‘Oh, Drew’s managed to conquer his nerves,’ said Sukey. Then, looking at Chessie: ‘Aren’t you frozen?’
‘Not with me around,’ said Dommie, running his hands up and down her bare legs.
Before Sukey had time to look old-fashioned, Seb had arrived holding three Bloody Marys and a Coke in his hands, and a packet of crisps between his teeth for Will.
‘Christ, this weather’s awful. D’you want a drink, Sukey?’
‘No thanks, I’ve just had a cup of tea. There’s the throw-in. I must go and watch with Grace. Such a wonderful lady.’
‘Silly bitch,’ muttered Chessie, putting the Bloody Marys on the dashboard as Seb got in beside her. Next minute Bart thundered past them, eyes screwed up against the rain, swiping at the ball and missing completely. He was so bad, reflected Chessie, it was a turn-off to watch him. But not as bad as the petfood billionaire Kevin Coley, who was simultaneously hitting his poor pony round the legs with his stick, tugging on its mouth, and plunging huge spurs into its sides.
‘Dreadful rider,’ winced Seb.
‘He’s just given me a book on dog breeds,’ said Dommie, getting it out of his Barbour. ‘Seb and I are thinking of getting a pit bull.’
‘Jesus’s game is distinctly off today,’ said Seb.
‘Baby Jesus is a little bugger,’ said Will, his mouth full of crisps.
The conditions were worsening, the pitch was a black sea of mud. Beyond the clubhouse the pink-and-white sponsors’ tent strained at its moorings. By the third chukka the Alderton Flyers were leading by 8-4, not because of superior play, but because Juan, who was umpiring, was so anxious to curry favour with Bart that he hadn’t blown a single foul on him.
‘God,’ said Seb, as Bart crashed into Charles Napier at ninety degrees, ‘that should have been a goal to the other side.’
‘Shall we get a white or a brindle one?’ asked Dommie.
‘How’s your ravishing schoolgirl?’ asked Chessie.
‘Expelled, poor darling. We tried to take her out on Sunday. We were going to Windsor and thought she’d like a jaunt, but they wouldn’t even give us a forwarding address.’
‘Oh, she’ll turn up,’ said Chessie. ‘Those sort of girls always do.’
‘Ready for another drink?’ asked Seb, as the half-time bell went.
‘I quite like Basenjis,’ said Dommie, ‘but they don’t bark.’
He ran his hand down Chessie’s bare leg again.
‘Honestly, Mrs F-L, if you weren’t married to Ricky, I’d make such a play.’
‘Feel free,’ said Chessie, then jumped at a tap on the window.
‘Divot-stomping time, Francesca,’ ordered Grace Alderton, looking disapprovingly at the row of glasses on the dashboard.
Dommie lowered the window a centimetre.
‘It’s too cold. Mrs F-L isn’t dressed for treading in, and we’ve just got warm for the first time today.’
Grace didn’t actually flounce, but her body stiffened as she stalked off on to the pitch.
‘Good period, baby,’ she shouted to Bart, as he cantered back, muddy but elated, having scored a goal.
‘Can we get our diaries together when we get back to the car?’ Sukey asked Grace, as they trod back the divots. ‘I don’t want to have our wedding on a day when you won’t be in England.’
Will took a great slug of Dommie’s second Bloody Mary and started on a bag of Maltesers Seb had brought him.
‘Don’t let him eat them all,’ said Chessie. ‘He’ll be sick.’
Will ate four, then put the rest in the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘Allbody will think I’ve grown a tit.’
The twins roared with laughter.
Ricky’s breeches were black with mud as he came out for the fifth chukka. His spare sticks were in front of Dommie’s car, leaning against the little fence that ran along the edge of the pitch. Some players used the same length stick for every pony, but Ricky preferred longer sticks for taller ponies, and Kinta, the new dark brown thoroughbred was nearly sixteen hands. If he broke a stick, he expected Chessie to run out and hand him a new one.
‘Those are the fifty-ones on the left, and the fifty-twos on the right,’ he shouted to her as he cantered back for the throw-in.
‘Are you going to Deauville?’ Chessie asked the twins.
‘Shut up,’ said Seb. ‘I want to see how Ricky goes on Juan’s pony, and you can get your nose out of that book, Dom.’
Ricky was used to riding with his reins completely loose, the slightest pressure on his horses’ necks turning them to the left or right. Kinta, however, coming from the race track where horses are only expected to go one way and used to being yanked around by Juan, pulled like an express train and was almost impossible to stop.
‘Christ, Ricky won’t have any arms left,’ said Dommie, as Kinta easily outstripped Charles Napier’s fastest pony. ‘But she’s going bloody well for him. Juan must be as sick as a baby with its first cigar.’
Both sides were now squelching around the Doggie Dins’ goal. Bart should have dropped back and marked Ben Napier, but, instead, rushed into the melee and, losing control of his pony, mis-hit.
‘Get back, you stupid fucker,’ howled Ricky.
‘Interesting your husband never stammers when he’s shouting abuse,’ said Seb.
As Will took another slug of Bloody Mary, Ricky and Ben Napier both bounded forward trying to prise the ball out of the mud. There was a crack as Ricky’s stick broke. Swinging round, he galloped towards the boards.
‘He wants another stick,’ said Seb.
Reluctantly Chessie climbed out into the stabbing rain. Only the fence and the row of cars stopped Kinta.
‘Fifty-two,’ yelled Ricky.
‘Are you trying to tell me your age?’ drawled Chessie.
‘Give me my fucking fifty-two.’
‘Say please!’
‘Chess-ee, come
‘Sthop sthouting, Daddy,’ said Will.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ howled Ricky.
‘Don’t be infantile,’ said a furious Grace, running forward and handing the stick to Ricky. Seizing it, he hurtled back into the game. But it was too late. Despite Kinta’s phenomenal speed, Doggie Dins had taken advantage of Ricky’s absence to score a goal.
‘Sthop sthouting,’ said Will, filling up his water-pistol from Seb’s Bloody Mary.
As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka, Chessie caught sight of Grace’s face and was about to belt back into the smoky warmth of the twins’ car.
‘May I speak with you, Francesca?’
‘Shall we have a word after the match? I’m watching Ricky.’
‘Not noticeably.’
‘Wee-wee,’ clamoured Will.
‘I’ve got to take Will to the loo,’ said Chessie.
‘Why don’t you let him pee in Fatty Harris’s rain gauge?’ said Dommie.
‘Then Fatty will be so horrified by the amount of rainfall, he’ll cancel Sunday’s match and we’ll have a day off,’ said Seb.
‘I quite like Rottweilers,’ said Dommie.
‘Wee-wee,’ said Will, dropping his Maltesers in the mud as he scrambled out of the car.
If Grace hadn’t been present, Chessie would have picked the Maltesers up. As she dragged Will away, he burst into tears.
‘I’ll take him to the lav,’ said Sukey. ‘Then you and Grace can chat.’
‘He won’t go with you,’ protested Chessie.
‘Come along, Will,’ said Sukey briskly. To Chessie’s amazement, Will trotted off with her.
‘You only have to use the right tone of voice,’ said Grace.
