Polo

It was hard to tell who looked more disapproving, when having rushed round in excitement, and tried to snatch Biddy’s knitting, the puppy peed on the rug in front of the fire.

‘That rug was a wedding present from the McGaragles,’ thundered Hamish.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ said Violet. ‘Oh, thank you, Mum, she’s the best present I’ve ever had.’

By the time Ethel, as the puppy was now called, had rampaged round the house, chased Gainsborough up the tree with subsequent loss of glass balls, peed again twice, had a bowl of scrambled egg, and fallen asleep on a cushion by the Aga, Daisy had managed to get supper ready.

It was the first time they had eaten in the dark green dining room with the big window looking over the valley and the red berries of the holly tucked behind every picture gleaming in the candlelight. Daisy had taken a lot of trouble to make coq au vin and a meringue and ice-cream pudding with raspberry puree. Hamish wasn’t going to have a public row with Daisy about the puppy; instead he pointedly ignored her, making no comment about the food and telling his mother at great length about the new film he was making on Robert Burns.

‘I’ve got no airpetite since your father passed away, but I must keep my strength up,’ said Biddy, piling a Matterhorn of mashed potato on to her plate. She had always been the most demonstrative leaver, always taking too much so she could leave a lot. Worst of all, she ate terribly slowly. Violet, who longed to play with the puppy, and Perdita and Eddie, who wanted to watch television, were nearly going crazy and only waited because they wanted some pudding.

Perdita lit a cigarette.

‘Put it out,’ thundered Hamish.

Perdita pretended to snore. Eddie got the giggles. Violet went bright crimson trying not to giggle. Daisy had to rush out of the room to get the pudding.

‘It’s absolutely yummy,’ said Violet, accepting a second helping.

‘Can we have it instead of Christmas pudding?’ asked Eddie.

Biddy Macleod said nothing. She wanted to leave it, but she was too greedy.

‘You must be tired, Mother,’ said Hamish. ‘Early bed with a hotty, I think.’

Biddy, who loved it when her son was masterful, admitted she was a little weary. ‘But before I turn in, I’d love to see your road haulage film again.’

‘But International Velvet’s on,’ protested Perdita.

‘You can watch it in your bedrooms,’ said Hamish heavily.

‘But we can’t tape it,’ wailed Eddie, ‘and my television shows snow storms on all four channels.’

‘Mine’s broken,’ said Perdita.

‘If your mother occasionally saw fit to get anything mended,’ said Hamish nastily, ‘you wouldn’t be in this predicament. For once you are not going to do everything you want.’

Biddy smiled at Violet. ‘Would you kindly make me a cup of Horlicks? I brought my own jar. It’s on the hall table. I didn’t think you’d have any here, although Hamish used to love a drink of Horlicks.’

Ignoring Perdita, who was looking at her with horror, a cold, blank stare coming straight off the North Pole, Biddy added, ‘And if you’re coming up, Eddie, there’s no waste-paper basket in the guest room, nor toilet paper in the guest bathroom.’

‘Where is Ethel going to sleep?’ said Daisy, as she wearily finished clearing up.

‘In my room,’ said Violet, who was gently teasing the diving, biting Ethel with an old slipper.

‘She is not,’ thundered Hamish, who had just dispatched Biddy to bed. ‘I am not having this house reduced to a urinal. How could you introduce a puppy at Christmas?’ he added to Daisy. ‘All the dog charities say it’s the worst time. She will sleep in the stables.’

Because he doted on Violet, he relented enough to allow Ethel to sleep in the kitchen with a ticking clock wrapped in a towel to simulate her mother’s heartbeat.

‘We must start as we mean to go on,’ said Hamish, getting into bed with his pyjamas buttoned up to the neck, and pointedly turning out the light on his side of the bed. A great howl rent the air.

‘Christ,’ said Hamish.

‘Oh, I love the sound of puppies’ voices,’ said Perdita from the television room, as an even more piteous howl rent the air.

‘Silent night, silent night,’ giggled Eddie from his bedroom.

‘Oh, poor Ethel,’ said Violet, from the landing, trying not to cry.

‘Typical,’ exploded Hamish. ‘My mother has come here for a rest, I am totally exhausted and have to be on location at six tomorrow, and you introduce that incontinent beast. I think you do these things deliberately.’

‘I truly don’t,’ said Daisy humbly. ‘I just thought Violet deserved something special.’

‘Because you’ve bankrupted me buying that pony for Perdita.’

Ethel’s howls were growing in volume.

‘Let Violet get her, just for tonight,’ pleaded Daisy.

‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘Will no-one listen to the voice of common sense? I hope you’re satisfied you’re ruining mine and my mother’s Christmas. There’s no way I’ll get to sleep now.’

As Daisy lay twitching in the darkness, waiting for the next explosion, Hamish started snoring. Unheard by her father, Violet had tiptoed downstairs and carried a delighted, wriggling Ethel upstairs to bed with her.

In the television room, unconcerned by any of the rumpus she had caused earlier, Perdita lit a cigarette and put in a tape of last year’s Polo International, freezing it every time Ricky hit the ball. One day she’d have a swing as good as his.

Christmas Eve started badly. Hamish buzzed off humming ‘If Onlee’, leaving Daisy with a mass of food to buy, all the presents to wrap up and dispatch, and Biddy Macleod to entertain. A hard overnight frost symbolized Biddy’s mood and put paid to any hunting, so Perdita was hanging around winding everyone up. The ever-tactful Violet took Biddy on an extended tour of the house. As some sort of death-wish, afterwards Daisy couldn’t resist showing Biddy the stables. Surely the old bag could find something nice to say about the immaculate tack room, and the gleaming, contented Fresco, fetlock deep in clean straw. But Biddy merely remarked it was a pity Perdita didn’t keep her bedroom like that and how ‘all that equipment must have cost puir Hamish a fortune’.

Daisy bit her lip.

‘But Fresco’s been a huge success, Perdita’s been so much easier since she’s got a real interest, and the children are fighting so much less,’ she protested.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ yelled Violet from her bedroom window. ‘Quickly, Perdita’s killing Eddie.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Daisy, racing over the gravel.

‘He’s recorded The Wizard of Oz over her International tape.’

Christmas Eve deteriorated. After lunch Biddy solemnly rootled out Hamish’s mending and sourly sewed to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. Ever-placating, Daisy kept rushing in, putting more logs on the fire and offering cups of tea. Hamish should have been back after lunch, but didn’t return until seven, singing ‘If Onlee’ and sucking extra strong mints.

‘At least, have a rest tomorrow and Boxing Day,’ Biddy implored him.

‘I’ll have to go in on Boxing Day and look at the rushes.’

‘You work too hard.’

Out of despair and to get her through the nightmare of packing presents, Daisy got stuck into the vodka and orange much too early. She made heroic attempts to have dinner bang on eight, leaving a beef casserole in the slow oven of the Aga. Then she discovered to her horror at ten to eight that Perdita had replaced the beef with some barley she was boiling overnight for Fresco.

‘You did it on purpose,’ yelled Hamish.

‘I did not,’ screamed Perdita. ‘I didn’t know it was for tonight.’

Daisy burst into tears. Biddy, who’d set like a jelly all day, suggested she rustle something up. Instead Hamish, with an air of martyrdom, swept Biddy, Violet and Eddie out to supper at the local pub, saying they’d go on to Midnight Mass afterwards. He refused to take Perdita. Seeing Perdita’s white, set face, Daisy said she had all the stockings to do and she’d skip supper and walk down to Midnight Mass later.

Upstairs in her bedroom, with a bottle of Benedictine, she started frantically cocooning presents with Sellotape. Biddy would be shocked; she believed in recycled paper and string.

It was past eleven-thirty by the time Daisy had finished the stockings. It’s the only time fat, lumpy legs are