It’s the last chukka and I’ve done nothing, thought Perdita furiously. Spotty, a fearful exhibitionist who only caught fire when applauded, was also sulking. Then, miraculously, Mike hit a lovely backhand in Perdita’s direction. There was no one between her and the goal posts.
‘Leave it,’ bellowed Ricky.
Ignoring him, Perdita put her reins in her stick hand and gave Spotty a couple of whacks with her whip. Spotty bridled in outrage, then shot forward. Perdita’s first forehand put the ball ten yards in front of goal.
‘Man coming,’ yelled Ricky.
Heedless, Perdita careered after it. She was going to tie up the score on Luke’s first day. Almost nonchalantly, oblivious of the shouting behind her, she lifted her stick, then howled with exasperation as she was hooked.
‘You fucking bastard!’ she screeched. Then turning round, she gave a gasp of horror: ‘Gosh, I’m
‘Off,’ thundered Ben Napier.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’ In a second Perdita switched from abject contrition to outrage.
‘There’s nuffink in the rule book abart swearin’ at Royalty,’ said Dancer, galloping up.
‘Off,’ insisted Ben Napier, pointing towards the pony lines.
‘You asshole,’ shouted Perdita. ‘Why don’t you get out the fucking rule book and learn to read?’
‘Off,’ said Ben Napier, triumphantly. ‘Abuse of umpire.’
‘For Chrissake, help me,’ Perdita pleaded to Seb, the second umpire.
But Seb, terrified of opening his mouth in case he was sick, merely shook his head.
In a blind fury Perdita lifted her stick and hit the ball straight into the bonnet of a nearby Bentley. Choking on his cucumber sandwich, the owner leapt out, waving his fist. Miss Lodsworth turned puce and everyone else looked very excited as Perdita galloped off.
‘Straight to the Tower of London,’ said Dommie.
Luke gave a highly embarrassed Daisy a reassuring smile. Three against four is no contest. Rutminster Hall ran out the winners by 13-10.
Luke found Perdita sobbing into Spotty’s shoulder.
‘We could have won, we could have bloody won.’
He took her in his arms. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart.’ Over her shuddering shoulder he saw an utterly dejected Dancer riding up.
‘You coming back to Robinsgrove?’ he asked.
‘I played like a pig wiv the trots; fink I’ll go home,’ said Dancer.
‘You did pretty good, except for being late,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Back at Robinsgrove, having dropped Perdita off at Snow Cottage, Luke put on two sweaters and went into the yard, where all was activity. Louisa trundled by with a wheelbarrow loaded up with tack to be hung up. Kinta had a cut mouth which one of the younger grooms was rinsing out with salt and water. Another groom was sweeping up the yard and swearing at Little Chef as he chased the stable cat through a pile of straw and shavings, while yet another was being greeted with a thunder of whickering and whinnying as she raced round lobbing wodges of hay into racks. Later most of the ponies would be turned out. Luke felt a wave of longing for Fantasma.
‘Is there an axe round here?’ he asked Louisa.
‘You going to chop off Perdita’s head for treason?’ Louisa tried to make a joke, but she was depressed about losing and having wolfed two KitKats to cheer herself up on the way home.
‘I’m going to light a fire,’ said Luke. ‘I don’t want to die of pneumonia.’
The logs were wet and took a long time to kindle. Like Perdita, thought Luke wryly. He noticed the yellowing cups and the gap still over the fireplace where the Munnings had been. He had just retrieved his duty-free Bourbon from the kitchen and was pouring himself three fingers when Ricky stalked in, glaring disapprovingly at the greeny- blue flames and the acrid smoke that was drifting out into the room.
‘Bit late for a fire,’ he snapped. ‘Daisy’s just rung. Says you’re welcome to supper any time after eight.’
‘You coming too?’ asked Luke.
‘Christ, no.’
He was about to stalk out again, when Luke said, ‘We oughta talk.’
‘We?’ Ricky raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
Luke poured a second large Bourbon and handed it to Ricky.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘You better start,’ said Luke gently. ‘You gotta loosen up.’
Hearing the crackling from a painted stick, Little Chef trotted in and, seeing the fire, stretched out blissfully. Sitting down, Luke took a slug of his whisky and a deep breath. ‘You should’ve walked it today.’
‘With three fucking incompetents?’
‘It was your fault,’ said Luke steadily. ‘Entirely your fault. You’ve totally demoralized Perdita and Dancer for a start. Perdita’s dying of hypothermia and loneliness out there waiting for a pass, and when she gets one she’s so uptight she goofs. Dancer’s the same. He’s worried the whole time, not where to hit the ball, but whether he’s going to hit it at all. And Mike Waterlane’s out to lunch. He was just cantering about not marking anyone.’
Then, when Ricky opened his mouth in outrage, Luke went on. ‘No, I haven’t finished. No one knows what they’re meant to be doing, there’s no game plan. You just fluster them by shouting, right, and at the same time you’re telegraphing every punch to the opposition. You’re always going to be the most marked man on the team. If you give the others the ball, they can take it away.’
The logs, suddenly deciding to be co-operative, burst into flames. Flickering over Ricky’s set, frozen face, they gave it a rare illusion of mobility. Luke got up and threw on another log. ‘Forget the Gold Cup,’ he said brutally. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll lose every game this season.’
‘Have you flown three thousand m-m-miles to give me this crap?’ said Ricky softly. ‘I was playing for England when you were still in High School.
‘Sure you are,’ said Luke, ‘and you’ve got unique charisma, right, that’ll make guys go over the top into the face of hell for you, and make horses run till they drop, but you’re abusing it. You’re too fucking arrogant. I know you’re sore Dancer hired me without asking you. I don’t want to steal your thunder. I wanna learn all I can from you, and I wanna give something back. Potentially, we’ve got a brilliant side. And you’re so goddam lucky you’ve got a patron who’s a saint – a patron saint, he pays you a fucking fortune and all you do is give him earache.’
Little Chef jumped on to Ricky’s knee and started to growl at Luke. Ricky’s face was grey, his eyes black whirlpools of fury, his long fingers curled round his glass. For a second Luke thought he was going to hurl it in his face.
‘My horses haven’t left,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d rather get on the next plane home than spend summer watching you self-destruct.’
‘Get out,’ hissed Ricky.
In the kitchen Luke found that his legs were shaking violently. Outside, the wind was systematically stripping the cherry trees and the montana. Out in the yard Wayne, confined to barracks with a puffy hock, and suffering mild indigestion from wolfing too many cucumber sandwiches, cream cakes and a clubhouse tablecloth, hung out of his specially bolted door like a burglar about to crack a safe. He’d hoped the footstep would be Ricky’s, but Luke would do. Unable to stop shaking, Luke clung on to the ugly, yellow, lop-eared head.
‘I’ve blown it,’ he groaned.
He’d been so excited this time yesterday, flying over the Atlantic dreaming of Perdita, of the Gold Cup, of shaking hands with the Queen and going to Stratford and Tintern Abbey. He’d have to pay back Dancer’s fee, and holding a sobbing Perdita in his arms earlier had made him realize once again how hopelessly he was still in love with her.
He jumped as the stable cat weaved her way round his trembling legs. Picked up, she purred against him for a second, then, jumping on to Wayne’s withers, settled down happily on his quarters.
Christ, thought Luke in horror, that poor guy killed his kid when he was looped and I force liquor on him.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, going back into the drawing room. ‘I came on too strong.’
Ricky looked up, then suddenly smiled. ‘No, you didn’t. Everything you said was right. I know it in my head, but the moment I get on the field I tense up, and ever since Chessie buggered off and Will died I’ve never trusted
