more towards the Flyer’s goal, then instantly turned. This time he scored, and a minute later he had scored again.
Then the Flyers’ poor Mexican ringer crossed Dancer out of nerves. His face expressionless, all the joy and power in his stick, Ricky drove home a miraculous sixty-yard penalty, making it six all as the bell went. Emerging from under their coloured umbrellas into the diminishing drizzle, the crowd went berserk, overjoyed that such a thrilling match would go to an extra chukka.
Through dense fog Luke heard voices, shouts of laughter and some singing and slowly opened his eyes. The room seemed to blaze with gleaming cups. Then he heard Perdita’s shrill voice.
‘Luke darling, please come round.’
He could feel her hand and, laboriously, he tried to focus finally identifying Perdita and Dancer, drunk as skunks and brandishing a huge gilt cup.
‘We won,’ cried Perdita, overjoyed.
‘What happened?’ asked Luke.
‘We went into extra time.’ Dancer took Luke’s other hand. ‘I tell you I was shaking like a leaf. Wiv you gone I had to play back and Ricky and Perdita and the sub was up the other end going towards goal, and next moment Charles Napier’s thundering towards me yelling, “Leave it, leave it”, and Bart yells, “I’m not going to fuckin’ leave it,” and hits the ball straight at me. Thank Christ, it hits my pony who gives a fuckin’ groan and somehow I hits it back past Charles and next moment the boy’s waving the flag up the other end. “Fuckin’ ell,” I yelled, “We’ve won.”’
‘And Spotty kicked the ball in,’ crowed Perdita.
‘Riding back past your Dad,’ went on Dancer, ‘I said, “You don’t look very ’appy, Bart,” and he was so angry he bundled his wife into ’is helicopter and flew straight back to ’is new ’ouse at Cowdray.’
‘That’s terrific,’ said Luke, wondering why they were now disappearing in a whirling snowstorm.
‘And Fantasma won Best Playing Pony yet again,’ said Perdita, laying a royal-blue blanket edged with scarlet over the bed. ‘There’s the most terrific party going on at the Star of India in Windsor. The twins started a food fight and hit Mrs Hughie on the nose with an onion bargie. Victor’s so pissed Dommie’s sold another of his horses back to him and Sharon is comforting the Mexican Jose who speaks no English.’
Sitting down on Fantasma’s prize-winning blanket, they started going through every play.
‘What did the Queen say to you, Dancer?’ Luke asked wistfully.
‘That she was very pleased. She’s met me before at the Royal Variety Performance, but she was less shy this time.’
Perdita giggled. ‘She said she was sorry you were out cold and hoped you’d be better soon.’
Luke had never known her so happy.
‘Who was the guy who stood in for me?’ he asked. ‘Pretty good scoring two goals right away.’
‘Oh, didn’t we tell you?’ said Dancer in surprise. ‘It was your bruvver, Red.’
‘What’s he doing over here?’
‘Victor’s so furious at being beaten by your father that he’s dropped poor Bobby Ferraro for the rest of the season and flown Red over at vast expense to play for him instead.’
48
Next day Red’s name dominated the headlines. ‘
Not content with bringing a sparkle to Perdita’s eyes, Red had seduced his beloved Fantasma as well. Luke was ashamed how jealous he felt. He loved his brother but Red always spelt trouble and at the moment Luke felt incapable of getting him out of any more scrapes. Yesterday’s feeling of floating detachment had given way to sickness and a blinding headache. He felt dizzy if he sat up; if he lay down his bed pitched like a raft in a force-ten gale; any sudden movement of the head made him leap with pain. The X-ray showed no fractures, but nurses were taking his pulse and blood pressure on the hour. He definitely wouldn’t be fit for the Royal Windsor in which he was playing with Kevin Coley next week. Despite heavy sedation, Luke was desperately worried. Injury was the professional’s worst nightmare. Just when Apocalypse was coming good he had to desert them.
Ricky, looking very pale, had dropped in first thing in the morning. He obviously hadn’t slept and, stammering badly, apologized for playing so hopelessly yesterday. He never dreamed he’d be so pole-axed by seeing Chessie, but that was no excuse.
Knowing how much it must have cost the great
‘No sweat,’ he said. ‘We won anyway. How’s Fantasma?’
‘Got a bang on the nearside cannon bone.’ Then, seeing Luke’s face: ‘No, she’s OK. We poulticed her and she was almost sound when we walked her out this morning.’
After Ricky had gone, Luke fretted. Tempted to discharge himself to check that Fantasma was all right, he was slightly cheered around lunchtime when an Irish nurse with eyes greener than a Granny Smith and a white cap riding on her lustrous piled-up black hair, like a paper boat on stormy rapids, came in to check his blood pressure.
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘A sudden drop might indicate bleeding in the skull.’ Her voice was like a furry bell.
‘No-one’s blood pressure could drop with you around,’ said Luke as she checked his pulse.
Looking at the badge on her starched apron he saw her name was Rosie O’Grady, and couldn’t remotely imagine her being a sister under the skin to Mrs Hughie.
‘Who’s Perdita?’ she asked slyly. ‘Your wife? A girlfriend?’
‘Just a friend,’ said Luke carefully. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I was on when you came in yesterday. You never stopped babbling about her. She’s a lucky girl,’ she added softly. ‘I had to undress you. I never knew polo players were,’ she smiled sleepily, ‘so . . . er . . . well-hung.’
Luke blushed beneath his red-gold stubble. ‘And I was out cold. Jesus, what a waste!’
‘There’ll be other opportunities. We’re not letting you out yet.’
She handed him some blue pills and a glass of water which he had difficulty in keeping down.
‘What are they?’
‘Analgesic and sedatives.’
‘I don’t want to feel sedated,’ said Luke, taking her hand. Perhaps he was still concussed. ‘Please stay with me.’
They both jumped as the door flew open and Perdita stormed in. She was wearing dark glasses, which emphasized her long nose, jeans and a torn, grey T-shirt of Daisy’s. Her hair was scraped back with a mauve plastic clip. She didn’t look her best.
‘What’s she doing?’ she snapped as Nurse O’Grady melted away. ‘Giving you intensive care? Thought she’d have better things to do. How are you feeling?’
‘Pretty good,’ lied Luke.
‘That’s more than I am. I’ve got such a bloody awful hangover and there was a four-mile tailback on the motorway with the sun pounding down on the roof of the car. Christ, look at all your flowers. I’ve brought you grapes and some Lucozade. Luke-ozade, it’s a joke!’
‘Very funny, thanks a lot,’ said Luke who’d heard it often before.
‘This is a jolly nice room.’ Perdita switched on the racing on television. The horses’ hooves seemed to be
