Polo (84 page)

    On the rare occasions Ricky did get through, like a gundog finally escaping the shackles of a bramble thicket, there was Luke solid as the Rockies backing ball after ball such an incredibly long way that they invariably fell ten yards in front of goal beside the one American player that was loose. And when the English got rattled and started fouling, he hit four glorious penalties from the sixty-yard line.

    Luke, whose horses had all been sold to pay his debts, was riding Bart's ponies, which, as Ricky suspected, he had been tuning up for days with all the skill of a Ferrari mechanic. Because of his height and endless legs he still gave the air of a father riding a seaside donkey to amuse his children. But his hands were so light, and so supple was his thirteen-stone bulk that he managed to shift it like a contortionist. For the first time he had the chance to show the world how brilliantly he could ride when given top-class horses. Apart from Fantasma his own ponies had only been good because he'd trained them so well.

    But his air of calm was deceptive. A despairing Dommie, who was supposed to be marking him and who had hardly touched the ball at all, saw Luke setting off upfield yet again. Unable to catch him because he was riding one of Bart's fastest ponies, an exquisitely pretty little bay thoroughbred mare, Dommie panicked and ran Corporal into Luke's mare broadside.

    There was a sickening thud as the mare hit the ground and lay still. Leaping to his feet, Luke seized a horrified Dommie by his dark blue shirt and pulled him down off a quailing Corporal.

    `You goddamm asshole,' he roared, lifting his huge fist.

    `Luke, for Chrissake, don't hit him,' howled Red, galloping up. Then, as the bay mare scrambled to her feet: Pony's only winded.'

    For a second the fist trembled in the air.

    `You goddam asshole,' said Luke more gently. Then, seeing how terrified Dommie was looking, he started to laugh and let him go, whereupon Juan O'Brien awarded a free goal to the Americans. Rupert put his head in his hands.

    `Unlike Luke to flip his lid,' said Chessie to Bibi. `Must be more strung up than he looks.'

    But Bibi was cocooned in happiness. She was expecting a baby by easily the most dashing man on the field, who, between blowing kisses in her direction, was making Seb Carlisle's life a misery by scoring all the goals. The most miserable man on the field, however, was Mike Waterlane, who'd spent the last twenty-four hours on the loo, whose mallet had developed an allergy to the ball and who, like a policeman on point duty, had waved every American player through. With Ricky pegged like Gulliver, the young English team lost direction and ran out the losers 3-13.

    Poor Ricky plunged into another nightmarish week as the clamour of his detractors intensified. Colossal recriminations followed from the sponsors and the two polo associations. Ricky, by his bloody-minded obstinacy, had sabotaged the Westchester. The press carved him up, baying for the return of Drew and the Napiers to prevent the second match being a complete joke.

    Drew was quoted as saying he would make himself available but that `It would be rather like joining the
Titanic
in mid-voyage' which didn't improve Ricky's temper. Rupert stood by him staunchly in public, but, in private, the rows were awful and shook the white walls of the Villa Victoria. If the Americans won the second match the third would be cancelled which meant Venturer would lose a fortune in television rights and sponsorship money. Worse still, David Waterlane insisted on flying over to sort things out. He arrived around midnight on the eve of the second match and was even more incensed to discover that Mike had been out since lunchtime with the twins.

    Perdita, who'd valiantly tried to keep everyone's spirits

    up during the week, had retreated to her room to avoid the brickbats. She'd been unable to concentrate even on Dick Francis since she'd arrived, but, flipping through the paperbacks she'd scooped up at random before she left, she discovered an old poetry anthology of Luke's. Outside, the delicious spicy smell of Taggie's paella had been overwhelmed by the sweet, voluptuous scent of orange blossom and stephanotis. A shooting star careered across the indigo sky. Croaking tree-frogs harmonized sexily with Bob Marley, throbbing and pounding out of the outside speakers. Perdita started flipping through the anthology. It fell open at Emerson:

`Give all to love,

Obey thy heart,'
read Perdita.

`Tis a brave master,

Let it have scope,

Follow it utterly.'

    She had difficulty reading the last verse because she was crying and because Luke had written the word Perdita' in the margin:

`Though thou loved her as thyself

As a self of purer clay.

Though her parting dims the day

Stealing grace from all alive.

Heartily know

When half-gods go,

The gods arrive.'

    Red had been a half-god, she thought bitterly, and he'd gone. And she'd been a half-god and left Luke. That was why he was now with Margie Bridgwater, who was as clever as she was good and beautiful and Perdita absolutely loathed her guts.

    Outside, raised voices were definitely winning over Bob Marley and the tree-frogs. Perdita, creeping to the window, noticed Rupert's cigar glowing redly as he increasingly drew on it, trying to keep his temper. His other hand, holding a glass of brandy, rested on Taggie's shoulder. She was shelling peas for tomorrow night's dinner which would either be a celebration or the wake to end all wakes. No one was taking any notice of Sharon, who, rippling the oily, pale turquoise surface of the pool, dog-paddled up and down in the nude, piled-up hair held firmly abovethe water, diamond earrings upstaging the huge stars. `Do come in and have a dip, boys. The water's laike satin. Ay'm sure it will cool you down.'

    But David was yelling at Ricky. `I want to know where the hell Mike is. He's not even in bed by midnight on the night' - he looked at his watch - `or rather the day of the most important match of his life. If I'd been in charge, this would never have happened.'

    He was interrupted by the sound of a Mini-Moke roaring up the dust track pouring out Dire Straits, followed by raucous laughter and slamming doors.

`There is a green hill far away, Without a city wall,'
sang Seb Carlisle in a light tenor, as he pushed his way through the crimson mane of bougainvillaea.

`Where our dear Lord was crucified.'

`Who died to save us all,'
joined in Dommie in harmony.

`For He's a jolly good fellow,'
brayed Mike coming in on an even lower register,
`For He's a jolly good fellow, for He's
a jolly… '

    The singing tailed off as the trio encountered a solid phalanx of disapproval lined up round the pool.

    `Where have you been?' thundered David Waterlane.

    `Hello, David,' said Seb, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. `We thought there was no point Mike worrying all evening about you flying over and tomorrow's match so we took him for a jaunt.'

    `A seriously good jaunt,' said Mike, swaying towards the swimming-pool and only being saved from falling in by Dommie catching hold of his shirt. Mike's normally slicked-back hair flopped all over his forehead and he was wearing an outsize T-shirt on which was printed the words: `Fran's Friendly Fornicating Facilities'.

    `We took him to a brothel in Nevada,' said Seb who was wearing a T-shirt which said: `Have a good lay'.

    `Pretty sophisticated. Customers landing all the time on the airstrip,' he went on.

    Dommie's T-shirt said: `Support your local hooker'.

    `We bought ones for you and Perdita,' he beamed at Ricky. `You OK, darling?' he shouted up to Perdita, who was by now nearly falling out of the window with laughter. Rupert threw his cigar into the swimming-pool, only just missing Sharon's nose.

    `You took Mike to a knocking shop and got him drunk?' he said softly.

    `He's not drunk. He smoked a joint on the way home,' said Seb, taking the cigarette from Mike and inhaling deeply. `You should try this place, Rupert. They've got an orgy room with blue shagpile, leading up to the waterbed and a jacuzzi with red lights under the water and we saw some brilliant blue movies. Much better for Mike's morale than that frightfully depressing video of him letting everyone through in the first match.'

    `We nearly tried the dominance dungeon,' added Dommie. `We thought how much Chessie would have enjoyed it - whoops, sorry,' he added, giggling, as Ricky's face tightened with rage.

    `Seriously nice girls,' said Mike, collapsing on to a sun-lounger. `Really seriously friendly.'

    `He's had Mona, Lily and Annie,' explained Seb. `Severally and together, and he's so tired and relaxed he'll sleep like a baby for the first time since he's been out here.'

    `Are you crazy?' hissed David. `You've probably caught AIDS.'

    `It's OK, Daddy,' said Mike cheerfully. `I used a condominium.'

    Glancing at Rupert, Perdita saw that he had his head in his hands again, trying to disguise the fact that he was quite hysterical with laughter.

73

    The second match was quite different. In losing his virginity Mike seemed to have shed his terrible nerves as well. Primed by Rupert with a vast slug of brandy when his father wasn't looking, he played with unshakeable authority, sledge-hammering the ball upfield, tigerish on any loose balls and twice pounding down like a Panzer division to score splendid goals. Time and again, the US team took the ball right down the field, but the English wouldn't let them score.

    Realizing Luke was the most dangerous player on the field, Seb and Dommie weighed in like the two musketeers, duelling with their sticks, hooking, bumping and stabbingthe ball away from him, playing a stoically defensive game. With Luke pegged, Red and Angel's life-support machine was cut off and they were unable to score. Ricky, on the other hand, hit form with a knock-out punch. Elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel, swift as a lurcher, always there to whisk the ball away when Mike or the twins made a frantic last-ditch clear, he played the game of his life.

    The crowd, reluctant to witness a second bloodbath, had halved, but now over and over again broke into spontaneous cheers. Umpires Juan and Jesus were so often distracted by Ricky's virtuosity that they missed fouls on other parts of the field. At half-time the English were leading 7-3 and as word flew round the Californian coast that a tussle was in process, spectators started screeching in in their limos and helicopters swooped down out of the sky like gulls on a newly ploughed field.

    The temperature had also rocketed. Huge brown-bottomed clouds like dusty meringues gathered menacingly on the horizon beneath a royal-blue sky tinged with purple. But the English players and ponies under Rupert's fitness regime were standing up well. Perdita envied the bikinis and sundresses all round her, as once again she sweated in the stands in her England gear.

    In the fifth chukka the English steeled themselves for Red's and Glitz's legendary bombardment. But due to Ricky's sticking to Red like chewing gum to a dog's fur, it never materialized. Bart was gnashing his beautifully capped teeth on the sideline.

    `Come on, England,' screamed Chessie. `Well, I am English,' she added defiantly to a shocked Bibi.

    Terry Hanlon, flown specially over from Cowdray to do the commentary, was so petrified of flying that he'd practically had to be doped before he would get on to the plane. But so encouraged was he by his country's gutsy performance that he quite forgot his jet lag.

    `And the ball goes out of play. Sorry, Granny,' he added as Red, in a fury of frustration, hit a ball straight into the stands. `If you watch the ball, you'll never get hit by it. Hit-in to England. And there goes Ricky France-Lynch on his way to ten goals. Did you see the way he just stroked the ball under the nose of Red Alderton, and took it away, sending

    a lovely lofted pass to Dommie Carlisle? What a chance!

    `But here comes Luke Alderton,' he went on, `steady as the Rockies, thundering down to ride Dommie off, but Dommie flicks the ball back to his captain who powers it between the posts. That's 8-3 to England.' Then, waiting for the cheers to subside, `You can't fight the entire English side on your own, Luke.'

    With a wry grin, Luke lifted his stick in the direction of the commentary box.

    In the closing seconds of the chukka, however, the ball was once more bouncing towards the seemingly insatiable American goal-mouth. Frantic to clear, Bobby Ferraro opened his shoulders and let fly. Valiantly Dommie hurled little Corporal forward to block the shot. As if fired by a cannon, it smacked Dommie just below his kneepad as the bell went.

    `Oh, shit, shit, shit,' he screamed, slumping over his saddle. To a man, the crowd winced. As the players gathered round and the ambulance roared up, Dommie had gone greener than the inside of an avocado pear.

    `I'm sorry, Dommie, I'm real, real, sorry,' said a horrified Bobby Ferraro.

    `My fault for riding into it,' mumbled Dommie.

    Fortunately he was near the pony lines and, refusing any help from the ambulance, managed to ride Corporal off the field.

    `I don't like the look of that,' said the paramedic.

    `Give me a bucket of Novocaine,' gasped Dommie, trying not to scream with pain as Ricky, Seb and a demented Louisa lifted him down from Corporal. `I'll be OK in a minute.'

    `You can't go back into that hell-hole,' said Louisa aghast.

    Rupert agreed and, sprinting along the edge of the boards, yelled up to Perdita in the stands to get her kneepads on.

    The only person, in fact, who was happy when Dommie insisted on playing on was Bart. Slapping a clenched fist into his other palm, he moved round the American team. `Now we can zap them. Ride into the little bastard's knee as often as possible. Force him to retire and we can get the girl in.'

    `Don't be so fucking unsporting, Dad,' said Luke in outrage. `You could put the guy out of the game for good.'

    `Safe journey, my darling.' Louisa's voice broke as Dommie rode back on to the field to deafening applause.

    Dommie was as brave as his own bull terrier, but the blow had smashed his left knee and the pain was clearly unhinging him. As Red and Angel unleashed a fusillade of shots, the crowd, who had no idea quite how badly Dommie was hurt, kept up a continuous roar of encouragement. As the score drew level, Dommie, battered by the inevitable rough and tumble, grew greener and greener. Ricky was torn. He ought to protect Dommie but, aware that the Westchester was fast slipping out of his grasp, the only answer was to forget him and plunge into the fray. Thirty seconds later, with a glorious cut shot, he put England ahead. Now it was a question of staying there.

    Despite the punishing heat Perdita shivered, encased in an ice-cold sweat. Padded and gloved, with her stick resting against the white fence below the stands, she expected any moment to have to leap on to Dommie's beautiful, fickle pony, Bardot, who was known to be as tricky as she was fast.

    `I must read the play,' she kept telling herself grimly.

    As poor Dommie came down the field it was like watching a bird trying to fly with two broken wings. But slowly, as she forced herself to concentrate, she became aware that Luke, unlike the rest of the US team, was contradicting Bart's orders and as the man who should have been marking Dommie, and despite the undeniable advantage it would have given him, was deliberately not riding Dommie off on the side of his damaged knee.

    There, Dommie had the ball again and Luke, who could have bumped him into the stands, laboriously rode round to hook him on the other side.

    Glancing at Perdita, Taggie noticed that tears were pouring down her face. Gently she put her hand over Perdita's. `Luke's the one, isn't he?'

    Perdita nodded. `I guess he always has been,' she mut tered, `but I've only just realized it, and now it's too late.' As the teams lined up, jostling and shoving, for the throw-in, Dommie's agony was so blinding he thought he'd faint. Pain was in the mind. He must push himself

    through the pain barrier and go into mental overdrive.

    Bardot, his chestnut mare, fond of batting her long eyelashes and giving a colossal buck when chastised, was for once behaving impeccably and carrying her master as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce. When Mike, menaced by Angel and Red, hit the ball upfield ahead of him, Bardot swung round to follow it. Alas, Red didn't have any of his brother's scruples. Seeing Dommie pounding towards goal looking for an offside drive, Red cannoned into his smashed knee with his pony's right shoulder. Howling with pain, Dommie had to cling on to Bardot's neck to stay on.

    `You fucker!' Hysterical with rage, Seb rode straight at Red, slicing the ball away from him towards goal. But Luke was too quick for Seb. Riding him once more off the ball, he turned the play with a staggering sixty-yard backshot.

    With ten seconds on the clock, everyone collided in a cloud of dust in front of the British goal, the Americans frantic to whack it home so the game could go to a seventh chukka. Looking for his backhand in a tangle of threshing sticks, Ricky kept his cool. As he cleared for England, saving the game on the bell, everyone crashed over the line, sending a goal post flying in the process and all ending up in a great heap.

    `You OK, Dommic?' yelled Seb in anguish through the dust.

    `Fine,' said Dommie, who'd dismounted. `I'm just hanging on to my horse.'

    `The only problem,' said Seb as the dust cleared, `is that it's my horse you're hanging on to.'

    `Then where's Corporal?' said Dommie, looking round puzzled.

    `Corporal was in the last chukka,' explained Seb, `and he played so well, he's been promoted to Sergeant.'

    Dommie giggled, but as he let go of Seb's pony he collapsed on to the ground like a rag doll. `I think I've fucked my knee.'

    `Don't worry,' said Seb shakily. `You'll love hospital. The food's terrific.'

    `I could murder a T-bone,' said Dommie and passed out.

    With Dommie critically ill in a Palm Springs' hospital with

    concussion and a splintered knee, Perdita would have to play in the final match. The BPA were singularly unamused and dispatched Brigadier Hughie prematurely to La Quinta to drum some sense into the wayward English squad. Storming into the Villa Victoria at twilight the following evening, sweating in a creased, wool, pin-striped suit, he found them totally euphoric.

    Having learnt that the operation had been successful and Dommie would be playing again in a few months, they now felt able to celebrate yesterday's victory properly. Hughie's jaundiced view of Rupert's playboy attitude and Ricky's deviant captaincy were further exacerbated when he found everyone plastered on Harvey Wallbangers, singing rugger songs and resting their aching bones in the swirling waters of the jacuzzi.

    `This is worse than an orgy,' spluttered Hughie over the deafening blast of Dancer's latest LP, `and Sharon Kaputnik ought to put on a bathing dress,' he added as he took Rupert and Ricky into the house.

    `Do them good to unwind,' said Rupert. `They've got four days to sober up.'

    `Not how we'd have done it in Singapore,' chuntered Hughie, ducking as a pineapple came flying through the french windows. `Anyway, it's time you chaps came to your senses. You had a damn good win yesterday, but don't push your luck. The Napiers are playing in Argentina and quite prepared to fly up here if we pay their expenses and give them ten grand each; and Drew'd be an even better bet. He's cooling his heels in Rutshire.'

    Ricky, who unlike everyone else, was entirely sober, had had an agonizing twenty-four hours worrying about Dommie. The thought of Drew in Rutshire cooling his heels, and no doubt warming his hands on Daisy's welcoming body, did nothing to improve his temper. `I'm captaining this team, Hughie, so bugger off.'

    `You really prefer a slip of a girl to a fit very experienced nine-goal man?'

    `Yes,' said Rupert evenly. `I've always been heterosexual.' `What, what! Don't be flippant,' exploded Hughie. `You can't put in a girl against those thugs.'

    `Those thugs might back off a little because she is a girl,' went on Rupert reasonably. `Now, really do bugger off,

    Hughie, and play Scrabble or have a hot tub with Mrs Hughie, I bet they didn't have those in Singapore.'

    Rupert, in fact, was reeling with relief. Assured of a third match, Venturer were likely to make a killing. The British and American sponsors were delighted Perdita was going to play. Such a beautiful, tempestuous, controversial figure would certainly pull in the crowds.

    Next day Rupert flew to New York and, after five hours closeted with chief executives and vice presidents, managed to persuade NBS to cancel coverage of an ice hockey match and to transmit the match live instead of recording it for a later date. In England people could watch it if they got up at four o'clock in the morning or see an edited version the following evening. Rupert was considerably aided by the press who pointed out the piquancy of Perdita having to play against her ex-lover and who all showed close-ups of her crying in the stands as she watched the match.

`Still in love'
wrote
The Scorpion
in delight.
Rupert's wife
comforts grief-stricken Perdita as she sobs for Red the Rat.'

    Bart, on the other hand, was in a towering rage that the Americans had lost the second match. Always on the hunt for a scapegoat, he blamed it entirely on Luke for not riding Dommie off. Red went even further. The morning after the match he rang Brad Dillon, the American team manager.

    `Can I speak to you in utter confidence?'

    `I guess so.'

    `My brother Luke's been crazy about Perdita Macleod for years.'

    `I thought he was shacked up with Margie Bridgwater.'

    `Maybe he is, but he'll still have to mark Perdita on Sunday. And if he's too much of a wimp to ride off Dommie Carlisle, he'll never carve up Perdita. Why don't you bring back Shark? He's never had a scruple in his life.'

    `This is your own brother we're talking about,' said Brad disapprovingly. `Luke is a very fine player.'