Polo

by Jilly Cooper

  Rutminster Hall had dismounted to rest their horses, except for David Waterlane, who rode over to the stands to cadge a cigarette. Seeing Luke, he yelled, ‘That black mare you sold me in Palm Beach, why does she drop her head all the time?’

  ‘I guess she’s bashful she hasn’t been paid for,’ drawled Luke.

  The stand collapsed with laughter. David Waterlane rode off discomfited.

  ‘He owes Ladbroke's half a million,’ said Dommie. ‘You may be rather low down the list.’

  Ricky was in despair. There was bloody Luke Alderton grinning up in the stands and he couldn’t even get a polo side together.

  As if in answer to his prayer, Dancer’s black helicopter soared over the trees and landed behind the clubhouse. Mercifully Dancer was already changed. Racing towards the pitch, telling the autograph hunters he’d see them after the game and trailing security men, he jumped on to the pony Louisa was holding.

  ‘Terribly sorry, Rick,’ he said, quailing at Ricky’s stony face. ‘I overslept. I was recording till four o’clock this morning.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to get a chance to see England, Luke,’ said Sharon, pressing her knees against his back. ‘Ay’d love to show you round.’

  ‘I hope Perdita’s going to take me,’ said Luke, ‘but thanks all the same.’

  ‘Dancer’s security guards are going to have a punch-up with the Prince’s in a minute,’ said Dommie happily.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Daisy. ‘Here comes Mike Waterlane.’

  Driving his Golf GTI to a screeching halt at the side of the pitch, a sweating Mike leapt out and, to the disapproval of Miss Lodsworth and her satellite trouts, continued to bray into his portable telephone as he did a one-handed strip out of his pin-stripe suit down to his Dennis the Menace boxer shorts.

  ‘If you can go to five million, I think I’ve got just the job,’ he went on, as he wriggled into his breeches and his black, Apocalypse shirt, ‘but if you want much more land, you might have to go higher.’

  As he zipped up his boots, Louisa fastened his knee pads and plonked his hat on his head.

  ‘I’ll get back to you later this afternoon,’ he added, hoarse with excitement and, handing Louisa the telephone in exchange for his stick and whip, jumped on to his old pony, Dopey, and thundered off on to the field.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?’ howled Ricky and David Waterlane in unison.

  ‘Mick Jagger had a house under survey,’ mumbled Mike. ‘Discovered it’s got dry rot; wants us to find him another one.’

  ‘Mike Waterlane is so thick,’ announced Dommie, ‘that he started cheering for Reading University during the Boat Race last week.’

  Luke laughed. Oh, to be in England now that April was there.

  46

  Luke wasn’t laughing half an hour later. Apocalypse was a complete shambles. Ricky, as usual, was over-extending himself and his horses, doing everything including all the shouting, never giving Perdita or Dancer a chance to score, or Mike, whose head was full of dry rot, a chance to defend.

  Ricky was a brilliant player, but he couldn’t take on Rutminster Hall, all good players who knew what each other were doing, single-handed. And whenever he wasn’t blasting his own side, he was shouting at the umpire, Ben Napier, who as Dommie predicted gave penalties at every opportunity to Rutminster Hall. While Drew was taking one of these in the third chukka, Ricky whizzed off to change ponies, only to find Wayne had slipped his bridle and gone trot-about in the direction of the tea-tent.

  ‘Get me a fucking horse,’ he screamed, to the edification of the entire crowd.

  By the time another pony had been saddled, Rutminster Hall had scored again, bringing the score to 11-4. The Prince’s security men sneered discreetly at Dancer’s minders.

  Drew, by contrast, was playing beautifully. For Daisy the supreme pleasure, after sleeping with him, was watching him on the field. She longed to cheer, her fingers itched to draw him on her score sheet, but Sukey was all too noisily just behind.

  ‘Oh, well done, Drew, well played. Oh look, we’re going through. Oh dear, it’s gone over. No, it hasn’t. Oh, well stopped Drew. I must put my glass down to clap.’

  Fatty Harris, who’d slipped in a fourth whisky while waiting for the off, was providing the official commentary: ‘The Wince of Prales takes the backhand. Oh, well hit, Your Majeshty.’

  At half-time, profoundly depressed, frozen without his jacket, Luke went out to stomp in the divots. Dogs whisking everywhere made him long for Leroy. Daisy had drifted to the right, and Luke noticed that the first player back, on a dapple-grey with black points, was Drew Benedict. Luke watched him ride past her, masking her for a second from the stands and Sukey.

  ‘I’ll ring you this evening,’ said Drew softly, and rode on. Perdita, next back, charged up to Luke.

  ‘I haven’t had the fucking ball all afternoon. I’m really pissed off.’

  ‘Take out the Prince. He was loose most of the first half, then at least Ricky can come through.’

  Luke’s advice worked. With the Prince pegged, Ricky took the game by the throat and in a flurry of breathtaking goals, had pulled back the score to 10-11 by the end of the fifth chukka. The crowd forgot the icy wind.

  ‘Ner, ner, ner-ner, ner,’ Dancer’s minders taunted the Prince’s boot-faced guards.

  It’s the last chukka and I’ve done nothing, thought Perdita furiously. Spotty, a fearful exhibitionist who only caught fire when applauded, was also sulking. Then, miraculously, Mike hit a lovely backhand in Perdita’s direction. There was no one between her and the goal posts.

  ‘Leave it,’ bellowed Ricky.

  Ignoring him, Perdita put her reins in her stick hand and gave Spotty a couple of whacks with her whip. Spotty bridled in outrage, then shot forward. Perdita’s first forehand put the ball ten yards in front of goal.

  ‘Man coming,’ yelled Ricky.

  Heedless, Perdita careered after it. She was going to tie up the score on Luke’s first day. Almost nonchalantly, oblivious of the shouting behind her, she lifted her stick, then howled with exasperation as she was hooked.

  ‘You fucking bastard!’ she screeched. Then turning round, she gave a gasp of horror: ‘Gosh, I’m terribly sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Off,’ thundered Ben Napier.

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’ In a second Perdita switched from abject contrition to outrage.

  ‘There’s nuffink in the rule book abart swearin’ at Royalty,’ said Dancer, galloping up.

  ‘Off,’ insisted Ben Napier, pointing towards the pony lines.

  ‘You asshole,’ shouted Perdita. ‘Why don’t you get out the fucking rule book and learn to read?’

  ‘Off,’ said Ben Napier, triumphantly. ‘Abuse of umpire.’

  ‘For Chrissake, help me,’ Perdita pleaded to Seb, the second umpire.

  But Seb, terrified of opening his mouth in case he was sick, merely shook his head.

  In a blind fury Perdita lifted her stick and hit the ball straight into the bonnet of a nearby Bentley. Choking on his cucumber sandwich, the owner leapt out, waving his fist. Miss Lodsworth turned puce and everyone else looked very excited as Perdita galloped off.

  ‘Straight to the Tower of London,’ said Dommie.

  Luke gave a highly embarrassed Daisy a reassuring smile. Three against four is no contest. Rutminster Hall ran out the winners by 13-10.

  Luke found Perdita sobbing into Spotty’s shoulder.

  ‘We could have won, we could have bloody won.’

  He took her in his arms. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart.’ Over her shuddering shoulder he saw an utterly dejected Dancer riding up.

  ‘You coming back to Robinsgrove?’ he asked.

  ‘I played like a pig wiv the trots; fink I’ll go home,’ said Dancer.

  ‘You did pretty good, except for being late,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  Back at Robinsgrove, having dropped Perdita off at Snow Cottage, Luke put on two sweate
rs and went into the yard, where all was activity. Louisa trundled by with a wheelbarrow loaded up with tack to be hung up. Kinta had a cut mouth which one of the younger grooms was rinsing out with salt and water. Another groom was sweeping up the yard and swearing at Little Chef as he chased the stable cat through a pile of straw and shavings, while yet another was being greeted with a thunder of whickering and whinnying as she raced round lobbing wodges of hay into racks. Later most of the ponies would be turned out. Luke felt a wave of longing for Fantasma.

  ‘Is there an axe round here?’ he asked Louisa.

  ‘You going to chop off Perdita’s head for treason?’ Louisa tried to make a joke, but she was depressed about losing and having wolfed two KitKats to cheer herself up on the way home.

  ‘I’m going to light a fire,’ said Luke. ‘I don’t want to die of pneumonia.’

  The logs were wet and took a long time to kindle. Like Perdita, thought Luke wryly. He noticed the yellowing cups and the gap still over the fireplace where the Munnings had been. He had just retrieved his duty-free Bourbon from the kitchen and was pouring himself three fingers when Ricky stalked in, glaring disapprovingly at the greeny-blue flames and the acrid smoke that was drifting out into the room.

  ‘Bit late for a fire,’ he snapped. ‘Daisy’s just rung. Says you’re welcome to supper any time after eight.’

  ‘You coming too?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Christ, no.’

  He was about to stalk out again, when Luke said, ‘We oughta talk.’

  ‘We?’ Ricky raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  Luke poured a second large Bourbon and handed it to Ricky.

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘You better start,’ said Luke gently. ‘You gotta loosen up.’

  Hearing the crackling from a painted stick, Little Chef trotted in and, seeing the fire, stretched out blissfully. Sitting down, Luke took a slug of his whisky and a deep breath. ‘You should’ve walked it today.’

  ‘With three fucking incompetents?’

  ‘It was your fault,’ said Luke steadily. ‘Entirely your fault. You’ve totally demoralized Perdita and Dancer for a start. Perdita’s dying of hypothermia and loneliness out there waiting for a pass, and when she gets one she’s so uptight she goofs. Dancer’s the same. He’s worried the whole time, not where to hit the ball, but whether he’s going to hit it at all. And Mike Waterlane’s out to lunch. He was just cantering about not marking anyone.’

  Then, when Ricky opened his mouth in outrage, Luke went on. ‘No, I haven’t finished. No one knows what they’re meant to be doing, there’s no game plan. You just fluster them by shouting, right, and at the same time you’re telegraphing every punch to the opposition. You’re always going to be the most marked man on the team. If you give the others the ball, they can take it away.’

  The logs, suddenly deciding to be co-operative, burst into flames. Flickering over Ricky’s set, frozen face, they gave it a rare illusion of mobility. Luke got up and threw on another log. ‘Forget the Gold Cup,’ he said brutally. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll lose every game this season.’

  ‘Have you flown three thousand m-m-miles to give me this crap?’ said Ricky softly. ‘I was playing for England when you were still in High School. I’m captain of Apocalypse.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ said Luke, ‘and you’ve got unique charisma, right, that’ll make guys go over the top into the face of hell for you, and make horses run till they drop, but you’re abusing it. You’re too fucking arrogant. I know you’re sore Dancer hired me without asking you. I don’t want to steal your thunder. I wanna learn all I can from you, and I wanna give something back. Potentially, we’ve got a brilliant side. And you’re so goddam lucky you’ve got a patron who’s a saint – a patron saint, he pays you a fucking fortune and all you do is give him earache.’

  Little Chef jumped on to Ricky’s knee and started to growl at Luke. Ricky’s face was grey, his eyes black whirlpools of fury, his long fingers curled round his glass. For a second Luke thought he was going to hurl it in his face.

  ‘My horses haven’t left,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d rather get on the next plane home than spend summer watching you self-destruct.’

  ‘Get out,’ hissed Ricky.

  In the kitchen Luke found that his legs were shaking violently. Outside, the wind was systematically stripping the cherry trees and the montana. Out in the yard Wayne, confined to barracks with a puffy hock, and suffering mild indigestion from wolfing too many cucumber sandwiches, cream cakes and a clubhouse tablecloth, hung out of his specially bolted door like a burglar about to crack a safe. He’d hoped the footstep would be Ricky’s, but Luke would do. Unable to stop shaking, Luke clung on to the ugly, yellow, lop-eared head.

  ‘I’ve blown it,’ he groaned.

  He’d been so excited this time yesterday, flying over the Atlantic dreaming of Perdita, of the Gold Cup, of shaking hands with the Queen and going to Stratford and Tintern Abbey. He’d have to pay back Dancer’s fee, and holding a sobbing Perdita in his arms earlier had made him realize once again how hopelessly he was still in love with her.

  He jumped as the stable cat weaved her way round his trembling legs. Picked up, she purred against him for a second, then, jumping on to Wayne’s withers, settled down happily on his quarters.

  Christ, thought Luke in horror, that poor guy killed his kid when he was looped and I force liquor on him.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, going back into the drawing room. ‘I came on too strong.’

  Ricky looked up, then suddenly smiled. ‘No, you didn’t. Everything you said was right. I know it in my head, but the moment I get on the field I tense up, and ever since Chessie buggered off and Will died I’ve never trusted anyone, least of all myself.’ Picking up his glass, he examined it for a second, then drained it. ‘Let’s get plastered.’

  Reluctant to break the mood, Luke waited until an hour later, when Ricky went off to have a pee, to call Perdita. He got an earful.

  ‘Tell your mother I’m really sorry,’ he said, when he could get a word in, ‘but Ricky and I’ve got a lot of things to work through. I’ll take you both out tomorrow.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d want to come?’ snapped Perdita. Even though she knew there was no hope with Ricky, she was furiously jealous of Luke spending an evening alone with him.

  ‘I’ll take your mother then,’ said Luke, hanging up.

  After midnight, when they’d moved four white and four black horses round the green baize board until they could see sixteen of them, they tottered out to the stables. The ponies, surprised to be roused, blinked sleepily. Tero’s feed was still in her manger and she shrank to the back of her box as they approached.

  ‘Gets so uptight she won’t eat for forty-eight hours after a game,’ said Ricky, clumsily putting another rug on her and having great difficulty doing it up.

  ‘She will when we start winning,’ said Luke. ‘You wait till you see Fantasma – sweeps down the field like a yacht in full sail.’

  ‘I had a horse called Mattie once,’ said Ricky, stumbling off towards the forage room. ‘Best pair of legs I ever saw on a pony, or a woman. Christ, she was beautiful. Faster than Kinta, cannier than Wayne, turned quicker than Spotty. You always have one you love best, don’t you?’

  Absolutely plastered, he tripped over an upturned bucket and, just managing to right himself, sat down very suddenly on a bale of hay. His black curls were ruffled, his black eyes crossing. ‘You know Ch-Ch-Chessie, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Luke, leaning against the door.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘She happy with your father?’

  Luke shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I guess all marriages are Africa. They did an autopsy on one of Shark Nelligan’s ponies the other day, the hide looked fine, but inside where the spurs had gone in, the scar tissue, the tearing, and the bruising were appalling. That’s marriage. Same wa
y, I gotta horse, cut to pieces outside, scars everywhere; inside, she’s one of the best mares ever. Hard to generalize.’

  Ricky felt pole-axed with misery. Even talking about Chessie crucified him, and with performances as lousy as today’s, how could he ever win the Gold Cup, let alone get to ten or bring the Westchester back to England?

  ‘I can’t stand other people being happy,’ he mumbled shame-facedly. ‘It makes me s-s-such a shit. D’you think I’ll ever get over her?’

  ‘Sure you will,’ said Luke, thinking that he hadn’t remotely got over Perdita. ‘You need some fun.’

  Stretching out a hand, he found Ricky had collapsed on his hay bale, nudged asleep perhaps by the velvet muzzle of Mattie’s ghost. Little Chef curled into the hollow of his back with a martyred sigh. Fetching a couple of rugs, Luke covered both of them.

  God, he was handsome, even with that wicked scar running livid down the side of his face. No wonder Perdita loved him. Giving a wide-awake Wayne a handful of pony nuts, Luke wandered off to Ricky’s library to find something to read. Tomorrow they’d get down to work.

  A fortnight later Luke went into Rutminster with Ricky to look for a new bit for Kinta. Returning home, he found his grooms and ponies had caught an earlier flight and were already installed. Racing round to the yard, he called Fantasma’s name. Recognizing his voice, she promptly tried to bash her way out of her box, and, finding that impossible, stood back on her hocks and cleared the dark blue half-door, clattering up to her master, whickering in ecstasy, nudging him all over, searching his pockets for Polo mints.

  ‘Christ, what a beautiful horse,’ said Ricky who wasn’t given to superlatives. ‘I never expected her to be so big.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s grown so much,’ said Perdita in amazement.

  ‘Nearly a hand,’ said Luke proudly.

  ‘And she’s filled out everywhere,’ went on Perdita.

  ‘When you see the girth on her,’ said Luke, his voice breaking slightly as he buried his face in Fantasma’s neck, ‘you realize why she’s got so much heart. It’s a real privilege to own a horse like this. Ouch,’ he yelled, as Fantasma, resentful of being abandoned for a fortnight, took a sharp bite out of his arm, then nudged him apologetically.