was crowded with stars. There was the Swan, winging out of the Milky Way, and Pegasus soaring above the clock tower and Bootes, the Shepherd, going gently home in the west. Then Ricky caught his breath, for striding jauntily above him was the constellation Hercules. That must be a sign. Hercules had won immortality and his heart’s desire by accomplishing all ten labours. Ricky had only three to achieve and the first leg, the Gold Cup, must surely be within his grasp tomorrow. Fantasma might have dropped out this evening, but the Kaputnik Tigers, after Red and the twins’ roughriding, had even more horses unsound.
A whicker of affection startled him out of his trance. Wayne, as usual avid for distraction, was hanging out of his box.
‘You’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’ Ricky scratched him along his bristly mane. ‘We don’t have Fantasma to get us out of trouble any more. You’ve got to outrun and ride off everyone, and forget about the Cowdray tea tent.’
Wayne’s lop ears flickered as he listened to every word.
‘If we win tomorrow,’ went on Ricky, burying his face in the pony’s silky, yellow neck, ‘you can have every cucumber sandwich in the world.’ Then, his voice becoming a sob, ‘Oh, Wayne, just help me get my wife back.’
Next morning, after three months of drought except for the thunderstorm on the afternoon of the Queen’s Cup, the temperature plummeted and torrential rain and vicious east winds stripped the roses of their petals and blew straw all round the yard. At the last moment Perdita had another screaming match with Ricky and opted to go in the helicopter with Dancer. The drive from Robinsgrove was long and dogged by roadworks. At each sign pointing to ‘Polo’ Ricky felt sicker.
As they passed the greying blond ruins of Cowdray Castle, with the cows and horses grazing around the battlements, he had to leap out of the car and throw up behind an oak tree.
Down by the pony lines everyone was uptight. Grooms bumped into each other and cursed as tails refused to go up and bandages wouldn’t go on smoothly. Ponies were flattening their ears and lashing out at each other. At Thursday’s semi-final the problem had been flies; now it was keeping them warm.
‘Golly, I wish Dancer hadn’t chosen black rugs; every hair shows up,’ moaned Louisa.
‘I scored with Red Alderton last night,’ said Victor’s prettiest groom. ‘Fucking marvellous, marvellous fucking, but the moment it was over he looked at his watch and said, “Christ, I’m dining at Windsor Castle in half an hour!” and was out of bed like a rocket.’
Which means Red’ll be hung over today, thought Louisa with satisfaction. What on earth was that din coming from the direction of Dancer’s helicopter?
The row had blown up because a distracted Perdita had not only forgotten to get the second set of Apocalypse shirts out of the cleaners, but, far worse, hadn’t shut the hatch of the helicopter properly so the first set of lucky shirts which had been worn in every final this season had all fallen out and were now probably being worn by rabbits and squirrels all over the Savernake Forest. Ricky was yelling at Perdita, who was half-yelling, half-crying back.
‘It’s no big deal,’ Luke was shouting at Ricky. ‘It was us won the matches, not the goddam shirts.’
Apocalypse were therefore forced to play in white shirts which matched their complexions but considerably reduced their air of menace.
‘We’ll all be pale riders,’ said Dancer, trying to make a joke.
Sobbing, Perdita rushed off to change in the Ladies’ loo.
Venturer Television, on their first day of making a documentary about Perdita, were out in force. Directed by Cameron Cook, Rupert’s ex-mistress and a virago with short spiky hair and a rapacious body, they had gleefully filmed the entire row. Now they were filming another one. Perdita, because she wanted to compete with Red’s army of groupies, had bought a new pair of breeches for the final.
‘Oh my God, can they go any tighter?’ whooped Dommie Carlisle, clapping his hands over his eyes as she came out of the Ladies. Then, peering through splayed fingers: ‘And you’re not wearing any pants. How wildly exciting.’
‘Go and put some on,’ snarled Ricky.
‘It’ll ruin the line,’ shrieked Perdita.
‘It’ll ruin your reputation if they split, for Chrissake,’ yelled Luke. ‘Go back and change.’
The Gold Cup had been sponsored by Davidoff who’d laid on a splendid lunch in their marquee. Drew, who was umpiring and playing for Kevin Coley in the second match, had wangled Daisy a ticket. He’d also seen Sukey into hospital that morning to have her baby, ringing on the hour to see how she was. As Daisy ate lobster, prawns and ratatouille, followed by strawberries and cream, and drank a great deal of Pouilly Fume and admired Drew’s handsome profile and enjoyed his left hand on her thigh as he forked up strawberries with his right, she was desperately ashamed to find herself praying that Sukey might die in childbirth.
‘My father was an MFH,’ said Brigadier Hughie, who was sitting opposite. ‘When I was a baby I was knocked out of my pram and nearly eaten by two hound puppies. My father said it would have been a glorious death.’
Daisy was acutely conscious of Chessie at the next table, who ate nothing but drank a great deal of excellent burgundy which matched her ravishing, red wool Yves St Laurent suit. Hardly addressing a word to Bart, she seemed wildly elated at the possibility of Ricky winning the first leg of his bet within the next two hours.
As everyone poured out to watch the final, wincing at the cold, Chessie wrapped a pale grey, fringed shawl round her shoulders. Despite a plethora of gorgeous girls yearning after Red, she was easily the most glamorous woman in the stands. What a prize for Ricky to win back, thought Daisy.
Down by the warm-up area Apocalypse, looking curiously vulnerable in their white shirts, were being geed up by Ricky. Stammering and swearing, he ran for the twentieth time through the game plan, urging on them the need to win, win, win.
‘The Tigers are brilliant in attack, but they have no defence. We must attack. Your job, Dancer, is to make Victor foul.’
‘He’s foul enough already,’ said Perdita through chattering teeth.
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Ricky. ‘And then Luke can convert the penalty. At least he will if the wind’s behind him. All I want you to do for the first two chukkas, Perdita, is stick to Red till he loses his temper. He’s hellishly quick, too, in the line-out. He scored two goals from there in the Warwickshire, so watch him.’ Suddenly he paused in horror. ‘What the fuck’s Miguel O’Brien doing here?’
No-one could fail to recognize the hulking shoulders and the crinkly, greasy mop of black hair. Miguel, looking like a Mafia hood in a belted fur coat and dark glasses, was hissing instructions at Victor, Red and the twins. Bart was hovering in the background.
‘I guess Bart isn’t too keen on you winning the Gold Cup,’ said Dancer.
‘He’s probably just advising Dad in the second match,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s go and bury them.’
From the start both teams played with colossal driven intensity. Apocalypse’s greatest fear was letting the twins and Red, all dazzlingly aggressive players, get loose, knowing they’d go straight down and score. But between them, Luke and Ricky managed to hold the twins, while Perdita shadowed Red the whole time, until he was screaming with rage. Then, suddenly, at the end of the second chukka Ricky hit a miraculous nearside forehand from the halfway line and the wind carried it through the goal. In the next chukka Victor, on his favourite pony, Tiger Lily, showing profound contempt for his enemy’s right of way, gave away two penalties which Luke converted despite the wind. In the third chukka, after a pep-talk from Miguel, Red pulled himself together and scored twice, but was countered by Ricky picking up a short pass from Perdita and sinking a big nearside neck shot. 4-2 to Apocalypse at half-time.
‘You’re doing great,’ Luke told his huddled team-mates.
‘You’re doing terrific. Just don’t let up. Red’s greatest buzz is to lull us into a state of false security and then pow, he’ll zap us, the later the better. If we’re gonna win, we’ve got to attack.’
Treading in the divots, running to get warm, Daisy was towed straight up to Drew by Ethel, who started singing with delight to see such a familiar friend umpiring.
‘Stop sneaking, Ethel,’ said Drew, who was shivering from the cold. ‘Perdita’s playing brilliantly. Looks as though Ricky’s going to clinch the first leg of his bet.’ Then, dropping his voice: ‘I rang the hospital. Sukey’s just had a daughter.’
‘Oh, I’m so thrilled for you.’
‘So am I. You and I can spend the night together. I’ll go and see her straight after our match and be with you about nine.’
