by Jilly Cooper
Ricky had gone to pieces. White, sweating, shaking violently, he hardly seemed to know where he was.
‘Take it easy,’ said Luke, putting an arm round his shoulders.
‘Thought Dancer was the fag,’ taunted Ben Napier. ‘Didn’t know you and Ricky were having it off. I hear you had to buy the Rutshire, Dancer, to get your handicap up to one.’
‘Knock it off,’ ordered Shark Nelligan who was umpiring and wanted to throw-in.
‘That was definitely below the belt, Dad,’ said Luke as he lined up beside Bart. ‘If you want Chessie to be a widow before the end of the match you’re going about it in the right way.’
‘Whaddya talking about?’ Bart spat out his gum.
‘Sending her out to the pony lines to screw up Ricky.’
For a second Bart was roused out of his obsessive pre-throw-in catatonia.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said in outrage. ‘She must have got looped at lunchtime.’
As the ball thumped into the forest of legs and sticks the first three pairs missed it. Luke and Bart clashed mallets for a couple of seconds, then Luke got the ball out, immediately whacking it up towards the enemy goal posts, then, following his right of way, hit it again. But he wasn’t on his fastest pony. At the touch of spurs on her desperately cut-up flesh, Charles Napier’s big brown mare bounded forward like a cheetah. Luke could hear the thunder of her hooves on the dry ground behind him. Then suddenly, to his left, Spotty, electrified by a large cheering crowd, was streaking down the field with Perdita’s arms, legs and whip going like a jockey’s.
Aware that Charles was about to hook him, Luke swung Ophelia to the right and cut the ball to Perdita on the nearside. Fleetingly he felt Charles’s knee under his but managed to stay put.
‘Take your time,’ he yelled to Perdita.
Conscious of the cheers of the crowd, Perdita stroked the ball upfield. Then, out of nowhere, Ben Napier was hurtling towards her at ninety degrees like a boulder in an avalanche.
Oh my God, thought Perdita.
Oh my God, thought Spotty, who didn’t like the look of Ben Napier’s big bay gelding any better.
Rolling his white eye, he put on another amazing burst of acceleration, whisking his brown-and-white rump forward so Ben Napier bumped the burning air instead. Then, bearing Perdita on as proudly as a gun dog with his master’s newspaper, Spotty positioned her to meet the ball exactly right and flick it between the posts.
Grinning from ear to ear and unashamedly raising her stick to the cheers of the crowd, she cantered back to the halfway line, patting Spotty over and over again. Apocalypse, who had received two goals on handicap, were now 3-0 up.
‘You doll,’ breathed Luke, hugging her.
Ricky said nothing. He was plainly still suffering from shock. Bart just scowled.
‘Aren’t you sorry you gave me Spotty for Christmas?’ Perdita taunted him.
Euphoria, however, was shortlived. Ricky simply wasn’t connecting with the ball. It was as if he was wearing a pair of reading glasses to run down a steep flight of steps and such, eventually, was his frustration and rage and the ferocity of his ride-offs that he finally sent Bart and black Glitz flying five feet through the air so that even the Queen in the Royal Box could hear the bump.
Next moment the Napiers were twirling their sticks in the air and Shark Nelligan had blown a foul on Ricky. Contemptuously, Charles Napier converted. Soon it became plain to everyone that Ricky was out to bury Bart. By half-time he had given away three penalties and
Ben Napier, whom Ricky was supposed to be marking, had scored three goals.
As the crowd surged on to the field to tread in, Luke rode Fantasma back to the pony lines in a towering rage. The mare was panting desperately, her bottom lip flapping, her nostrils dark red, her tail thrashing at her sweating dock, the blood pumping visibly through her enlarged veins like some biology experiment. Luke had never known her so exhausted. Handing her to Lizzie to cool down, he dragged Ricky aside.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ he hissed. ‘I’ve just ridden the duck soup out of Fantasma covering up for you. This final is between Apocalypse and the Flyers not you and my father. It’s goddam selfish to take your personal vendetta on to the field.’
Luke had sweat in his eyes, dust in his throat, his ribs ached from a foul hook no-one had seen, he’d had to change ponies twice in the first two chukkas because two had gone lame and he could see his dreams going up in smoke. Nor could he bear to see Dancer and Perdita’s dejected faces. They deserved better.
‘This match is dirtier than a coal hole,’ said Seb Carlisle as he bought Chessie a Pimm’s up in the stands during the second half, ‘and you ought to be wearing a duck-egg-blue shirt with five stamped on the back, you’ve contributed so much to Ricky’s disintegration and Apocalypse’s certain defeat.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Chessie. ‘I had to talk to him. With two bloody bodyguards tailing me all the time I may not get another chance this season.’
‘Why don’t you lure them both into your bedroom?’ suggested Seb, ‘then rush out and lock the door on them. Oh, lovely pass, Perdita. Luke Alderton has certainly worked miracles with her and Dancer. They’re hassling the shit out of your husband and Ben Napier and, Christ, look at that.’ He waved his programme disapprovingly at Charles Napier’s pony who was bleeding both from her mouth and her lacerated sides. ‘I have nightmares that I’m going to come back in another life as one of Charles’s horses.’
Charles Napier was also famous for using his elbows during ride-offs and at the throw-in, and he was using them with increasing ferocity in the fifth chukka when he was riding the lightning Andromeda and the Flyers had failed to increase their lead. Fed up with Perdita giving him the slip as they were fighting for the ball on the boards, he deliberately rammed an elbow so hard into her left breast that she gave a shriek.
‘Why don’t you go back to the kitchen where you belong?’ he hissed.
‘Why don’t you go back to the gorilla house?’ screamed Perdita, so doubled up with pain she could hardly lift her stick.
Next minute Luke had thundered up.
‘You OK, baby?’
Perdita bit her lip and nodded.
‘Well, belt up and leave this to me.’
At the beginning of the last chukka Charles galloped towards goal. As Luke, back on Fantasma again, rode him off, out came Charles’s elbows.
‘Get out of my way, you goddam prick,’ bellowed Charles.
‘Takes a prick to know a prick,’ said Luke, putting his arm through Charles’s. And such was his massive strength that he lifted him off his horse as easily as if he was pulling the plug out of the bath. Charles crashed to the ground.
‘Man down,’ said Luke, grinning.
‘Foul,’ yelled Charles furiously.
‘No foul,’ said Shark and Dommie Carlisle, the other umpire, in unison. Both had been the recipients of Charles Napier’s elbows far too often.
The sun behind the stands lit up the thundery indigo clouds, the acid-yellow fir trees, the jade-green statue of Prince Albert on his horse, the yellow-and-white goal posts and the tiring ponies. It was stiflingly hot and stuffy.
‘Luke must be very much in love with Perdita to risk a foul like that,’ said Seb to Chessie.
No one quite knew how it happened, but in the following frantic mêlée in front of the Apocalypse goal, Charles Napier took a mighty swipe at the ball and instead hit Luke on the head with his stick. As Luke slumped in his saddle, Fantasma pulled up with a jerk and the pitted field came up to meet him.
Perdita was off Tero in a trice, begging Luke frantically to be all right. Beside her Fantasma gazed down at her master with huge, dark, worried eyes, nudging him impatiently in the ribs to get up, then raking his shoulder gently with her hoof.
‘Out cold,’ said the doctor, who’d arrived with the ambulance, bending over Luke. ‘Ouch,’ he howled a second later as Fantasma bit him jealously on the bottom.
Bart and the Napiers belted off to change ponies.
‘I’ll get another player,’ said Ricky, at long last coming out of his coma. But as he galloped towards the stands, the heavens opened, lightning ripped the inky clouds apart and rain, coming down in torrents, bounced eighteen inches off the dry ground. In the stands, spectators huddled under coloured umbrellas. Others fled for the hospitality tents or their cars. The deluge almost halted the windscreen wipers of the ambulance as it ploughed off to hospital.
As the substitute calmly changed into a spare black shirt and borrowed Luke’s helmet which was too big and fell over his handsome nose, a demented Perdita kept demanding if Luke would be OK.
‘I ’ope so,’ said Dancer who was looking very shaken himself. Without Luke, he felt as though his rudder had been taken away.
‘You don’t look very happy, Dancer,’ sneered Bart.
‘I’m not very ’appy, Bart,’ replied Dancer. ‘We’ve just lost our best player, we’re 3-6 down wiv five minutes to go and it’s pouring with fucking rain. No, I’m not very ’appy, Bart.’
After ten drenching minutes the rain let up and play started again. It had always been arguable that Fantasma was wasted on a Number Four player, who is mostly occupied with defence. With her handiness and dazzling turn of speed, she was more suited to a Number Three. The substitute was a brilliant rider. Everyone noticed how wonderfully Fantasma went with him. Luke had been so busy covering up for Ricky earlier, the mare had had no chance to show off her paces. Although she now swished her tail furiously and rolled her eyes when the substitute gave her half a dozen whacks, she set off towards goal like a Derby winner.
What a horse, thought the substitute, as ghostly white Fantasma streaked through the gloom. And what smooth action – he could have carried a glass of champagne without spilling it. Then, as Bart raced to cut off the ball and back it up the field, Fantasma swung round like a weathercock when the wind changes.
I want this horse, decided the substitute as the gallant mare reached the ball, waited while he backed it once more towards the Flyer’s goal, then instantly turned. This time he scored, and a minute later he had scored again.
Then the Flyers’ poor Mexican ringer crossed Dancer out of nerves. His face expressionless, all the joy and power in his stick, Ricky drove home a miraculous sixty-yard penalty, making it six all as the bell went. Emerging from under their coloured umbrellas into the diminishing drizzle, the crowd went berserk, overjoyed that such a thrilling match would go to an extra chukka.
Through dense fog Luke heard voices, shouts of laughter and some singing and slowly opened his eyes. The room seemed to blaze with gleaming cups. Then he heard Perdita’s shrill voice.
‘Luke darling, please come round.’
He could feel her hand and, laboriously, he tried to focus finally identifying Perdita and Dancer, drunk as skunks and brandishing a huge gilt cup.
‘We won,’ cried Perdita, overjoyed.
‘What happened?’ asked Luke.
‘We went into extra time.’ Dancer took Luke’s other hand. ‘I tell you I was shaking like a leaf. Wiv you gone I had to play back and Ricky and Perdita and the sub was up the other end going towards goal, and next moment Charles Napier’s thundering towards me yelling, “Leave it, leave it”, and Bart yells, “I’m not going to fuckin’ leave it,” and hits the ball straight at me. Thank Christ, it hits my pony who gives a fuckin’ groan and somehow I hits it back past Charles and next moment the boy’s waving the flag up the other end. “Fuckin’ ell,” I yelled, “We’ve won.”’
‘And Spotty kicked the ball in,’ crowed Perdita.
‘Riding back past your Dad,’ went on Dancer, ‘I said, “You don’t look very ’appy, Bart,” and he was so angry he bundled his wife into ’is helicopter and flew straight back to ’is new ’ouse at Cowdray.’
‘That’s terrific,’ said Luke, wondering why they were now disappearing in a whirling snowstorm.
‘And Fantasma won Best Playing Pony yet again,’ said Perdita, laying a royal-blue blanket edged with scarlet over the bed. ‘There’s the most terrific party going on at the Star of India in Windsor. The twins started a food fight and hit Mrs Hughie on the nose with an onion bargie. Victor’s so pissed Dommie’s sold another of his horses back to him and Sharon is comforting the Mexican José who speaks no English.’
Sitting down on Fantasma’s prize-winning blanket, they started going through every play.
‘What did the Queen say to you, Dancer?’ Luke asked wistfully.
‘That she was very pleased. She’s met me before at the Royal Variety Performance, but she was less shy this time.’
Perdita giggled. ‘She said she was sorry you were out cold and hoped you’d be better soon.’
Luke had never known her so happy.
‘Who was the guy who stood in for me?’ he asked. ‘Pretty good scoring two goals right away.’
‘Oh, didn’t we tell you?’ said Dancer in surprise. ‘It was your bruvver, Red.’
‘What’s he doing over here?’
‘Victor’s so furious at being beaten by your father that he’s dropped poor Bobby Ferraro for the rest of the season and flown Red over at vast expense to play for him instead.’
48
Next day Red’s name dominated the headlines. ‘Auriel’s toyboy turns game around’, screamed the Sun; ‘Bart sees Red,’ said The Scorpion with a splendid picture of Bart having a shouting match with Red and Major Ferguson. The Telegraph warmly praised Red’s polo skills: he could hit a ball through the eye of a needle. The Times concentrated on his horsemanship and how the great grey mare Fantasma rose like Pegasus to the challenge.
Not content with bringing a sparkle to Perdita’s eyes, Red had seduced his beloved Fantasma as well. Luke was ashamed how jealous he felt. He loved his brother but Red always spelt trouble and at the moment Luke felt incapable of getting him out of any more scrapes. Yesterday’s feeling of floating detachment had given way to sickness and a blinding headache. He felt dizzy if he sat up; if he lay down his bed pitched like a raft in a force-ten gale; any sudden movement of the head made him leap with pain. The X-ray showed no fractures, but nurses were taking his pulse and blood pressure on the hour. He definitely wouldn’t be fit for the Royal Windsor in which he was playing with Kevin Coley next week. Despite heavy sedation, Luke was desperately worried. Injury was the professional’s worst nightmare. Just when Apocalypse was coming good he had to desert them.
Ricky, looking very pale, had dropped in first thing in the morning. He obviously hadn’t slept and, stammering badly, apologized for playing so hopelessly yesterday. He never dreamed he’d be so pole-axed by seeing Chessie, but that was no excuse.
Knowing how much it must have cost the great El Orgulloso to admit such a thing, Luke was touched.
‘No sweat,’ he said. ‘We won anyway. How’s Fantasma?’
‘Got a bang on the nearside cannon bone.’ Then, seeing Luke’s face: ‘No, she’s OK. We poulticed her and she was almost sound when we walked her out this morning.’
After Ricky had gone, Luke fretted. Tempted to discharge himself to check that Fantasma was all right, he was slightly cheered around lunchtime when an Irish nurse with eyes greener than a Granny Smith and a white cap riding on her lustrous piled-up black hair, like a paper boat on stormy rapids, came in to check his blood pressure.
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘A sudden drop might indicate bleeding in the skull.’ Her voice was like a furry bell.
‘No-one’s blood pressure could drop with you around,’ said Luke as she checked his pulse.
Looking at the badge on her starched apron he saw her name was Rosie O’Grady, and couldn’t remotely imagine her being a sister under the skin to Mrs Hughie.
‘Who’s Perdita?’ she asked slyly. ‘Your wife? A girlfriend?’
‘Just a friend,’ said Luke carefully. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I was on when you came in yesterday. You never stopped babbling about
her. She’s a lucky girl,’ she added softly. ‘I had to undress you. I never knew polo players were,’ she smiled sleepily, ‘so . . . er . . . well-hung.’
Luke blushed beneath his red-gold stubble. ‘And I was out cold. Jesus, what a waste!’
‘There’ll be other opportunities. We’re not letting you out yet.’
She handed him some blue pills and a glass of water which he had difficulty in keeping down.
‘What are they?’
‘Analgesic and sedatives.’
‘I don’t want to feel sedated,’ said Luke, taking her hand. Perhaps he was still concussed. ‘Please stay with me.’
They both jumped as the door flew open and Perdita stormed in. She was wearing dark glasses, which emphasized her long nose, jeans and a torn, grey T-shirt of Daisy’s. Her hair was scraped back with a mauve plastic clip. She didn’t look her best.
‘What’s she doing?’ she snapped as Nurse O’Grady melted away. ‘Giving you intensive care? Thought she’d have better things to do. How are you feeling?’
‘Pretty good,’ lied Luke.
‘That’s more than I am. I’ve got such a bloody awful hangover and there was a four-mile tailback on the motorway with the sun pounding down on the roof of the car. Christ, look at all your flowers. I’ve brought you grapes and some Lucozade. Luke-ozade, it’s a joke!’
‘Very funny, thanks a lot,’ said Luke who’d heard it often before.
‘This is a jolly nice room.’ Perdita switched on the racing on television. The horses’ hooves seemed to be pounding through Luke’s skull. ‘Ricky’s thinking of buying that grey.’
It came fourth. Perdita switched it off.
‘I see you got the papers. Your bloody brother stole all our thunder. No-one even mentioned Dancer or me or Ricky and Chessie. The press were clinging to Red like burrs all last night. He got plastered and Seb and Dommie had a fight in the Taj Mahal because Seb was winding Dommie up saying Decorum loved him more than Dommie. I had a good morning though.’ She started eating the grapes she’d brought. ‘Horse and Hound want to put me on the cover. The Daily Mail want me to do a fashion feature. Best of all, Rupert Campbell-Black rang. Venturer are keen on making a documentary, or it might be a series of six half-hour programmes, taking me through the Gold Cup, Deauville, possibly Argentina and then Palm Beach next spring. I’m lunching with him and Bas later this week.’