75
Back in Eldercombe, Daisy, unable to sleep, stayed up all night putting the finishing touches on a painting of Mrs Hughie’s Burmese cats before watching the second half of the match live at five o’clock in the morning. Venturer must be delirious. It was truly gripping television – and Daisy was thrilled Perdita played so brilliantly and didn’t seem unduly fazed about Red. She also experienced passionate relief when Perdita rang to say Rupert had at last forgiven her and admitted paternity and how lovely he’d been.
But all this bounty made Daisy even more bitterly ashamed that she should feel so suicidal at a British victory. Throughout the match her eyes had constantly been drawn to Ricky who, despite his suntan, looked incredibly grim and gaunt.
She ought to be pleased for him and managed to congratulate Perdita very convincingly when she rang up, but when Perdita said, ‘Talk to Ricky,’ Daisy couldn’t face it and had hung up and taken the telephone off the hook. Outside the sun was rising and in the hall mirror she saw, wiping away the tears, that she’d streaked burnt sienna all over her face.
Having let the dogs out, she retired to bed, pulling the duvet over her head and falling into a miserable half- sleep. After lunch she took the dogs out for a walk. She noticed next year’s sticky buds, the same Mars-red as polo boots, pushing their way through the ragged, orange leaves of the horse chestnuts. She passed a burdock bush, so mildewed, brown and shrivelled among all the ravishing autumnal oranges and golds. It left a cluster of burrs on her coat. Shivering, she thought how it symbolized a desperately clinging, defeated, abandoned woman. Oh, please don’t let me get like that, she prayed. A huge, red sun was dropping behind the woods as she crossed Ricky’s watermeadows. The dogs were sniffing frantically beside the gate and there was a strong smell of fox. It must have just killed a baby rabbit – soft, grey fur littered the grass.
Daisy started to cry again. Back in the house she put the telephone back on the hook. Immediately the
‘Hi, Daisy, great about Perdita. You must be a very proud Mum.’
‘I am.’
‘Great about Rupert accepting paternity.’
‘It’s lovely, but I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t have any mouth left if I keep shooting it off.’
Slamming down the receiver, Daisy took it off the hook again. She tried and failed to paint and then at eight o’clock took a large vodka and tonic into the sitting room to watch a recording of the match. It was the real thing this time, all six chukkas and Luke winning the MVP award. His freckles were exactly like the puppies, thought Daisy. He’d be lovely to paint. And then she saw Chessie hurtling into Ricky’s arms, and, feeling as though someone had dropped a tombstone on her from a great height, turned off the television. All hope gone. She’d never, never, known misery like it.
Outside the wind was rising, so she shut the windows. In the kitchen the puppies were chewing up a dark red book called
‘
And I hoped I was putting on a brave face, thought Daisy. Wondering if Red Indians put on brave faces when they got up in the morning, she started to cry again. The only answer was to get drunk. Sobbing unceasingly, she finished the vodka bottle and then passed out.
She woke to find herself on the drawing-room sofa with the dogs crammed into two armchairs gazing at her reproachfully. Outside the Niagara Falls seemed to have been diverted under the house. Whimpering, she opened the curtains and shrieked as a laser beam of light pierced her eyes. There had obviously been a terrific storm in the night. You could have gone white-water rafting on the Frogsmore as it hurtled past. Branches littered the lawn. She could see several trees down in Ricky’s woods and the track to Eldercombe was full of puddles turned the colour of strong tea by the disturbed earth.
Incapable of anything else, Daisy carried on crying. As the telephone was off the hook, a succession of reporters were reduced to rolling up at the house to discuss Perdita’s great triumph. Unable to face them, Daisy took refuge in the potting shed. Here she discovered the nude she’d done of Drew three years ago and brought it into the kitchen determined to burn it.
At lunchtime, when the whole valley was steaming and a primrose-yellow sun had come through the mist like a halo searching for a saint, a car drew up outside. It was Violet, delighted Perdita had won, but more interested in the weekend she’d just spent in the Lakes with her new boyfriend.
‘How d’you tell you’re in love, Mum?’
‘D’you go weak at the knees when he kisses you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Violet perplexed, ‘because I’m always lying down. Are you all right, Mum? You look awful.’
‘I think I’m getting gastric flu,’ muttered Daisy.
‘Oh, poor you! Go to bed. Why’s the telephone off the hook?’ asked Violet, putting it back. Immediately it rang.
‘It’ll be for me.’ Violet snatched it up, then, in disappointment as she handed Daisy the receiver, ‘It’s for you.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ howled Ricky.
‘Oh, out and about.’ Daisy tried desperately to sound bright. ‘It’s terrific you won. You sound as though you’re just next door.’
‘I am next door,’ said Ricky brusquely. ‘We’ve got to talk. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
Violet picked up her car keys: ‘I’m just popping down to the village shop for some cigarettes. D’you want anything?’
But Daisy had bolted upstairs, cleaning her teeth until they bled, scraping the olive-green moss off her tongue. However many vats of eyedrops she poured into her eyes, they still glowed like carbuncles, remaining determinedly piggy and swollen. Sailors could climb the rigging of wrinkles under her eyes, and when she tried desperately to rub them away they wouldn’t shift. Frantically she slapped green foundation over her red-veined cheeks, but she still looked like a ghoul, so she rubbed it off, which made her cheeks glow brighter than ever.
Suddenly she remembered the mess in the kitchen and, clutching her pounding skull, stumbled downstairs and started throwing things into the washing-up machine. The puppies were now calmly eviscerating a cushion, scattering feathers all over the hall.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ wailed Daisy. It was all hopeless. Slumping down at the kitchen table she started to cry again. Ethel shambled over and put a muddy speckled paw on her knee. Jumping up, Little Chef tried to lick away her tears, but they flowed even faster. Then, through the shaggy curtain of clematis and honeysuckle, she saw Ricky’s car draw up and, despite everything, felt her stomach disappear as she watched him get out. He looked shadowed under the eyes and terribly grim. Next minute she winced as Little Chef dug his claws into her jeaned thighs and shot off through the door, screaming with joy to welcome him.
‘Oh, please,’ pleaded Daisy, clutching her head as Ethel let out her great bass-baritone bark and the puppies took up a yapping chorus.
Ricky looked even grimmer as he came through the door with Little Chef wriggling ecstatically under one arm. Then he caught sight of Daisy and stopped short.
‘Jesus! What’s up with you?’
‘Hangover,’ muttered Daisy. ‘I feel dreadful.’
‘Shouldn’t drink so much. Serves you right.’
‘I’ve been under a lot of strain. D’you want a cup of coffee?’
‘No. I want you to come outside.’ Taking her hand, Ricky dragged her protesting out on to the lawn where
