by Jilly Cooper
It was a spellbinding evening. Two grey geese and a squad of pale yellow goslings broke the turquoise surface of the lake. Three days of rain after a spate of warm weather had brought out the white cherries and the bluebells in a sapphire mist on either side of the ride. The poplars, shiny, acid-green, were wafting the scent of balsam down the valley. Crows nesting in Ricky’s beeches had splattered the wild garlic leaves like milk of magnesia on green hangover tongues. Daisy had heard the cuckoo through the open window of her studio all day. She felt quite faint with happiness. Ricky had become such a friend recently and her painting was going wonderfully. Perdita was due back in three weeks and surely couldn’t sustain the feud for ever; and Daisy was expecting Drew that evening. By the law of sod, if ever she glammed herself up and washed her hair Drew had to back down at the last moment. Today she’d chanced it and put on a dark green jersey he’d bought her and her best jeans. She was in luck, for there outside the cottage was Drew’s BMW. Splashing through the last twenty yards of watermeadow, she clambered over Ricky’s padlocked gate, raced up the path, then gave a gasp of disappointment. For outside the door was not Drew, but a glamorous, if slightly grubby-looking, blonde, wearing rather too much eye make-up for daytime, a creased denim suit and scuffed black shoes with the steel high heels escaping from the leather. With her was a man carrying a camera with the leering face of a drunken vulture and snowdrifts of scurf on the shoulders of his shiny grey suit.
‘Mrs Macleod?’ said the girl, as though she was about to sell Daisy insurance. Ethel, for once, bristled and started to growl.
‘We’re from The Scorpion,’ the girl went on. ‘Can we have a word?’
‘What about?’ stammered Daisy.
‘It’d be easier inside.’
Daisy opened the front door.
‘Don’t you ever lock up?’ asked the girl.
‘Nothing to steal,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, if it’s about Red and Perdita, I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘Well, it is.’ The girl dumped her bag on the kitchen table. ‘Perdita told Simpson Hastings in Florida yesterday that she’d no idea who her father was.’
‘Oh, no,’ Daisy licked her lips, eyes darting from the girl to the man. ‘Perdita’s father was killed in a car crash. He never knew I was pregnant.’
‘That’s not what Perdita told Simpson,’ interrupted the girl cosily.
She opened her notebook but made no notes because a tiny tape recorder was rotating in the breast pocket of her denim suit.
‘What a nice kitchen. I love all the flowers. Perdita said you went to a party in 1966 and everyone got stoned and screwed each other and you got pregnant as a result.’
‘She couldn’t have said that,’ mumbled Daisy, groping for the kettle switch.
‘D’you want to read the exact words?’ The girl produced a rather crumpled newspaper proof from her bag. It smelt of Femme. Daisy was too shocked to take much in. Her legs wouldn’t stop trembling.
‘I loathe my mother,’ she read. ‘She must have been a tart to sleep with all those men. She claims she was stoned but that’s her story. She’s lied to me for years that my father was killed in a car crash.’
Ethel, having climbed heavily on to the kitchen table, was now licking the blonde’s face.
‘Don’t be disloyal, Ethel,’ said Daisy in a high, unnatural voice.
‘But I love dogs,’ protested the blonde.
‘Dogs get on with dogs, I suppose,’ said Daisy. ‘Sorry, that was frightfully rude. I can’t read any more.’
Racing upstairs to the loo, she retched and retched until she thought she would bring up her hammering heart. Then she cleaned her teeth and wiped her face, closing her eyes desperately trying to still the trembling. As she returned to the kitchen the blonde said: ‘We thought we’d give you a chance to put your point of view.’
‘I’ve nothing to say. Oh, poor Violet and Eddie.’
‘Your kids,’ said the blonde consulting an earlier page in her notebook. ‘They’re at boarding school, aren’t they? Let’s all have that cup of tea.’
Daisy filled the kettle and switched on the gas, but didn’t light it. After a couple of seconds the blonde leapt forward with her lighter.
‘Don’t want to blow ourselves up. We’d make it very worth your while. You could do with a new washing-up machine and a lovely conservatory out into the garden, and a new car – that Volkswagen is on its last legs and we could help with the school fees and a really nice holiday so you could escape from all this.’
Then, as Daisy looked at her uncomprehendingly: ‘We’re talking five or six figures.’
‘It’s a lovely car,’ said Daisy, thinking that Drew had given it to her. ‘It goes perfectly well.’
‘Perdita says a man called Jackie Cosgrave hosted the orgy.’ The blonde was getting down mugs and the tea caddy. ‘Is he still around?’
‘No,’ said Daisy in terror. ‘I haven’t seen him since that winter.’
A flash lit up the room.
‘You’re awfully young to have a twenty-year-old daughter,’ leered the photographer.
‘I was only seventeen,’ sobbed Daisy. ‘Please don’t take pictures. I don’t remember anyone at the party. I was so drunk, but that doesn’t make it any better. Please go away.’
They all jumped as the kettle whistled and the telephone rang.
It was Drew. ‘Thank Christ I’ve got you. I wish you’d stop working up at Ricky’s.’
‘The Scorpion are here,’ gasped Daisy. ‘Perdita’s told them about the orgy and that she hasn’t a clue who her father is.’
‘Fucking bitch,’ said Drew absolutely appalled. ‘Oh, my poor darling. Don’t say anything to them.’
‘They’re in the house.’
‘I’ll come straight over.’
‘Oh, please.’ Then, after the first blessed relief: ‘No, you mustn’t. It isn’t safe. Sukey, the children . . . ’ She stopped, realizing she’d probably said too much.
‘I’ll ring Ricky,’ said Drew. ‘Look, I love you. It’ll be OK. Don’t worry.’
The flash bulbs were going like mad. Gainsborough crashed fatly in through the cat door, then crashed out again in dismay.
‘Have you got any photographs of yourself when you were seventeen?’ asked the blonde, opening a drawer.
‘Get out,’ shrieked Daisy.
‘Hard for Perdita, not having a father. No wonder she’s screwed up,’ said the blonde losing some of her cosiness.
Kinta had never been encouraged to run away before but, as Ricky, alerted by Drew’s telephone call, picked up his whip, the mare thundering down the valley, crushing cowslips and cuckoo flowers, jumping the bustling stream as it twisted and turned and sending up twelve feet of spray, frightened even herself.
Hearing a thud of hooves, Daisy glanced out of the window. For a second she thought Ricky was going to jump the gate. The skid marks were six feet long after Kinta jammed on her brakes. Next minute her reins had been knotted to the bars and Ricky had vaulted over the gate. As he came through the door his face, jeans and check shirt were splashed with mud and he was so angry that at first he couldn’t get any words out.
Instinctively the blonde’s hand rose to lift her tousled hair and wipe away the shine beneath her eyes and on the sides of her nose. Ricky crossed the room and put his arms round Daisy. ‘It’s all right, pet.’
‘Hullo, Ricky,’ said the blonde, whose mouth was watering. ‘Remember me?’ She waved her hand in front of his eyes to break up his blank stare.
With a shudder of disgust, Ricky recognized the author of Rupert’s memoirs.
‘It’s you, Beattie,’ he said icily. ‘I might have guessed it.’
‘Been cheering Daisy up since she became your tenant, have you?’ mocked Beattie. ‘All the world loves a landlord, and all.’
‘No, I have bloody not,’ snapped Ricky. ‘Now beat it.’
‘Perdita worked for you and had a crush on you.’ Under Ricky’s ferocious glare Beattie started
backing towards the door. ‘She says all she wants to do is find her real father and experience some real love and understanding.’
‘Bullshit,’ thundered Ricky. ‘She’s had a bloody sight too much love and understanding. Perdita is basically a good child who’s fallen among thieves. Do I have to throw you out?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said Beattie in excitement, then screamed as Ricky opened the window, gathered her up and threw her out kicking and struggling into a flowerbed.
‘Sorry about your wallflowers,’ he added to Daisy as, two seconds later, the photographer and his expensive camera followed suit.
‘You bastard,’ yelled Beattie, picking herself out of a rose bush. ‘These tights are Dior and new on. I’ll get you for assault.’
But as Ricky went out of the front door in pursuit they jumped into their BMW and drove furiously away. Ricky turned back to Daisy. Her eyes were huge and staring. She was still shaking uncontrollably.
‘I never knew Perdita hated me that much,’ she whispered through white lips. ‘And what am I going to do about Violet and Eddie?’
Ricky went to the cupboard and, finding an inch of vodka in a half-bottle, tipped it into a glass and topped it up with orange juice.
‘Get that down you, then I’ll drive you over to tell them.’
‘But it’s the beginning of the season. You’ve got so much on. It isn’t fair you should be dragged in.’
‘I’m in already. Don’t imagine Beattie’ll forget her hurt pride and her laddered tights in a hurry.’
They didn’t talk much as they drove through the emergent spring thirty miles to Violet’s school and then another twenty miles on to Eddie’s. In her numbed state Daisy wondered if Ricky was working out polo plays. When he met Violet’s headmistress his coolness and detachment seemed to diffuse her disapproval. She was obviously captivated by his looks.
Violet went scarlet when Daisy stumbled out with the truth, then she put her arms round her mother. ‘Perdita’s a bitch, but she’s so off the wall at the moment and she’d probably just had a row with Red. You were younger than her when it happened. We’ll look after you.’
Eddie’s headmaster, a breezy, bearded homosexual, couldn’t look Daisy in the eye, but his voice became much warmer when he spoke to Ricky. Eddie seemed outwardly unfazed.
‘Perdita’s father might be a pop star then. Can I come home with you? We’ve got a history exam tomorrow and I haven’t revised.’
‘Come home at the weekend,’ said Ricky. ‘We’ll shoot clays. I’ll lend you a rod and you can fish in the lake.’
Drew rang up when they got back to Ricky’s house. He was forced to be very matter of fact, but Daisy could tell he was worried sick.
‘I’ll come over and see Ricky tomorrow,’ then with an endearing stab of jealousy, ‘it’s a good idea for you to stay there tonight. He’ll protect you from the press. But don’t fall in love with him.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ stammered Daisy.
Never had she missed Drew more. But Ricky was angelic. He gave her two sleeping pills left over from the ones prescribed for him when Will died and had left orders, despite the warmth of the evening, for one of the grooms to light a fire in the spare room.
‘You said one very important thing to me about Will’s death,’ he told her, ‘that night we had dinner together, that I’d got to learn to forgive myself. You’ve got to do the same.’
But, however angelic Ricky was, nothing prepared Daisy for the horror of The Scorpion next day.
‘Gang, bang, thank you, Mum,’ said huge front-page headlines. Then beneath a ravishing, tremulously tearful picture of Perdita, a caption: ‘Please find my real Dad,’ pleads Perdita, ‘everyone had Mum that night.’
Inside under a headline: ‘Red’s Raver tells all,’ they had printed the full interview with Perdita, saying how much she detested her mother for cheating her out of a father. Even worse, they had somehow got hold of a ravishing photograph of a seventeen-year-old Daisy, with a sixties fringe, long, straight hair and huge eyes, and superimposed it on an incredibly voluptuous, naked, Page Three body.
‘If you recognize this girl, you may be Perdita’s Dad,’ said the caption.
Over the page under another headline: ‘Caring Ricky in Mercy Dash,’ the copy began: ‘Fun-loving Daisy was hiding out yesterday with her landlord, ace polo player Ricky France-Lynch (Family Motto: Never Surrender). Caring Ricky left his ten-bedroom Georgian home and galloped through his 400-acre estate on a polo pony to stand by his lovely tenant. Known as El Orgulloso for his snooty manner, Ricky once employed Perdita as his groom. “Perdita has got into bad company,” claims Ricky, “Daisy has been a very supportive mother.”’
‘Poor old Daisy,’ said Bas Baddingham to Rupert. ‘Gosh, she was pretty in those days.’
Taking The Scorpion from him, Rupert examined the photographs. ‘Pretty now. Christ, Beattie’s excelled herself this time. At least it might make Ricky finally get his act together where Daisy is concerned.’
‘Didn’t we used to know a creep called Cosgrave?’ asked Bas. ‘Used to give wild parties in the sixties?’
‘Everyone gave wild parties in the sixties,’ said Rupert.
Jackie Cosgrave hadn’t prospered in later life. Teaching art bored him, his waist had thickened, his yellow hair turned white, his white teeth yellow, his mouth petulant. Women were no longer so keen to buy his paintings, nor girl students to sleep with him.
‘Oh, Mr Cosgrave, it’s all about you in The Scorpion,’ said the art college cleaner as she swept up charcoal, paint-stained rags, old tubes of paint and scraps of newspaper.
Picking up The Scorpion Jackie looked long and hard at Daisy. He remembered her and, after wracking his brains, he remembered the party. In those days when he had beauty and could get drugs, the world was his friend. Returning to his flat, he took down his diary for 1966 and turned to February which he’d been wise enough to illustrate with photographs. The central heating had been turned up to tropical that night, he’d taken a lot of photographs and written down the names of all the people who’d been at the orgy. Studying Perdita’s face, the answer was cut and dried. Picking up the telephone he rang The Scorpion News Desk.
‘I’ll tell you who Perdita’s father is, but it’s going to cost you.’
60
Rupert Campbell-Black was so much in love with his wife that he most uncharacteristically agreed to undergo a solo grilling on whether he was a suitable person to adopt a baby.
Mrs Paget, who interviewed him, had already been charmed by Taggie last week. In her thirties with a ‘brood’, as she called it, of her own, Mrs Paget had the kindly but patronizing air of one who works for nothing for those less fortunate. She reminded Rupert of a more rounded, prettier Sukey Benedict. In the old days for the hell of it he would have made a pass at her, but now he had no need of the divide of the gleaming mahogany table, nor the chaperonage of hundreds of babies who had been successfully adopted into loving homes whose photographs gazed down from the dark red wallpaper. Tabitha, his daughter, was the only baby Rupert had ever liked, but he would have been happy to adopt a chimpanzee for Taggie’s sake, and was trying not to lose his temper with this earnest, probing woman.
‘When you first saw Mrs Campbell-Black, was it love at first sight?’
‘No, lust,’ drawled Rupert, then added hastily, ‘but it would have been the reaction of any man. She’s very pretty but I was involved with someone else at the time.’
‘And you lead a full sex life?’
Full of Taggie, thought Rupert. ‘I’m afraid I’m not prepared to discuss our sex life with anyone,’ he said coldly. ‘The reason she can’t have children has nothing to do with sex.’
Mrs Paget fingered her pearls. ‘You’ve only been married seventeen months, hardly long enough for us to place one of our very special babies with you. With the pill, the abortion law and girls keeping their babies, children to adopt are like gold dust today. And you are in a catch 22.’ She brou
ght out the expression to show she read. ‘You’re forty at the end of this year, which makes you too old to adopt.’
Rupert gritted his teeth. ‘I know that.’
‘And we have couples who’ve been on our waiting-list for years. You wouldn’t consider an older child, handicapped perhaps, or coloured? I’m sure Mrs Campbell-Black has the necessary patience and understanding.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Rupert truthfully. ‘We want a baby.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Mrs Paget almost archly.
The stupid bitch is trying to rile me, thought Rupert. If I lose my temper she’ll mark me down as a baby-basher.
‘Hardly a beggar,’ he snapped.
It was all a ghastly game. In his inside pocket was a cheque for a quarter of a million pounds, which would buy a house in Battersea for the society to house their unmarried mothers. The donation would be anonymous – so the press would never find out – and Rupert and Taggie would jump the queue.
‘Are you sure you personally want to adopt, and it wouldn’t be better for Mrs Campbell-Black to concentrate on being a mother to your own children? I’m sure they need a stable background.’
‘Plenty of stables already at Penscombe,’ said Rupert idly.
‘There’s no need to be flippant. Couples who lose a baby often try to adopt one immediately to fill the aching void, but it’s the wrong motive.’
‘Works perfectly well with puppies,’ said Rupert.
‘Mr Campbell-Black,’ Mrs Paget’s midnight-blue cashmere bosom swelled, ‘I don’t like your attitude. We have to ensure you’d make a suitable father. Your track record isn’t exactly . . .’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, ask my own children!’ Getting to his feet, Rupert walked over to the window. Outside, under a colonnade of burgeoning plane trees, a slim girl in jeans was pushing a pram and gabbling happy nonsense to the baby inside. He’d be reduced to kidnapping soon.
‘You’re supposed to be a Christian organization,’ he went on. ‘Isn’t there something in the Bible about more rejoicing in heaven over one lost sheep?’