Polo (72 page)

    As planned beforehand, Angel and Perdita rode their opposing players off the line to let the ball pound through to Red, who whacked it towards the boards, scorched after it, then stroked a beautiful forehand round to Perdita who had galloped upfield towards the centre. Caught off guard and making gallant attempts to catch up with her, Drew felt as if a truck had hit him as he was ferociously bumped by Angel, who then thundered upfield so that when Perdita, out of nerves, totally missed a long shot at goal, he was able to charge up behind her, pick up the ball and, with a beautiful nearside forehand, pass to a racing-down Red, who effortlessly stroked it between the posts.

    `Oh, Christ,' said Seb in awe, `if those two are going to be the pivot of the Flyers' team, they'll be bloody hard to beat on Sunday. Come on, Tigers, sock it to them.'

    Victor took a swipe and missed the ball.

    Behind the stands the sun, which had had difficulty getting through, like Bart, at last pierced the grey curtain of cloud, spotlighting the drama on the field. Rupert put his panama on Taggie's head.

    `Rupert's alleged daughter has hardly touched the ball at all,' murmured Dommie to Chessie.

    Shark was meant to be marking Perdita, but as no-one gave her any passes, he left her and went to Drew's aid. But although he and Drew were both incredibly powerful defensive players, they couldn't contain Red and Angel.

    `Red, Red, Red, Gonzales, Gonzales, Gonzales' (he hadn't time for Solis) seemed to be the only words on Terry Hanlon's lips.

    Then Angel jumped the boards at mid-off and hit a nearside backshot of forty yards, placing the ball just in front of the opposition posts. Before Shark or Drew could get there, Red had whistled down like a bullet and in it went. The crowd were in ecstasy, bursting over and over again into roars of applause.

    At first Drew thought he was imagining things. As his opposing Number Two, Angel was meant to mark him, so initially he dismissed the hurtling kamikaze bumps as Latin exhuberance. Then a pelham bit was jabbed into his kidneys, a pony's head swung into his shoulder so hard that even the pony shook its head for twenty seconds, elbows rammed his ribs and, riding up beside him, Angel got his knee underneath Drew's leg and tried to tip him out of the saddle.

    Finally, the ball came out in Drew's direction and he had a lovely open sweep to goal in front of him. As he swung his stick back, he was hooked perilously low, Angel's stick catching his pony's legs and nearly bringing her down.

    `What the fuck are you playing at, you bloody wop?' yelled Drew.

    Ricky blew his whistle and, having awarded a thirty to the Tigers, took Angel aside.

    `You're pushing your luck. Pack it in.'

    Drew took the penalty, deliberately spending as long as possible to get his breath back. His ribs were agony. Forward went his stick, then back, then whistling down like Jove releasing his thunderbolt, slap between the posts.

    `Well done,' cried Daisy in delight.

    Drew looked straight at Angel. `Well?' he said coolly.

    It was a mistake. Thirty seconds later Angel rode him off at ninety degrees, sending his pony flying. As Drew turned in fury, he was suddenly terrified. There was the icy madness of the killer in Angel's eyes.

    In the third chukka Drew was riding Malteser, his fastest but most explosively excitable pony. It usually took half a chukka to calm her down. Red was loose again. Giving Malteser her head, Drew galloped over to mark him, but on his way Shark backed the ball somewhat wildly up towards him. Attempting to stop it, Drew leant right out of his saddle. Hearing a pounding of hooves behind him, and feeling Angel's knee under his, he crashed to the ground.

    `Oh no,' screamed Daisy, caught off her guard.

    Sukey leapt to her feet. `That Argentine is trying to kill my husband,' she called out in a trembling voice.

    Oh God, thought Daisy, feeling an icy hand squeezing her heart. If Angel was a Falklands pilot, perhaps he was taking Drew out for being on the other side.

    Numb with horror, she watched Ricky, then Bart, then Red, remonstrating with Angel, as Drew climbed groggily on to his pony to take the penalty. As he hit the ball, Angel bounded forward and blocked the shot, then, as the ball bounced awkwardly in the air, miraculously hit it again twenty yards upfield and was galloping furiously in pursuit. Drew, carried down by the impetus of taking the penalty, swung round to ride Angel off. Together they raced for the ball. Angel, riding Minerva, Bart's fastest pony after Glitz, pulled ahead.

    `D'you remember me, handsome
capitân?'
he said, smiling evilly round at Drew. ` " 'Ow many planes 'ave you got? 'Ow many pilots? When is zee next attack planned and where? Eef you wish to play polo again, you better answer my questions."'

    Drew let out a sigh. `So it
is
you, you fucking dago.'

    The next moment Angel had pulled over towards Drew, and his wicked-looking spur had caught the cheek strap of Drew's bridle, narrowly missing Malteser's terrified, rolling eye, and ripped it apart. A second later his stick crashed into Drew's jaw and Drew slumped to the ground like a felled pine. But his foot was caught in the stirrup. Picking up her master's sense of panic, Malteser dragged him for twenty yards before Shark caught up with her and yanked her to a halt.

    As the ambulance screamed on, Ricky rode furiously up to Angel. `Off, you bastard.'

    `Don't you send him off,' shouted Bart. `He's my best player. Fucking biased umpiring.'

    `Off,' bellowed Bobby Ferraro, the second umpire, in agreement.

    In the stands, Bas had put an arm round a shaking, sobbing Sukey's shoulders.

    `It's OK, old duck. He's tough, he'll be OK.'

    `Oh no, no, no,' moaned Daisy, gazing in agony and horror at a lifeless Drew.

    There was a crack and, looking down, she saw she had broken her dark glasses. She had already nearly bitten her lower lip through trying not to cry out. As she watched Drew being lifted unconscious into the ambulance, she gave a shuddering wail. Glancing round, Dommie suddenly realized everything. `So you're the one,' he whispered.

    Then, pulling her into his arms: `Hang on to me. For Christ's sake, don't blow it, sweetheart. He'll be all right.'

    Dommie was utterly angelic.

    `She's upset about Perdita,' he told everyone blandly as he hustled a sobbing Daisy out of the stands. `Little bitch bit her head off just before the match.'

    And when Daisy sobbed even louder in protest, Dommie told her to shut up. 'Perdita's committed enough crimes against humanity for it not to matter if one of them's blamed on her unfairly.'

    Although it was only half-time, he insisted on driving Daisy's rickety old Volkswagen faster than it had ever been driven back to Rutshire.

    `I'm not letting you near Ricky in this condition. He'd be bound to winkle it out of you and you know how pompous he is about extra-marital frolics - although this was plainly more than a frolic.'

    `The awful thing,' said Daisy numbly, `was that Sukey was so upset. I really did think it was a marriage of convenience.'

    `Convenient for Drew. Move over, Granny,' said Dommie, honking furiously as he overtook some Sunday afternoon drivers admiring the Rutshire countryside at twenty mph. `No wonder he was so ratty when Red and I tried to take you to Paris last summer.'

    `He's been so kind to me since Hamish left.'

    `Not difficult. I'd be kind to you - and unlike him I've got weekends, Christmas and Easter free.' Dommie put his arm round her shoulders. `He's a lucky sod.'

    `Not if he dies,' sobbed Daisy.

    `Course he won't.'

    Without a car telephone he was unable to ring the hospital for news until they got home and even then the Intensive Care Ward would only tell him Drew had been admitted.

    `But it's his father speaking.' Dommie put on a gruff military voice.

    But all he could glean was that Drew had not yet regained consciousness.

    Dommie and Daisy were stuck into the vodka and Dommie was trying to distract her by telling her more

    stories about his new pony, Corporal, when the telephone rang. Daisy jumped out of her skin. Perhaps it was news of Drew. Then she thought how bloody silly; she was only the mistress who had to grin and bear it. Why should anyone tell her anything? Fighting back the tears, she grabbed the receiver.

    It was Ricky.

    `You OK?' he asked brusquely. `Sorry about Perdita.' `She always gets uptight before a game.'

    `No bloody excuse.'

    `Have you heard anything about Drew?'

    `Still out cold, but he hasn't broken anything.'

    When he had told her all he knew, Ricky asked Daisy if she'd like him to come over. `You shouldn't be on your own.'

    `Dommie's here.'

    There was a pause.

    `Be careful,' said Ricky.

    `Hospital says Drew's in a stable condition,' Daisy told Dommie as she put down the receiver.

    `Fatuous expression. You'd think he was sleeping on wood shavings!' Dommie filled up their glasses. `Needs a muzzle, too, to stop him babbling on about you in his delirium.'

    `Ricky said the only thing he's calling out for is Malteser,' said Daisy sadly.

    Eventually she managed to persuade a reluctant Dommie that she was really happier on her own.

    `You've been so kind, but I just want to slink into my lair and lick my wounds.'

    `I'd lick much more exciting parts of you,' grumbled Dommie as he borrowed her car to drive home.

    Only after she'd finished the vodka and sobbed it all out in tears did Daisy rashly ring the hospital.

    `It's very late. Are you a relation?' enquired the night sister.

    `Yes, I'm Drew's Great-Aunt Araminta,' said Daisy. `I just want to know he's OK.'

    Twenty seconds later she nearly dropped the receiver.

    `If that's
The Scorpion
or anyone else pretending to be Drew's father, who incidentally died five years ago' - Sukey's normally brisk no-nonsense voice was cracked with strain - `you can sugar off.'

    Hanging up, Daisy slumped wailing over the kitchen table. Nothing - not the secret trysts, nor the ecstatic love-making nor the vats of scent and Moët, not the diamond brooches, cashmere jerseys and the slithering slinky satin underwear - made up for not being able to sit beside Drew's bed, holding his hand and willing him back to consciousness.

63

    The inquiry was held the following afternoon in an upstairs room at the Naval and Military Club in Piccadilly. Stewards from the British Polo Association, including David Waterlane, Charles Napier, Brigadier Hughie and Brigadier Canford from Cowdray, made up the Committee. Evidence was given by the umpires, Bobby Ferraro and Ricky, looking particularly bleak in a dark suit and his habitual black tie, and from the third man. The BPA had tried to get a signed statement from Drew. But, confined to hospital with severe concussion and a cracked jaw, he could remember nothing.

    The ramblings of Brigadier Hughie, who'd had two glasses of port at luncheon and who could see parallels for everything in Singapore and India, were mercifully cut short by David Waterlane, who was not drinking because it was the polo season and who wanted to go to a strip club.

    Victor Kaputnik had been furious that Drew, his star player, had been taken out. But his fury had been considerably assuaged when, with Ben Napier standing in for Drew, the Tigers had smashed the Flyers (down to three men after Angel had been sent off) by 12-8, which put them in the final. To upstage Bart, who'd only brought four lawyers, Victor rolled up with five, whereupon Bart promptly sent out for two more - like a takeaway.

    Angel, sullen and shell-shocked from being bawled out by an enraged Bart and an even more hysterically angry Red, had been ordered by Bart's principal lawyer, Winston Chalmers, who'd flown through the night on Concorde at vast expense, to keep his pretty trap shut.

    `All you gotta do,' said Winston, `is to say you're very sorry and admit it was a terrible mistake.'

    `The only meestake was not to keel him,' snarled Angel. `D'you want to be sidelined for ten years?'

    Angel shrugged sulkily.

    `Well, shut up then, and, for Chrissake, take him to Jermyn Street, Red, get him a tie and a haircut.' Winston Chalmers was a fine lawyer.

    `Angel Solis de Gonzales,' he told the stewards, `comes from one of the oldest families in the Argentine and was one of the most distinguished pilots in the Falklands War. All players get strung up before a match - particularly a semi-final. Suddenly, by extraordinary coincidence, he sees on the opposite side a British officer who interrogated him in the Falklands. A volatile, hot-blooded Latin, he sees red and hits him.'

    `No,' piped up Angel, `I did not heet Red. I saw Drew and heet him.'

    `Pack it in,' muttered Winston Chalmers savagely.

    `I come to Eengland to avenge my brother, Pedro. We in Argentina honour the family.'

    `Your brother was a fine player?' asked Brigadier Hughie, easing a sliver of cutlet
en gelée
out of his teeth.

    `Excellent. He make Red Alderton look like Veector Kaputnik.'

    The Committee tried not to laugh.

    `I must tell zee truth,' continued Angel. `I know Drew Benedict was polo player. I know everytheenk about 'im. 'E torture me in Falklands.'

    `What we want to know,' asked David Waterlane, `is whether the whole thing was premeditated?'

    `I no understand.'

    `Did you plan it beforehand?'

    Angel glanced out on to the dusty plane trees of Green Park. People were lounging in emerald-green deck chairs, girls were stretched out in bikinis. He felt a great wave of shame as he said, `No, I did not.'

    Everyone left the room except the stewards and the discussion became very acrimonious.

    `We've got to suspend him for a year and send him home,' said Brigadier Canford from Cowdray, who wanted to continue the ban. `Solis de Gonzales's behaviour is utterly indicative of what will happen if we get the Argentines back. If he comes up against Rutminster

    Hall in the next few weeks he could easily take out the Prince of Wales.'

    David Waterlane, however, who hadn't won a major cup nor lost a wife since Miguel and Juan played for him, came down heavily in support of Angel.

    `Chap hasn't displayed a trace of aggression in any other game. Played against Brits in Palm Beach. Plays in the same team as Perdita. She's a Brit. Drew's an isolated case. Gave him a hard time in the Falklands, had a rush of blood to the head. Suspend him for a week with a Ł5,000 fine.'

    `I remember a chappie in India,' began Brigadier Hughie, `furious with another player for walking off with his wife. About to kill him, when a wild pig, wounded by some guns, ran across the pitch, so we all gave chase.'

    `Oh, shut up, Hughie,' snapped David Waterlane. `I know for a fact that if you ban Gonzales, Bart for one will pull out of the Gold Cup altogether and go back to America.'

    `We don't want that,' said Brigadier Canford, going pale. Bart had promised to pour a vast amount of money into the club which he'd just joined, but hadn't signed the cheque yet. Brigadier Canford had visions of being landed with a bill for new showers, a new bar and Ladies' loos with a Tampax machine.

    `When I was in Singapore,' interrupted Brigadier Hughie, `chappie got so miffed at being beaten, he hijacked the opposition ponies and syces on the train home.'

    `Oh, shut up, Hughie,' said Brigadier Canford.

    Angel waited outside in the smoking room. Forgetting its similarity to the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires, he thought how odiously British were the thick red carpet, the ornate plaster ceiling, the heavy, dark furniture, the members silently reading
The Times
and the
Sporting Life.

    He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning and he felt exhausted, miserable and desperately ashamed of himself for having lied to the stewards. Glancing up, he thought he was hallucinating, for there, hovering in the doorway with the club porter, was Bibi, looking adorably fragile and worried.

    `I just came from the airport. What's happening?' `They're still talking,' said Angel.

    Joyously crossing the room, he was about to take her in his arms when she said coldly, `What in hell were you doing trying to murder Drew Benedict?'

    Angel could lie to the inquiry, but not to Bibi.

    `Drew Benedict is complete sheet who torture me in Malvinas. Now his jaw is cracked he won't find it so easy to interrogate people.'

    They were out in the passage now, both shaking with animosity and longing.

    `How long have you planned this?'

    `For ever,' said Angel. `I had to avenge Pedro.'

    Bibi went to the window and gazed past the swooning Union Jack over the windowbox of red geraniums at the lovers in the park. My life is over, she thought. Angel, gazing at her long, beautiful legs, her tousled, red hair and her hunched, padded shoulders in the petrol-blue suit, thought he'd never needed or wanted her so badly.

    `So you didn't marry me for my money,' whispered Bibi, turning on him. `You did it to get American nationality and your revenge on poor Drew.'

    `What other reason could there be?' hissed Angel.

    He didn't mean it, but he was fed up with being lectured and shouted at, and was aware of newspapers being lowered in the smoking room next door.

    `I want a divorce. Winston's over here, so he can handle it right away,' said Bibi, and, sobbing hysterically, she fled down the stairs out into the traffic of Piccadilly. Angel was about to run after her when a voice said, `Mr Solis de Gonzales, will you come in, please.'

    He felt no better when Brigadier Hughie told him that this time he'd get away with a fortnight's suspension and a Ł5,000 fine.

    `And you can fucking well pay it,' roared Bart. `You only got off because I threatened to pull out of the Gold Cup.'