by Jilly Cooper
As the teams lined up in front of the grandstand Luke was further irritated by Red, who couldn’t stop laughing at Hal Peters, who was so fat that you could hardly see his pony beneath him. Hal, however, who was an even worse rider than Victor Kaputnik, was loving every minute. Grinning from very clean ear to ear, his face aglow like a Dutch cheese, he waved to all his friends in the crowd. The commentator announced each player and they then had to canter forward, to loud cheers, taking off their hats while hanging on to their whips and sticks and controlling their ponies. Hal’s horse, an opinionated piebald called Horace, nearly carted him back to the pony lines, much to the joy of the crowd.
Victor’s canter forward was even more hazardous as he had to hang on to a new, and rather startling, ginger toupee as well as removing his hat.
‘Ay encouraged Victor to wear his toupee,’ announced Sharon in the stands. ‘Ay think one is as young as one looks.’
There was another dicey moment when a vicar took the microphone and exhorted the crowd to ‘pray for these brave players’, and begged God to look after them all and save the President.
‘Ay-men,’ said Sharon bowing her head.
Hal, being a born-again Christian, insisted on putting his gloved hands together and closing his eyes during the prayer. Horace would have taken off again if Luke hadn’t grabbed his reins.
‘Hal is about to be borne away again,’ said Red, wiping his eyes.
‘Pack it in,’ snarled Luke. ‘And where the hell’s Auriel?’
Auriel, who had promised to ride on to the pitch in a Cheetah convertible and throw-in, had not turned up.
‘Oh, she’ll show,’ said Red arrogantly. ‘She likes making an entrance.’
Luke’s reply was drowned by a rock star in a maroon shirt slashed to the waist inviting the crowd to sing along to the Star Spangled Banner.
Among the two teams there was great potential for aggro. The thuggish Shark Nelligan was determined to take Luke out for pinching his patron. Alejandro and Shark, both backs, hated each other anyway, and Shark was particularly irritated today because Alejandro, being the higher-rated player, had retained the Number Four spot, forcing Shark to play at Number Three. Shark also hated Bobby Ferraro because he was younger and better looking. Jesus, the Chilean, hated Alejandro because they’d tangled over a Cuban beauty last year, and Jesus had a long-standing grudge against Victor because Victor had sacked him after finding him on the floor of a trailer with Sharon. All of them except Luke mistrusted Red because he was conceited and unpredictable.
After ten minutes, when Auriel still hadn’t shown up and the pop groups had played ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ twice more, her place was taken by Hal’s wife, Myrtle, who was even fatter and jollier than Hal, and who whooped and thrust up her arms to the crowd as the purple Cheetah convertible cruised to mid-field.
Chessie, who was sitting in the stands with Perdita, looked at Mrs Peters in horror. ‘Is Hal advertising spare tyres as well as cars?’ she said. ‘If he gets seriously caught up in polo, he’ll certainly dump Mrs Peters in a year or two for a Mark-II model with bum-length hair and a café au lait spray-on tan.’
‘Luke says they adore each other,’ said Perdita, ‘and pray by the bed every night.’
‘Mrs Peters ought to pray for a fifty-pound weight-loss,’ said Chessie. She was looking particularly beautiful in beige bermudas, a white cricket shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a straw hat trimmed with pale pink roses.
Perdita, who’d had her hair cut and thinned and was wearing a kingfisher-blue suit which had given absolutely no change from one of Bart’s $1,000 bills, was also feeling pretty good. Chessie had taken her to Worth Avenue on Friday and increased Perdita’s conviction that if she couldn’t have Ricky she’d only settle for a seriously rich man.
Huge thunderclouds were now gathering on the horizon. With all the delays, Mrs Peters didn’t throw-in until a quarter to four which wasn’t much fun for the ponies who’d been eaten alive by flies for two hours. As the players waded in as though they were killing rattlesnakes a huge illuminated scoreboard, like a Blackpool illumination, flashed up the name of the player hitting the ball and, later, whether he’d hit a safety or a penalty or scored, and how many seconds were left in the chukka.
‘Ay hear Angel, that charmin’ Argentine boy, is playing for Bart this season,’ Sharon said to Perdita. ‘Victor was most impressed by him. Do give him our number. That player is most attractive.’ She adjusted her binoculars. ‘Bay Jove, who’s he?’
‘My stepson,’ said Chessie drily.
‘He’s very appealing,’ said Sharon.
‘He never stops appealing,’ snapped Chessie. ‘He’s the bane of every umpire in Palm Beach.’
Sharon was bubbling with happiness and hardly able to keep secret the fact that Victor had poured so much money into the Tory party that he was to be knighted in the New Year’s Honour’s List.
‘Lady Sharon, Lady Kaputnik,’ she kept murmuring to herself. What a shame Victor hadn’t changed his name to something like Cavendish Whapshott.
‘Oh, there’s Hoo-arn arraiving,’ she squeaked in excitement. ‘Hello, Hoo-arn.’
‘Not a panti-girdle untwanged,’ said Chessie as Juan in a black bomber jacket, teeth flashing, progressed along the crones to sit beside Sharon.
‘Mrs Juan’s obviously been left in Argentina,’ murmured Chessie.
The commentator, meanwhile, was filling every second with chatter.
‘The leather contraption these brave ponies wear on their heads, ladies and gentlemen,’ he was telling the crowd, ‘is called a bridle.’
Perdita giggled. But she soon forgot the commentary and the crowd, unable to believe the ferocity and the gladiatorial splendour of the game, nor the crookedness of the umpiring as egos and mallets clashed below her.
‘Why doesn’t the Argentine umpire ever blow a foul on Alejandro,’ she asked Bart, who had just joined them, after yet another piece of deliberate obstruction.
‘Because he’s playing with him in the Rolex Challenge Cup,’ said Bart. ‘You’ll also notice a tremendous dimension of intimidation not picked up. In Palm Beach you don’t make fouls anyone sees.’
Bart was furious that Peters’ Cheetahs, despite the collective weight of Jesus, Luke and Red, were losing badly against his detested rival Victor Kaputnik. The large crowd, always interested in a new patron, watched Hal Peters charging round like a baby elephant crossing every player in sight, so the umpire kept awarding penalties to the other side, which Alejandro effortlessly converted. Jesus was playing beautifully when Alejandro allowed him to, but Red was simply not trying, all his energy going into arguing with the umpire. Luke had to cover up for him again and again. Luke’s Novocaine was also wearing off. His head was muzzy and he really had to concentrate to see the ball.
Red, in fact, was sulking. He had boasted that the notoriously unpunctual Auriel would, for once, be on time because she was so crazy about him. Now she had made a fool of him by not turning up. Perhaps she’d got wind of the fight.
At the end of the chukka the sun came out. Cautiously coats were being shed and crepey elbows and arms, hanging in festoons, emerged from wildly expensive little-girl jerseys.
‘They’ve even got designer liver spots in Palm Beach,’ said Chessie.
Why does she bitch about everything, wondered Perdita.
On the field, matters were getting serious. The orange and black shirted Tigers were leading the Lenten-purple Cheetahs 8-0 when Luke came out in the third chukka on Fantasma who, throwing off any jet lag, showed staggering bursts of speed, enabling Luke to scorch down the length of the pitch and score two goals. Her action was so smooth and graceful that she jarred his damaged shoulder far less than his other ponies. Her coat was as dazzling white in the sunshine as the thunderclouds. As usual her beauty caught everyone’s eye.
‘That’s a good pony,’ said Bart. ‘Runs to a stop. So many horses stop on their back legs and take so much more effort to get start
ed.’
Victor, however, was absolutely outraged.
‘That was the mare I bought in Argentina,’ he bellowed at Alejandro. ‘You told me it had broken its leg. I paid for that mare.’
‘Eees different mare,’ protested Alejandro innocently. ‘Would I cheat you, Veector?’
‘Yes,’ said Victor.
Hal wasn’t very pleased either. It was his first Palm Beach match and all his clients had flown down to watch him.
‘I thought you said your brother was a six. He’s playing like minus six. And where’s his famous woman-friend you promised?’ he grumbled at Luke.
A minute later Luke picked up the ball – God, his shoulder was agony now – and, giving Fantasma her lovely head, he took it upfield again. Carefully he placed it five yards in front of goal on the end of Hal Peters’ stick.
‘Now’s the chance for Hal to be a hero for his team,’ said the commentator.
Hal took an almighty swipe and missed.
Half-time – and the crones took out their compacts and fluffed powder on their faces. People poured on to the pitch to tread in and play some sponsored game in which they wriggled along a rolling poll and tried to hit a ball between two posts. A helicopter dropped $100 and $10 bills on to the pitch and people scurried hysterically after them. Heart-shaped gas balloons floated into the air, trailing red ribbons.
Down in the pony lines Victor, in between threatening to sue Alejandro and Luke for diddling him over Fantasma, was on his car telephone to Hong Kong trying to close a deal.
Half-time – ten minutes in England and normally fifteen in America – stretched out to forty-five minutes. The game was losing all momentum. They were just throwing-in when another helicopter landed on the pitch bringing Bob Geldof. Cheering hysterically, the crowd rose to their feet.
Gaunt, white-faced, unshaven, totally unsmiling and all in black, he was driven round the edge of the field in an open Peters Cheetah, looking as though he’d been to hell and caught it on an off-day.
‘That’s an attractive man,’ said Chessie. ‘Takes suffering head on.’
‘He reminds me of Ricky,’ said Perdita, unthinking.
Chessie glanced at her. For a second her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes, he does,’ she said.
Bob Geldof then picked up the microphone, thanked the crowd for raising the incredible sum of $250,000 and said he was sorry he couldn’t stop but he had other engagements in New York and LA.
As he left the wind got up and the rain came down and all the crones dived for cover under the roof at the top of the stand. Hanging baskets rocked hazardously in the wind, men watched golf on tiny portable televisions. Perdita looked over a sea of coloured umbrellas as the players came back on to the field. Peters’ Cheetahs were still 2-8 down and Luke was the colour of the pitch.
The fourth chukka was characterized by Jesus having a shouting match with Shark Nelligan.
‘You should have checked,’ he screamed at Shark. ‘You don’t ’ave to ’eet me so hard.’
‘You came in front of me, you greaseball,’ bellowed Shark. ‘You always do.’
‘For Chrissake shut up, fucking eedioto,’ screamed Jesus.
‘If you take the name of Our Lord in vain once more, young man, you will not play for me again,’ Hal sternly chided Jesus, who thundered off in a frenzy of Latin shrugs.
Alejandro smote the resulting free hit yards down the pitch bang in front of Victor and the goal.
‘Leave the fucking thing, Victor, you’ll only miss it,’ yelled Shark, thundering down the pitch.
‘Now Victor Kaputnik has the chance to be a hero for his team,’ said the commentator.
Victor took a great swipe and missed. Luke rode him off and backed the ball up the field to Jesus, who dummied round Alejandro and passed to Red, who hit the ball once, then took an idle shot at goal and missed. Luke rode up to him.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he hissed, ‘those heavies have totally buggered my shoulder. Get your finger out. All you’re doing is riding up and down breaking up the divots.’
‘I can’t pull rabbits out of the hat every time,’ said Red sulkily. ‘It’s only a fucking charity match.’
‘I’ll murder that boy,’ said Bart furiously. ‘I’m going to chew him out.’
He had just reached the pony lines at the beginning of the fifth chukka when a figure entered the stands smothered in a mink-lined Barbour, a fur hat, dark glasses and several silk scarves. She was so surrounded by minders that a rumour went round that it was Princess Diana or the President’s wife.
‘I want absolutely no publicity,’ she was saying in a loud, deep, throaty voice to the bowing and scraping club secretary. ‘I’ve just come to watch a friend play polo.’
‘Miss Kingham is here on a private visit,’ said her publicity manager to the press.
A chukka’s anonymity, however, was more than enough for Auriel. As Red rode back to the pony lines after failing to score once again, Auriel called out to him. Instantly a smile illuminated his scowling face and he cantered towards her. Immediately she whipped off her fur hat, her dark glasses, her silk scarves and her Barbour; everyone recognized her and screamed with delight, and the press swarmed on to the field, lighting up the gloom with a firework display of flash bulbs. Auriel then insisted on going down to the pony lines and massaging Red’s shoulders and running her hands through his damp hair.
‘This is a fucking circus,’ said Luke, on whose shoulder the latest shot of Novocaine had totally failed to work.
Hal Peters, in the meantime, was kneeling down in the pony lines: ‘Dear Lord Jesus, if you think it’s right make Hal Peters and his team win this match . . . ’ and was nearly run over by Shark Nelligan returning on his fastest pony for the last chukka.
‘Now will you start playing properly?’ begged Luke as he and Red rode back on to the pitch.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll win this match for you,’ said Red.
‘What a beautiful woman,’ said Hal Peters, gazing so hard at Auriel that he bumped into the umpire.
Red, who always got a charge from holding back and lulling the opposition into a feeling of false security, now proceeded to storm through with a volley of goals all in front of the press and the television cameras.
‘Red, Red, Red,’ was suddenly the only word on the commentator’s lips. Despite disapproving strongly of Red, Perdita couldn’t help melting. As he hit the ball on the ground, in the air, to the left, to the right, underneath, over, behind and in front of his matching sorrel pony, she realized that he was so supremely gifted he could win a match off his own stick.
‘If he played like that all the time,’ said Bart in an I-told-you-so voice to Chessie, ‘he’d go straight to ten.’
Red also had Ricky’s ability to get the last ounce out of his pony. As he felt her tiring, he picked up his whip. Hal Peters was in ecstasy.
‘The Lord has answered my prayer,’ he told Luke.
The Tigers were only one goal ahead now, with two minutes to go. Victor, at this point, decided to fall off and lie on the ground. Sharon, busy making an assignation with Juan, looked without interest at the pitch. Then the horrid possibility dawned on her that if Victor passed away she’d never be Lady Kaputnik.
‘Oh, Victor, oh, may husband,’ she screeched.
‘He’s done it on purpose,’ muttered Chessie to Perdita. ‘Then they’ll put in a ringer instead to win the match.’
‘Water, water,’ moaned Victor.
On ran an official with a silver tray, a jug and a glass. Picking up the jug, Shark emptied it over Victor, dislodging his ginger toupee.
‘Get up, Victor,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’re not hurt.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ squealed Victor. ‘You haven’t had your cheque yet.’
From the ground he could also see the freckling of rust spots on Fantasma’s belly.
‘It is that mare, Alejandro, I remember the marking.’
Spitting with fury, he laboriously climbed on t
o his pony. The umpire chucked in the ball.
‘Come on, you guys,’ said Luke faintly. All he could see was a swirling mist in front of his eyes; it was like riding through a snow storm. Next moment Victor had crossed Red and the Argentine umpire, suddenly taking against Alejandro, awarded a rightful penalty three to the Cheetahs.
‘Now is Luke Alderton’s chance to be a hero for his team and level the score for another chukka,’ said the commentator.
‘I can’t take it, my shoulder’s fucked,’ gasped Luke. ‘You take it, Jesus.’
Down came Jesus in a slow theatrical canter. Alejandro, cantering across goal, blocked the shot for the Tigers. Jesus pounded down to score, but the next moment Alejandro, with a ten-goal swing, had hit the ball again, lofting it halfway upfield into the stands, only just missing Sharon, as the whistle went.
As the players surged together to shake hands, Fantasma, showing a responsibility belying her four years, swung round and gently bore Luke back to the pony lines as though she were carrying a tray of Waterford glass.
‘Luke’s hurt,’ cried Perdita, fighting her way through the crowds. She found Luke slumped on an upturned bucket, with Fantasma and Leroy ferociously but misguidedly protecting him from two of Bart’s paramedics.
Mrs Peters sportingly stood down so that Auriel could present the prizes. The crowd surged forward to get a closer look. Auriel had reached an age when people wanted to see how many times her face had been lifted, if it was all make-up, or whether the cracks were showing. In fact she was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She wore a smoke-blue chiffon dress to match her smoke-blue eyes, and her wafting dark hair certainly wasn’t a wig and she had a good enough pink-and-white skin not to need much make-up. With her full bosom and hips emphasizing her incredibly slender waist, wrists and ankles, she made the lean, blond, suntanned polo beauties look slightly commonplace by comparison.
