by Jilly Cooper
But, as Victor was the only member of the Tigers’ team who wasn’t still plastered from the night before, Apocalypse had no difficulty thrashing them 12-1 and going on to win the entire tournament. As the three-week-long toil of Gold Cup matches started at the end of June, at last giving Ricky a chance to win the first leg of his bet with Chessie, he grew increasingly remote. Perdita had abdicated any hope of his love, but it still hurt that he might be seeing Chessie on the sly. He had certainly hit miraculous form.
49
And so Apocalypse – the hottest favourites for years – came to play the Tigers in the finals of the Gold Cup. The Alderton Flyers, who’d never reconciled their differences since the Queen’s Cup, were playing Kevin Coley’s Doggie Dins in the second match for third place.
The long, hot summer had taken its toll. With pitches burnt brown from the hose-pipe ban and harder than the M4, a pony with four sound legs was as rare as an icicle in the tropics. Kinta was lame, Ophelia was lame, so were Tero, Willis, Sinatra, Hermia and Portia. Of the equine stars, only Spotty, Wayne and Fantasma soldiered on. Apocalypse were down to stick-and-ball horses; even fat Nigger, Ricky’s oldest pony, would have to be loaded up and taken to Cowdray.
The day before the match Ricky grew increasingly picky and bloody-minded. At sunset, to avoid coming to blows, Luke took Fantasma for a gentle ride round Ricky’s estate, admiring the red-gold barley and the sudden, bright mauve flash of willow herb against the darkening trees. He also noticed conkers on the horse chestnuts as big as golf balls, and realized with a shiver that the season was nearly over. After Deauville he’d have to leave Perdita and return to Florida. Earlier in the week, having a drink with Daisy, he’d asked her idly if she knew whether he was going up.
Daisy had blushed and said that on the grapevine (which, translated, meant on the pillow beside Drew) she’d heard that all the Apocalypse team were going up: Luke and Ricky to nine, Dancer to two and Perdita in a great leap to four. This meant their aggregate would be twenty-four, too high to play together any more in England. He would have to declare himself in Deauville. He and Perdita seemed to be growing further and further apart. She was very abstracted. He dared not think with whom.
Inattentive, he was nearly unseated as Fantasma gave a shrill, alarmed whinny like a skirl of bagpipes and went up on her hind legs. Luke saw nothing in the grassy ride to frighten her except an old disused tractor. She was obviously picking up Ricky’s pre-match nerves. But by the time he got back to Robinsgrove her fetlock had swollen to three times its size like a vast white beachball.
Phil Bagley, summoned immediately, was totally flummoxed until he shaved away some of the hair, saw small fang marks and diagnosed adder bite.
‘She won’t die,’ he reassured a demented Luke, ‘but she certainly can’t play tomorrow. I’m terribly sorry. You’ve lost your lethal weapon.’
‘At last she’s met something that bites worse than herself,’ snarled Ricky.
He couldn’t actually blame Luke for Fantasma not being sound, but he had to kick out at someone. Emerging trembling with rage from her box, he saw the young girl groom, who’d only started that week, gingerly trying to pick out one of Spotty’s hind hooves.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he roared at her, ‘you’re supposed to lift the hoof with your left hand, and just lay it along your thigh – like this.’ He picked up Spotty’s foot.
Giving Ricky a reproving look for shouting, Spotty calmly removed his hoof from Ricky’s thigh and placing it in the small of his back, gave a brisk shove, catching Ricky off-guard and spreadeagling him on the ground. Perdita made the mistake of screaming with laughter.
His dignity bruised more than anything else, Ricky picked himself up. ‘You bloody animal.’ He raised his fist at Spotty.
‘Don’t you touch my pony,’ screamed Perdita, seizing the yard broom.
‘Knock it off both of you,’ yelled Luke.
‘This is my yard.’
‘And you’re not fit to run it!’ Luke lowered his voice. ‘Jesus, man, simmer down. God knows where your head was in the final of the Queen’s Cup, but we don’t want a repeat performance tomorrow. Perdita’s got Champions and International Velvet out of the video shop to keep you quiet. Just fuck off and watch them and give us all a break.’
For a moment Luke expected Ricky to land him one, then he swung round and stalked into the house.
Gazing mindlessly at International Velvet ten minutes later, Ricky felt bitterly ashamed of himself and wished he had as nice a nature as Nanette Newman. What a fucking awful example to set to Perdita and the grooms. Sitting grimly through both films, he was continually distracted by visions of Chessie, exquisite in her pale green suit, taunting him that he hadn’t even won the first leg of his bet.
He woke in tears to find himself gazing at a black leaping screen. It was dark outside. He’d better go and apologize yet again. But he found Luke slumped at the kitchen table, fallen asleep over The Maltese Cat, a hardly touched ham sandwich on a plate beside him.
It was still impossibly hot as Ricky wandered out into the yard. The air was heavy with meadowsweet and the night-scented stock Louisa had planted in the stable tubs this summer around the geraniums. Overhead the sky was crowded with stars. There was the Swan, winging out of the Milky Way, and Pegasus soaring above the clock tower and Bootes, the Shepherd, going gently home in the west. Then Ricky caught his breath, for striding jauntily above him was the constellation Hercules. That must be a sign. Hercules had won immortality and his heart’s desire by accomplishing all ten labours. Ricky had only three to achieve and the first leg, the Gold Cup, must surely be within his grasp tomorrow. Fantasma might have dropped out this evening, but the Kaputnik Tigers, after Red and the twins’ roughriding, had even more horses unsound.
A whicker of affection startled him out of his trance. Wayne, as usual avid for distraction, was hanging out of his box.
‘You’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’ Ricky scratched him along his bristly mane. ‘We don’t have Fantasma to get us out of trouble any more. You’ve got to outrun and ride off everyone, and forget about the Cowdray tea tent.’
Wayne’s lop ears flickered as he listened to every word.
‘If we win tomorrow,’ went on Ricky, burying his face in the pony’s silky, yellow neck, ‘you can have every cucumber sandwich in the world.’ Then, his voice becoming a sob, ‘Oh, Wayne, just help me get my wife back.’
Next morning, after three months of drought except for the thunderstorm on the afternoon of the Queen’s Cup, the temperature plummeted and torrential rain and vicious east winds stripped the roses of their petals and blew straw all round the yard. At the last moment Perdita had another screaming match with Ricky and opted to go in the helicopter with Dancer. The drive from Robinsgrove was long and dogged by roadworks. At each sign pointing to ‘Polo’ Ricky felt sicker.
As they passed the greying blond ruins of Cowdray Castle, with the cows and horses grazing around the battlements, he had to leap out of the car and throw up behind an oak tree.
Down by the pony lines everyone was uptight. Grooms bumped into each other and cursed as tails refused to go up and bandages wouldn’t go on smoothly. Ponies were flattening their ears and lashing out at each other. At Thursday’s semi-final the problem had been flies; now it was keeping them warm.
‘Golly, I wish Dancer hadn’t chosen black rugs; every hair shows up,’ moaned Louisa.
‘I scored with Red Alderton last night,’ said Victor’s prettiest groom. ‘Fucking marvellous, marvellous fucking, but the moment it was over he looked at his watch and said, “Christ, I’m dining at Windsor Castle in half an hour!” and was out of bed like a rocket.’
Which means Red’ll be hung over today, thought Louisa with satisfaction. What on earth was that din coming from the direction of Dancer’s helicopter?
The row had blown up because a distracted Perdita had not only forgotten to get the second set of Apocalypse shirts out of the cleaners, but, far wo
rse, hadn’t shut the hatch of the helicopter properly so the first set of lucky shirts which had been worn in every final this season had all fallen out and were now probably being worn by rabbits and squirrels all over the Savernake Forest. Ricky was yelling at Perdita, who was half-yelling, half-crying back.
‘It’s no big deal,’ Luke was shouting at Ricky. ‘It was us won the matches, not the goddam shirts.’
Apocalypse were therefore forced to play in white shirts which matched their complexions but considerably reduced their air of menace.
‘We’ll all be pale riders,’ said Dancer, trying to make a joke.
Sobbing, Perdita rushed off to change in the Ladies’ loo.
Venturer Television, on their first day of making a documentary about Perdita, were out in force. Directed by Cameron Cook, Rupert’s ex-mistress and a virago with short spiky hair and a rapacious body, they had gleefully filmed the entire row. Now they were filming another one. Perdita, because she wanted to compete with Red’s army of groupies, had bought a new pair of breeches for the final.
‘Oh my God, can they go any tighter?’ whooped Dommie Carlisle, clapping his hands over his eyes as she came out of the Ladies. Then, peering through splayed fingers: ‘And you’re not wearing any pants. How wildly exciting.’
‘Go and put some on,’ snarled Ricky.
‘It’ll ruin the line,’ shrieked Perdita.
‘It’ll ruin your reputation if they split, for Chrissake,’ yelled Luke. ‘Go back and change.’
The Gold Cup had been sponsored by Davidoff who’d laid on a splendid lunch in their marquee. Drew, who was umpiring and playing for Kevin Coley in the second match, had wangled Daisy a ticket. He’d also seen Sukey into hospital that morning to have her baby, ringing on the hour to see how she was. As Daisy ate lobster, prawns and ratatouille, followed by strawberries and cream, and drank a great deal of Pouilly Fumé and admired Drew’s handsome profile and enjoyed his left hand on her thigh as he forked up strawberries with his right, she was desperately ashamed to find herself praying that Sukey might die in childbirth.
‘My father was an MFH,’ said Brigadier Hughie, who was sitting opposite. ‘When I was a baby I was knocked out of my pram and nearly eaten by two hound puppies. My father said it would have been a glorious death.’
Daisy was acutely conscious of Chessie at the next table, who ate nothing but drank a great deal of excellent burgundy which matched her ravishing, red wool Yves St Laurent suit. Hardly addressing a word to Bart, she seemed wildly elated at the possibility of Ricky winning the first leg of his bet within the next two hours.
As everyone poured out to watch the final, wincing at the cold, Chessie wrapped a pale grey, fringed shawl round her shoulders. Despite a plethora of gorgeous girls yearning after Red, she was easily the most glamorous woman in the stands. What a prize for Ricky to win back, thought Daisy.
Down by the warm-up area Apocalypse, looking curiously vulnerable in their white shirts, were being geed up by Ricky. Stammering and swearing, he ran for the twentieth time through the game plan, urging on them the need to win, win, win.
‘The Tigers are brilliant in attack, but they have no defence. We must attack. Your job, Dancer, is to make Victor foul.’
‘He’s foul enough already,’ said Perdita through chattering teeth.
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Ricky. ‘And then Luke can convert the penalty. At least he will if the wind’s behind him. All I want you to do for the first two chukkas, Perdita, is stick to Red till he loses his temper. He’s hellishly quick, too, in the line-out. He scored two goals from there in the Warwickshire, so watch him.’ Suddenly he paused in horror. ‘What the fuck’s Miguel O’Brien doing here?’
No-one could fail to recognize the hulking shoulders and the crinkly, greasy mop of black hair. Miguel, looking like a Mafia hood in a belted fur coat and dark glasses, was hissing instructions at Victor, Red and the twins. Bart was hovering in the background.
‘I guess Bart isn’t too keen on you winning the Gold Cup,’ said Dancer.
‘He’s probably just advising Dad in the second match,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s go and bury them.’
From the start both teams played with colossal driven intensity. Apocalypse’s greatest fear was letting the twins and Red, all dazzlingly aggressive players, get loose, knowing they’d go straight down and score. But between them, Luke and Ricky managed to hold the twins, while Perdita shadowed Red the whole time, until he was screaming with rage. Then, suddenly, at the end of the second chukka Ricky hit a miraculous nearside forehand from the halfway line and the wind carried it through the goal. In the next chukka Victor, on his favourite pony, Tiger Lily, showing profound contempt for his enemy’s right of way, gave away two penalties which Luke converted despite the wind. In the third chukka, after a pep-talk from Miguel, Red pulled himself together and scored twice, but was countered by Ricky picking up a short pass from Perdita and sinking a big nearside neck shot. 4-2 to Apocalypse at half-time.
‘You’re doing great,’ Luke told his huddled team-mates.
‘You’re doing terrific. Just don’t let up. Red’s greatest buzz is to lull us into a state of false security and then pow, he’ll zap us, the later the better. If we’re gonna win, we’ve got to attack.’
Treading in the divots, running to get warm, Daisy was towed straight up to Drew by Ethel, who started singing with delight to see such a familiar friend umpiring.
‘Stop sneaking, Ethel,’ said Drew, who was shivering from the cold. ‘Perdita’s playing brilliantly. Looks as though Ricky’s going to clinch the first leg of his bet.’ Then, dropping his voice: ‘I rang the hospital. Sukey’s just had a daughter.’
‘Oh, I’m so thrilled for you.’
‘So am I. You and I can spend the night together. I’ll go and see her straight after our match and be with you about nine.’
Chessie, who had just applied lipstick to match her red suit and who didn’t seem to go blue like everyone else, drifted towards Ricky as he rode back on to the field. For a second they stared at each other, then Chessie smiled.
‘Good luck, my darling, you can do it,’ she murmured, pretending to tread in a divot. Then breaking off a long pale-grey strand of wool from her fringed shawl, she handed it quickly up to him. ‘Wear it on your lance.’
‘I love you,’ Ricky called after her as he rode on. He was about to knot the wool round his stick, then realized he would be changing it and tied it to his whip. They would win now, he knew it.
Early in the fourth chukka, Red narrowed the gap with a penalty, but a second later Ricky widened it again. Galloping down the field with love in his heart, he skedaddled like a child in a bending race round Dommie, then Red, dummied passed Seb and with two magical offside forehands found the flags: 5-3. The stand went crazy. As if Chessie’s favour had put a spell on him, he went on to score three more goals.
‘Ricky France-Lynch has a secret weapon there,’ explained Terry Hanlon, the Cowdray commentator, ‘and it’s called practice. There he goes – eight goals of Rutshire dynamite – soon to be nine, if my spies are telling me right. Good to see you back on form, Ricky, oh, what a lovely shot, but it’s hit the posts. And Luke Alderton gives him back the sort of pass all players dream about, and Ricky slams it in. Apocalypse lead 9-3.’
In the fifth chukka, the Flyers tried repeatedly to score, but were foiled by the dogged bloody-minded courage of Apocalypse.
On its green baize table the Gold Cup, which had been reflecting the desperate struggle on the field, seemed to be waiting to be carried home in triumph to Robinsgrove. Surely even Red couldn’t score eight goals in one chukka.
But now Apocalypse changed on to stick-and-ball horses, which were all they had left. Luke, getting on to Geoffrey, the hangover horse, kept up the pressure.
‘Cool it, you guys. Don’t get over-confident. Red’s scored seven goals in a chukka before now and his blood’s up. Just keep rattling them, stop them scoring, above all stick to Red, Perdita, and
we can do it,’ he exhorted, clamping a great hand on Dancer and then on Perdita’s back.
Without Fantasma he felt like a mercenary who’s run out of ammo in enemy territory, but he kept his fears to himself. Silently Ricky mounted Wayne. He was seven minutes away from his first leg and he didn’t dare to hope. As they rode out for the last chukka their shirts were no longer white but black with mud – Apocalypse again. Already they could hear the Midhurst town band warming up for the presentation; ‘Four horsemen, riding, riding, riding’.
‘Come on, Nigger,’ said Perdita clamping her legs round her fat black pony. ‘Why are you so fucking slow?’
‘You better rename him Snowflake if he wins Best Playing Pony,’ said Luke with a grin. ‘It’s being presented by some African prince. Oh, Jesus! No!’
The others followed his gaze.
‘Shit,’ whispered Ricky.
‘Oh, my God,’ gasped Perdita in horror, for the Tigers were riding towards them on four of the most beautiful, glossy, well-muscled thoroughbred ponies she had ever seen. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘Inecita, Cecilia, Leila and Carmen – in a word,’ said Luke bleakly. ‘I don’t believe it, I simply do not believe it. Miguel must have flown them over.’
He cantered up to Red. ‘What the fuck are you doing on those ponies?’
Red grinned, white teeth flashing in a mud-caked face. ‘Dad was worried we were out of horses so he lent us four of his.’
‘Why isn’t he playing them in his own match?’
Red laughed. ‘He’s so unselfish he thought our need was greater. After all, he really doesn’t want Ricky to win the Gold Cup.’
‘And how does Victor feel riding his worst enemy’s horses?’
‘I guess he hasn’t noticed and he won’t care as long as he wins.’
The sixth chukka was crucifixion. On four matchless horses, who had each won Best Playing Pony in the Argentine Open, there was no defence. It was like putting three-legged bulldogs against greyhounds. And from the way Red and the twins were riding them, it was obvious they’d tried them out several times before. From the first throw-in Red scored goal after goal until the crowd, most of whom had no idea what had happened, were yelling on their feet. A wide-angled shot from Seb thirty seconds from the end of the match had the Tigers in front and now they had the wind behind them. Ricky was near suicide.
