Polo

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Get back on that horse,’ screamed Patricio as Miguel picked up the ball again and took it towards the Mendozas’ goal-mouth.

  ‘I don’t want to be killed,’ yelled back Angel. Once more the crowd howled with laughter.

  Fortunately Fantasma believed in defending her goalmouth as ferociously as she protected Luke or even a bucket of pony nuts. Seeing Miguel hurtling towards the goal, she calmly sent his much larger pony flying, stumbled and miraculously righted herself. Then, positioning herself perfectly for Luke to hit the backhand, she instantly wheeled round and displayed a staggering burst of acceleration which enabled Luke to power the ball upfield.

  Juan’s umpiring brother-in-law was so struck with admiration that his whistle dropped out of his mouth.

  What a horse, thought Luke exultantly.

  Devastating the O’Briens’ defence with an offside forehand, he put the ball twenty yards in front of a remounted Angel. Only Perdita and an O’Brien cousin were between Angel and the goal now. Angel didn’t want to pass to Perdita, but as a hundred and fifty-five pounds of O’Brien cousin with razor-sharp elbows hurtled towards him, it seemed the easier option. The sweat cascading into her eyes made it difficult for Perdita to see the ball.

  ‘Aim for the left goal post; don’t go to pieces,’ she told herself frantically as she scooped up the ball and tapped it into position.

  ‘You’re going to be hooked,’ bellowed Luke.

  Glancing round she saw Juan thundering down on her, a predatory smile on his handsome face. Lowering her stick, aware of Angel on her left, she flicked the ball to him under her pony’s neck, and with a lovely click of his mallet, Angel stroked in an exquisite nearside cut shot making the score 28-9 to the Mendozas on the half-time bell.

  ‘Well played, Angel,’ said Patricio, falling on his neck as they cantered off the field.

  Bastards, thought Perdita, patting her pony over and over again. We made that goal.

  Back at the pony lines, morale in the Mendoza camp was sky high. The O’Briens might have scored nine goals, but they had all been penalties. It was only when she stopped playing that Perdita realized how hot it was. Towelling the sweat off her face, she wrung out her wet shirt. She would have liked to have drunk a whole bottle of Evian but limited herself to a few gulps, which she immediately spat out. Angel’s olive skin had hardly changed colour, but Luke rode up with his face brick red from the heat and delighted that Fantasma and his team had played so brilliantly.

  ‘Well played, you guys. They’re mad now. They’re rowing amongst themselves. That was a helluva shot, Angel, and from you, Patricio. You’re making Juan look as though he’s never been on a horse before.’

  Then, taking a swig of diet Coke, he turned to Perdita.

  ‘Well done, baby! You made that last goal, setting up the shot for Angel.’

  Perdita could have wept with gratitude, particularly when he turned on the others: ‘You gotta give Perdita more work. She’s dying of loneliness and heat stroke out there.’ For a brief minute he massaged her shoulders, pressing his thumbs in, unknotting the muscles. ‘And I hope you notice she’s covering for you whenever you get loose.’

  Patricio put a perfunctory hand on Perdita’s shoulder, which was an amazing concession, but Angel’s eyes were still as cold as an Alaskan lake.

  ‘Christ, I wish there was a Ladies’ loo,’ said Perdita, taking a swig of Luke’s diet Coke and rubbing ice all over her burning face.

  ‘Use the Men’s room,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll keep guard, but be quick.’

  Perdita was in such a hurry that at first she didn’t notice the gasps and groans that were coming from the next-door cubicle, the walls of which seemed to be heaving as violently as Fantasma’s sides after the last chukka. Then, overwhelmed by curiosity, she climbed on to the lavatory seat and, peering over, had to stifle a scream of laughter. For there was Sharon, her big hat lying like a whole Brie on the floor, her parasol neatly folded in the corner, and her muslin skirt and silk petticoat once more over her head, while Juan, bronzed hands clamped to her snow-white bottom, drove in and out with far more energy than he’d shown on the field.

  ‘Oh, Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,’ gasped Sharon, as one of his brown hands disappeared into her bush, ‘ay’m comin’.’

  Glancing out of the glassless window, Perdita saw a grim-faced Mrs Juan advancing towards the Gents, and not wanting to be blamed, shot out of the door. Hysterical with giggles, she told Luke.

  ‘Sharon’s umbrella is down – probably thinks it’s unlucky indoors – but Juan is definitely up.’

  ‘Pity,’ grinned Luke. ‘There’ll be no holding him now.’

  ‘Sharon was certainly holding him just then,’ said Perdita, doubling up with laughter again. ‘Talk about Long Dong Juan! Shall we tip off Victor? Then he won’t buy any of Juan’s ponies.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Luke, trying to be serious. ‘Get back on Chimango. We’ve got a match to win.’

  ‘Thank God my father isn’t playing,’ murmured Patricio to Angel as, aware of the admiration of the crowd, they rode back on to the field. ‘I love my father, but Señor Gracias is better captain. He doesn’t shout all the time and he puts us on the right horses.’

  ‘I hope he stops that shit Miguel killing me,’ said Angel, chucking away his cigarette. ‘I can’t believe we’re so much ahead.’

  ‘And can beat them,’ said Patricio.

  But as they went into the fatal fourth, the sun went behind a donkey-grey cloud and everything went wrong. Angel, trying to block a shot, went straight across Juan, who was given a thirty-yard penalty, which Miguel tipped between the posts. Patricio, at last obeying Luke’s nagging, gave Perdita a lovely pass just in front of goal, which she promptly hit wide; then down the other end Angel backed the ball by mistake to Miguel, who promptly scored.

  ‘I know about zee horses,’ sighed Raimundo at mid-field, ‘but not about zee players.’

  Two more dubious fouls were called against the Mendozas and then Juan, liberated by his bang in the loo, suddenly woke up. Eyes sparkling, medallion glittering in the returned sunlight, he went into an orgy of brilliance notching up nine goals in one chukka.

  ‘Hoo-arn has not lost his touch,’ said Sharon smugly, as Juan swaggered back to the pony lines acknowledging the cheers with his stick.

  ‘Steady down, steady down. We can do it, we can do it,’ urged Luke, walking round banging his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. ‘Juan’s on a really fast pony this chukka, Angel. Don’t get into a horse race with him. You gotta outfox him and not let him get the ball.’

  But nothing could stop Juan and his magic mallet now. Tapping in four goals in as many minutes, he levelled the score. Getting the ball out yet again, he set off upfield.

  ‘Vamos, vamos,’ yelled the crowd as Angel whipped and spurred his slower pony after him. Luckily the ball hit a divot, Juan missed it and Angel checked his pony for the backhand. Instantly Miguel crashed into him broadside, ramming him so hard that the pony swung round 180 degrees, totally winded. Up went the sticks of the Mendozas.

  ‘Faulazo,’ they yelled.

  ‘Faulazo,’ yelled Claudia and the Mendoza supporters.

  ‘Faulazo,’ yelled almost the entire crowd.

  Jaime, the umpire, shot a nervous glance at Mrs Juan, who folded her arms implacably and shook her head. Jaime was just awarding against Angel for crossing Miguel when Perdita took matters into her own sweaty hands. Charging up to Miguel, she bashed him on the wrist with her stick.

  ‘Stop it, you great bully,’ she screamed. ‘That’s the third time you’ve tried to kill Angel.’

  ‘For Chrissake, Perdita,’ roared Luke.

  Lifting his stick, Miguel would have clouted her back if the O’Brien brother-in-law hadn’t bravely ridden between them. Giving Perdita a bollocking, he awarded the O’Briens a free goal.

  ‘Why you do that?’ Angel asked her in amazement.

  ‘I hate you,’ spat Perdita, ‘but I hate dirty play even mor
e.’

  Unfortunately Alejandro had chosen the worst possible time to arrive and witnessed the whole incident. Guilty at rolling up so late after a little detour to Buenos Aires and expecting carnage, he was irritated to see how staggeringly well his team had done without him. Stopping only briefly to kiss Sharon’s hand and embrace Victor and make sure they would be staying the night in General Piran, he went off to shout at his team.

  ‘You’re all loose. Stop tapping and ’eet it. You change wiz Angel, Luke, so you can mark Juan, and as for you,’ he turned, roaring, on Perdita, ‘’ow dare you ’it Miguel? You should ’ave been sent off. I said we shouldn’t ’ave played her,’ he added to Luke.

  Finally, glancing at the four ponies being walked round for the last chukka, he bellowed that they were the wrong ones and ordered Raimundo to tack up others, immediately.

  Luke had gone very still.

  ‘Leave those ponies as they are,’ he said softly to Raimundo, then, taking Alejandro by the arm, drew him away from the others.

  ‘You asked me to captain this side because you were too goddam lazy to play and you don’t like being pussy-whipped. They played like angels, right, and unless you want my fist in your fucking face, get off my case.’

  Alejandro was so flabbergasted that he sauntered off to regain some ascendancy by extravagantly complimenting Sharon.

  ‘Now, calm down,’ said Luke, turning back with a grin to his astounded team. ‘They’re only two goals ahead and we’re younger, fitter and braver. Let’s bury them.’

  Seeing Juan mounting a black thoroughbred who could have won the Kentucky Derby, he put Angel up on a very fast dark brown mare he’d intended to ride himself. Then he had a battle with his conscience. If he rode Fantasma again, they had twice as good a chance of winning, but if Victor and Sharon took another look at such a showy, beautiful horse they might want to buy her. He glanced over at Fantasma who was dying to get back into the action. Standing gazing at the pitch, her dark eyes wide with excitement, scraping up the dust with her hooves, she ran her muzzled nose restlessly along Umberto’s arm until he cursed her as he led her round. Luke went over and tightened her girths. He’d have to find more money from somewhere else.

  Perdita was now riding a beautiful chestnut called Cuchilla.

  ‘Good milk, Perdita,’ Angel called to her as they cantered upfield for the throw-in. Perdita ignored him.

  ‘I say, good milk, Perdita.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she snapped. She assumed it was some beastly crack implying that she should be breast-feeding rather than playing.

  Somehow in the last chukka the Mendozas steadied. But it was a pandemonium of frantic swordplay and scrimmaging around the Mendoza goal-mouth until it seemed impossible that the goal-hungry green-and-white posts hadn’t swallowed the ball. Finally, taking a fearful risk, Luke left his back door open and took the ball upfield, outrunning Juan, snaking Fantasma past the two O’Brien cousins, then passing to Angel. Once again only Perdita, who was glued to Miguel, stood between him and goal. Aware there was no way Angel would give Perdita the chance to score, Miguel galloped forward to bump him off the ball. Discounted, ignored, Perdita waited despondently behind him. Good milk indeed. Then, to her amazement, Angel had passed Miguel with a ravishing offside forehand landing right at her feet. For a second she froze as Miguel yanked his horse round so violently that he cut its mouth and pounded towards her. Then, with her back to the goal and no time to position herself, she executed that most foolhardy of shots, known as the millionaire’s, because only a rich man can afford to jeopardize his pony in this way. Pulling the ball towards her, she slammed it between Cuchilla’s beautifully clean front and back legs and under her bound-up tail. Having miraculously missed any limbs, the refractory ball hit the posts and bounced back.

  ‘Bad milk, Perdita,’ shouted Angel, then galloped up screaming, ‘Dejala, dejala, dejala.’

  Next moment he had scored and the crowd went wild. Only one goal behind with two minutes left.

  ‘Bad milk, Perdita,’ said Angel, riding up to her as they cantered back for the throw-in.

  Jaime Calavessi, who longed for an O’Brien victory to get him off the hook, hurled the ball in. Taking no chances, Juan tapped it away and set out, like Paul Revere, on his thoroughbred black pony Glitz. As he galloped down the boards Patricio raced alongside him waiting for a chance to ride him off and pinch the ball. Failing to tempt Patricio on to his line, Juan suddenly pulled Glitz up in a frenzy of outrage, twirling his stick to indicate he’d been crossed.

  ‘Manufactured,’ yelled Luke, Patricio, Angel and Perdita in unison. Then, advancing on a cringing Jaime, ‘That foul was manufactured.’

  ‘Faulazo,’ yelled the O’Briens, closing in on Jaime.

  Jaime fingered his aching jaw. Glancing up, he saw an unsmiling Mrs Juan draw her finger across her throat. In a superb display of arrogance, Miguel walked his pony off to a spot thirty yards from the Mendozas’ goal as though the penalty was a fait accompli. Jaime awarded the penalty to the O’Briens.

  ‘It’s not bloody fair,’ said Perdita as they lined up behind their back line. ‘This whole game is rigged and why does that bastard Angel keep saying good and bad milk to me?’

  Luke was revving Fantasma up to block Miguel’s shot, but suddenly he laughed. ‘The word leche means milk and luck in Spanish. I guess Angel was trying to wish you luck.’

  Jaime’s conscience was troubling him. There was only a minute left and Miguel was messing around joking with the other umpire, his brother-in-law, making a great play of teeing up the ball. Jaime caught sight of Perdita’s anguished face. She’d played so well and she was so much prettier than Mrs Juan – and he was, after all, a susceptible Argentine. Shutting his eyes, waiting for a thunderbolt to descend, he blew a foul on Miguel for wasting time. When all the O’Briens closed in on him he appealed to the third man, who woke up with a start. Deciding that the O’Briens were getting above themselves, he upheld Jaime’s decision. Giving the O’Briens no time to reassemble themselves, Luke lofted the ball over their heads, slap between the posts.

  With a minute to go the score was tied. The throw-in was murder, sticks going everywhere. Luke felt Fantasma wince as the ball hit her smack on the knee, but such was her courage that she limped for only a few paces, then set out again, vroom, vroom, vroom, to defend her own goal.

  The clock showed only twenty seconds left as Luke saved the Mendozas from certain defeat with another backshot. Swinging round, he streaked up the field like a man on a motor bike, outrunning Juan’s black thoroughbred, passing the two O’Brien cousins. What a glorious horse! Any minute he expected her to take off like Pegasus.

  Leering like some terrible shark, Miguel was now coming towards Luke and Fantasma at right-angles. Luke waited until the last moment to pass to Patricio who passed to Perdita.

  I’m going to score at last, she thought joyfully, then groaned in horror as she hit wide. They were all in the goal-mouth now, raising such a dust with their flailing sticks that no-one could see. Five seconds to go. Then, miraculously, Perdita saw the ball six feet in front of her. One of the O’Brien cousins was looming in through the smokescreen on her right. Clambering halfway up Cuchilla’s neck, only just managing to stay on by clinging on to the martingale with her left hand, she lunged forward and, with a one-handed billiard-cue shot, ignoring the pony crashing in on her left, she shunted the ball between the posts. She would have fallen under the pounding hooves if someone hadn’t grabbed her primrose jersey, ripping it apart in the process so her slim brown shoulder was laid bare, and tugged her back into the saddle.

  Coughing and spluttering, she swung round, reluctant to take her eyes off the jubilantly waving red flag, then realized in amazement that it had been Angel.

  For a second they glared at each other, then yelling, ‘We’ve beaten the O’Briens,’ they fell into each other’s arms.

  29

  Having drunk a great deal of champagne, they drove home in a manic mood, yelli
ng, ‘Juan O’Brien’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but his cock goes pumping on,’ and howling with laughter. It was a beautiful evening, a great stretch of brown-flecked cloud lay like a turned-down sheet over an endless blue blanket. They had each been given a little silver cup. Perdita’s lay between her thighs, clinking against Luke’s. Angel clutched his and in its reflection he occasionally examined an eye that was turning purple where Miguel’s elbow had caught him. Luke drove, his heart simultaneously bursting with pride and heavy with foreboding. Hanging from the windscreen was the red, white and blue rosette Fantasma had won as Best Playing Pony. Even though she’d nearly savaged the VIP presenting the awards when he tried to pin it on her headcollar, everyone wanted to buy her now. Alejandro might even overcome his greed and hang on to her himself. Worse still, Angel’s arm lay along the back of the seat, grazing Perdita’s hair. Was he going to lose her and Fantasma, wondered Luke. Then he told himself not to be absurd. Neither was his to lose. As he listened to Angel and Perdita re-living every stroke of the game, it never occurred to him to mind that it had not occurred to either of them that he had set up every goal they scored.