by Jilly Cooper
There were terrible moments. He was plagued by feelings of utter worthlessness. He slept appallingly, still wracked by insomnia, followed by nightmares. He was consumed with desire for Chessie. He was crucified by the knowledge that Will’s last terrifying memory must have been Chessie and he screaming at each other, and being gathered into a car and hurtled to his death. He was also worried stiff about his arm. He still couldn’t move his fingers or pick up anything heavy.
But there were small victories, captaining the prisoners’ bowls team to a win against the screws, watching the wallflowers and forget-me-nots he’d planted come out in the bed by the visitors’ check-in gate.
All his free time was spent with Dancer. Mostly they talked about polo. Insatiable for knowledge, Dancer would demand again and again to hear how Mattie had died, and how Wayne, Mattie’s half-brother, had let himself out of his box and flooded the yard, and how Kinta, thundering unstoppable down the field at Deauville, enabled Ricky to score the winning goal. Night after night, with four white chess pieces for one team, and four black for the other, Ricky taught Dancer the rudiments of the game.
One late April evening when they could hear the robins singing outside, reminding Ricky unbearably of home, they got out the board and the eight black-and-white pieces.
‘Show me some sneaky moves,’ said Dancer.
‘Well, if black hits the ball upfield,’ began Ricky, ‘and the opposing white back and the black number one are in pursuit of the ball riding each other off,’ Ricky moved the black-and-white bishops forward so they clashed into each other, ‘if black number one judges himself beaten, he should move to the left and draw white off the line. Black number two, watching the play, charges up the line – Dancer, are you listening to me?’
‘I was finking how nice it’d be if you said Apocalypse instead of black.’
‘You thinking of taking up polo?’
‘I’ve got a lot of money I want to get rid of.’
‘If you teach me to make money,’ said Ricky, ‘I’ll teach you to play polo.’
‘Apocalypse is a great name for a polo team,’ said Dancer.
That night Ricky told Dancer about Chessie’s parting jibe: ‘She says she’ll only come back to me if I go to ten, and win the Gold Cup and England win back the Westchester.’
‘Piece a cake,’ said Dancer airily. ‘You said the teams with the longest purses win. I was goin’ to retire, but I’ll write anuvver song. It’ll go to number one, because everyone’s missed me while I’ve been inside. Then I’ll take up polo, and wiv me as your patron, we’ll take everyone out.’
Good as his word, Dancer abandoned his autobiography which he’d been scribbling in a red notebook and wrote a song called ‘Gaol Bird’ about a robin trapped in a cage. The tune was haunting. In the right mood, Dancer would sing it suddenly in bed at night. Few prisoners threw shoes at him, the words spoke for all of them.
In April they were all distracted by the Falklands War. A man in the dormitory had a son in the Paras. Ricky was worried about Drew Benedict who had resigned his commission and was due out of the Army in August, but who was now steaming out with the task force. Drew had the kind of crazy courage and lack of nerves to get himself killed. Ricky dropped a line to Sukey, who was no doubt now diligently schooling Drew’s new Argentine ponies and watching every bulletin.
In early May Ricky got a letter from his solicitor requesting a visit. The night before, he was lounging on his bed, watching the trees thickening with young leaves against a pale pink sunset. Dancer, peering in the mirror, was grumbling about his roots.
‘I wish you’d first seen me on stage wiv my hair all wild, and my make-up on, Rick. How can anyone operate wiv no eyeliner? Can’t even get your eyelashes dyed in this dump. When you were at boarding school did you try anyfink with blokes?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Not much,’ said Ricky, who was now concentrating on Polo magazine. ‘Better than nothing I suppose, staved off the loneliness.’
‘Might be better than nuffink here.’ Dancer put a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Want to try it sometime?’
There was a long pause. The prison building was turning a pale rose madder in the sun which was sinking like a blazing ruby into the far blue horizon. Chessie was wearing rubies the night Will died.
‘Not really,’ said Ricky. ‘I’m still married.’
‘Don’t mind my asking?’ Dancer’s drawl had a slight tremor.
‘Not at all. I just want Chessie back. But you’ve been fucking good to me, Dancer. I wouldn’t have survived the last months without you.’
The sunset was no longer responsible for the red glow which suffused Dancer’s long, sad face.
‘Now that is Enid Blyton,’ he said sardonically. ‘Ian’s coming to see me tomorrow. That’s why I’m uptight.’ Then, when Ricky raised his eyebrows, ‘Ian’s the bloke I smuggled the coke in for.’
There was no sun the next day. Thick mustard-yellow fog hung round the prison. The visitors’ room, with its potted plants and its bright mural of a farmyard and ‘No Smoking beyond this point’ sign, was a bit like an airport lounge. Children played underfoot. Wives and girlfriends with dyed hair, short skirts, no stockings and very high heels held hands with inmates, but said little. The screws delivered coffee and tea at 20p a cup. Martin, Ricky’s solicitor, in his dark grey suit, clinging to his ox-blood briefcase for extremely dear life, looked out of place.
‘No sugar for me,’ he said, dropping saccharin in his cup. ‘I envy you your waistline,’ he added heartily, privately thinking how thin and drawn Ricky looked, hoping he hadn’t caught something nasty in prison.
Across the room Ricky was aware of Dancer, coiled into a relaxed theatrical pose, hand exaggeratedly cupping his pointed chin to hide the tension as he chatted to a thickset, blond young man with a sulky face. This must be Ian. He was quite unlike the birds of paradise with their rainbow hair and tight leather trousers who usually visited Dancer.
‘The news is not exactly good,’ Martin was saying as he opened his briefcase. ‘I’m afraid Chessie’s filed for divorce. In fact I’ve got the papers and a letter for you here.’
Ricky went very still, but felt his heart was leading some crazed life of its own, trying to fight its way out of his ribs. The letter was written from Bart’s New York flat. The Palm Beach season would be over. Chessie’s small, almost illegible, writing only covered a quarter of the page.
‘Dear Ricky, Please sign these papers and give me a divorce. I think you owe it to me. I need to forget and everything about you reminds me of Will. I’m sorry. Yours, Chessie.’
Yours, Chessie, thought Ricky dully, what a ridiculous way to end a letter when she’s not mine any more. Borrowing Martin’s gold Cartier pen, he signed the papers.
‘I’m afraid the other bad news, which Frances told me to tell you, is that Millicent’s dead. She was run over.’
It seemed a kinder way than to tell Ricky the little whippet had simply stopped eating.
Christ, thought Ricky, another death. Dancer was always saying they went in threes: Matilda, then Will, now Millicent.
‘It was very quick – no one’s fault.’
Ricky put his head in his hands. He’d missed Millicent more than the ponies – the way she’d curled her silken body almost inside him, snaking her head into his hand, shivering with nerves and adoration. She was the thing he’d most looked forward to coming out to.
After that the fog seemed to invade his brain so he took in nothing, particularly that Bas in some ludicrous Robin Hood gesture had let Snow Cottage to someone called Daisy Macleod.
‘Ridiculous when your plan was to redecorate and sell it as soon as the existing tenant died,’ said Martin, thinking of his huge unpaid bill.
‘What’s up?’ said Dancer afterwards.
‘Nothing. How did it go?’
‘I wouldn’t give him any more dosh, so he got nasty, and said he’d got someone else. A pl
ague on both your arses, I said. Fanks to you, Ricky, I don’t feel nuffink for him any more. What did your bloke say? You look as though your ’ouse burnt down.’
Ricky shrugged. ‘He brought divorce papers. I signed them.’
He couldn’t tell even Dancer about Millicent. He was terrified of breaking down.
‘Divorce is nuffink,’ said Dancer furiously. ‘Just a piece of paper. How can you fight when you’re stuck in here. But I promise you, Ricky, when we get out of ’ere we’ll buy the best ponies in the world and outmount everyone.’
In late August the Hon Basil Baddingham dropped in on his old friend, Rupert Campbell-Black, curious to see how Rupert was coping with one of his first surgeries as the new MP for Chalford and Bisley. Even before entering the constituency office, Bas was assaulted by wafts of scent. Being an expert on such matters, he identified Femme, Fracas, Joy and Diorella, before they all merged into one, totally eclipsing the tobacco-sweet smell of the large buddleia outside the door, although the dozens of peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies cruising over the long amethyst flowers, reflected Bas, were not unlike the gaudy constituents who thronged the waiting room, patting their hair and powdering their noses.
Bas had expected the people haunting MPs’ surgeries to be largely pensioners seeking smaller electricity bills and quicker hip replacements. This lot looked as though they needed a husband replacement, and as Rupert had just divorced his wife Helen, they must have high hopes. Some were very pretty. Perhaps I ought to go into politics, thought Bas.
‘I’m afraid if you haven’t an appointment there’s no way Mr Campbell-Black can see you,’ said the thoroughly flustered agent. ‘It’s like the first day of the sales here.’
‘I only dropped in socially,’ said Bas. ‘Just tell him I’m here.’
Finding himself a corner on the dark green leather seat, Bas picked up a July Horse and Hound which had a large photograph of himself, Kevin Coley of Doggie Dins and the disgusting Napier brothers jubilantly hoisting the Gold Cup above their heads.
‘Basil Baddingham, playing well above his handicap,’ said the copy, ‘found the flags twice in the crucial fifth chukka.’
Bas smirked and, glancing up, saw several of the occupants of the waiting room eyeing him with great interest. He smiled back at the prettiest one, who dropped her eyes, then looked again when she thought he wasn’t looking. Just back from Deauville, Bas was very brown.
Women got awfully restless in August, he thought. It was an awareness of summer running out and lovers being away with their wives and seemingly unending school holidays. The pretty one, who was wearing a pink cotton jersey cardigan and jeans, had just been summoned to see Rupert. She had a glorious bottom.
Bas was an ‘Hon’ because his official father had been ennobled for his work as a munitions manufacturer during the war. After twenty-three years of utter fidelity to Lord Pop Pop, as he was known, Bas’s mother had had a mad fling with an Argentine polo player. The result was Bas, who had inherited both his father’s amorous and equestrian skills. A very early marriage had ended in divorce and no children. Having no intention of getting caught again, at thirty-four Bas dabbled in property, ran a very successful wine bar, hunted all winter, played polo and was known, after Rupert Campbell-Black, as the worst rake in the West of England.
Having spent many happy autumns buying ponies and playing polo in the Argentine, Bas’s loyalties had been torn apart by the Falklands War. He had loathed seeing his second fatherland so humiliated. But Bas was a commercial animal and he was even more irritated that he was banned from buying Argentine ponies any more.
He had also recently bought a large tract of land round Rutshire Polo Club, on which he intended to build upmarket polo yards with glamorous houses attached, and flog them at a vast profit to poloholics like Victor Kaputnik and Bart Alderton. Unfortunately Rutshire Polo Club was not the draw it should have been. The bar was useless. The Argentine players, who had added such glamour, had been forced to turn back in mid-flight, and with Drew Benedict away in the Falklands and Ricky in prison, the attendance had dwindled drastically.
The scented ladies were getting restless. The girl in the pink cardigan had been in with Rupert for ages. When she came out, Bas’s expert eye noticed the flushed face and the buttons done up on the wrong holes.
‘Mr Baddingham,’ said the agent.
‘I was next,’ thundered a big woman in dungarees.
‘I’m afraid Mr Campbell-Black can’t see anyone else today,’ said the agent, desperately trying to stem the storm of protest. ‘He had to return to London for a crucial meeting with the PM.’
Grinning, Bas slid into Rupert’s office.
‘Bloody good winning the Gold Cup,’ said Rupert.
‘Bloody marvellous winning the World Championships,’ said Bas. ‘The ideal moment to retire.’
‘Not sure I should have done,’ said Rupert, looking ruefully at the pile of papers. ‘Show-jumping’s much easier than this. Facts at your fingertips indeed. My fingertips are more used to pleasuring other things.’
Rupert’s suntan from the World Championships didn’t altogether hide the dark circles under his eyes. Too much sex, recent divorce or withdrawal symptoms at announcing his retirement, wondered Bas.
‘I’ve only got ten minutes,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m going back to London.’
‘On a Friday night? She must be special. Who is she?’
‘Beattie Johnson.’ Rupert was unable to resist boasting.
Bas whistled. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Sensational in bed,’ said Rupert.
‘And utterly unscrupulous in print,’ said Bas disapprovingly.
‘It’s all right. She’s abandoned The Scorpion for six months to ghost my memoirs.’
‘A house ghost!’ said Bas. ‘Look, Ricky’s coming out of prison next month.’
Rupert raised his eyes to heaven: ‘Christ! Having jacked in show-jumping, I know exactly how he must feel not being able to play polo. We ought to join Hooked on Horses Anonymous.’
‘Wasn’t so bad in prison,’ said Bas. ‘He had a routine and people all round him. He liked the people.’
‘Well, he was brought up on a large estate,’ said Rupert. ‘He should know how to get on with the working classes.’
‘How’s he going to cope when he gets out?’ asked Bas. ‘That bloody great house, no Chessie, no Will. Look, I want to show you an amazing girl.’
‘I’ve got one.’ Rupert looked at his watch. ‘In London.’
‘It’s on your way,’ said Bas.
Down at Rutshire Polo Club, the huge trees in their midi-dresses were turning yellow. A scattering of mothers lined Ground Two.
‘This is the Pony Club,’ said Rupert, outraged. ‘I’m off.’
‘One chukka,’ said Bas soothingly. ‘Watch number three in the black shirt on the dark brown mare with the white blaze.’
Only the narrowness of the waist, the curl of the thigh and the slight fullness in the T-shirt indicated that the player was a girl.
Next moment Perdita had tapped the ball out of a jumble of sticks and stamping ponies’ legs, ridden off the opposing number three, dummied past the white number four and scored. Two minutes later she scored again with an incredible back shot from twenty yards.
‘Not only does she get to the ball in time to examine it for bugs,’ said Bas, ‘but she plays with five times more aggression than any of the boys.’
‘Not bad,’ said Rupert grudgingly. ‘In fact she’s almost as good as I was when I started. But the competition’s pathetic. She wouldn’t stand up even in low goal.’
‘Would if she were properly taught. She’s fantastic-looking close up. Just think what a draw she’d be here in a few years’ time. A really stunning good girl player.’
‘Just because you want to push up the price of the land round the club.’
‘You can buy in too,’ said Bas.
Thundering down the field, Perdita caught one of the opposition on the hop.
‘Get off my fucking line, you creaming little poofter,’ she screamed and, whipping the ball past him, flicked it between the posts.
‘Fine command of the English language,’ said Rupert, ‘and that’s an exceptionally nice mare.’
‘It’s Ricky’s,’ said Bas. ‘Since he’s been in prison his ponies have been turned out and Perdita’s been borrowing them all summer without asking. That happens to be Kinta; Best Playing Pony at Deauville last year.’
Rupert took another look at Perdita as she lined up for the throw-in.
‘Didn’t she come out with the East Cotchester last year?’
‘That’s the one. Father walked out, lost all their money. Girl like that ought to be sponsored. She’s bankable – and bonkable. Has the Ministry for Sport got any spare cash?’
‘None,’ said Rupert, getting into his car. ‘Polo’s too elitist. Everything’s going to the Olympic Fund.’
‘Well, at least let’s give her to Ricky. He can’t play for ages because of his elbow. He can’t drive or go abroad for a year. If he’s not going to drink himself insensible, we’ve got to find him an interest.’
14
To avoid the press, Ricky was let out of prison by a side door two hours early. His tweed jacket hung off him, the faded brown cords were held up by an old school tie, the cuffs of his check shirt slipped over his knuckles like mittens. Once through the door, he took a great shuddering breath. A thrush was singing in the sycamores. The sun had just risen in a tidal wave of rose and turquoise, but dense inky blue storm clouds gathered menacingly in the West.
Ricky was expecting Joel, his farm manager, with the Land-Rover. Instead, spotlit against this thunderous backdrop, lounging around a vast open Bentley, like characters out of Scott Fitzgerald, were Rupert, Bas, Drew and a tousled but undeniably desirable blonde who was wearing Rupert’s dinner jacket over her rose-printed silk dress.
