth over every fence.
    “Jumps well,” said Tory.
    “Horse does,” said Fen. “Rider should be shot. Bloody hell,” she added as he went clear. The man on the shooting stick who’d let Fen through looked at her with less indulgence.
    Lavinia Greenslade was next, the gray peering seductively through the long forelock of its mane, Arab ears curling upwards like eyelashes.
    “Her father spends a fortune on her horses,” said Fen. “That one was third at the Horse of the Year Show last year.”
    Sure enough, the gray bounced serenely round the course like a Ping-Pong ball, followed by Sir William’s son, who also went clear.
    To the course builders’ relief a man came in on a horse wearing so much leather it looked like a bondage victim and proceeded to demolish the course completely. Fear traveled through the collecting ring and for a dozen rounds no one went clear. The wall, the principal bogey, had to be laboriously rebuilt each time.
    Colonel Carter looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. Time and the colonel waited for no Malise Gordon.
    Lavinia’s boyfriend, Christopher, then went in and killed the jinx by jumping a very fast clear round. Jake envied the casual way he threw his whip to his groom, slid off the horse, and went back to the ringside to join Lavinia and watch the rest of the rounds.
    The next competitor was an old woman in a hairnet with raddled face, scarlet lipstick, and withered cheeks embedded with rouge.
    “She’s only seven stone,” said the man who’d let Fen through.
    “Half of that’s makeup,” muttered Fen.
    The old lady rode as if she was steering a Rolls-Royce. Her cob went clear without any visible effort.
    “Jake’s after this,” said Fen, as a girl with a bun escaping from her hairnet came in on a mangy brown mare and proceeded to scatter every fence. As she came to the wall the mare dug in her toes and skidded four feet into the wall; then, as the bricks collapsed around her, she bolted on to totally demolish the triple.
    “Oh, poor Jake,” said Fen, as they waited and waited for the course to be repaired.
    At last they called Number 195. Out came Jake from the gap in the crowds, his face a gray mask. By contrast, Africa, who danced and plunged, merry eyes gleaming at the crowd, coat rippling like a furniture polish advertisement, looked the picture of joy.
    “Jack Lovette,” said Dudley Diplock. “From Brook Farm Riding School.”
    “Not another one,” Malise Gordon groaned inwardly.
    Tory could see Jake’s lips constantly moving as he reassured Africa.
    “Only time he talks is to horses,” grumbled Fen.
    Once in the ring, Jake found his nerves had gone. He shortened his reins and stood up in the stirrups. Africa bounded towards