millions, bracketed with an almost pathological loathing of Perdita, made him totally irrational.
‘Leave her fucking alone,’ he yelled at Taggie. ‘She’ll bite you like a rabid dog. You don’t owe her anything.’
Taggie went very white, but stood her ground.
‘Yes, we do,’ she pleaded. ‘Look what’s happened to her. She
‘I’ll take her,’ said Ricky, pushing his way through the fast-gathering photographers. Taking Perdita from Taggie, he turned to Rupert. ‘When are you going to stop being so pig-headed and recognize your own child?’
It was part of the meticulous Guards Club organization that within seconds the afternoon was on course again. Ricky caused a few raised eyebrows and several accusations of bad sportsmanship when he missed the presentation. This was probably just as well because a jubilant Bart, making thumbs-up signs to Chessie in the stands, gloated so obscenely to the hovering press, predicting that America would annihilate England in the Westchester.
The object of all this conflict, the Coronation Cup, with its crown-shaped lid, gold, writhing serpent handles and patterning of laurel leaves and strange faces, rose serenely from its green baize table.
‘What a huge pot,’ boomed Miss Lodsworth. ‘Not Hughie’s, that cup!’
Silently the British team lined up, long-faced, eyes cast down, utterly gloomy, a total contrast to the laughing, overjoyed Americans. Out came Princess Diana in a silk dress that seemed woven from light blue and dark blue delphinium petals, her high heels sinking into the grass. Up went Bart to get the Cup, which was so heavy that the Chairman of Cartier had to help the Princess hand it to him. Bart had to wipe away a tear as the band played the Stars and Stripes.
Bobby Ferraro was so overwhelmed to meet the Princess that he seized her hands and kissed them, to the delighted screams of the crowd. Angel followed Red. His Falklands banner was tucked inside his shirt, but he was so appalled by Red’s callousness to Perdita and that Red could now joke and smile so devastatingly down at the Princess that he forgot to bring it out. Angel had planned so many gestures of revenge, but all the loathing he felt towards the British seemed to evaporate when he went up to get his clock in its red velvet box and gazed into the kind, blue eyes of the future Queen of England and saw the red roses in her faintly flushed cheeks. Her detective fingered his gun.
‘Whaddid she say to you?’ whispered Bart furiously when Angel finally floated back to the line-up.
‘She say she very sorry my brozzer was keeled in Malvinas,’ said Angel. ‘She ’ear he was jolly good player like ’er ’usband, and Argentine pilots was very brave, and her brother-in-law had flown ’elicopters in the Malvinas and how worried his mother was about heem and she knew how much I must mees Pedro, and,’ Angel added casually, ‘you can stuff your bloody job.’
But Bart wasn’t listening. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘I’m going to be photographed with the Princess.’
There was some booing when Angel won the Pegasus Award, a soaring golden horse for the Player of the Match, but deafening cheers when, posthumously, Tero won Best Playing Pony.
‘Keep it for Perdita,’ said Red when his groom collected the huge, dark maroon rug. ‘It’ll cheer her up when she cools down.’
They were outside the bar, surrounded by an admiring crowd, when Bart asked Angel, who was edging the top off a magnum of champagne with his thumbs, what he’d been about to say.
‘I say you can stuff your bloody awful job,’ said Angel politely. ‘You don’t treat players or ponies nice enough and you haff as you say outleeve the usefulness,’ and he aimed the spurting fountain of champagne straight into Bart’s absolutely furious brick-red face.
Back at Snow Cottage Daisy was still numb with misery over Sukey’s revelations. She was glad Ricky was at the International. If he’d seen her reddened eyes, he might have got the truth out of her. In the afternoon she tried to pull herself together and clean the house. She even forced herself to go into Perdita’s bedroom. The scarlet walls were bare since Perdita’d pulled down all Ricky’s photographs. A bluebottle crashed exhausted against the window pane. Perhaps she ought to take a lodger, a nice girl student from the Agricultural College, to keep her company on the long, lone evenings ahead. She mustn’t start crying again; there was enough damp in the cottage. It was a while before she heard the telephone. Crashing downstairs to get to it in time, she still prayed it might be Drew. But it was Taggie Campbell-Black. Her soft growling voice was unmistakable and she was stammering badly.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but Tero had a heart attack in the International and died.’
‘Oh, God! Darling little Tero and poor, poor Perdita,’ whispered Daisy aghast.
‘She’s broken it off with Red. Ricky’s bringing her home to you. We would have brought her, but Rupert wasn’t very keen, I do hope . . .’ Taggie was desperate to be fair and not disloyal to Rupert.
‘Of course I understand. I’m so sorry. It’s so kind of you to ring.’
Utterly desolate, Daisy collapsed on to a kitchen chair. In the middle of the table was a blue jug filled with meadowsweet. Nothing would ever grace a meadow more sweetly than Tero. Remembering the time the little pony had tiptoed into the kitchen during Christmas dinner and the delighted little nudges Tero used to give her in the back to ask for toast and Marmite, Daisy burst into tears.
But after a few minutes she was forced to pull herself together. Perdita was coming home: she must get ready. In panic and trepidation, she scurried round, hoovering frantically, finding hot water-bottles, making up Perdita’s bed with clean sheets and all Violet’s blankets and putting the jug full of meadowsweet on her bedside table.
There was Ethel barking and the sound of a car drawing up. Steeling herself for Perdita’s Force Ten rage, Daisy came slowly downstairs, but all her fears vanished as a thin, grey ghost with anguished funeral-black eyes ran through the door and collapsed, sobbing hysterically, into her arms.
‘Oh, Mummy, Mummy, how’ll I ever survive without Tero?’
Relief turned to horror as Daisy felt how thin she was. Following her in, still in breeches, boots and his dark blue England shirt came Ricky, who put a reassuring hand to Daisy’s cheek.
‘She’ll be OK. Give her a stiff drink. I’m going to ring the doctor.’
In the sitting room Perdita collapsed on the sofa. ‘What’ll happen to her now?’ she asked wildly.
‘She’ll go straight to heaven, of course. No pony was gooder,’ mumbled Daisy.
‘But that’s no good for her.’ Perdita’s sobs redoubled. ‘The only heaven for Tero was where I was.’
James Benson, the smooth, private GP from Cheltenham, who’d been Rupert’s and Ricky’s doctor for years, was just going out to drinks but couldn’t resist a chance to look at Rupert’s supposedly illegitimate daughter, and her mother as well, and arrived in his Mercedes. She certainly had the Campbell-Black bone structure – rather too near the surface at the moment.
‘She’s seriously underweight and in shock,’ he told Daisy and Ricky as he came downstairs. ‘I’ve given her a shot and something to make her sleep, but I think we should keep her heavily sedated, slowly reducing the dose over the next few days. I should keep these locked up,’ he added, as he handed Daisy anti-depressants and sleeping pills. ‘One can’t be too careful.’
Then, noticing Daisy’s own pallor and reddened eyes, ‘Are you going to be all right? I don’t think you should be alone.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ said Ricky.
‘I’ll just nip home and check the horses,’ he said when James Benson had gone, ‘and have a shower. I must smell like a rambler’s crotch.’
Daisy flushed. ‘You don’t
‘Don’t be silly. Don’t do anything. I’ll bring a take-away and some drink.’
‘I’m honestly not hungry.’
‘Don’t be even sillier. You can’t have two skeletons in one house.’ Then, more gently, seeing Daisy’s face quivering as she bent over the sink, ‘It’s all right, lovie, the worst’s over. She’s home.’
69
