Feeling her leap beside him as though the dentist had hit a nerve, Luke decided that Daisy, in addition to being terrified of Perdita, was also in love with the handsome Captain who was now tapping the ball around the field with incredible assurance.
‘Here’s Jose the Mexican, Sharon’s latest, and here’s Seb,’ cried Dommie gleefully. ‘Green as the field! People are going to tread him in at half-time. Forgot he was umpiring today when he got pissed last night. Ben Napier’s the other umpire. He hates Ricky so much, he’ll give goal after open goal to Rutminster Hall.’
Aware that he’d got the attention of the entire stand, Dommie opened a can of Coke with a hiss, and asked loudly, ‘What we’re all riveted to know is what will happen when your fiendish father meets Ricky on the field this summer? Will we have the first polo murder, sticks flying, duel in the sun, Bart coming at Ricky at 100 m.p.h? And isn’t Chessie going to love it – two knights jousting for her favours? Well?’
Luke shrugged and grinned back at him. ‘You expect me to answer all that?’
‘I’ll give you time to think,’ said Dommie. ‘Oh, look here comes the Puffatrain.’
Since she had acquired a title, Sharon had been slowly modelling herself on Sukey. Today they were both wearing blue Puffas, blue Guernseys, striped shirts with turned-up collars, navy-blue skirts and stockings, and Gucci shoes.
‘Good afternoon, Dominic,’ said Sharon graciously. ‘Good afternoon, Luke. When did you arrive?’ Not waiting for an answer, she sat down and gathered up her binoculars, ‘Now, where’s the Prince? Oh, doesn’t cerise suit his Hay-ness. Hullo, hullo, your Hay-ness.’
The Prince of Wales turned, nodding rather vaguely towards the stand.
‘We’ve met him several taimes,’ Sharon told Luke, ‘and of course we ’ad cocktails with his mother when Sir Victor got his knaighthood.’
‘Drew’s known him for years,’ said Sukey slightly acidly.
‘Look at the love bites on Jose’s neck. I thought you’d gone vegetarian, Sharon,’ chided Dommie.
‘Don’t be cheeky, Dominic,’ said Sharon icily.
Ponies, neighing like mad, were already arriving for the second match. Fatty Harris, on his third whisky, was shouting in the warm-up area.
‘The throw-in will be in five minutes, Ricky, or you’ll forfeit; you’ve had half an hour to get ready. You just delay and delay.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ snarled Ricky.
Rutminster Hall had dismounted to rest their horses, except for David Waterlane, who rode over to the stands to cadge a cigarette. Seeing Luke, he yelled, ‘That black mare you sold me in Palm Beach, why does she drop her head all the time?’
‘I guess she’s bashful she hasn’t been paid for,’ drawled Luke.
The stand collapsed with laughter. David Waterlane rode off discomfited.
‘He owes Ladbroke's half a million,’ said Dommie. ‘You may be rather low down the list.’
Ricky was in despair. There was bloody Luke Alderton grinning up in the stands and he couldn’t even get a polo side together.
As if in answer to his prayer, Dancer’s black helicopter soared over the trees and landed behind the clubhouse. Mercifully Dancer was already changed. Racing towards the pitch, telling the autograph hunters he’d see them after the game and trailing security men, he jumped on to the pony Louisa was holding.
‘Terribly sorry, Rick,’ he said, quailing at Ricky’s stony face. ‘I overslept. I was recording till four o’clock this morning.’
‘I hope you’re going to get a chance to see England, Luke,’ said Sharon, pressing her knees against his back. ‘Ay’d love to show you round.’
‘I hope Perdita’s going to take me,’ said Luke, ‘but thanks all the same.’
‘Dancer’s security guards are going to have a punch-up with the Prince’s in a minute,’ said Dommie happily.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Daisy. ‘Here comes Mike Waterlane.’
Driving his Golf GTI to a screeching halt at the side of the pitch, a sweating Mike leapt out and, to the disapproval of Miss Lodsworth and her satellite trouts, continued to bray into his portable telephone as he did a one-handed strip out of his pin-stripe suit down to his Dennis the Menace boxer shorts.
‘If you can go to five million, I think I’ve got just the job,’ he went on, as he wriggled into his breeches and his black, Apocalypse shirt, ‘but if you want much more land, you might have to go higher.’
As he zipped up his boots, Louisa fastened his knee pads and plonked his hat on his head.
‘I’ll get back to you later this afternoon,’ he added, hoarse with excitement and, handing Louisa the telephone in exchange for his stick and whip, jumped on to his old pony, Dopey, and thundered off on to the field.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?’ howled Ricky and David Waterlane in unison.
‘Mick Jagger had a house under survey,’ mumbled Mike. ‘Discovered it’s got dry rot; wants us to find him another one.’
‘Mike Waterlane is so thick,’ announced Dommie, ‘that he started cheering for Reading University during the Boat Race last week.’
Luke laughed. Oh, to be in England now that April was there.
46
Luke wasn’t laughing half an hour later. Apocalypse was a complete shambles. Ricky, as usual, was over- extending himself and his horses, doing everything including all the shouting, never giving Perdita or Dancer a chance to score, or Mike, whose head was full of dry rot, a chance to defend.
Ricky was a brilliant player, but he couldn’t take on Rutminster Hall, all good players who knew what each other were doing, single-handed. And whenever he wasn’t blasting his own side, he was shouting at the umpire, Ben Napier, who as Dommie predicted gave penalties at every opportunity to Rutminster Hall. While Drew was taking one of these in the third chukka, Ricky whizzed off to change ponies, only to find Wayne had slipped his bridle and gone trot-about in the direction of the tea-tent.
‘Get me a fucking horse,’ he screamed, to the edification of the entire crowd.
By the time another pony had been saddled, Rutminster Hall had scored again, bringing the score to 11-4. The Prince’s security men sneered discreetly at Dancer’s minders.
Drew, by contrast, was playing beautifully. For Daisy the supreme pleasure, after sleeping with him, was watching him on the field. She longed to cheer, her fingers itched to draw him on her score sheet, but Sukey was all too noisily just behind.
‘Oh, well done, Drew, well played. Oh look, we’re going through. Oh dear, it’s gone over. No, it hasn’t. Oh, well stopped Drew. I must put my glass down to clap.’
Fatty Harris, who’d slipped in a fourth whisky while waiting for the off, was providing the official commentary: ‘The Wince of Prales takes the backhand. Oh, well hit, Your Majeshty.’
At half-time, profoundly depressed, frozen without his jacket, Luke went out to stomp in the divots. Dogs whisking everywhere made him long for Leroy. Daisy had drifted to the right, and Luke noticed that the first player back, on a dapple-grey with black points, was Drew Benedict. Luke watched him ride past her, masking her for a second from the stands and Sukey.
‘I’ll ring you this evening,’ said Drew softly, and rode on. Perdita, next back, charged up to Luke.
‘I haven’t had the fucking ball all afternoon. I’m really pissed off.’
‘Take out the Prince. He was loose most of the first half, then at least Ricky can come through.’
Luke’s advice worked. With the Prince pegged, Ricky took the game by the throat and in a flurry of breathtaking goals, had pulled back the score to 10-11 by the end of the fifth chukka. The crowd forgot the icy wind.
‘Ner, ner, ner-ner, ner,’ Dancer’s minders taunted the Prince’s boot-faced guards.
