Finally, the ball came out in Drew’s direction and he had a lovely open sweep to goal in front of him. As he swung his stick back, he was hooked perilously low, Angel’s stick catching his pony’s legs and nearly bringing her down.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, you bloody wop?’ yelled Drew.
Ricky blew his whistle and, having awarded a thirty to the Tigers, took Angel aside.
‘You’re pushing your luck. Pack it in.’
Drew took the penalty, deliberately spending as long as possible to get his breath back. His ribs were agony. Forward went his stick, then back, then whistling down like Jove releasing his thunderbolt, slap between the posts.
‘Well done,’ cried Daisy in delight.
Drew looked straight at Angel. ‘Well?’ he said coolly.
It was a mistake. Thirty seconds later Angel rode him off at ninety degrees, sending his pony flying. As Drew turned in fury, he was suddenly terrified. There was the icy madness of the killer in Angel’s eyes.
In the third chukka Drew was riding Malteser, his fastest but most explosively excitable pony. It usually took half a chukka to calm her down. Red was loose again. Giving Malteser her head, Drew galloped over to mark him, but on his way Shark backed the ball somewhat wildly up towards him. Attempting to stop it, Drew leant right out of his saddle. Hearing a pounding of hooves behind him, and feeling Angel’s knee under his, he crashed to the ground.
‘Oh no,’ screamed Daisy, caught off her guard.
Sukey leapt to her feet. ‘That Argentine is trying to kill my husband,’ she called out in a trembling voice.
Oh God, thought Daisy, feeling an icy hand squeezing her heart. If Angel was a Falklands pilot, perhaps he was taking Drew out for being on the other side.
Numb with horror, she watched Ricky, then Bart, then Red, remonstrating with Angel, as Drew climbed groggily on to his pony to take the penalty. As he hit the ball, Angel bounded forward and blocked the shot, then, as the ball bounced awkwardly in the air, miraculously hit it again twenty yards upfield and was galloping furiously in pursuit. Drew, carried down by the impetus of taking the penalty, swung round to ride Angel off. Together they raced for the ball. Angel, riding Minerva, Bart’s fastest pony after Glitz, pulled ahead.
‘D’you remember me, handsome
Drew let out a sigh. ‘So it
The next moment Angel had pulled over towards Drew, and his wicked-looking spur had caught the cheek strap of Drew’s bridle, narrowly missing Malteser’s terrified, rolling eye, and ripped it apart. A second later his stick crashed into Drew’s jaw and Drew slumped to the ground like a felled pine. But his foot was caught in the stirrup. Picking up her master’s sense of panic, Malteser dragged him for twenty yards before Shark caught up with her and yanked her to a halt.
As the ambulance screamed on, Ricky rode furiously up to Angel. ‘Off, you bastard.’
‘Don’t you send him off,’ shouted Bart. ‘He’s my best player. Fucking biased umpiring.’
‘Off,’ bellowed Bobby Ferraro, the second umpire, in agreement.
In the stands, Bas had put an arm round a shaking, sobbing Sukey’s shoulders.
‘It’s OK, old duck. He’s tough, he’ll be OK.’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ moaned Daisy, gazing in agony and horror at a lifeless Drew.
There was a crack and, looking down, she saw she had broken her dark glasses. She had already nearly bitten her lower lip through trying not to cry out. As she watched Drew being lifted unconscious into the ambulance, she gave a shuddering wail. Glancing round, Dommie suddenly realized everything. ‘So you’re the one,’ he whispered. Then, pulling her into his arms: ‘Hang on to me. For Christ’s sake, don’t blow it, sweetheart. He’ll be all right.’
Dommie was utterly angelic.
‘She’s upset about Perdita,’ he told everyone blandly as he hustled a sobbing Daisy out of the stands. ‘Little bitch bit her head off just before the match.’
And when Daisy sobbed even louder in protest, Dommie told her to shut up. ‘Perdita’s committed enough crimes against humanity for it not to matter if one of them’s blamed on her unfairly.’
Although it was only half-time, he insisted on driving Daisy’s rickety old Volkswagen faster than it had ever been driven back to Rutshire.
‘I’m not letting you near Ricky in this condition. He’d be bound to winkle it out of you and you know how pompous he is about extra-marital frolics – although this was plainly more than a frolic.’
‘The awful thing,’ said Daisy numbly, ‘was that Sukey was so upset. I really did think it was a marriage of convenience.’
‘Convenient for Drew. Move over, Granny,’ said Dommie, honking furiously as he overtook some Sunday afternoon drivers admiring the Rutshire countryside at twenty mph. ‘No wonder he was so ratty when Red and I tried to take you to Paris last summer.’
‘He’s been so kind to me since Hamish left.’
‘Not difficult. I’d be kind to you – and unlike him I’ve got weekends, Christmas and Easter free.’ Dommie put his arm round her shoulders. ‘He’s a lucky sod.’
‘Not if he dies,’ sobbed Daisy.
‘Course he won’t.’
Without a car telephone he was unable to ring the hospital for news until they got home and even then the Intensive Care Ward would only tell him Drew had been admitted.
‘But it’s his father speaking.’ Dommie put on a gruff military voice.
But all he could glean was that Drew had not yet regained consciousness.
Dommie and Daisy were stuck into the vodka and Dommie was trying to distract her by telling her more stories about his new pony, Corporal, when the telephone rang. Daisy jumped out of her skin. Perhaps it was news of Drew. Then she thought how bloody silly; she was only the mistress who had to grin and bear it. Why should anyone tell her anything? Fighting back the tears, she grabbed the receiver.
It was Ricky.
‘You OK?’ he asked brusquely. ‘Sorry about Perdita.’
‘She always gets uptight before a game.’
‘No bloody excuse.’
‘Have you heard anything about Drew?’
‘Still out cold, but he hasn’t broken anything.’
When he had told her all he knew, Ricky asked Daisy if she’d like him to come over. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘Dommie’s here.’ There was a pause.
‘Be careful,’ said Ricky.
‘Hospital says Drew’s in a stable condition,’ Daisy told Dommie as she put down the receiver.
‘Fatuous expression. You’d think he was sleeping on wood shavings!’ Dommie filled up their glasses. ‘Needs a muzzle, too, to stop him babbling on about you in his delirium.’
‘Ricky said the only thing he’s calling out for is Malteser,’ said Daisy sadly.
Eventually she managed to persuade a reluctant Dommie that she was really happier on her own.
‘You’ve been so kind, but I just want to slink into my lair and lick my wounds.’
‘I’d lick much more exciting parts of you,’ grumbled Dommie as he borrowed her car to drive home.
Only after she’d finished the vodka and sobbed it all out in tears did Daisy rashly ring the hospital.
‘It’s very late. Are you a relation?’ enquired the night sister.
‘Yes, I’m Drew’s Great-Aunt Araminta,’ said Daisy. ‘I just want to know he’s OK.’
Twenty seconds later she nearly dropped the receiver.
‘If that’s
Hanging up, Daisy slumped wailing over the kitchen table. Nothing – not the secret trysts, nor the ecstatic
