‘Remember in Karachi, we had an Indian chappie, brilliant player, but hopeless if you gave him any responsibility,’ mumbled Brigadier Hughie. ‘Perhaps you’d feel happier if Charles was captain, Ricky.’

‘I don’t take orders from gorillas,’ said Ricky. ‘If you don’t let me pick my own team, I’ll drop out.’

David Waterlane, who had a bad back from an excess of Sharon-shagging, hit the roof. ‘Don’t be bloody silly. Who the hell did you have in mind?’

‘Seb and Dommie.’

‘Ludicrously inexperienced,’ snapped David, throwing his cigar butt at the half-open window and missing. ‘And far too erratic.’

‘Mike Waterlane,’ added Ricky with the faintest smile.

‘Mike!’ said David dumbfounded. ‘D’you think he’s up to it?’

‘Easily,’ said Ricky. ‘I’ve played all summer with the three of them and,’ scowling round the room, defying anyone to challenge him, ‘I’m going to take Perdita Macleod as reserve.’

Leaving the meeting in uproar, Ricky drove to Rutshire Polo Club where the last match of the season – always an elegiac occasion – was taking place. It had been raining. As he arrived, the drying boards were shimmering in the sinking sun, which was also warming the feathering willowherb. The huge, domed trees round the pitches were echoed by the grey-blue clouds of a Constable sky as a red tractor chugged back and forth weighed down by bales of straw. Perdita, her hair now shoulder-length and in a net, was watching the second match with Dommie and Mike Waterlane, who had a silver cup under his arm. Little Chef bounced ahead to greet his friend Decorum, the bull terrier, who grinned down at him, triangular eyes genial, tail going like a vivace metronome as he pirouetted on stiff, poker legs.

‘How did you do?’ asked Ricky.

‘Buried them 17-1,’ said Dommie.

‘Thank Christ for that.’

‘Corporal won Best Playing Pony. We’re thinking of promoting him,’ crowed Dommie.

Seb lay stretched out on the bonnet of his Porsche, his head on the windscreen, his newly washed hair flopping. He had changed into white jeans and a pale blue bomber jacket and had a glass of whisky in one hand and his portable telephone in the other. He opened a bloodshot eye and grinned at Ricky.

‘Ciao, sweetheart. I’ll meet you at Annabel’s around ten. I’ll book. Hi, where’ve you been?’ he asked Ricky as he switched off the telephone.

‘Reselecting the team for the Westchester.’

‘Who’s in it?’

Ricky told them.

‘Yippee,’ yelled Dommie, chucking a ball twenty feet in the air.

‘Good Lord, I must ring Daddy,’ said Mike Waterlane, going as scarlet as the Virginia creeper now smothering the clubhouse.

Perdita, turning to stone, always became most angry when she was frightened. ‘I won’t go. I can’t believe it. I’m not up to it. Whose bloody stupid idea was it to select me?’

‘Mine,’ said Ricky calmly.

‘But I’ll have to play against Red.’

‘Stop over-reacting,’ said Seb. ‘You’re only reserve. We’re much too tough to get injured.’

‘Not unless you get a few early nights,’ said Ricky, removing Seb’s whisky and emptying it on to the grass. ‘Annabel’s is going to miss you, Seb.’

To the shock horror of Venturer and the BPA were added next day the furious protests of the British and American sponsors and the American Polo Association, who all felt Ricky was making a total mockery of the Westchester. The thirty-five-goal English team had struggled in the International. How did Ricky imagine he could field a bunch of babies with a team aggregate of twenty-six against the might of the Americans in their own country? The media were equally outraged.

‘Cannon fodder,’ said a huge headline in the Daily Express. ‘How can David without a sling beat Goliath armed with an exocet? It’ll be annihilation.’

Frantic preparations ensued in the next week. Good horses about to be turned away had to be wheedled out of other owners and flown over to America for Mike and Perdita in case she had to play. Longingly she thought of the six ponies Red had given her. He’d probably be riding them against England. At least she still had Spotty, but he was in a frightful temper, as was Wayne. Announcing that they were both much too fat and that Argentines won matches because their horses carried no spare flesh, Rupert had put both ponies on a rigorous diet. Much to Ricky’s irritation, Rupert was in fact supervising the diets of all the ponies. He also insisted that all the team took the equivalent of a Marine’s assault course to get fit, but even he couldn’t make Ricky go out jogging.

Hell, thought Perdita a day later, as she gritted her teeth to stop herself crying, is being coached by Rupert Campbell-Black. God, he was sarcastic as he rode up and down, blue eyes narrowed, whip tapping his boots, not missing a trick, the nerve-gas hostility in no way abated, the drawling commentary more bitchy than ever.

‘I see Ricky’s given you a second chance,’ had been his first bleak words to her. ‘I certainly wouldn’t.’

For two chukkas, each time anyone missed a ball or a stab at goal it was greeted with sighs of ‘Oh dear, a Perdita pass again’. After shouting at her every time she picked up her stick, he called her over.

‘Stylistically you’re not bad,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve got most of the shots.’

Perdita looked up in amazed relief, a compliment at last.

‘It’s a pity,’ Rupert raised his voice, ‘you’re so fucking useless at selecting which shot and when.’

Perdita went crimson.

Two minutes later he was yelling, ‘For Christ’s sake, hook him, Perdita,’ as Seb scorched towards goal. Then as Seb scored, ‘What’s the point of hooking air? Why the fuck didn’t you catch up with him?’

‘I was twenty yards behind when he started off,’ stammered Perdita.

‘Then you catch up with him. You’re very deceptive. You’re even slower than you look.’

Then, after she’d let Seb through a third time, ‘Come here, Perdita.’ Oh God, how she dreaded that soft, bitchy, upper-class ring. ‘This is a pony,’ Rupert touched Spotty’s neck with his whip. ‘Rather an unattractive one, admittedly. These are his legs, these are your legs. You’re supposed to use them to make him carry you upfield as fast as possible. This is a whip.’ For a second he banged his whip against hers like a fencer starting a duel. ‘I want you to use it. I want your ponies collapsing when they come off the field.’

For a second Perdita watched a gull drifting across the khaki woods. The Argentine word for gull was Tero.

‘Like Tero collapsed,’ she screamed, suddenly exploding like a pressure cooker.

‘If need be, but they won’t collapse if you get them fit enough. That pony is still too fat.’

‘He is not, and he’s not ugly.’

‘Shut up,’ said Rupert coldly. ‘If you were as quick on the field as you are with your temper, we might get somewhere.’

Perdita burst into tears.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I’ve always believed a woman’s place was in the home, or on her back, or regrettably in the shops, but not on the polo field. Ricky’s got sprinklers to water this pitch. He doesn’t need you.’

Dommie, who had a softer heart than Seb, leapt to Perdita’s defence.

‘I’ve known you all my life, Rupert, and I’ve always liked you, but I never realized you could be quite such a shit.’

‘Well, now you know, Sunshine,’ snapped Rupert.

The trouble was that Rupert was right. He had a marvellous eye, miraculous anticipation, and saw exactly where they were making mistakes. Every time he picked up a polo stick it looked right. Every time he got on the most refractory pony, it came together.

No-one was spared. He made Ricky cut down drastically on his bad habits, all those accumulated short cuts which great players resort to. Gradually Ricky straightened his swing, found he was hitting the ball twice as far and learnt to use his team again.


71



Feeling a slight chill in the air as the evenings drew in, Daisy brought crumpets, bramble jelly and a large fruitcake from the village shop. To cheer herself up she tried to count all the nice things about winter, but only got as far as roaring fires and being able to cover one’s spare tyres with huge jerseys. Then she remembered what a bore it was sweeping out the ashes in the morning!

She was utterly fed up with the constantly ringing telephone. The press were on the whole time trying to get Perdita’s reaction to being picked for the Westchester, to seeing Red again and to being coached by Rupert, who still wouldn’t admit paternity. Perdita and Violet had had a frightful row that morning because Perdita had pinched Violet’s car without asking, smashing a sidelight and leaving hay and sweet-papers all over the floor. Eddie’s thumping great crush on Sharon showed no sign of abating and he was not at all pleased to be joined by Violet’s friends from the school rugger team, wandering round in boxer shorts showing off Portugal-tanned bodies.

‘I could eat them alaive at that age,’ said Sharon.

In retaliation, Eddie had borrowed a tenner off Daisy to buy stationery for school and instead came back with a bottle of crème de menthe for Sharon which he insisted on serving her frappé and sitting chatting to her all afternoon so she never sat still.

‘We didn’t have girls at my prep school,’ he was now telling her, ‘as we didn’t really need them, but we’ve got fifty per cent at Bagley Hall, which is OK, as it’d be awful if there weren’t enough to go round.’

‘Oh look, there’s Mrs Thatcher on the telly. What a smart blue costume,’ said Sharon. ‘She always looks well turned-out, doesn’t she?’