Polo (87 page)

    `Come on, Rupe,' shouted the
Sun
as the press closed in.

    `You must recognize Perdita as your daughter now.'

    Rupert grinned round at them: `Course I do. Only a Campbell-Black could have played that well.' He looked down at Perdita. `It's all right, lovie. There's no need to cry. You're mine now. I'll take care of you.' Then, to make her laugh: `We'd better not hang around or
The Scorpion'll
accuse you of parent-molesting.'

    As the teams lined up, even the normally impassive Ricky was hard put to hide his elation.

    `They said we hadn't a fox's chance in a hunt kennel,' he stammered to the grey-mushroom field of microphones, `but we did it. The boys and Perdita played so well, I just had to follow them round. That's not to say the Americans didn't play brilliantly. But in the end we played better.'

    `D'you think all the flak you got from everyone in the last month sharpened up your game?' asked
The Sunday
Times.

    Ricky smiled briefly. `No, I was always good.'

    `Oh, isn't he macho?' sighed the girl from the
Mail on Sunday.
`Talk about a cliff face turning into an avalanche on the field. What are you doing this evening?'

    The Westchester Cup had been described by a formerplayer as a singularly hideous trophy, but nothing had ever looked more beautiful to the English team as Ricky walked up to deafening cheers to accept it from Prince Charles, who was obviously as delighted as he was amazed by the result.

    `Well done, Ricky, absolutely marvellous.'

    It was hard to curtsy with any grace in boots and breeches, but when Perdita, still red-eyed from dust and her rapprochement with Rupert, approached the Prince, he bent forward and kissed her cheek, and when he pinned a little ruby brooch in the shape of a rose on her dark blue jersey the crowd roared their approval.

    To Perdita's amazement Spotty won Best Playing Pony. He was so delighted to be stuffed so full of Polos and the centre of attention that he forgot to fart. There was a brief pause as the Most Valuable Player was announced.

    `Must be Red,' whispered Perdita to Seb.

    `By general consensus of opinion,' said Brad Dillon rustling his papers, `because his utter stability held the American team together and because he refused to ride off a seriously injured player in the true tradition of sportmanship, the award for the Most Valuable Player of the series goes to Luke Alderton.'

    An amazed hush was followed by the most deafening storm of cheering of the day and it continued long after Luke, in a pair of torn jeans and an old, blue denim shirt, had fought his way up to collect the beautiful, rearing silver pony. Overwhelmed with longing and pride, Perdita wanted to rush forward and hug him, but the whooping, yodelling, ecstatic crowd divided them and the next moment she found herself being swept off by Ricky to ring Daisy before the press conference.

    Only Chessie, the ultimate upstager, having ostentatiously flung off her black silk shawl, managed to pummel her way past a clicking frenzy of cameramen and security guards and fling her arms round Ricky's neck in ecstasy.

    `You won, my darling, you won! Don't you realize what that means?'

    As the photographers swung into action, frantic to capture the moment, Perdita turned away, horror-struck, and found herself looking straight at Bart and Red.

    `It was your fucking fault,' Bart was hissing at Red. `You forced them to drop Luke.'

    Red, greyer beneath his suntan than ever Ricky had been, was looking utterly desolate.

    After the match there was a celebration dinner at the Quinta Hotel organized by the American Polo Association and the cock-a-hoop sponsors.

    `Everyone is expected to get plastered,' Rupert told the England team, `but there seems to be a general consensus of opinion that the men will wear ties and you will all behave well, at least for the duration of dinner. That means no eloping before the Queen,' he added in an undertone to Ricky.

    When they met up in the lobby, Rupert looked disapprovingly at Ricky's black tie. `At least you might have left that off after winning the Westchester. You can't wallow in misery for ever.' Then, seeing Taggie's face: `No, I'm sorry, you've won the Westchester. You can do what you bloody well like.'

    Perdita, in a black, backless dress which matched her bruises and the dark circles under her eyes, had a feeling of total unreality. The euphoria of winning and of Rupert at last accepting her was fast receding. She was worried about Ricky who seemed unbelievably twitchy and couldn't get plastered like everyone else, but all she could think about was whether or not Luke would turn up.

    A louring, glowering Bart arrived with Chessie, who was looking thoroughly over-excited and more minxy than ever in a gold tunic exactly matching her suntan and with a golden rose in her hair.

    `Well, thank you, Perdita,' she murmured as she passed. `You certainly contributed to an English victory this afternoon.'

    But before Perdita could answer, there was a burst of cheering as Red walked in with the American team. He had totally regained his composure and was laughing and joking. He was wearing a pink blazer edged with purple, because the entire Polo Youth of America seemed now to have gone back to wearing pale blue blazers braided with emerald green.

    There was even more noisy rejoicing when Mike and Seb rolled up, already plastered, with Lily and Anniefrom the Nevada brothel and a blissful Louisa wheeling a rather pale Dommie, with his knee in plaster, around in a large shopping trolley which they'd pinched from a local hypermarket.

    `Haven't you got any dope for Ricky?' whispered Perdita as she hugged Dommie. `He needs something to cheer him up.'

    `He's just won the fucking Westchester,' said Seb. `Some people are never satisfied.'

    `Sharon is,' giggled Dommie. `She's just seduced Brigadier Hughie.'

    `And we've promoted Corporal to General, so he'll be Sharon's next target,' added Seb, chucking a cauliflower floret at Bobby Ferraro.

    `She's going to lose David Waterlane at this rate,' said Louisa.

    `I think her sights are set somewhat higher than a baronet,' murmured Seb. `She was last heard remarking, "How naice his hay-ness looked in his off-whaite suit." Oh, come on, Perdita, cheer up! We won!'

    Taggie, realizing that Perdita's spirits were at rock bottom, took her aside. `It's so heavenly Rupert's accepted you at last. He's so pleased. He can't wait to get you up on all his ponies. I promise he'll be a marvellous father. Once he's on someone's side, it's one hundred and fifty per cent.'

    `You do
love
him,' said Perdita wistfully.

    `Oh, more than anything. I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and have to reach out and touch him to prove it isn't all a dream.'

    `How can you be so nice?' asked Perdita, shaking her head. `You ought to give lessons.'

    After that Perdita got no peace. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and take her through every stroke of the game, until Seb came up grinning wickedly.

    `You've drawn the short straw, sweetheart,' he said. `You've got to sit on Hughie's right. Talk about the price of fame. And watch out now he's in bimbo limbo. He may start touching you up.'

    Joining them, Ricky pushed a loose tendril of hair behind Perdita's ear: `You OK?'

    `Of course. I just wish Mummy was here.'

    `So do I,' said Seb feelingly.

    Ricky frowned: `Oh, fuck off.'

    Then, as Seb sloped off grinning, Ricky added: `Look, will you give Daisy a message when you get home?'

    But Perdita never heard what he was going to say because, as dinner was announced, Luke walked in with Margie Bridgwater who was looking staggering in clinging crimson, slit up the sides to show an eternity of long, brown leg.

    I must behave, I must behave, Perdita told herself through gritted teeth. As she fought her way down to her seat at the top table, she had to pass Luke, and almost wrenched her stomach muscles pulling them in, so she needn't touch him.

    `Well done,' he said slowly. `I knew you had mega-star quality, but I never figured you were that good. You pulled them together. You won that game.'

    Oh, that deep, slow husky voice. Perdita wanted to collapse into his arms, but Margie was hovering, smiling but tense.

    `You taught me everything I know,' stammered Perdita. `We'd never have won if they hadn't dropped you.'

    For a second they gazed at each other, both hollow-eyed, neither able to smile.

    `Buck up, Perdita,' said Brigadier Hughie, putting two sweating hands on her bruised arms. `I'm starving. Too nervous to get any lunch.'

    Some joker, to make matters worse, had also put her next to Red. The twins, very drunk now, started bombarding them with rolls, yelling: `Kiss and make up, kiss and make up.'

    Then, as Sharon swept in, somewhat flushed, with a boot-faced David Waterlane, they started singing: `For she's a jolly good fellater, for she's a jolly good fellater.'

    `Shut up, you two,' said Rupert, grinning.

    He was trying to listen to the head of Revlon who was forecasting the worst share slide in US history.

    `Dollar's sagging, interest rates are soaring.' He lowered his voice. `I've sold all my capital stock and gone liquid.'

    `I'm much more worried about this hurricane reaching England,' said Rupert. `Christ knows how many trees I'll have down.'

    He glanced at his watch - half past ten in the morning inEngland. Seeing Taggie was safely sitting down near Bibi and Angel, he nipped out to ring his stockbroker.

    Red and Perdita had a perfectly polite conversation as they both failed to touch their pale pink lobster mousse, but there was no longer a flicker of empathy between them. Here is a man who used to have me screaming and begging for more, thought Perdita, as he experimented on my body with all the detachment of a behavioural scientist testing a cageful of rats.

    It was like visiting a garden which had seemed vast and mysterious when one was a child, but which now had shrunk to insignificance. Mercifully Luke was at a different table. All she could see was his broad back and his red-gold hair starting to stick upwards despite being slicked down with water. Far too often Margie's laughing, aquiline profile turned towards him. Each time she put a crimson-nailed hand on his arm Perdita felt red-hot pokers stabbing her gut.

    Bottles rose green and empty from the table. Courses came and went. A cake with scarlet icing in the shape of the red rose of England was cut by Ricky and passed down the tables and thrown about. The Westchester Cup, brimming with champagne, was passed round and round and each valiant victor and brave loser toasted.

    Perdita had no idea what she or Red talked about or what Hughie told her about Singapore, until Brad Dillon, handsome in a sand-coloured suit, rose to propose the toast of the winners to a bombardment of flying grapes.

    `We've skunked you in twelve out of fourteen of the series, so I guess we can be generous at this moment in time,' he said expansively, `but we're coming over to get it back next year. We've only loaned it you.'

    I wish Spotty could come in and eat bread dipped in salt like the Maltese Cat, thought Perdita. As Brigadier Hughie, who could never miss an opportunity to yak, lurched to his feet a piece of cake hit him on the shoulder.

    `And the Brigadier's blocked the shot,' shouted Seb as the cake was followed by a carrot, a piece of celery and an After Eight which fell out of its paper.

    `Shut up, you chaps,' said Hughie. `I've got a surprise announcement to make.'

    `The Japs have invaded Singapore,' shouted Rupert. Everyone howled with laughter.

    `A surprise announcement,' Hughie ploughed on. `By mutual agreement of the British and American Polo Associations, I should like to announce that Ricky France-Lynch has finally been put up to ten, the first British player since the war to achieve that honour.'

    An amazed and delighted storm of cheering followed. People were thumping Ricky on the back and yelling, `Speech, Speech.'

    He's made it, thought Perdita dully, the final rung. How was Chessie taking the news? But, looking across the room, she went cold. Chessie's chair was empty.

75

    Back in Eldercombe, Daisy, unable to sleep, stayed up all night putting the finishing touches on a painting of Mrs Hughie's Burmese cats before watching the second half of the match live at five o'clock in the morning. Venturer must be delirious. It was truly gripping television - and Daisy was thrilled Perdita played so brilliantly and didn't seem unduly fazed about Red. She also experienced passionate relief when Perdita rang to say Rupert had at last forgiven her and admitted paternity and how lovely he'd been.

    But all this bounty made Daisy even more bitterly ashamed that she should feel so suicidal at a British victory. Throughout the match her eyes had constantly been drawn to Ricky who, despite his suntan, looked incredibly grim and gaunt.

    She ought to be pleased for him and managed to congratulate Perdita very convincingly when she rang up, but when Perdita said, `Talk to Ricky,' Daisy couldn't face it and had hung up and taken the telephone off the hook. Outside the sun was rising and in the hall mirror she saw, wiping away the tears, that she'd streaked burnt sienna all over her face.

    Having let the dogs out, she retired to bed, pulling the duvet over her head and falling into a miserable half-sleep. After lunch she took the dogs out for a walk. She noticed next year's sticky buds, the same Mars-red as polo boots,pushing their way through the ragged, orange leaves of the horse chestnuts. She passed a burdock bush, so mildewed, brown and shrivelled among all the ravishing autumnal oranges and golds. It left a cluster of burrs on her coat. Shivering, she thought how it symbolized a desperately clinging, defeated, abandoned woman. Oh, please don't let me get like that, she prayed. A huge, red sun was dropping behind the woods as she crossed Ricky's watermeadows. The dogs were sniffing frantically beside the gate and there was a strong smell of fox. It must have just killed a baby rabbit - soft, grey fur littered the grass.

    Daisy started to cry again. Back in the house she put the telephone back on the hook. Immediately the
Daily Star
rang.

    `Hi, Daisy, great about Perdita. You must be a very proud Mum.'

    `I am.'

    `Great about Rupert accepting paternity.'

    `It's lovely, but I don't want to talk about it. I won't have any mouth left if I keep shooting it off.'

    Slamming down the receiver, Daisy took it off the hook again. She tried and failed to paint and then at eight o'clock took a large vodka and tonic into the sitting room to watch a recording of the match. It was the real thing this time, all six chukkas and Luke winning the MVP award. His freckles were exactly like the puppies, thought Daisy. He'd be lovely to paint. And then she saw Chessie hurtling into Ricky's arms, and, feeling as though someone had dropped a tombstone on her from a great height, turned off the television. All hope gone. She'd never, never, known misery like it.

    Outside the wind was rising, so she shut the windows. In the kitchen the puppies were chewing up a dark red book called
The Nude in Painting.
On the table was a thank-you letter Violet had started to the mother of her boyfriend:

`I had a really good time,'
read Daisy.
`It's lovely to get away from Rutshire. Mum's so depressed at the moment.'

    And I hoped I was putting on a brave face, thought Daisy. Wondering if Red Indians put on brave faces when they got up in the morning, she started to cry again. The only answer was to get drunk. Sobbing unceasingly, she finished the vodka bottle and then passed out.

    She woke to find herself on the drawing-room sofa with the dogs crammed into two armchairs gazing at her reproachfully. Outside the Niagara Falls seemed to have been diverted under the house. Whimpering, she opened the curtains and shrieked as a laser beam of light pierced her eyes. There had obviously been a terrific storm in the night. You could have gone white-water rafting on the Frogsmore as it hurtled past. Branches littered the lawn. She could see several trees down in Ricky's woods and the track to Eldercombe was full of puddles turned the colour of strong tea by the disturbed earth.

    Incapable of anything else, Daisy carried on crying. As the telephone was off the hook, a succession of reporters were reduced to rolling up at the house to discuss Perdita's great triumph. Unable to face them, Daisy took refuge in the potting shed. Here she discovered the nude she'd done of Drew three years ago and brought it into the kitchen determined to burn it.

    At lunchtime, when the whole valley was steaming and a primrose-yellow sun had come through the mist like a halo searching for a saint, a car drew up outside. It was Violet, delighted Perdita had won, but more interested in the weekend she'd just spent in the Lakes with her new boyfriend.

    `How d'you tell you're in love, Mum?'

    `D'you go weak at the knees when he kisses you?'

    `I don't know,' said Violet perplexed, `because I'm always lying down. Are you all right, Mum? You look awful.'

`I
think I'm getting gastric flu,' muttered Daisy.

    `Oh, poor you! Go to bed. Why's the telephone off the hook?' asked Violet, putting it back. Immediately it rang.

    `It'll be for me.' Violet snatched it up, then, in disappointment as she handed Daisy the receiver, `It's for you.'

    `Where the hell have you been?' howled Ricky.

    `Oh, out and about.' Daisy tried desperately to sound bright. `It's terrific you won. You sound as though you're just next door.'

    `I am next door,' said Ricky brusquely. `We've got to talk. I'll be with you in five minutes.'

    Violet picked up her car keys: `I'm just popping down to the village shop for some cigarettes. D'you want anything?'

    But Daisy had bolted upstairs, cleaning her teeth until they bled, scraping the olive-green moss off her tongue. However many vats of eyedrops she poured into her eyes, they still glowed like carbuncles, remaining determinedly piggy and swollen. Sailors could climb the rigging of wrinkles under her eyes, and when she tried desperately to rub them away they wouldn't shift. Frantically she slapped green foundation over her red-veined cheeks, but she still looked like a ghoul, so she rubbed it off, which made her cheeks glow brighter than ever.

    Suddenly she remembered the mess in the kitchen and, clutching her pounding skull, stumbled downstairs and started throwing things into the washing-up machine. The puppies were now calmly eviscerating a cushion, scattering feathers all over the hall.

    `Oh, oh, oh,' wailed Daisy. It was all hopeless. Slumping down at the kitchen table she started to cry again. Ethel shambled over and put a muddy speckled paw on her knee. Jumping up, Little Chef tried to lick away her tears, but they flowed even faster. Then, through the shaggy curtain of clematis and honeysuckle, she saw Ricky's car draw up and, despite everything, felt her stomach disappear as she watched him get out. He looked shadowed under the eyes and terribly grim. Next minute she winced as Little Chef dug his claws into her jeaned thighs and shot off through the door, screaming with joy to welcome him.

    `Oh, please,' pleaded Daisy, clutching her head as Ethel let out her great bass-baritone bark and the puppies took up a yapping chorus.

    Ricky looked even grimmer as he came through the door with Little Chef wriggling ecstatically under one arm. Then he caught sight of Daisy and stopped short.

    `Jesus! What's up with you?'

    `Hangover,' muttered Daisy. `I feel dreadful.'

    `Shouldn't drink so much. Serves you right.'

    `I've been under a lot of strain. D'you want a cup of coffee?'

    `No. I want you to come outside.' Taking her hand, Ricky dragged her protesting out on to the lawn where everything dripped and sparkled in the sunlight.

    `I know the garden's a mess,' groaned Daisy as the two-foot grass drenched her jeans. `Lend me a combine

    harvester and I'll make you enough hay to see even Wayne through the winter. I promise I'll tidy up everything, including myself. I know it's awkward with Chessie coming back, but we won't get in your way.' Then, seeing the unrelentingly bleak expression on his face, `Just let us stay till Christmas.'

    `No, I w-w-want you out of here t-t-tonight.'

    Daisy's lip started to tremble: `But you're supposed to give us a month's notice.'

    `I've changed the lease.' Ricky removed a burr from her hair with a desperately shaking hand. `There's a new clause which says you can't stay here any longer if your landlord falls in love with you.'

    But Daisy wasn't listening. `We've got nowhere to go.'

    Roughly Ricky turned her round to face the sun, examining her deathly pallor, the hectically reddened cheeks, the swollen eyes spilling over with tears.

    `I'm totally repulsive,' she sobbed.

    But when she tried to jerk her head away, his hands closed on either side of her face like a clamp.

    `Look at me.'

    With infinite reluctance Daisy raised her eyes. Even jet lag couldn't ruin his bone structure or the length of his dark eyelashes.

    `It's not fair you should be so beautiful,' she mumbled helplessly, `and we've got nowhere to go.'

    `What about R-r-r-robinsgrove?' stammered Ricky. `You can bring Perdita and Violet and Eddie and Ethel and the puppies, even that inc-c-c-ontinent cat if you like. I love you,' he said desperately. `Will you marry me?'

    `Me marry
you?'
mumbled Daisy incredulously.

    His face was suddenly so unbelievably softened that she had to drop her eyes hastily, fearing some cosmic, practical joke.

    `Oh, please,' Ricky spoke to the top of her head. `I couldn't understand why I was so bad-tempered in America. I couldn't sleep - I mean even less than usual. Then I realized I was missing you hopelessly all the time. I had to fight the t-t-temptation to ring you and beg you to come over.' He smiled slightly. `I searched everywhere for daisies, but the lawns are so perfect over there they don't have any.'

    The rosiness of her cheeks spread to the whole of Daisy's face, but she simply couldn't get any words out. To save her trouble Ricky bent his head and kissed her, first very shyly and tentatively, then, when she responded with alacrity, very hard indeed, by the end of which Daisy's knees had literally given way for the first time in her life and as she couldn't speak or stand up they collapsed on to the old garden bench she still hadn't got round to painting.

    `But what about Chessie?' she mumbled finally.

    `Buggered off with Red.'

    `What! When?'

    `The night of the Westchester. She vanished in the middle of dinner. I went back to the house we'd rented. I couldn't face any more celebrating. Didn't feel there was anything to celebrate. Half an hour later Rupert rolled up with a letter to me that Red had had delivered to the restaurant. He said he was desperately sorry, but he'd been hopelessly in love with Chessie ever since she'd become his stepmother, but had been fighting it because he hadn't wanted to screw up his father. It all falls into place - why he was so irredeemably bloody to her always, why he was so frantic to beat us. He was far more terrified she'd come back to me than Bart was. Then she hurled herself on me after the match and it finished him off completely. So he finally thought, Sod Bart, declared himself and they ran off.'

    `Goodness,' said Daisy in awe. `Just like that?'

    `Well, not entirely,' Ricky shrugged. `They've obviously been sidling round each other for ages. Perdita admitted she caught them in bed after the polo ball.'

    `Oh, the poor little duck,' said Daisy appalled. `Why didn't she tell anyone?'

    `She promised Red she wouldn't.'

    `Is she absolutely devastated?'

    `No, at least not about him. Daisy darling, can we talk about us?'

    `Poor you,' said Daisy in horror. `You must have been… '

    `Ecstatic, giddy with relief. I'd psyched myself out for so long, obsessed with proving we could win the Westchester, obsessed with getting Chessie back because I felt so guilty about Will. I knew she was miserable with Bart and I'd driven her into his arms in the first place. Suddenly I was

    free. I felt a great burden falling off my back. Like one of Victor's ponies at the end of a chukka.'

    Daisy giggled.

    `I got the first plane back,' Ricky went on, `getting more and more panicky because I couldn't get you on the telephone. Did you know there's been a hurricane? London's out of action. The Stock Exchange has stopped trading. Fifteen million trees have been blown down.'

    `That's nothing to losing you,' said Daisy simply. `When I saw Chessie leaping on you and looking so beautiful, I was so unhappy I just got drunk.'

    `I was worried you'd see that,' admitted Ricky, `and I was worried Drew was in Rutshire, festering because we hadn't asked him to play.'

    `Drew?' stammered Daisy, going even pinker.

    `Drew,' said Ricky acidly and told her about finding the puppies eating Drew's shoe the day before he left. `Jesus, I was jealous!'