by Jilly Cooper
‘I could do with the benefit of some wind,’ said Sharon, fanning herself with her programme. ‘It’s bleedin’ ’ot.’
‘It is,’ agreed Sukey. ‘Would you like to borrow my hat?’
Grace Alderton thought Sukey was a lovely young woman who would make a splendid wife for Drew. She did not feel at all the same about Chessie France-Lynch who rolled up halfway through the fourth chukka in a coloured vest, no bra, frayed denim bermudas and torn pink espadrilles, clutching a large glass of Pimm’s and a copy of Barchester Towers. Chessie, who had bruised, scabious-blue eyes, and looked like a Botticelli angel who’d had too much nectar at lunchtime, made no secret of the fact that she found polo irredeemably boring. Being stuck at home with a three-year-old son, William, polishing silver cups and taking burnt meat out of the oven, because Ricky hadn’t got back from a match or was coping with some crisis in the yard, was not Chessie’s idea of marriage.
‘You’ve missed an exciting match, Francesca,’ said Grace pointedly.
‘I’d have been on time,’ grumbled Chessie, ‘if that goon in the bar didn’t take half an hour to make a Pimm’s.’
‘Better go and help out,’ said Commander Harris, the club’s secretary, known as ‘Fatty’, waddling off to the bar.
‘To help himself to another drink, the disgusting old soak,’ said Chessie. ‘Congratulations,’ she went on, sitting down next to Sukey. ‘When are you getting married?’
‘In September, so that Drew can finish the polo season.’
‘When did he propose?’
‘On Sunday. It was so sweet. He asked me to look after his signet ring before the match, then put it on my wedding-ring finger, and said would I, and now he’s bought me this heavenly ring.’
‘Nice,’ said Chessie, admiring the large but conventional diamond and sapphires. ‘Drew must have had to flog at least one of Bart’s ponies to pay for that.’
Grace’s red lips tightened, and even more so when the players, who always seemed to be playing on some distant part of the field, for once surged over to the four-inch-high wooden boards (as the sidelines are known in polo) near the stands. Ignoring Ricky’s yells to leave the ball, Bart barged in, missed an easy shot and enabled Seb Carlisle to whip the ball away to Dommie, his twin, who took it down the field and scored.
‘When I say fucking leave it, Bart, for fuck’s sake leave it,’ Ricky’s bellow of exasperation rang round the field, eliciting a furious entry in Grace’s red book and an extremely beady glance from Miss Lodsworth, a local bossy boots and one of the whiskery old trouts always present at polo matches.
‘It was my ball,’ shouted Bart. ‘I paid for this fucking team, and I’m going to hit the goddam ball . . .’
To lighten the atmosphere, as the players cantered back to change ponies after the fourth chukka, Sukey warmly informed Chessie that Ricky had already scored two splendid goals.
‘Good,’ said Chessie lightly. ‘We might not have black gloom all the way home for a change. He still won’t talk, mind you. Even if he wins, he’s too hyped up to say anything.’
Sukey’s total recap of the match was mercifully cut short by the arrival of one of Bas Baddingham’s gorgeous mistresses, a long-haired blonde called Ritz Maclaren. She and Chessie proceeded to gossip noisily about their friends until Grace hushed them reprovingly and asked Chessie what she intended to wear for Lady Waterlane’s party that evening.
‘What I’ve got on,’ said Chessie. ‘Until Ricky’s father relents and gives us some cash, or Ricky gets his polo act together, I can’t see myself ever affording a new dress. It’s the ponies that get new shoes in our house’ – she waved a torn espadrille hanging on the end of a dusty foot at Grace – ‘not me.’
‘It’s not very respectful to Lady Waterlane not to change,’ reproved Grace. To which Chessie replied that Clemency Waterlane would be so busy wrapped round Juan O’Brien, her husband’s Argentine pro, that she would hardly notice.
‘I can’t think why David Waterlane doesn’t boot Clemency out,’ said Ritz Maclaren, who was calmly removing her tights.
‘Terrified Juan would go as well,’ said Chessie. ‘David told Ricky there was no problem getting another wife, but he’d never find another hired assassin as good as Juan.’
‘Oh, good shot, Ricky,’ cried Sukey. ‘Do watch, Chessie; your husband’s playing so well.’
As the bell went to end the fifth chukka, Perdita raced down to the pony lines to catch a glimpse of Matilda, Ricky France-Lynch’s legendary blue roan, whom he always saved for the last chukka.
Ponies that had played in the fifth chukka, which, except for Victor’s, had had every ounce of strength pushed out of them, were coming off the field, drenched in sweat, nostrils blood-red as poppies, veins standing up like a network of snakes. Bart’s horse, having been yanked around, was pouring blood from a cut mouth, sending scarlet froth flying everywhere.
Grooms instantly went into a frenzy of activity, untacking each pony, sponging it down, throwing water over its head, taking down its tail. Other grooms were loading already dried-off ponies from earlier chukkas into lorries for the journey home, while still others were leading them round, or just holding them as they waited to go on, quivering with pitch-fright, while their riders towelled off the sweat and discussed tactics for the last chukka.
‘That Ricky France-Lynch’s got a wonderful eye,’ said the security man who was looking after the Prince’s Jack Russell.
He’s got wonderful eyes, thought Perdita wistfully. Deep-set, watchful, dark green as bay leaves and now, as they lighted on Matilda, his favourite pony, amazingly softened.
Before a game Matilda got so excited that her groom could hardly hold her. Snorting, neighing shrilly, kicking up the dust with stamping feet, watching the action with pricked ears, her dark eyes searched everywhere for Ricky. As he walked over, she gave a great deep whicker of joy. They had hardly been separated a day since she was a foal. She was the fastest pony he’d ever ridden, turned at the gallop, and once, when she’d bucked him off in a fit of high spirits, had raced after the rider who had the ball and blocked the shot. There wasn’t a player in the world who didn’t covet Matilda. And now Ricky was going to need all her skills: the Alderton Flyers were three down.
The last chukka was decidedly stormy. Ricky scored two goals, then Drew and Bas one each, putting the Flyers ahead. Then Bart, frantic he was the only member of the team without a goal, missed an easy shot and took his whip to his little brown pony.
‘It was your bloody fault, not the pony’s,’ howled Ricky, to the edification of the entire stand, ‘and for Christ’s sake get back.’
Evading Drew’s clutches yet again, Jesus, the Chilean, thundered towards goal. In a mood of altruism and probably seeing a chance to be forgiven for the £5,000 telephone bill, he put the ball just in front of Victor, his patron, who, connecting for the first time in the match, tipped it between the posts and levelled the score to cheers and whoops from all round the ground. Victor immediately waved his stick exuberantly at his red-headed night-club hostess, who was just thinking how much better looking every man in the field was than Victor.
‘Why’s Victor’s ’orse wearing so many straps? It looks like a bondage victim,’ she asked Sukey.
‘The saddle has to hold if you’re going to lean out of it,’ explained Sukey patiently.
‘Ride hard, hit hard, and keep your temper,’ said Brigadier Hughie, the club chairman and bore who’d just arrived.
Contrary to this advice, Bart, incensed that Victor had scored, proceeded to ride the fat little Hungarian off the ball at such a dangerous angle that Bart was promptly fouled and the Tigers awarded a forty-yard penalty. Bart then swore so hard at the umpire that the penalty was upped to thirty yards, which Jesus had no difficulty driving between the posts, putting the Tigers ahead again.
In the closing, desperately fought seconds of the game Jesus got the ball and set off for goal, his bay mare’s hooves rattling like a firing squad on the dry gro
und. Ricky, on Matilda, belted after him and had caught up when the bay mare stumbled. As the bell went Matilda cannoned into her and ponies and riders crashed to the ground in front of the stands to the horrified gasps of the crowd. As the dust cleared, Ricky and Jesus could be seen to have got to their feet. The Chilean’s bay mare got up more slowly and, after an irritated shake, set off at a gallop for the pony lines. Matilda, however, made several abortive attempts and, when she finally lurched up, her off fore was hanging horribly.
Oblivious of the whiskery old trout Miss Lodsworth complaining noisily about the disgusting cruelty of the game, Perdita watched helplessly, tears streaming down her face. On came the vet’s van; the crowd fell silent. As screens were put round the pony, Fatty Harris, the club secretary, somewhat unsteadily joined the little group. Victorious but grim-faced, with Dommie Carlisle unashamedly wiping his eyes, the Kaputnik Tigers rode back to the pony lines where the grooms of the great Argentines, Juan and Miguel O’Brien, and their patron, Sir David Waterlane, were warming up ponies for the next match in which they were playing with the Prince of Wales.
Behind the screen, however, an argument was raging.
‘You’re not putting Mattie down,’ hissed Ricky. ‘If it’s a cannon bone, we can slap her into plaster. I want her X-rayed.’
‘She’ll be no use for polo,’ protested the vet.
‘Maybe not, but I’m bloody well going to breed from her. It’s all right, lovie,’ Ricky’s voice softened as he stroked the trembling mare.
‘Give her a shot of Buscopan,’ advised Fatty Harris.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snapped Ricky. ‘If you kill the pain, she’ll tread on it and make it worse.’
‘Got to get her off the field, Ricky,’ said Fatty fussily, his breath stale from too many lunchtime whiskies. ‘Prince’s match is due to start in ten minutes. Can’t hold it up.’
Utterly indifferent to the fact that in the end he held up the Prince’s match for half an hour, and that most of the spectators and some of the players regarded him as appallingly callous for not putting Matilda out of her agony, Ricky, helped by Drew and Bas, gently coaxed the desperately hobbling mare into a driven-up horse box. Ricky would stay inside with her, while one of his grooms drove them the eight miles home, to where the vet would bring his X-ray equipment.
Green beneath his suntan, shaking violently and pouring with sweat, Ricky spoke briefly to his wife Chessie when she came over and hugged him. Chessie had often been jealous of Matilda in the past; now she could only pity Ricky’s anguish.
‘I’m desperately sorry, darling. When’ll you be back?’
‘Probably not at all. I’ll ring you.’
‘But what about Lady Waterlane’s reception?’ asked an outraged Bart, who had just joined them. ‘You can’t miss that.’
Ricky looked at Bart uncomprehendingly.
‘B-b-bugger Lady Waterlane,’ he said coldly.
Ricky had just climbed in beside the mare when a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd as a dark man in a cherry-red polo shirt pulled up his pony beside the lorry. His hazel eyes were on a level with Ricky’s as he called out: ‘Desperately sorry, Ricky. Ghastly thing to happen. Always liked Matilda – great character. Hope you manage to save her.’
Touched by the expression of genuine sympathy on the Prince’s face, Ricky forgot to bow.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Bart and Grace, who’d also joined him on the field, shot forward expectantly, avid to be presented, but it was too late.
Shouting back to Ricky to let him know the result of the X-ray, the Prince had moved off, hitting a ball ahead of him, cantering across the pitch and out of Bart’s life.
‘Why the hell didn’t you introduce us?’
‘It seemed irrelevant.’
As they raised the ramp of the horse box and shot the bolts, Bas and Drew shook their heads. They knew how devastated Ricky was, but he was pushing his luck.
Aubergine with rage, Bart turned to Chessie.
‘What the fuck does your husband think he’s playing at?’
‘Polo,’ said Chessie bitterly. ‘Absolutely nothing else.’
3
Bart’s resentment against Ricky was in no way abated when the Prince regretfully decided he wouldn’t have time to look in at Lady Waterlane’s party because his match had been delayed. Lady Waterlane, who didn’t find Latins at all lousy lovers, was so preoccupied with Juan O’Brien, her husband’s Argentine professional, that she hardly noticed the Prince’s absence.
A rather too relaxed hostess, besides feeding and watering her guests and giving them free access to the bedrooms where the four-posters hadn’t been made for weeks, Lady Waterlane expected people to get on with it.
Totally confident in the business world, Bart felt an outsider among the raffish and sometimes aristocratic members of the polo community who knew each other so well. He had expected Ricky to introduce him to everyone. Chessie, furious at having forked out for a baby-sitter and determined to stay for the party, could easily have fulfilled this function, but Bart had been so rude to her about Ricky’s arrogance, and the fact that she was dressed like a tramp, that she had stalked off to comfort Jesus the Chilean who was mortified his pony had caused Matilda’s fall.
Bart, however, was not left alone for long. June and July (when the mid-season’s handicaps were announced) were the months when dissatisfied patrons started looking round and wondering which players they would hire to make up their teams for next year.
Apart from the occasional amateur, like Bas and Drew, there are two kinds of players in polo – the patrons who have the money and the professionals who earn money playing for them. Professional players are only as good as their last three games; contracts rarely extend beyond a season. There is therefore collossal pressure to perform well. But, with one’s future at stake, diplomacy is almost more important than performance. Patrons not only like to win, but also to be taken to parties and treated as one of the boys.
During the season everyone had noticed the froideur between Ricky and Bart. Miguel O’Brien, known as the Godfather because he controlled the other Argentine players like the Mafia, was also grimly aware that with his handsome brother Juan constantly wrapped round Clemency Waterlane, David Waterlane might not be overkeen to employ them to play for Rutminster Hall next year. David was tricky and also very mean. Looking round the beautiful drawing room, Miguel’s conniving, dark little eyes noticed the damp patches on the faded yellow wallpaper and the tattered silk chaircovers, and saw that David’s ancestors on the walls could hardly see out through the layers of grime. He knew, too, that David owed thousands to Ladbroke’s and the taxman. Thinking how agreeable it would be next year to be sponsored by Bart’s millions, Miguel started chatting him up.
‘You ride very well for the leetle time you ’ave learn,’ purred Miguel. ‘Wiz zee right coaching you could be miles bettair, but success in polo is eighty per cent zee good ’orses.’
He hoped Bart and his beautiful wife would come and stay at his estancia in Argentina and try out some of the family’s superb ponies. Bart was flattered. Imagine the kudos of having the great O’Brien brothers playing on his team both in England and Palm Beach.
The Napier brothers, Ben and Charles, known as the Unheavenly Twins because of their cadaverous appearance, who’d been beaten by the O’Briens, David Waterlane and the Prince in the second match, were also at the party. Cruel to their horses and even crueller to their patron, a petfood billionaire who they’d ripped off so unmercifully that he was threatening to quit polo, the Napiers also tried to make their number with Bart during the evening. But they were pre-empted by Seb and Dommie Carlisle, who, having got drunk and appropriated Perdita after the match, came rushing up to Bart: ‘Oh, Mr Alderton, could you please take us into a corner and chat us up like mad, so Victor will get appallingly jealous and offer us three times as much next year?’
Bart was amused. The twins, he decided, would be far more fun to play wi
th than Ricky or the Napiers.
Drew Benedict couldn’t stay long at the party, as he had to dine with Sukey’s parents, his future in-laws, but, ever diplomatic, he found time to talk to Bart, his patron, telling him how well he had played and how the team would never have reached the semi-finals without him.
‘It’s disappointing we didn’t make the finals, but a good thing from my point of view,’ added Drew philosophically. ‘I’m supposed to be guarding some nuclear weapons this weekend, and I’d have had difficulty getting leave on Sunday.’
Having mugged up on the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times every day, Drew was also able to comment on the progress of Bart’s latest take-over. Admiring Drew’s well-worn but beautifully cut suit, his striped shirt and blue silk tie, and his dependable handsome face with the turned-down blue eyes and juttingly determined jaw, Bart thought that he was quite the best kind of Englishman – a sort of butch Leslie Howard. Briefly he touched Drew’s pin-striped arm with the back of his hand, the nearest he ever got to intimacy with men.
‘The Army’s loss’ll be Sukey’s gain,’ he said roughly. ‘She’s a very lucky young woman.’
Drew grinned. ‘London’s fortune-hunters are out to lynch me.’
Having taught himself Spanish because he realized what an advantage it would be understanding what the Argentines were gabbling to each other on and off the field, Drew had also overheard Miguel talking to Juan. Before he left, he took Chessie on to the terrace. The setting sun was turning the house a warm peach and gilded the lake around which cows were lying down. Catmint brushed against Chessie’s legs as Drew adjusted the shoulder-strap of her coloured vest which had flopped down her arm.
‘As your husband’s best friend . . .’
‘ . . . You want me to stop flirting with Jesus!’
‘That too,’ said Drew. ‘Look I’ve just overheard that oily sod Miguel telling Juan that Bart’s fed up with Ricky and things look rosy for next year. Ricky should be here guarding his patch.’