JILLY COOPER RIDERS PDF
Riders. View PDF. book | Fiction | World → Bantam Books. Set against the Jilly Cooper's Rutshire Chronicles offer an intoxicating blend of skulduggery. RIDERS BY JILLY COOPER FROM THE COVER: “Sex and horses:who could ask for more?” SUNDAY TELEGRAPH If you thought you knew what to expect of . Riders Rutshire Chronicles 1 Jilly Cooper - [Free] Riders Rutshire Chronicles 1 Jilly Cooper. [PDF] [EPUB] Set against the glorious Cotswold countryside and the .
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He must pull himself together or Africa would sense his nerves. He leant against the canvas and wondered if he dared risk another cigarette. Tory was not happy. Excited by the microphone and the armored cars and the crowds, Africa pulled and fretted as she jogged up and down.
Tory looked at his white face and chattering teeth and felt so sorry for him. I get just the same before dances, she blurted out.
Oh Jilly Cooper, please don't give up the sex
He rode very short, almost jockey length, crouching over the mare like a cat, settling down into the creaking leather. Africa, a netted cord of veins rippling under her shining coat, tugged at the reins, now this way, now that.
Christopher Crossley, the good-looking boy on the chestnut with four white socks, cantered past, startling Africa, who bucked and swished her tail. Jake swore at him. Taking her away from the crowd, he popped her over a couple of practice fences. Colonel Carter sat down beside Molly Maxwell, announcing that his chaps were itching to get started. At that moment a competitor on a huge gray paused in front of them to chat to some friends.
The gray promptly stuck out its penis. The colonel gave a bark of embarrassed laughter. Tears were making her mascara run. Molly stopped giggling with a little hiccup. There were nine jumps in all: 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. Not much competition anyway, said Christopher, adding to the groom, who was holding his horse, Cindy, can you adjust that bandage?
Give herself a couple of black eyes every time she jumps with those boobs, said Christopher. 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. Horse does, said Fen.
Rider should be shot. Bloody hell, she added as he went clear. 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. 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. 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. The old lady rode as if she was steering a Rolls-Royce. Her cob went clear without any visible effort. 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.
At last they called Number 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.
Once in the ring, Jake found his nerves had gone. He shortened his reins and stood up in the stirrups. Africa bounded towards the first fence. At the gate, catching sight of a balloon in the crowd, she stopped concentrating and rapped her hock hard.
Africa slowed down at the wall, then changed her mind and cleared it with a violent jerky cat jump, which would have unseated most riders. Handles that horse very well. With increasing pleasure he watched Africa clear the post and rails and the parallel bars and sail over the water jump and the wall.
But, as Jake turned her towards the triple, Malise realized it was unnaturally high. Malise Gordon stepped forward to protest but it was too late. For a second she hesitated, caught on a short stride, then, like a helicopter, rising off her hocks, she made a colossal jump. It seemed to the gaping crowd that she had taken off like a bird into the sky and bore no relation to the white poles below her. He checked his program: From Brook Farm Riding School, of all unlikely places.
She might do very well for Mikey next season. Jake jumped off Africa, patting her, determined not to betray the surge of exultation that was sweeping over him.
Restrict it to six jumps, raise the pole over the first jump and the gate, put another row of bricks on the wall, and put the triple at five feet. Buck up, or Carter will start letting off his guns. The men will start the display in ten minutes, he said, striding past Malise. Colonel Carter ground his big yellow teeth. He was tired. Last night, with Molly, had been wonderful but rather exhausting. In ring three, near the chestnut trees, the gymkhana events were already starting, with a burst of music for musical chairs.
The horses waited in the collecting ring, maddened by flies, the heat, and the rumble of approaching thunder. God, no. Marry Tory, said Fen with a giggle. Good thing Mrs. Wilton eased her car through the traffic. It had been a most unsatisfactory day. Her rich homosexual uncle, irritated by the heat and the stubbornness of his male hairdresser friend, had been so quarrelsome at lunchtime that she had walked out in a huff.
One look at Brighton beach, packed with day trippers avid for time in the sun, and she had decided to drive back home to avoid the rush-hour traffic. The journey, in fact, had been so easy that she decided to look in at the Bilborough show. It never hurt to turn up unexpectedly; it kept Jake up to the mark. She rummaged in her bag for lipstick. This action might not be possible to undo.
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Riders by Jilly Cooper. Summary From the queen of the British bestseller lists comes the classic hit every Englishwoman remembers with a sigh -- Riders , the steamy, scandalous tale of sexual and equestrian competition within the heroic world of international show jumping. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere. Atria Books Released: Jul 3, ISBN: Book Preview Riders - Jilly Cooper.
Shut up, hissed Jake. Now shove off. Mind your own business, said Jake. Does Mrs. Wilton know? No, said Jake. Jake had already sweated uncomfortably over this possibility. He came out, curry comb in one hand, brush in the other. Yes, Mrs. How many ponies are you taking? Suddenly her eyes lit on Africa.
Well, put her out again when you go. Despite the fat fee paid by Bobby Gotterel, thought Jake. Distracted, Mrs. Wilton turned away from Africa. Come on, said Jake. Bloody rubbish, thought Jake. Nonexistent, snapped Jake.
Joyce Wilton said Sally Ann was the best little horsewoman in Surrey. Can Patty enter for the potato race? I thought you were in Marbella. Just got back. Love to. He rode on. A shrill piping voice brought him back to earth.
To top everything, last night she had heard two young bloods discussing Tory. Wonder if it would be worth marrying her for her money, said the first. Molly thought that was too amusing for words. No, really, Molly was saying, is it by Ferneley?
How fascinating. No, do tell me. Would you like to see around the garden? Malise Gordon looked at his watch. We better go and supervise the junior jumping, he said to Miss Squires. Please, God, let me not have three refusals, let me not let Dandelion down. This is my sister, Tory, she added. Jake looked at Tory with that measure of disapproval he always bestowed on strangers.
Very, said Jake. Fortunately, Tory was saved by the microphone calling the competitors into the collecting ring. Jake went over and gave Stardust a hefty knee-up in the belly. Going over the garden with Lady Dorothy, said Tory.
She must be bored, said Fen. No, there she is over on the other side of the ring.
Number Fifty-eight, called out the collecting ring steward. I think I was given a tour of every petal, said Molly Maxwell. A girl on a heavily bandaged dappled gray came in and jumped a brisk clear round. Next came Sally Ann Thomson.
Stardust decided not and refused three times at the first fence. Maxwell winked at Colonel Carter.
Round followed round; everyone agreed the standard was frightful. Jake raised his eyes to heaven. Jesus Christ, he muttered. Oh, poor thing, murmured Tory in anguish. Fen cantered up, grinning from ear to ear. She looked up at Jake inquiringly: For the first time that day he looked cheerful, and Tory thought how nice he was.
Oh, Mummy, groaned Fen. How gauche he is, thought Molly Maxwell. Number Eighty-six, howled the collecting ring steward. Number Eighty-six.
I had a refusal. Number Eighty-six, for the last time, bellowed the ring steward. Fen giggled. Horse, horse, horse, said Mr. Miss Squires, Miss Squires, snapped the hairnetted lady judge, stumping across the ring. Hope he can keep them under control.
Can you hold her for a minute? Thanks very much, said Jake, taking the horse from her. Jake smiled slightly. Take your partners for the torture chamber, he said, mounting Africa again.
The band was playing a selection from The Merry Widow. Delia, oh Delia, sang Colonel Carter, brushing his khaki leg against her silken thigh. Will you be able to get out again this evening? Product Details. Atria Books July Length: Raves and Reviews.
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Riders eBook Get a FREE e-book by joining our mailing list today! Thank you for signing up, fellow book lover! See More Categories. Your First Name. Malise Gordon stepped forward to protest but it was too late.
For a second she hesitated, caught on a short stride, then, like a helicopter, rising off her hocks, she made a colossal jump. It seemed to the gaping crowd that she had taken off like a bird into the sky and bore no relation to the white poles below her. He checked his programme.
From Brook Farm Riding School, of all unlikely places. She might do very well for Mikey next season. The crowd gave a long sigh of rapture and sent up a great cheer. Jake jumped off Africa, patting her, determined not to betray the surge of exultation that was sweeping over him.
Buck up, or Carter will start letting off his guns. Colonel Carter heaved himself out of his deck chair. He was tired.
Last night, with Molly, had been wonderful but rather exhausting. In ring three, near the chestnut trees, the gymkhana events were already starting, with a burst of music for musical chairs. The horses waited in the collecting ring, maddened by flies, the heat and the rumble of approaching thunder.
She was a champion blusher, thought Jake. Fen watched Sally-Ann Thomson bumping off to take part in the musical chairs. Wilton eased her car through the traffic. It had been a most unsatisfactory day. Her rich homosexual uncle, irritated by the heat and the refractoriness of his male hairdresser friend, had been so quarrelsome at lunchtime that she had walked out in a huff.
One look at Brighton beach, packed with trippers avid for a day in the sun, and she had decided to drive back home to avoid the rush hour traffic. The journey, in fact, had been so easy that she decided to look in at the Bilborough Show.
It never hurt to turn up unexpectedly; it kept Jake up to the mark. She rummaged in her bag for lipstick and applied it without even looking in the mirror. Bugger Malise Gordon. The horse whose rider jabbed him in the mouth had had enough and refused the brush fence twice, the stile once, and was eliminated. The old lady covered in make-up went next; she took a brick off the wall and knocked the bar of the triple. Wilton parked her car. It looked as though the open jumping was still going.
Colonel Carter examined his watch. Christopher Crossley was about to start his round. Crash went the twenty-five pounders, causing immediate pandemonium in the collecting rings, horses rearing, bucking, plunging and scattering the crowd.
Jake jumped straight off Africa and was clinging on to her bridle trying to calm her. Stop those guns at once! A horse that had dumped its rider bolted past them reins and stirrups flying, followed by the girl with the big boobs who was also being carted. Carter decided he was outnumbered. Jake, who was trying to soothe a trembling sweating Africa, admired the way Christopher went into the ring, and jumped a beautiful round, only taking a brick out of the wall.
Molly Maxwell joined Colonel Carter. Wellington would never have taken Waterloo that way. Wilton pushing briskly through the crowd. Hullo, Mrs. Wilton, we thought you were in Brighton. Had a good day?
Well done. Has anyone else done anything? I know she wants to buy you a drink. You must be hot after your journey. The course had been set to rights. Jake rode quietly into the ring. The ten minutes were up. The gun went off like a clap of thunder.
A dog bolted into the ring, barking hysterically, a child dropped its ice cream and let out a wail of rage. Africa went straight up on her hind legs, eyes rolling in terror, and dropping again, with a bound bolted towards the first fence clearing it by inches.
Jake sat down in the saddle and tried to hold her. Another gun went off. Africa crashed into the gate and sent the stile flying. The crowd looked on, helpless. As she raced for the triple, ten yards off, another gun went off. The crowd gave a moan of terror. Africa lay under three poles, legs flailing like a centipede, making desperate attempts to get up. Jake staggered groggily to his feet, stars in his head.
Another gun went off; Africa threw off the poles and struggled to her feet, standing trembling all over, holding up her off hind hoof. Malise ran up. Jake nodded. Africa hobbled, then stopped.
Malise ran his hand down the foot; she winced, but let him touch it.
Might have pulled a tendon. Better get the vet. Africa trembled violently but was finished. But the next moment Mrs. Wilton rolled up, marching with a far more military stride than Colonel Carter. Through a haze of pain he saw her red angry face like a baron of beef receding and coming towards him. Wilton turned on Malise furiously. Wilton followed him, shouting abuse. Grooms were so hard to get.
She supposed it was her fault for being too lenient with Jake; she should never have offered him a drink in the evenings. As he came out of the ring, Fen rushed forward. Are you concussed? Can you remember what day of the week it is and what you had for lunch? Thomson came roaring up. Wilton and Mrs. Christopher Crossley passed them going into the ring to collect first prize.
He pulled up his chestnut horse for a minute. Those bloody soldiers should turn the guns on themselves. As they approached the horse lines, Fen gave a scream. Every time Jake or Fen got close he whisked out of range, snatching bites to eat.
By the time Jake had caught him, abuse, from Lady Dorothy, Mrs. Thomson, was cascading over his head like Niagara.
At last it was time to go home. Africa had been checked by the vet, who said she was suffering a bad sprain, no more, and should be rested. Malise Gordon then hurried home himself because he was going to the theatre. Fen had come second in the potato race and was in a state of ecstasy.
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Dudley Diplock had been asked for his autograph three times, but had not been thanked for doing the commentary. He was finally sweeping up at about nine-thirty, when Mrs. Wilton turned up. Her faced looked unappetizingly magenta in the naked light bulb of the tack room and he could smell whisky on her breath. No need to answer back. His face had taken on an almost Asiatic aloofness. If he apologized just once it would make a difference. The diatribe continued. Jake mimicked her under his breath.
Yet I still feel deep down that you really like me. Wilton caught her breath. Next minute, vindictiveness was warming her blood. She played her trump card. He wants her for his youngest son to hunt next season. She might do very well with a decent rider on her back. 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.
In his mind, he jumped that beautiful first round again, reliving that wonderful, amazing last jump. 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. 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.
Wilton sacked him. He supposed he could get another job as a groom, but not as a rider. Africa nuzzled him gently. She looked around her extremely tidy bedroom and wished she had a photograph of Jake. The scent of lilac and lilies of the valley kept drifting in from outside, as insistently he kept drifting into her thoughts. Not that he had noticed her. Her mother had gone out with that monstrous murderer, Colonel Carter.
How could her mother sleep with him? She imagined him climbing on top of her like an ancient dinosaur. Looking in the mirror, she tried on a different coloured lipstick and put her hands over the sides of her round face. If she were thinner, she might just be pretty. Out of the window, against a brilliant, drained sapphire sky, she could see the silver of a pale new moon, followed by a little star.
Maxwell were on their third gin and tonic in the bar of the Grand Hotel, Guildford.
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They had pulled Malise and Jake to shreds, had a good bitch about Sir William and Lady Dorothy and were in a mood of great mutual self-congratulation about having found one another. She caught sight of her glossy reflection in the rose-tinted bar mirror. What should she wear to get married in? In future the Colonel could cope with all her bills.
It was nice to take an attractive woman out again. He had always been unfaithful to Jennifer, his wife, but it had been a shock when she died. No reason to add that she and Alastair had been divorced for six years before he was killed in that car crash. It was so much more romantic to be a widow than a divorcee. The waiter presented them with a huge menu, which they studied with too much attention Colonel Carter in particular noting the prices for people in love. Her bed was full of biscuit crumbs and she was reading The Maltese Cat for the hundredth time with a torch.
She turned the torch on her rosettes, white and blue, then looking out of the window, caught sight of the new moon. Sunday started badly for Tory Maxwell. Unable to sleep, she had heard the floorboards outside her room creaking as the Colonel crept out at dawn. But he was back by The piece included a profile of Rupert Campbell-Black. After three years in the Blues, he was now too busy making a name for himself as a show jumper to go to many deb parties, but whenever he did he caused a rumpus.
He had got that blank stare of complete indifference to perfection. The sight of his cold, arrogant face looking out at her made her feel quite sick. Tory was dreading the party.
Colonel Carter carved. Conditioned by wartime austerity, he cut very thin slices. She knew they found her presence a strain.
Her mother found fault with everything. The white sauce was too lumpy and thin, the meat overdone, and the roast potatoes soggy. Molly, who wanted the Colonel to think she had an appetite like a sparrow, pushed hers to the side of her plate.
As she cleared away in an excess of misery, she ate the two roast potatoes her mother had rejected and two more left in the dish. When her mother came in, weighed down by the gravy boat, as an excuse to powder her nose in the kitchen mirror, Tory had to swallow frantically.
The Colonel droned on about bridge. Tory blushed. I loathe Melanie Braithwaite. That was the tiresome thing about men, she thought. They always wanted bed all the time and she so much preferred the flirting and the wining and dining.
Tory watched Fen, scrubbed and mutinous in a new dress, being dragged off to the Braithwaites.On the other hand, if he was a miracle with animals, he was hell with parents, refusing to suck up to them, positively rude to the sillier ones. You must be hot after your journey. Excited by the microphone and the armoured cars and the crowds, Africa pulled and fretted as she jogged up and down.
Can you help me saddle up Swindle, Mr. Summary From the queen of the British bestseller lists comes the classic hit every Englishwoman remembers with a sigh -- Riders , the steamy, scandalous tale of sexual and equestrian competition within the heroic world of international show jumping.
Sign up and get a free eBook! Finally there are really no words adequate to thank my husband Leo and my children Felix and Emily, except to say that without their support, good cheer and continued unselfishness the book would never have been finished.
This is your formula, Mrs Cooper.
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