Polo

‘I thought he was shacked up with Margie Bridgwater.’

‘Maybe he is, but he’ll still have to mark Perdita on Sunday. And if he’s too much of a wimp to ride off Dommie Carlisle, he’ll never carve up Perdita. Why don’t you bring back Shark? He’s never had a scruple in his life.’

‘This is your own brother we’re talking about,’ said Brad disapprovingly. ‘Luke is a very fine player.’

‘Sure he is and I just adore him, but he’s too soft.’

‘Sort of guy who reads poetry in the evening,’ mused Brad Dillon. ‘Could be you’re right, Red. I asked Luke to stick and ball with me in Greenwich early one morning a few weeks ago. He wasn’t in the lobby at eight-thirty so I went upstairs and banged on his bedroom door. Can you beat it, Red, he was still in bed, drinking a Bourbon and, even worse, reading a book.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Red in triumph. ‘He’s got a bad attitude.’

Brad Dillon had no difficulty persuading the other selectors. ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid this is no time for gentlemen. Shark’s our man.’

At lunchtime the APA issued a press release that Luke would be dropped for the final game.

It was the night before the match. Mike Waterlane, having spent the afternoon in his prospective stepmother’s arms while his father played golf, slept like a hound puppy after his first day’s hunting.

Seb, on the other hand, had had a very bad four days. Demented when Dommie was injured, he had cried his eyes out when the hospital assured him his brother was out of danger. Always the confident, assertive twin, who’d pinched Dommie’s girls and bossed him about for twenty-six years, he now found himself totally lost both on and off the field. How many times before big games had he woken Dommie up to chat and bolster his own confidence? Now, feeling horribly alone, he tried to concentrate on James Herriot. Lucky, lucky Rupert to have Taggie in bed with him. He wished suddenly he was lying in Daisy Macleod’s arms, pillowed on her soft breasts. He’d definitely ring her when he got home.

Nor could Ricky get to sleep. He wished he could go down to the stables and discuss tactics for tomorrow’s match with Wayne, but security, triggered off by tremendous press interest and the Prince’s impending arrival, was incredibly tight and he didn’t want to wake the ponies.

At last the Westchester was within his grasp. Under the eye of two security guards the Cup had been on display in the clubhouse yesterday – huge, silver and ungainly with its jug-eared handles and horses rearing out of the side. In his gloomier moments he had to admit that, even if England did their best tomorrow, it wouldn’t be enough to beat the Americans. Perdita was simply not as good as Dommie and without Dommie, Seb would be not even half as good as usual. But miracles happen. In moments of true inspiration sides could reach heights never achieved before. It was up to him as captain to instil into them the belief that they could.

And if, by the thousand to one chance, they did win, what then? He still hadn’t got to ten. He had seen Chessie at a distance over the last few days, shining more brightly than ever before, silencing rooms and dividing crowds by her beauty. Then, this evening, a florist’s van had delivered a single red rose in a Cellophane box.

‘Darling Ricky,’ said the card, ‘Carry this red rose of England next to your heart tomorrow. Good luck and my love goes with you, Chessie.’

The rose was now languishing in a tooth mug, its head drooping in the heat. Nor did it smell. He felt the inevitable sick churning. He mustn’t let nerves get to him, he had to calm the others. Switching on the television, he found a weatherman saying that the hurricane that was ravaging Florida, tugging up trees by the roots, ripping off roofs like milk bottle tops, was relentlessly moving towards England. It gave Ricky the excuse to pick up the telephone.

‘D-d-daisy, it’s Ricky. Sorry to wake you. Yes I’m fine. Perdita’s fine too – a bit uptight but that’s to be expected. Well, they’re not screaming at each other. R-r-rupert’s trying to be patient. How’s Little Chef?’

When Daisy said he was eating at last – rump steak and chocolate – Ricky laughed and said he’d reimburse her.

‘Look,’ he went on, ‘I rang to say there’s a bloody great hurricane on its way to you. I don’t want you to walk through the woods. There’s a lot of dead trees in there that might get blown down.’

Perdita couldn’t sleep either. Frantic excitement that she was going to be the first woman ever to play for England and even better play against Luke, had been utterly doused when she heard he’d been dropped. How could the bastards do that when he’d played so impeccably in the first two matches?

On the chair she’d already laid out her newly washed dark-blue England shirt and white breeches, along with her lucky belt, lucky socks, lucky pants and lucky bra, which Taggie had mended for her and which had broken once before when she’d been playing with Luke and he’d called out, ‘Tack time’, and stopped the game, fiddling with his curb chain until she’d managed to fix it. Oh God, why did everything come back to Luke? She must rise above her misery. She fingered the red rose of England on her shirt. Winning tomorrow must be her only thought.

No novel could distract her so she turned again to Luke’s poetry book. Emerson made her cry. She certainly hadn’t given all to love, only to the pursuit of fame and riches. And there was Robert Frost:

‘But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep.’

Would she ever sleep peacefully again without Luke? Despairingly she turned back to Shakespeare:

‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of a tiger.’

That was Luke to a T. She remembered him declaiming those lines on the way to the Queen’s Cup. Again she could hardly read on:

‘The game’s afoot:

Follow your spirit and upon this charge,

Cry “God for Harry! England and St George!”’

If she learnt it by heart it might send her to sleep. She jumped at a knock on the door. It was Rupert carrying two whiskys.

‘Perhaps I better check Red Alderton isn’t lurking in the wardrobe,’ he said with a faint smile as he sat down on her bed.

For a second they gazed at each other as if into a mirror looking for likenesses. We be of one blood ye and I, thought Perdita.

‘You look about twelve,’ said Rupert.

Perdita blew her nose noisily on a Kleenex. ‘You don’t have to be nice to me just because you’re going to drop me.’

‘I’m going to do no such thing. Taggie’s just given me the first bollocking ever, told me to come and say I’m sorry. Actually I was sorry, anyway. I’ve behaved like a shit.’

‘I deserved it,’ said Perdita in a choked voice. ‘I deserved everything. I’ve behaved horribly since the day I was born and now I’m paying for it.’

‘Your ponies don’t think so,’ said Rupert gently. ‘They absolutely adore you and so would everyone else if you gave them a chance.’

‘I’ve been so awful to Mum and you and Taggie, and, worst of all, to Luke. How could those dickheads drop him?’

‘Lucky for us they have,’ said Rupert. ‘Shark’s a killer, but he’s nowhere near Luke’s class. There’s no-one else who can do the things Luke can do under pressure.’

‘It makes me so mad.’

‘Good,’ said Rupert. ‘Now listen to me. The Americans dropped Luke because he’s too much of a gent to take you out. Your sole task tomorrow is to show the world how stupid they were. Without Luke, we’ll bury them.’

‘Look at this,’ roared Ricky storming into Rupert’s bedroom the next morning and thrusting the Daily News under his nose.

‘You might bloody knock,’ grumbled Rupert, hastily drawing the duvet over Taggie’s voluptuous naked body.

‘When Francesca Alderton left her husband Ricky France-Lynch, captain of England, six years ago,’ he read, ‘and ran off with airline billionaire, Bart Alderton, she taunted her former spouse with a challenge that she would only come back to him on certain conditions: if he won the British Gold Cup,