by Jilly Cooper
On top was a photograph of Daisy in her teens. Even allowing for changes in fashion, she was unbelievably pretty, with her dark hair longer than her mini skirt. There were also some photographs of herself as a baby, and then a snapshot of a man surrounded by a group of students. On the back, Daisy had written, ‘Jackie being admired’. Her father had been called Jackie. Was that him? Perdita examined the man’s face again. It was handsome, slightly weak. Her hands were trembling so much she nearly tore the cutting from the Guardian. It was a review of Jackie Cosgrave’s exhibition. The reviewer thought well of his work. ‘Bold, brave and starkly original.’ The review contained another photograph of Jackie. He was handsome. Was that her name, Perdita Cosgrave?
Next she found a marriage certificate between Daisy James and Hamish Macleod on 14 December 1966, at Ayrshire Register Office. That was only fifteen years and four months ago. They’d certainly lied about the length of their marriage. A picture of Daisy and Hamish on their wedding day showed Hamish, with a beard, in an awful kilt, looking surprisingly happy and proud. Daisy looked awful, very peaky and thin in a ghastly pale coat and skirt, her hair tucked into an unbecoming hat. And here was a birth certificate.
‘Perdita James, born 6 November 1966.’ Her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat now. ‘Mother, Daisy James, father unknown.’
Perdita gave a croak of misery. At the bottom of the pile was a yellowing, torn, tear-stained letter dated 13 December 1966, which was from Hamish.
‘Darling Little Daisy,’ so he was capable of tenderness, ‘Tomorrow we will be married. Please don’t worry, my family will come round when they realize how adorable you are, and how happy you’re going to make me. Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ The letter was shaking so much now she could hardly read. ‘It doesn’t matter, she’s the bonniest wee bairn in the world. I’ll be her father, and love her far more than whoever he is would ever have done. I will take care of you always, Hamish.’
The next minute, the outside drawer, which had been on her knee, crashed to the ground, scattering papers everywhere. There was a muffled bark from Daisy’s bedroom overhead.
Jumping up with the letter in her hand, Perdita thought she was going to black out. ‘Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ Had her mother lied to Hamish about Jackie Cosgrave, had she been a prostitute or a nympho who’d bedded so many men she didn’t know who the father was? The next moment Perdita jumped out of her shuddering skin as a reluctant Ethel, shoved by a terrified Daisy, burst into the room.
‘We’ve got nothing for you to burgle,’ began Daisy, brandishing Eddie’s airgun – ‘Darling, what are you doing?’
‘What were you doing,’ hissed Perdita, ‘sixteen years ago? You told me Jackie had been killed in a car crash.’
‘He was,’ stammered Daisy, looking far more scared than by any burglar.
‘Don’t lie to me, or were you lying to Hamish to get him to marry you, poor sod? Who was my father?’ her voice rose to a shriek.
Daisy had gone deathly pale. Her teeth were chattering. ‘Shall we have a drink?’
‘No. For once we’re going to talk.’
‘I tried to tell you,’ sobbed Daisy. ‘Hamish thought it better not when you were younger, and then it was too late.’
‘You’d better tell me now.’ Perdita’s black brows were pulled right down over her furious, hating eyes. ‘Were you on the game, or raped by a gang of louts?’
‘No, no,’ Daisy shook her head. She was wearing a peach woollen nightdress she’d got for 20p in a jumble sale. Her hair was dragged back with an elastic band, her eyes popping out huge like a rabbit with myxomatosis. Ethel, gazing at them both soulfully, started to scratch.
‘I was just seventeen when I went to art college,’ mumbled Daisy. ‘Jackie was my art master. I fell madly in love with him. He was so frightfully attractive, all the class, irrespective of sex, had crushes on him, but for some reason he chose me. He was a very good painter.’
‘I saw the cutting.’
‘He was also divorced, heavily into drugs and the king of the swingers. He didn’t love me but he was flattered by my hero-worship. One evening he took me to a party in Chelsea. I’d never seen such people, only about a dozen of them, but so beautiful, sophisticated and jet set. They were all rock stars, actors and polo players. I was desperately shy. I’d hardly touched drink before, and never, never drugs. But I took both to please Jackie to show I was up to it and got absolutely stoned.’ Her voice faltered, so low now Perdita could hardly hear it over the moan of the wind. ‘I’m sorry to shock you, but I was very young.’
‘About a year and a half older than me,’ said Perdita spitefully.
‘The p-p-party degenerated into what people talk about as a typical sixties orgy,’ stammered Daisy. ‘At least it was the only one I ever went to. Everyone was, er, making love to everyone.’
‘Don’t you mean fucking?’ sneered Perdita.
‘Yes,’ whispered Daisy. ‘I know it’s awful, but I was so stoned I don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Inconvenient,’ said Perdita, lighting one cigarette from another. The wind was screaming down the chimney, thorns from the climbing rose outside were scraping the window-pane like fingernails.
‘I woke up next morning with a terrible hangover, lying on the host’s hearth rug, utterly appalled by what I remembered doing. Then horror turned to panic when I discovered I was pregnant. I went to Jackie. He refused to accept any responsibility.’
‘Can’t say I blame him,’ said Perdita tonelessly. ‘Any of the guys at the party could have been my father.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Daisy hung her head.
‘What happened then?’
‘I was devastated. I loved Jackie so much, I hoped he’d come round. I put off telling Granny and Granddaddy James because I was so frightened.’
‘Same old story,’ blazed Perdita. ‘You’re too worried to let down Jackie at the orgy, too wet to tell me about Fresco or my father, too wet to tell your parents – till it’s too fucking late.’
Daisy’s voice broke: ‘Granny and Granddaddy were sweet at first. They just couldn’t cope with me not knowing who your father was. They said I must have you somewhere else. So I went to this unmarried mothers’ home in Scotland.’
Huge tears were pouring down Daisy’s face now. ‘You were so beautiful, I wanted to keep you so badly. Then one bitterly cold day there was this big pond frozen over beside the unmarried mothers’ home. I looked out as I was feeding you. All the children were skating with their parents. One little girl was just sliding along shrieking with joy while her father held her hands. I felt it was so selfish to deprive you of two parents, and I must let you be adopted. There was this wonderful couple who wanted you, they were so longing to have a child. I knew I was going to lose you, that’s why I called you Perdita.’
‘The Lost One,’ said Perdita tonelessly.
‘Hamish’s firm was overseeing the adoption. He sought me out at the unmarried mothers’ home and offered to marry me. He was different in those days. He had ideals, he was so kind and so good-looking, I was sure I could grow to love him. Anyway I’d have married the devil, I was so desperate to keep you.’
‘No wonder Biddy looked so sour at the wedding,’ said Perdita savagely. ‘Did you tell her I was a little orgy bastard? No wonder she loathes me. What chance did I ever have? Hamish took me on because he had the temporary hots for you. Once he got bored, he got fed up with me.’
‘It’s all my fault and I’m sorry,’ sobbed Daisy. ‘I love you more than anything in the world. Please forgive me.’ Getting up, stumbling over a pile of art magazines, she fell towards Perdita, holding out her arms, frantic to comfort and be comforted. But Perdita, who’d always detested physical contact, shoved her away.
‘Don’t touch me, you disgusting slag. All those men in one night. I bet you loved it, and what’s more Violet knows.’
‘She doesn’t,’ said Daisy aghast. ‘I swear it
.’
‘Bloody does. Biddy or probably Hamish tipped her off.’
‘Oh my God,’ whispered Daisy. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you let that wonderful couple adopt me?’ hissed Perdita. ‘They’d have given me a much better life than you or Hamish have.’
13
For such a solitary and reserved introvert as Ricky France-Lynch prison was slightly less crucifying than it might have been because it made him feel in some infinitesimal way that he was atoning for the terrific wrongs he had done Chessie. Not only had he killed her child, but he was convinced she’d never intended to stay with Bart and could now only be miserable living with such a monster.
Even while recovering from horrific operations on his right elbow in the prison hospital, he wrote her endless letters with his left hand, begging, in a rare dropping of his guard, for her forgiveness and her return. Chessie answered none.
The one glimmer of cheer was that Herbert, his father, felt so sorry for Ricky that he changed his will yet again, leaving everything to Ricky instead of the local hunt, who were absolutely furious, which at least meant the bank came sweet and Ricky could turn his ponies out instead of selling them.
After the relative freedom of being on remand, where he could wear his own clothes, have visitors and go for walks outside, his worst time inside was the month after his conviction when for twenty-two hours a day with lights out at six, he was ‘banged up’ in a tiny cell in Rutminster Prison, with a burglar, a murderer and a GBH case.
He was next moved to Greenwood, an open prison on the Rutshire—Wiltshire border. The drive, with the sun warming the bare trees and snowy fields sparkling against a delphinium-blue sky, was tantalizingly beautiful. Near the prison was a large Elizabethan manor house with ramparts of yew overlooking a great frozen lake, which belonged to some cousins Herbert had fought with. What would they think, wondered Ricky, if he climbed over the wall and dropped in on them for tea?
The prison governor was a raging snob.
‘We’ve got six millionaires, four old Etonians, three Radleans, two solicitors, an archdeacon and a rock star, the lead singer of Apocalypse, in at the moment,’ he told Ricky, ‘so you’re pretty small fry. The rock star gets so much fan mail, he ought to be sewing his own mail bags. Sorry about your arm, bad business. We’ll find you something not too taxing to do, the library or the art department or a bit of gardening. I’m a racing man myself, but evidently the Scrubs has got a table completely set aside for polo players. Never knew there were so many bad hats in the game.’
Queueing up for lunch, Ricky felt sick. He dreaded having to adjust to a new set of people. He’d grown fond of his three previous cellmates, who’d been very tolerant, when, impossibly run down, he had kept them awake with his incessant coughing or his screaming nightmares.
Nor had he ever been intimidated at Rutminster. Just behind him in the queue on his first day, however, was a fat little man with strands of dyed black hair oiled across his bald patch and a puffy complexion like marshmallow. Flanked by four huge minions, he was making a lot of noise. Irritated that Ricky was ignoring him, he poked him in the ribs.
‘Howdy a get that?’ He pointed at Ricky’s elbow. ‘Is that sling ’olding up a limp wrist, or did we ’urt it raising our glass once too often to our mouth? Drunk driving wasn’t it? I ’ear we plays polo wiv Prince Charles.’
Ricky said nothing and, deciding against dishcloth-grey mutton and flooded yellow cabbage, helped himself to mashed potato.
‘Off our nosh, are we?’ went on the fat little man, drawing so close that Ricky could smell breath like too sweet cider. ‘Ay suppose we’re used to creamed potatoes at Buck House. Won’t be playin’ polo for a bit, will we? WILL WE?’ his voice rose threateningly.
For a second Ricky considered ramming the plate of mashed potato in his face. Instead he said, ‘Why don’t you piss off?’
‘Piss orf,’ mimicked his tormentor, turning to his four huge minions who shook with sycophantic laughter. ‘Oh, we are an ’ooray ’enry, aren’t we? Did we pick up that posh accent from Prince Charles? We better learn some manners.’ And mindful of his beefy entourage, he punched Ricky in the kidneys.
Not for nothing did Ricky have the fastest reflexes in polo. He was also instinctively left-handed. Next minute a left hook had sunk into the fat man’s marshmallow jaw and sent him flying across the canteen crashing to the ground. Strolling across the room, Ricky hauled him to his feet and smashed him against the wall.
‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ he said softly, ‘or I’ll really hurt you,’ and dropped him back on the floor.
There was a stunned silence. Not a screw nor a minder moved.
‘More of an ’ooray ’enry Cooper,’ drawled a camp cockney voice.
Everyone cracked up and bellowed with approval as the fat little man struggled to his feet and shuffled out, threatening vengeance.
‘Dancer Maitland’, the owner of the camp cockney voice, held out a long, pale hand to Ricky. ‘Welcome to Greenwood.’
Ricky knew nothing of the music business, but the tousled mane of streaked shoulder-length hair, darkening at the roots and scraped back into a pony tail, and the heavily kohled, hypnotically decadent, frost-grey eyes hidden behind dark glasses told him at once that this must be the rock star of whom the governor had boasted.
Thin to the point of emaciation, in jeans and a black jersey, Dancer had a long mournful clown’s face, a pointed chin and a big pale mouth like a lifebelt. Intensely theatrical, giving off a suggestion of tragi-comic heights, he moved with feet turned out and pelvis thrust forward with the fluid grace of a ballet dancer. Gathering up Ricky’s plate of cooling mashed potato, he bore it off to a far table and, sitting down, patted the seat beside him. Unwilling to be charmed, Ricky sat opposite.
‘’Ooray ’enry, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray. The ’ole prison will put up a plaque to you for flooring that fat queen.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You didn’t know? Marmaduke Kempton. That’s not his real name. Bent property developer. Terrorized the East End. In ’ere he’s a tobacco baron, known as the Duke, carrying on his reign of terror. Most powerful guy in the nick, or he was till you floored him. Now eat up your spuds,’ went on Dancer reprovingly, ‘although your strength doesn’t seem to need keeping up. The food’s atrocious in ’ere, but I’ve got a pet screw who smuggles fings in for me.’
Gazing at the night-black glasses, Ricky said nothing.
‘We’ve got Judge Bondage-Smith in common,’ drawled Dancer. Ricky looked blank.
‘He sent me down too – month before you. Made the same crack about living in the fast lane, “Who are Apocalypse” indeed?’ Dancer peered over his glasses, imitating the Judge. ‘Fucking ’ell, you’d have thought everyone ’ad ’eard of us.’
‘I hadn’t,’ confessed Ricky, straightening a prong of his fork.
Dancer grinned. His mouth, with its exquisitely capped teeth, seemed to light up his sad clown’s face like a semicircle of moon.
‘You’re better looking than Bondage-Smith, so I’ll forgive you. We’re in the same dormitory by the way. Very Enid Blyton – I didn’t bag you a bed by the window. The draught’d have given you earache.’ Then, seeing the wary expression on Ricky’s face, ‘I know you’re dyin’ to know what I was brought in for, but it ain’t that. Sex offenders and long-term murderers are all tucked away in another dorm, stockbrokers and accountants in the next.’
Encouraged by the slight lift at the corner of Ricky’s mouth, Dancer went on. ‘I was busted smuggling cocaine and heroin into England. Shame really. I’d gone cold turkey six months before; gone through all the screaming heeby-jeebies of coming off. I was just bringing in the stuff for a friend.’
‘What’s it like in here?’ Ricky removed a long, dark hair from his potato and put down his fork.
‘Triffic contacts,’ said Dancer. ‘My shares have rocketed. An’ the screws’ll do anything for a bit of dos
h. You won’t have any ’assle with the inmates now you’ve taken out the Duke. The Padre’s a bugger, literally. Loves converting straight blokes, so keep your ass superglued to the wall when he’s around.’
‘You don’t seem to eat much either,’ said Ricky, looking at Dancer’s congealing mutton.
‘I’m so anorexic I have midnight fasts,’ said Dancer.
‘Have you – er – had lots of hits in the top twenty?’
‘Five number ones, the last one for twelve weeks, and fourteen weeks in the States,’ sighed Dancer, shaking his head. ‘Who are Apocalypse? indeed. My solicitor’s comin’ in ’ere for a stretch next week. No wonder I didn’t get off.’
Dancer saved Ricky’s sanity. He made him laugh and later he made him talk about polo, and slowly about Chessie, but never about Will. In return Dancer was incredibly frank about his own sexuality and the problems of a deprived childhood, followed by fame and colossal riches too early.
‘I was an East End kid. Suddenly we had a break. I was going everywhere, staying at the best hotels, meeting the best people, birds throwing themselves at me, smart parties. I got so I had to be high to go on stage, then I was getting so high on coke, I started taking heroin to calm me down, and ended up addicted to that as well.
‘You’ve gotta talk, Rick. Bottle it up and it comes out in uvver directions. The night my auntie died, my uncle went straight up the pub. Two months later, he went off his ’ead, and died of an ’eart attack.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ricky.
Anyone, claimed Evelyn Waugh, who has been to an English public school, feels comparatively at home in prison. For Ricky it was better. He’d been bullied at school. Here he was very popular. The inmates liked him because he didn’t show off or drop names or grumble, and because beneath his aloof, impassive manner, his grief was almost palpable. Once he started giving racing tips that worked, even the Duke forgave him and started asking him what Prince Charles was really like, and if he’d ever clapped eyes on Princess Diana.
