Polo. Part 73

'And Mrs Alderton is giving her ex-husband stick,' announced Terry Hanlon drily. 'Ex-wives generally do, I expect she was asking for more dosh.' The crowd, despite being drenched, giggled.

Mr and Mrs Wallstein exchanged surprised glances. 'Is it customary in England you support the other side?'

'Only if your name's Oswald Mosley,' snapped Rupert.

Conditions were worsening, the rain coming down in a steady torrent, the wind growing more vicious. Ricky had found Kinta's strength in the third chukka a two-edged sword. She was powerful enough to play two, even three chukkas, but in these conditions she was a liability because she wouldn't stop.

Ricky couldn't afford any more penalties if Kinta cannoned into other ponies or barged across their right of way. As he rode back to the pony lines at the end of the fourth chukka, he shouted to Louisa to tack up Wayne for the last chukka. This was the kind of weather when you needed old friends.

'Oh my G.o.d,' muttered Louisa as she handed his new, dark brown pony, Corporal, over to Dommie. Wayne's sunk a bucket of water, had half a ton of barley sugar and I've just retrieved him from the Flyer's pony lines with chocolate cake all over his whiskers trying to mount Spotty. Should I tell Ricky?'

'Leave it,' said Dommie. 'If he gives Ricky confidence,that's what matters.' He looked down at Louisa's plump, freckled, mud-spattered face. Her hair clung to her head like a mermaid.

'Will you sleep with me if we win?'

Louisa's smile suddenly lit up the Cowdray gloom. 'I thought you'd never ask. Yes, please.'

'And if we lose, so I don't shoot myself?'

'Yes, please,' said Louisa.

The mud in fact had been too thick for any of the crowd to notice the blood, but, still numb with embarra.s.sment and misery and shaken by the fall, Perdita felt even more conspicuous riding back on to the field in snow-white breeches.

'You've got two chukkas left to redeem yourself,' said Bart bullyingly. 'You don't want to be the reason we lost the cup.'

The Flyers had a good fifth chukka, dominating the play and pus.h.i.+ng the score up to 6-2, then Apocalypse caught fire, and Seb and Ricky both scored in the closing minutes and the stands went wild.

As the players rode out for the last chukka, it was noticed that Red had taken off the white sweater he wore under his blue polo s.h.i.+rt for the first time this season.

'That's ominous,' said Ricky. 'Get your fingers out, Apocalypse.'

After two minutes of frantic barging and b.u.mps-a-daisy, Red took matters into his own hands. Giving Dommie and Seb the slip and Glitz his head, he raced off upfield.

That's it, thought Ricky dully. That'll be 7-4; there's only Dancer anywhere near him.

G.o.d had let Dancer down last time, so this time he concentrated on Red, who was messing around in front of goal, insolently positioning himself so he could score the clinching goal. But as he lifted his stick, he found himself nearly pulled off his horse. Dancer had hooked him.

'With pressure it is better,' said Helmut Wallstein. 'He had all zee time in the world, and he relaxed.'

'Well hooked, Dancer. You read the play,' hollered Dommie, grinning out of his round ruffian blackamore face, as he raced Corporal down to bring the ball back to Ricky. Perdita, who was out of position and should have been marking Dancer, raced back towards the Apocalypse goal. But as all the players converged on Ricky trying to help or hinder him, a pony kicked a divot up in Perdita's eyes, totally blinding her, so she crashed across Ricky's right of way. Up went every Apocalypse stick.

'Foul,' screamed the twins.

Ricky on Wayne took the penalty.

'Pale rider, pale horse,' said William Loyd.

'And his name was death to the Flyers' hopes,' murmured Chessie.

The wind, which had been Ricky's enemy all day, had moved slightly to the south. Slowly he cantered a circle that would have won a dressage prize. The picture of control, his gait as smooth as his yellow face was ugly, Wayne floated proudly towards the ball. There was a ripple of muscle, the piston arm hurtled down again, Ricky aimed deliberately to the left and nudged back by the wind, the ball sailed high above the leaping Flyers' sticks, slap between the posts. The crowd, who could hardly see through the rain, waited on tenterhooks, then, seeing the waving yellow flag, bellowed their delight.

'The penalty is mightier than the sword,' cried Chessie, clapping ecstatically.

There were two and a half minutes to go, the score was 6-5 and Dommie, mis-hitting, clouted the ball towards the Flyers' goal-mouth, but to no-one in particular. Ahead of everyone, Red scorched after it, flogging Glitz like a jockey at Tattenham Corner. Glitz, however, was fed up with the weather and too many hidings. He was used to cheering crowds under a Palm Beach sun as he shook off the opposition like a dog a towel. Out of the corner of his beautiful eye, he saw Wayne hurtling down to ride him off. Wayne was very ugly and his pale face was fearsome. Red turned his heel into Glitz's sodden right flank to turn him left. He had heard that Wayne was spooked about b.u.mping and antic.i.p.ated no contest. The next minute Glitz had ducked out and Ricky had taken the line.

'You f.u.c.king son of a b.i.t.c.h,' screamed Red to Glitz, but it was too late.

'I misjudged you, you old b.u.g.g.e.r, I'm sorry,' said Ricky in amazement, as Wayne pulled away from the tiring Glitz. The b.u.t.tercup-yellow posts rose out of the gloom to his left. Master of the cut shot, Ricky sliced the ball, but, scuppered by nerves, he misjudged and hit the post. 'Oh,' groaned the crowd.

Bart hit in. A minute and a half to go. Seb blocked the shot and pa.s.sed to Dommie, who tapped it in, screaming with frustration as again it hit the post.

'The afternoon of the woodwork,' said Terry Hanlon sympathetically.

But an instant later Ricky had thundered in and slapped in a tennis shot in the air. Chessie's scream of joy was not the only one. Six all, a minute to go.

Suddenly the rain stopped, every tree and flat cap dripped, water cascaded down spectators' necks as other spectators lowered their umbrellas. The Gold Cup on its green baize table was carried out and glittered like the Holy Grail in a lone shaft of sunlight. As the ball flashed frantically from goal-mouth to goal-mouth and Bart crashed round like a maddened Rottweiler, b.u.mping into everyone, the crowd were on their feet yelling their heads off. Now they were down the Flyers' end and Seb, Dommie, Ricky and Dancer were all taking desperate swipes at the ball until it was buried, trodden deep into the ground, with everyone frantically looking for it until the whistle went.

After a lot of shouting, the ball was dug out and thrown in where it had been buried, twenty yards in front of goal.

'This is very dangerous for the Flyers,' warned Terry Hanlon. 'The fat is in the fire, the chips are in the pan.'

'Get it out,' screamed Red, as the frantically thras.h.i.+ng sticks. .h.i.t ponies' and players' legs indiscriminately in a churning whirlpool of mud. Then, G.o.d-given, the ball rolled out on Perdita's side. At last she had a chance to redeem herself and get the ball back upfield. Throwing herself forward, her fingers in her slippery glove lost control of her stick, which totally mis-hit the ball.

'Oh no, please G.o.d, no,' she screamed in horror, as the ball slowly trickled between her own goal posts. For a second the goal judge seemed as stunned as she was, then slowly up went the flag once again. Bart's anguished howl of rage was drowned by the sound of the bell.

And it was all over and Ricky was shaking hands with everyone and thanking Shark and Drew, who, abandoning any attempt at impartiality, put his arm round Ricky's shoulders, yelling: 'f.u.c.king, f.u.c.king marvellous.' Dancer was crying openly.

'You did it, you bleedin' did it,' he shouted at the twins.

'You bleeding did it,' shouted back Seb. 'You hooked Red when he would have scored the winning goal, didn't he, Dommie?' But Dommie was streaking up the field as fast as tired, little Corporal could carry him and was next seen locked in an ecstatic Louisa's arms. Little Chef darting through equine and human legs, as the crowd spilled overjoyed on to the pitch, took a flying leap on to Ricky's saddle, frantically licking away the tears of joy that striped his master's blackened face.

'We won, Cheffie,' Ricky babbled to him incoherently. 'We f.u.c.king did it, Cheffie.'

Mishearing him, a maddened Bart stopped in his tracks. 'You may have won the cup, you a.s.shole, but you won't get her. She's f.u.c.king mine!'

Bewildered for an instant, Ricky realized that, in the joy of winning, he'd forgotten all about Chessie.

As he rode off the field, shaking hands with everyone, Louisa, extricating herself from Dommie's embrace, ran up to him.

'Oh, it's so lovely, Wayne's won Best Playing Pony.'

Seb, shaking up a magnum of champagne, made everyone even wetter than they were already. Terry Hanlon had to exert all his vocal skills to get things on course for the presentation.

'Put your cigarettes out before you come up,' he chided the teams. 'We'll have the bad boys first.'

As Seb sauntered up, he turned grinning to the jostling reporters and cameramen and made a very pointed V-sign.

'Too many late nights indeed.'

Good-naturedly, they cheered and whooped.

Ricky's face was impa.s.sive as he accepted the huge glittering cup from Lord Cowdray, but later, when it was filled with champagne, he grimly raised it to Chessie who was making no attempt to contain her delight.

Bart couldn't make a scene because of the Germans, but the moment he'd seen them into one of his helicopters he unleashed his fury on Perdita. It was entirely her fault for fouling and scoring an own goal at the end.

'Comes of playing with a f.u.c.king broad. Of all the f.u.c.king stupid things to do,' he yelled, to the edification of the entire pony lines. Red was even more lethally nasty, until Angel put an arm round the hysterically sobbing Perdita.

'Eet could 'appen to anybody,' he protested. 'Eef you hadn't got hooked because you were messing around in front of goal, they'd never 'ave caught up.'

'Shut up,' screamed Red. 'And for Christ's sake, stop blubbing, Perdita.'

'It wasn't her fault,' shouted Angel.

'p.i.s.s off,' said Bart. 'I don't pay you to have opinions.' He found Chessie talking to Lord Cowdray, stuck into her third gla.s.s of champagne and looking radiant.

'We're leaving,' he snapped.

'How very unsporting,' said Chessie. 'I wanted to watch the second match.'

'Well, you can't.'

Two more teams were doing a lap of honour before playing off for third place, as Perdita raced towards Bart's helicopter. Blinded by tears, she ran slap into a man stalking in the other direction.

'Can't you look where you're f.u.c.king going?' she screamed, then gasped and shrank away, for it was Rupert. For a second they gazed at each other, a.s.sessing the damage.

'I'm sorry,' sobbed Perdita. 'I didn't mean to screw up your life. I'm sorry Taggie can't have babies, and I'm sorry I played so badly. I can't do anything right any more. When I dumped about Mum, I didn't know I was your child. I'd never have hurt you deliberately. I've just lost the m-match for them. Red'll never talk to me again. Please let me come and explain. Please help me.' Hysterically she clung to him.

'I'm not f.u.c.king social security,' said Rupert, his eyes suddenly as cold as an Eskimo's graveyard. 'And there's no way you're my child. No Campbell-Black could ever ride as badly as you just did.'

As the rain came down again, mingling with her tears and running nose, Perdita gave a wail and stumbled away from him. As she clambered into the helicopter, Chessie was saying happily, 'Oh, look, Bart, I've just found your lucky belt under the seat.'

66.

Back at Robinsgrove next morning Ricky, still high on euphoria, was the only member of Apocalypse not laid waste by a hangover. Clutching their heads, groaning, some of them still drunk, the grooms leant against the tired ponies as they walked them out for Ricky to inspect. Wayne had an inflamed tendon and had been ordered a few days' box rest. The others - except for a few cuts and bruises - were miraculously free from injury, so Ricky ordered them to be turned out for forty-eight hours. Leaning on the gate, he fondly watched them, revelling in the suns.h.i.+ne, walking poker-legged at first, then, realizing they were free, breaking into a canter, crinkly tails flying and charging down the valley to roll and cool their bruised legs in the stream which raced and hurled itself against the rocks after yesterday's deluge.

Although his ash trees were still a feathery blue-green without a trace of yellow, Ricky could see the slow beginnings of autumn, the toasting of the beeches, the gilding of the poplars, the occasional tree garlanded by acid-green traveller's joy, the barley beyond the stables slowly losing its green flecks. But for once the prospect of winter didn't depress him.

The telephone had rung all morning, patrons suddenly wondering if there was any chance he could play for them next year, friends to congratulate, newspapers wanting quotes - one would have thought the powers of darkness had fallen. The morning papers were equally ecstatic. 'Flyers France-Lynched,' 'Flyers France-Lynched,' said said The Times, The Times, which was a slight exaggeration when they had only been beaten by an own goal. which was a slight exaggeration when they had only been beaten by an own goal. 'Flyers Bomb,' 'Flyers Bomb,' said the said the Telegraph. Telegraph. The tabloids concentrated on Dancer's delight and Perdita's anguish, with variations on Rupert's rejected daughter, Auriel's toyboy, Bart's fury, all reporting the grisly details of the shouting match afterwards. The tabloids concentrated on Dancer's delight and Perdita's anguish, with variations on Rupert's rejected daughter, Auriel's toyboy, Bart's fury, all reporting the grisly details of the shouting match afterwards.

Looking at the bowed-down heads of the barley still dripping with raindrops, Ricky was reminded of Perdita yesterday, sobbing, bitterly ashamed and desolate. He had talked to Daisy earlier that morning and persuaded her notto weaken. 'Looks as though Red's on the way out, thank G.o.d. Let her come back in her own time.'

Returning to the yard, Ricky went into Wayne's box to find him lying down asleep. But as he sat down in the straw, Wayne opened a baleful black-ringed eye, whickered and, accepting several barley sugars, listened attentively as his master took him through every stroke of the chukka in which he had seen off the great Glitz.

'We won, my brave Wayne, we won,' Ricky told him exultantly.

The telephone was ringing again. Remembering the grooms had the day off, Ricky sprinted into the kitchen.

'h.e.l.lo, Rick,' said The Scorpion. The Scorpion. 'Congrats on beating your ex-wife's hubby. Your ex seemed over the moon. Any chance of a reconciliation?' 'Congrats on beating your ex-wife's hubby. Your ex seemed over the moon. Any chance of a reconciliation?'

'F-f-f.u.c.k off,' said Ricky.

The telephone rang again immediately. Ricky s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. 'F-f-f.u.c.k off.'

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo.' It was Brigadier Hughie. 'Thought you might like to know that it's rumoured that you're going up to ten.'

Replacing the receiver, Ricky took it off the hook and, picking up the cup, already covered in a thousand ecstatic fingerprints, held it up to the light.

'We won, Cheffie, we won.'

Little Chef thumped his curly tail and sniffed appreciatively at the chicken his master was cooking for him as a celebratory treat. Neither had eaten much yesterday. Then he gave a strangled croak, all he could manage after barking himself hoa.r.s.e yesterday, and shot off into the yard. Still hugging the cup, Ricky wandered into the hall, holding it up for the photographs of his grandfather, uncles and father to see. 'I did it, you old b-b-b.u.g.g.e.rs.'

'You look like one of the wise men bearing gold. Melchior, was it?'

Ricky almost dropped the cup, for there in the kitchen doorway stood Chessie.

'As I was ripped untimely from yesterday's celebration,' she drawled, 'I thought I'd come and congratulate you personally. I see you haven't painted anything except the stables since I left.'

Wandering back into the kitchen, she noticed that the shelves, from which she'd swiped all her recipe books, were piled high with old copies of Horse and Hound Horse and Hound and and Polo Polo magazine. The spice shelves were down to salt, pepper and mixed herbs. She could smell that there was no tarragon in the chicken Ricky was cooking. A calendar for 1981, the year she'd walked out, still hung on the wall, probably because it bore a photograph of a whippet who looked like Millicent. The was.h.i.+ng machine, black inside with Apocalypse s.h.i.+rts, quivered on 'pause'. magazine. The spice shelves were down to salt, pepper and mixed herbs. She could smell that there was no tarragon in the chicken Ricky was cooking. A calendar for 1981, the year she'd walked out, still hung on the wall, probably because it bore a photograph of a whippet who looked like Millicent. The was.h.i.+ng machine, black inside with Apocalypse s.h.i.+rts, quivered on 'pause'.

She turned to Ricky, who was still holding the cup and staring at her. 'Aren't you pleased to see me?'

'I don't know.'

All he knew was that the sun had gone in and the cup had lost its glitter. Chessie was wearing a clinging black jump suit, sawn off at the knees, with a T-s.h.i.+rt top clinched in with yesterday's leather belt. She appeared to be wearing no make-up at all, but in fact had spent twenty minutes smudging blue-black shadow and a subtle blending of green and beige base to make herself look tired, frail and wildly desirable. Ricky felt himself churning.

'Got a hangover?' she asked.

'I don't drink.'

'I thought you might have made an exception. It is the first rung.'

'I know,' said Ricky flatly.

The Slav face was impa.s.sive. Above the high cheek- bones, his eyes were as dark as the rain-soaked cedars in the churchyard.

'Everyone's saying you'll go to ten at the end of the season. All you have to do is win the Westchester.' Her voice was mocking. 'Can I have a look round?'

Sauntering to the window, showing off the slightness of her figure, she caught sight of Wayne, who, having decided to get up, was now leaning nosily out of his box to see what his master was up to. 'Is that Mattie?' How clever of me to remember names, thought Chessie.

'Maine was put down, if you remember, the day you first slept with Bart.'