by Jilly Cooper
The room rocked with laughter.
‘That’s quite enough, Seb,’ snapped David Waterlane, who’d just arrived with snowflakes melting in his hair. ‘We don’t want post mortems, we want better behaviour.’
‘Curried unanimously,’ murmured Perdita.
‘Where is Drew?’ said Sukey, glancing at her watch. ‘The roads are awfully icy. I hope he hasn’t had a shunt.’
The meeting droned on. The news wasn’t all bad, announced Brigadier Hughie. They had Bart Alderton to thank for the magnificent new pavilion, new stands and excellent new changing rooms. Then, seeing Victor turn puce at such preferential treatment of his hated rival: ‘And of course we must thank Victor Kaputnik . . .’
‘Sir Victor, if you please,’ reproved Sharon.
‘I beg your pardon, Sir Victor, for providing us with a splendid first-aid hut and a year’s supply of his excellent medical products and for a new marquee for sponsors’ lunches. We must also thank him for boarding our third and fourth pitches, and for giving us a new commentary box to replace the one that blew away and is probably someone’s garden shed now.’
Moving on to the Social Calendar, Brigadier Hughie praised Miss Lodsworth for her excellent floral arrangements in the tea room and announced dates for several barbecues and cocktail parties. The highlight of the season, however, would be in June, when Lady Kaputnik had very kindly offered her home for a ball, but felt 350 was the limit she could accommodate at one time.
‘Three fifty would be stretching it even for Sharon,’ said Seb, grinning broadly as he returned with his second glass of whisky.
The meeting switched to the perils of ringworm. Brigadier Hughie remembered ringworm in Singapore. Perdita fought sleep and looked out of the window. The blizzard had come from the west, so the trees in the hotel garden resembled a Head and Shoulders ad with their east sides black and bare and the west sides powdered with snow. Pigeons drifted disconsolately round a blanked-out bird table. Yellow-and-purple crocus tips rose like flood victims out of an ocean of white snow. It was hard to believe she’d be playing chukkas again in a month.
If Seb and I and Perdita can get here, thought Bas, as his fingers moved upwards to caress the softness of Posy Jones’ thighs, why can’t the others.
He had a lunch date, but he wondered if it was worth booking Posy into a room upstairs for a quickie. He liked the way her bosom rose and fell as she wrote the shorthand outline for wrongworm rather than ringworm.
‘Which brings us to the matter of dogs,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘I cannot reiterate too strongly that they should be kept on leads during matches.’
‘Here, here,’ Miss Lodsworth rose to her feet, ‘I for one . . .’
David Waterlane pointedly unfolded the Sunday Express. ‘What’s all this about Rupert Campbell-Black and Declan O’Hara getting drunk together, and your brother firing Declan from Corinium Television?’ he asked Bas in a very audible whisper.
Sharon Kaputnik discreetly unfolded the News of the World to read the same story.
It was nearly midday. Brigadier Hughie was rabbiting on about the necessity for a decent walkie-talkie system.
‘Drew Benedict must have plenty of experience of walkie-talkies, having recently left the Army. Where are you, Drew?’
‘Not here,’ said Fatty Harris thankfully. He feared Drew’s exacting standards far more than Bas’s.
‘Yes, I am. Sorry I’m late, Hughie,’ said Drew, walking in. ‘There was a pile-up on the Cotchester bypass. My experience of walkie-talkies was they never worked.’ Coming back to earth, warm from Daisy’s arms, he sat down beside Sukey and took off his jacket.
‘It wasn’t ponies he was trying out,’ whispered Seb, nudging Perdita. ‘He’s got his jersey on inside out.’
Catching Drew’s eye behind Sukey’s back, Seb pointed frantically to his own sweater and then at Drew’s. Drew looked down and hastily put his jacket on again.
‘I warmly recommend Drew Benedict for the committee,’ said Brigadier Hughie smiling at Drew. ‘I can’t think of anyone who shoulders responsibility more willingly and I know his wife, Sukey, will be a tower of strength.’
‘Has Drew got someone else?’ whispered Perdita, utterly riveted.
‘So Rupert says,’ whispered back Seb, ‘but Drew won’t say who she is.’ ‘Hush,’ thundered Miss Lodsworth down the row.
‘Any other business?’ said Brigadier Hughie, looking at his watch and gathering up his papers.
‘I have,’ said Miss Lodsworth, rising to her feet again. ‘First, I would like to deplore the repeated use of bad language on the field.’
‘Hear, hear,’ chorused the old trout quintet who flanked her.
Fatty Harris heaved a sigh of relief. Miss Lodsworth would bang on until twelve, when they had to vacate the room anyway, so no one would have time to bring up the matter of Ricky and Dancer. Bart had already lined Fatty’s pockets liberally, but there was much more to come if the blackballing survived the AGM. Perdita looked despairingly at Bas, who grinned and squared his shoulders to interrupt Miss Lodsworth’s invective. But as the Cathedral clock struck twelve, distraction from bad language and ponies thundering five abreast was provided by a government helicopter landing on the lawn outside, blowing snow off the trees and sending it up in swirling, white fountains, as if the blizzard had started again. Then, out of the door, spilled Dommie Carlisle and Jesus, followed by a brunette and a blonde, who ran shrieking across the lawn in their high heels, and finally the Minister for Sport, Rupert Campbell-Black. Bas heaved a sigh of relief. Posy blushed and pulled down her jersey. The last time she’d seen Rupert she’d been wearing no clothes at all. Miss Lodsworth inflated like a bullfrog. The press woke up and started scribbling.
Leaving the girls by the fire in the bar, the three men came straight into the meeting.
‘This is an honour, Minister,’ lied Brigadier Hughie. Rupert always spelt trouble. ‘I thought you were in Florida.’
‘We were eight hours ago,’ said Rupert.
‘He hasn’t been near an AGM in twenty years,’ hissed Fatty Harris.
‘I didn’t know Rupert played polo,’ whispered Perdita.
‘Only as a hobby between show-jumping,’ said Seb, ‘but he’s bloody good. Christ knows how far he’d have got if he’d taken it up seriously.’
‘Come and have a drink, Rupert,’ said the Brigadier, getting to his feet. ‘We’ve just finished.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ said Bas amiably. ‘Item eleven – any other business.’
‘They want to lay the room for a luncheon party,’ said Brigadier Hughie fussily. ‘No time for that now.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ said Rupert.
As he reached the top of the aisle the dull winter light fell on his blond hair and the crows’ feet round his hard, dissipated, blue eyes. He’s divine, thought Perdita wistfully. No one could resist him.
‘As a member of this club for many years,’ drawled Rupert, ‘I want to oppose the blackballing of Ricky France-Lynch and Dancer Maitland.’
‘Not a matter for an AGM,’ snapped David Waterlane, putting down the Sunday Express. ‘These things should be discussed in camera.’
‘Oh dear!’ Brigadier Hughie mopped his forehead with a red spotted handkerchief, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
The press scribbled more feverishly. Miss Lodsworth, dammed up in mid-flow, turned puce.
‘Hardly the time,’ said Fatty Harris.
‘When better?’ Rupert was speaking very distinctly as though he was dictating to some idiot typist. ‘I think the press might be interested to know that Ricky France-Lynch, the best player Rutshire has ever had, having survived a horrific car crash and six even more horrific operations, is anxious to return and bring back some glory to this clapped-out club.’
‘This is disgraceful. How dare you?’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.
‘Dancer Maitland may have been a junkie once,’ went on Rupert, ‘but has since raised millions for charity this winter, offering his
services free to Band Aid. If you want crowds at Rutshire, Ricky and Dancer will pack them in.
‘Bart Alderton,’ Rupert was speaking even slower now, so even the reporters doing longhand got everything down, ‘not only stole Ricky’s wife, but now wants to rob him of the chance to return to the club he loves and for which his family has played for generations. Bart has therefore poured fortunes into the club and certain club secretaries’ pockets’ – Rupert smiled coldly at Fatty Harris – ‘on condition that Ricky and Dancer are kept out. Pretty shabby behaviour.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Victor. ‘Bart’s walked off with Ricky’s wife. He’s the one who ought to be blackballed.’
‘Hey, steady on,’ said David Waterlane. ‘That’s going a bit far. If we stuck to that rule we wouldn’t have any members left.’
Rupert turned to the players. ‘D’you lot want to play for a club as bent as it is lacking in compassion?’
‘I resent that, sir,’ said Fatty Harris.
‘No,’ shouted Dommie from the back of the hall. ‘If you don’t reinstate Ricky – and allow Dancer in – I’m off down the road to Cirencester.’
‘So am I,’ said Seb, draining his whisky and raising Perdita’s hand, ‘and so’s she.’
‘And so am I,’ said Bas.
‘And I,’ said Drew, ignoring Sukey’s look of disapproval.
‘And me,’ brayed Mike Waterlane, ignoring his father’s even blacker look of disapproval.
‘And I,’ said Jesus, who’d been nudged in the ribs by Dommie.
‘And I,’ said Victor.
‘Don’t be silly, Victor,’ said Sharon, seeing her ball for 350 fast rolling away.
‘Anyone else?’ said Rupert.
Every player and most of the non-playing members, except Miss Lodsworth and her satellite crones, got to their feet.
‘This is most irregular,’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.
‘But conclusive,’ said Rupert briskly.
‘I agree,’ said David Waterlane, turning to Fatty Harris, whose pockets were suddenly feeling very unlined. ‘You’ll have to accept a majority vote, Stanley. I declare the meeting closed, and now you can buy me a glass of beer, Rupert, and tell me what really happened with you and Declan O’Hara.’
‘I would,’ said Rupert, as the press swarmed round and the waitresses surged in to clear the room, ‘but we’ve got to go straight back to Florida. Dommie and Jesus are playing in the finals.’
Dommie, Jesus and the girls could now be seen running across the white lawn to the helicopter, as the blades blew the rest of the snow off the trees.
‘D’you mean you flew all the way from Florida just to vote, Minister?’ asked the Rutshire Echo.
‘Ricky’s a very old friend,’ said Rupert.
39
Bart Alderton was so incensed at the result of the AGM that he promptly put Rutchester Abbey back on the market and cancelled his trip to England, preferring to spend the summer playing polo on the American circuit. This meant that, although Ricky was reinstated at Rutshire Polo Club, he was deprived of Chessie’s return.
‘Why d’you all have to interfere in my life?’ he shouted at Rupert.
‘Of all the ungrateful sods,’ complained Rupert furiously to Bas.
All this was extremely bad news for Angel who, banned as an Argentine from playing in England, had hoped for a restful summer, retained by Bart, but spared his company.
After a brilliant season in which he had contributed in no small way to the Alderton Flyers sweeping the board, Angel was tipped to go to four or even five in the November handicap listings. But this was no compensation for living in a horrible little bedsitter with no curtains nor air-conditioning and only a trickle of cold water which stopped altogether when the meter ran out; nor for being bullied by Miguel, who, operating his own mafia, bitterly resented Angel constantly seeking Alejandro’s advice, nor being bitched at by Juan, who equally resented Angel being as good-looking as he was and much better bred.
Angel detested Bart and dreamed of cuckolding him with the exquisite and discontented Chessie. His worst cross, however, was Bibi, who had taken on the job as Bart’s polo manager with all the fervour of a neophyte. Finding Angel surly and temperamental, she was constantly pulling him up for never getting up in the morning and letting down the Flyers by slopping round in sleeveless T-shirts, designer stubble, and too long hair flapping under his polo helmet.
In return, Angel had not revised his opinion at Christmas that Bibi was a spoilt, uptight, ugly bitch. He was fed up with her recording his botched shots in her little red book, and noisily remonstrating with him between chukkas. Argentine women were beautiful, submissive, admiring and not like this.
Angel had been often tempted to walk out, but swallowed his pride and clung on because he was desperate for a green card which would establish him as a registered alien and enable him to work anywhere in America. Half the foreign grooms and low-goal Argentine players were, like him, in the States illegally and, although they didn’t pay tax, they could be arrested, fined and immediately sent home if they were rumbled – which made Angel feel very insecure.
The day before the first round of the World Cup, Angel was taking six ponies round the vast, oval, sandy exercise ring at Palm Beach Polo Club. Persistent drizzle and lowering dark grey clouds reflected his mood. Refusing him player status, the infernal Bibi insisted that he do grooms’ work when he should be stick and balling. The sole compensation was that ahead, above the rump of a sleek, sorrel pony, bounced the even sleeker rump of Samantha, Shark Nelligan’s blonde and beautiful groom. Working for Shark for four years had bashed any assertiveness out of Samantha, and she thought Angel was absolutely wonderful. As Angel squeezed his pony and dragged the other five into a gallop to catch her up the April drizzle suddenly became a deluge. A second later Angel was overtaken by Jesus’s Chilean groom who, like a cat, loathed getting wet and was thundering his six ponies home as fast as possible. Next minute Angel was into a horse race.
‘Wanker,’ he screamed at the Chilean as his own six ponies fanned out, nearly pulling his arms off. He managed to stay put until he caught up with Samantha. Then one of her six horses kicked up a clod of sand into his face, and he had to let go of three of the lead ropes for fear of garrotting Samantha from the back. In the stampede that followed he was bucked off and, letting forth a stream of expletives, he watched the rest of his ponies disappearing into the Everglades.
Bibi, who’d just arrived by helicopter totally drained after filling in for Bart and having to address the Boston Chamber of Commerce last night, was absolutely furious. A mocking bird perched on the fence laughing at her and now Angel hobbled into the yard minus six of the horses who should have been playing in the World Cup tomorrow.
Nor would she listen to any excuses that Jesus’s groom had triggered off the cavalry charge. It was all Angel’s fault for trying to cut corners, ponying too many horses at once, who were now no doubt stuffing themselves with scrub, drinking contaminated swamp water and being threatened by alligators and rattlesnakes.
A prolonged search rounded up four of the ponies, two in Victor’s garden where they disturbed Lady Kaputnik sunbathing in the nude, one trying to enter the Players Club without membership and the fourth outside the local hypermarket.
‘Probably knew they were offering half-price carrots this week for the Easter Bunny,’ said Angel.
Bibi’s lips tightened. Miguel’s best pony, Maria, and Glitz, the black gelding Juan always saved for the vital fifth chukka, were still missing.
‘I’ll look for them in the Skylark. You’d better come with me,’ she ordered Angel, ‘and bring some headcollars.’
Angel growled histrionically. He hated woman drivers, particularly in helicopters, and Bibi had only just passed her test.
‘Why d’you need a helicopter?’ he hissed as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I thought you flew everywhere on your broomstick.’
Bibi’s bloodshot eyes glared at him over her h
uge horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘If you want to go on working for my father don’t give me any more lip, OK?’
The control stick had been taken out on the passenger side, but Angel still had pedals and a collective lever in front of him. A groom locked the doors and gave Bibi a thumbs up. Satisfied everything was in order, she started the two engines. With a last look round to see everything was clear, she pulled on the power with the collective lever, and with a shudder the Skylark lifted off the apron scattering orange blossom, putting up the mocking bird and sending the ponies galloping around the paddock.
Making a slow turn through 360 degrees to make sure no other machine was coming in behind her, she called the control tower who asked her her destination.
‘Local flying along the coast and around the Everglades and Palm Beach not above a thousand feet,’ replied Bibi, trying to appear wildly confident. She’d only done a few hours without an instructor, but she was damned if she’d betray any nerves.
‘Too much engine,’ said Angel idly.
‘Concentrate on the job,’ said Bibi curtly. ‘There are some binoculars behind you.’
Peering down, Angel saw scummy canals, swamp, olive-green scrub, ribbons of grey road and emerald-green polo pitches. There was the big stand, the aquamarine flash of a swimming-pool, and the white-and-yellow awnings of the Players Club – but no sorrel or black ponies. As they flew towards the ocean, sighting shrimp-pink swimmers and a few small boats on the azure water, the sun beat down on the glass bubble and the weather seemed perfect.
‘Nice piece of real estate,’ said Angel, squinting down at Donald Trump’s house.
‘You’re looking for forty thousand bucks’ worth of horses,’ reproved Bibi. ‘I’m going to switch on to automatic pilot.’
Angel watched her set the white balls on the auto-pilot indicator and, when she was satisfied they were stable, click on the switch. Hesitantly she took her hands off the controls, but the Skylark held its course and height. Bibi snatched the binoculars. She’d show this Latin creep how to search.
There’s Victor’s barn, thought Angel, leaning over to see if he could see a naked Sharon. The Everglades seemed to stretch out for ever, the canals glinting dully like crocodiles’ eyes in the baking sun. In the distance was a line of hills where, as usual, hung a bank of elephant-grey cloud. As they drew nearer, Angel disliked the look of the rain that hung like a dingy lace curtain between the swamps and the clouds. Bibi had not noticed any storm and was still busy scouring the scrub for ponies.