by Jilly Cooper
‘And here we have the other finalists in the Jack Gannon, unbeaten for the last three years, the South Shushex.’ Fatty Harris got it half right this time.
Randy, Merlin, Paul and Trace rode with a swagger and there was no doubt their ponies were the sleekest, fittest and most expensive of all.
‘I’m sure you all know that Trace Coley, the daughter of Kevin Coley, Chairman of Doggie Dins and our sponsor, is South Sussex’s Number One in the final today,’ announced Fatty Harris.
Kevin raised both clasped hands in a salute to acknowledge luke-warm cheers; Trace lifted her whip.
‘She’s left her hair loose, the little tart,’ said Perdita contemptuously. ‘That’ll cost them the turn-out prize even if they win everything else. Oh, I wish Ricky was here.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Fatty Harris, ‘I give you the Pony Club.’
At the sight of these serried, beautifully turned-out ranks, this huge army with their polo sticks on their collarbones like bayonets, a deafening cheer went up. Fathers rushed about with video cameras, mothers wiped their eyes. Randy and Merlin Sherwood’s beautiful mother adjusted her mascara in the driving mirror and eyed Rupert Campbell-Black who’d just rolled up alone in a dark green Ferrari to watch his daughter, Tabitha, play in the first final for the under-fourteens. Rupert, who’d just been appointed Tory Minister for Sport, eyed Mrs Sherwood back.
Then, suddenly, out of the sky like a vast whirring hornet came a black helicopter. Perdita gave a gasp as it landed to the west of the pitch. The door flew open and, like a page from Nigel Dempster, out jumped the Carlisle twins, Seb carrying Decorum, their bull terrier, and Dommie helping out a redhead and a blonde whose skirts immediately blew above their heads to show off wonderful suntanned legs. They were followed by Dancer in dark glasses and black leather, Twinkle and Paulie, each with an Alsatian, and finally – Perdita gave a scream of delight – by Ricky with Little Chef in his arms.
‘Now, members of the Pony Club, will you please walk off the pitch,’ exhorted Fatty Harris. ‘We owe it to the Cowdray ground and to Lord Cowdray to walk off.’
In the past the temptation to gallop across the hallowed Cowdray turf, which so many of them were not going to have the chance to play on, had been too much for the teams. Dreadful stampedes had resulted, with the whole field being cut up before a ball had been hit, which had resulted in turn in threats of not being allowed back. The sight of Ricky, however, was too much for Perdita.
‘I’m here,’ she screamed, and digging her heels into Hermia, went straight into a gallop towards the helicopter, followed by 199 yelling Pony Club members, who fortunately veered off to the left, and didn’t trample the new arrivals to death.
‘Disgraceful,’ spluttered Sukey. ‘She should lose her scholarship for that.’
Drew shrugged. ‘The sooner she’s packed off to New Zealand away from Ricky the better.’
Seeing her master, Hermia ground to a halt and whinnied with pleasure. Little Chef leapt up and licked her nose.
Jumping off, Perdita threw herself into Dancer’s arms, hugged the twins, and then turned more shyly to Ricky. Her heart was crashing around like Big Ben about to strike.
‘Thank you so much. I never thought it’d make so much difference,’ she gabbled.
Ricky put up a hand and touched her cheek.
‘Hermia looks well,’ he said, ‘and much h-h-happier.’
‘She shakes hands for a Polo now,’ said Perdita.
‘You’d better win. We’ve all got money on it,’ said Dancer. ‘Can you get that crate of Moët out?’ he added to Twinkle.
The twins, who had only left the Pony Club two years ago, pushed off to see their old chums. Everyone else landed up beside Drew’s Land-Rover. Soon the autograph hunters were swarming round Drew, Bas and Dancer. It broke Perdita’s heart that Ricky, who’d only been out of top-class polo for three years, was totally ignored.
‘What a lovely shirt,’ said Sukey to Bas. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Marks and Spencer, I think,’ said Bas.
‘There, you see,’ Sukey chided Drew. ‘I’m always telling you there’s no need to go to Harvie and Hudson.’
Seeing the flash of anger in Drew’s eyes, Bas tactfully enquired after the baby. He’d forgotten what sex it was.
‘Oh, Jamie’s at home,’ said Sukey. ‘I’m amazed how Drew dotes on him. Men love having a boy, don’t they?’ She turned to Ricky. ‘It matters so much to a man having an heir.’
For a second, as Ricky’s face went dead, Bas and Dancer exchanged horrified glances.
‘Isn’t that Tabitha Campbell-Black playing for the East Cotchester?’ said Bas, as a tiny figure, jaw thrust out, white stick-like legs flailing, thundered down the boards. ‘Come on, Tabitha.’
‘Man, man, man,’ screamed the tiny figure to the East Cotchester Number Three. ‘Take the fucking man, for Christ’s sake.’
The umpire blew his whistle. ‘That’ll be forty against you for swearing, young lady. Consider yourself lucky you haven’t been sent off.’
Bellowed on by her father, Tabitha scored three goals and East Cotchester won the Handley Cross.
Leaning against the Land-Rover, Daisy drew Rupert. Goodness, he had a beautiful face. Then she drew Ricky with his sombre, slanting dark eyes and then Drew twice, trying not to make him too handsome. In pencil, she could never capture the blueness of his eyes. Having sketched Bas as a merry Restoration rake, she had a crack at Sukey. Not easy – Sukey’s charm was all in her colouring. She had a long face and such a naked forehead, Daisy found herself turning her into a polo pony.
‘I’d hide that if I were you.’
Looking up with a start, Daisy saw that Ricky was actually smiling.
‘Oh my God.’ Daisy ripped out the page.
‘Very appropriate,’ said Ricky, taking it from her. ‘I’m sure Sukey turns on sixpence.’
‘She has a turn if Drew spends sixpence,’ said Bas, peering over Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Bloody good, that’s brilliant of Rupert. I’m much better looking than that.’
Giggling, Daisy stuffed the page into her pocket.
‘I’ve done a couple of Hermia, in fact several,’ she shoved the book at Ricky. He really was the most shy-making man.
Ricky flicked through, really looking. ‘You’ve got her, even that little scar over her eye. They’re marvellous.’
‘Keep them,’ said Daisy, blushing.
‘I framed your cat. You must come and see it.’
‘You must come and have supper sometime,’ Daisy was staggered to hear herself saying. It must be the vodka.
‘I’d like that,’ said Ricky.
And he always says no to Philippa Mannering, thought Daisy. Perhaps if he fancied Perdita he saw her as a potential mother-in-law.
‘Hello, Ricky,’ said a shrill voice. Grinning up at him, her two front teeth missing, was Tabitha Campbell-Black.
‘Hello, Tab. D’you know Mrs Macleod?’
‘You played very well,’ said Daisy.
‘I know. None of the others did.’ Tabitha, who had all the beauty and arrogance of her father, was now gouging out the centre of Sukey’s home-made fruitcake with both hands.
‘Have you had a good camp?’ asked Ricky.
‘Great. I haven’t cleaned my teeth for a week.’
‘They’ll fall out.’
‘No, they’re used to it.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘Chatting up Randy Sherwood’s mother. He’s given Beattie Johnson the push, which is a shame. She never minded me getting into bed with her and Daddy.’
‘Has he bought any new horses?’
‘Yes, a stallion called Lord Thomas. He’s so good, I hold the mares when he mates with them. Lord Thomas is the perfect gentleman, he always licks the mares afterwards.’
‘Unlike his father,’ murmured Ricky to Daisy, as Tabitha scampered off.
21
The Rutshire and the South Sussex were warming up their ponies for the Jack
Gannon. The long wait had told on Perdita’s nerves.
‘Think positive,’ she said through clattering teeth.
Mike Waterlane was grey. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Daddy.’
‘Hopefully, he’s had a shunt,’ said Patrick Lombard, tightening his girths.
The pale yellow flowers of the traveller’s joy entwined in the hedgerows brought no happiness to David Waterlane stuck behind a convoy of cars on the Midhurst Road which was held up by a huge lorry with a sign saying ‘Horses’ on the back.
‘Bound to be show-jumpers – bloody yobbos,’ said David Waterlane apoplectically.
There was no way he was going to reach Cowdray nor his son’s match for the throw-in. The new Lady Waterlane, having drunk three-quarters of a bottle of Bollinger and achieved two and a half orgasms, was well content.
‘Go for the girl,’ ordered Randy Sherwood, as South Sussex rode on to the field. ‘Mark her stupid, bash the hell out of her. Once she loses her rag, they’ll all go to pieces.’
‘I want 5-0 on the scoreboard by half-time,’ Drew told Rutshire, ‘and don’t let Randy get loose.’
‘My son is one,’ announced a large mother, whose red veins matched her dress.
‘That’s a lovely age. Is he crawling?’ asked Seb Carlisle’s girlfriend.
‘She’s talking about his handicap,’ said Sukey in a low voice, and looked very disapproving when Daisy started to laugh.
To a whirring of cine-cameras and a gratifying clicking of Nikons, Enid Coley progressed graciously into the stands. No-one could see a thing round her big spotted hat. Kevin Coley was busy supervising four different video cameramen to capture Trace’s every stroke of genius on the field. Seeing Dancer and Drew talking to Mrs Sherwood and Rupert and, being a terrible star fucker, he barged into the group.
‘Let the best man win,’ he smirked at Drew.
‘Well, it certainly won’t be you,’ drawled Rupert.
Mrs Sherwood turned and smiled at Kevin. After all, he was picking up her sons’ expenses. ‘Do you know Dancer Maitland and Rupert Campbell-Black, Kevin?’
‘Rather too well,’ said the new Minister for Sport, his eyes like chips of ice.
‘Shut up,’ said Drew out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I hope he’s going to sponsor me.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ went on Rupert, not lowering his voice at all. ‘Kevin sponsored a friend of mine a few years ago and took over his wife. If you’re going into business with Kev, I’d slap Sukey into a chastity belt pronto.’
‘That is quite uncalled for,’ spluttered Kevin.
‘They’re about to throw-in. Come on, Rutshire,’ shouted Bas, filling up everyone’s glasses.
‘Why are you wearing that wrist brace?’ Merlin asked Randy as he lined up behind Justin Lombard.
‘Too much wanking,’ said Mike Waterlane, going bright pink at his own daring.
‘I don’t need to wank, you little pipsqueak,’ snapped Randy, nodding and smirking in Trace’s direction. ‘I’ve got the real thing.’
‘I hope she’s better at screwing than polo,’ hissed Perdita, who, like a cat waiting to spring, was watching the umpire’s hand.
‘You bitch,’ squealed Trace.
The umpire, who was having great difficulty controlling his dapple-grey pony, hurled the ball in. Hermia hated throw-ins. It took all the strength of Perdita’s frantically squeezing legs to stop her ducking out. Reaching over, however, she managed to hook Randy’s stick, so Mike was able to tap the ball away. Thundering towards the centre of the field, giving two South Sussex players the slip, Perdita picked up a beautiful pass from Mike, skedaddled easily round Paul Hedley, hit two glorious offside forehands towards goal, before cutting the ball perfectly through the buttercup-yellow goal posts. Up went the yellow flag.
‘That’ll teach you to booze at lunchtime,’ she said sweetly to Randy as she cantered back.
After that Randy really had it in for her. Taking a pass from Patrick during the next chukka, she set out once more for goal.
‘Leave,’ brayed a hoarse donkey voice behind her, ‘leave, you bloody idiot.’
For a fatal second Perdita paused, thinking it was Mike shouting. Turning her head, she saw it was Randy Sherwood imitating Mike to muddle her, and that he was the only player in pursuit and had now gained valuable distance. The ball was ahead on her left. As she stood up in her stirrups, stretching over Hermia’s nearside shoulder to hit the forehand, her right leg automatically swivelled up in the air. Lined up along the south of the field, the crowd could only see her left side. One umpire was up the other end, the other was too busy controlling his refractory pony to watch what Randy was up to. A second later he had neatly kicked her right stirrup out. Perdita mis-hit wildly, and only by some miracle stayed in the saddle, by which time Randy had backed the ball upfield to Merlin, who scored.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita, racing down the field, twirling her stick in the air, which was against the rules.
She also knew that she should have reported the foul to Mike, who would then make an official complaint to the umpire, but she was too angry.
‘The fucking, cheating bastard,’ she screamed. ‘He kicked out my stirrup.’
‘I what?’ asked Randy, the picture of innocence.
The umpires conferred, then, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee in their striped shirts, cantered over to the third man in the stands, who’d been gazing at Mrs Sherwood at the time and missed the incident altogether, and who now waved his down-turned palms back and forth to indicate no foul.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Perdita hysterically. ‘Bloody, dirty cheat.’
The umpires awarded a thirty-yard penalty to South Sussex.
At the slowest, most mocking hand-canter Randy Sherwood circled and stroked the ball between the posts.
‘You’re making things seriously easy for us,’ he told a raging Perdita as he cantered back.
Despite dogged marking by Rutshire, the superior pony power of South Sussex was beginning to tell. They were six-five ahead and Drew and Ricky had their heads together at half-time. Then, as the Rutshire ponies’ girths were loosened and they were washed down, scraped and walked round by the grooms, Drew called a brief team meeting.
‘I’m going to swap you over,’ he said. ‘You’re going to Number Four, Justin, and you’re moving up to Number Two, Mike.’
Mike lowered the can of Coke which he’d been emptying down his parched throat.
‘I couldn’t. I’ll never hold Randy.’
‘Randy’s got a slower pony in this chukka, who won’t like Dopey taking a piece of him in the line-out one bit.’
It was a wise change. Randy’s late night and heavy lunch were telling on him. He was not seeing the ball so well. Like a fly on an open sore, Mike harassed him, the way Randy had harassed Perdita earlier, and was too busy to notice that his father had finally arrived. Randy got so mad, he slashed Mike across the knuckles with his stick. The umpire, who’d finally got control of his pony, gave Rutshire a penalty. Taking it, Mike hit the post, but a hovering Patrick Lombard slammed it in. Six all. The cheering was now non-stop.
Perdita had the line and was cantering a wilting Hermia down the boards, her roan coat turned the colour of red cabbage with sweat, her breath coming in huge gasps. Ahead, the ball was bumping and slowly losing momentum over the divots, and Paul Hedley, the South Sussex Number Four, was galloping over to ride her off and back the ball up the field. What was that fake she’d practised with Ricky and Dancer last week? She checked a grateful Hermia. Paul checked his big, black thoroughbred. Perdita checked Hermia even harder, Paul followed suit. Filled with the devil, Perdita swung Hermia even closer to the boards, so the ponies’ nearside hooves were scraping the paint off, and Paul, who’d been instructed to mark Perdita at all costs, stayed with her.
For a second his mind was off the ball, leaving it free for Patrick Lombard to belt in and whip it away, dribbling it for a few yards, then powering it to Mike
, who, relishing his new freedom at Number Two, took it up field.
Merlin, who’d been covering for Paul and protecting the South Sussex’s goal, cleared once again, but Perdita blocked his shot. She could have tried for goal, but Mike had an easier shot so she gave him a lightning, nearside, under-the-neck pass. The whole ground groaned as Mike hit the post. Like Chrissie Evert executing an effortless backhand crosscourt volley at Wimbledon, Perdita shot forward and whacked the ball home. Seven-six, Rutshire were in the lead – the ground erupted, flat caps were being hurled in the air. Horns tooted. There were fifteen seconds left of play.
‘We can’t go to extra time,’ Drew muttered to Ricky. ‘Our ponies have had it.’
Realizing this, Randy shook off Mike at the throw-in and raced off to level the score.
‘Look at the ground opening up for Randy Sherwood,’ said Fatty Harris. ‘Watch him going into overdraught, whoops, I mean overdrive. Can Randy make it seven all?’
Randy felt he could. With Sherwood arrogance, he lifted his stick for the copybook cut shot. Next moment Perdita, streaking down the field, had thrown herself out of the saddle and clinging with her left hand round Hermia’s damp hot neck, hooked Randy as the final bell tolled for South Sussex. The crowd went crazy.
‘Ouch,’ howled Ricky.
‘Oh my God,’ gasped Daisy, letting him go. ‘Was that your bad arm?’
‘Nothing’s bad at this moment,’ said Ricky triumphantly.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ yelled Drew.
‘I knew they’d win easy,’ crowed Dancer.
‘Swap jerseys with me, I dare you,’ said Merlin Sherwood to Perdita. Without missing a beat, she whipped off her Prussian-blue shirt to show a flash of white breast and browny-pink nipple before she dived into Merlin’s olive-green jersey.
‘Did you see that?’ said Sukey in a shocked voice to Brigadier Canford.
‘Indeed I did,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Wish I’d brought binoculars. Damn fine little player.’
Stripped to the waist, brown from the Zimbabwe sun, Randy rode up to Perdita to shake her hand. Grabbing it, he pulled her towards him. For a second she felt his hot, strong sweaty body against hers, then he kissed her.
