There were terrible moments. He was plagued by feelings of utter worthlessness. He slept appallingly, still wracked by insomnia, followed by nightmares. He was consumed with desire for Chessie. He was crucified by the knowledge that Will’s last terrifying memory must have been Chessie and he screaming at each other, and being gathered into a car and hurtled to his death. He was also worried stiff about his arm. He still couldn’t move his fingers or pick up anything heavy.
But there were small victories, captaining the prisoners’ bowls team to a win against the screws, watching the wallflowers and forget-me-nots he’d planted come out in the bed by the visitors’ check-in gate.
All his free time was spent with Dancer. Mostly they talked about polo. Insatiable for knowledge, Dancer would demand again and again to hear how Mattie had died, and how Wayne, Mattie’s half-brother, had let himself out of his box and flooded the yard, and how Kinta, thundering unstoppable down the field at Deauville, enabled Ricky to score the winning goal. Night after night, with four white chess pieces for one team, and four black for the other, Ricky taught Dancer the rudiments of the game.
One late April evening when they could hear the robins singing outside, reminding Ricky unbearably of home, they got out the board and the eight black-and-white pieces.
‘Show me some sneaky moves,’ said Dancer.
‘Well, if black hits the ball upfield,’ began Ricky, ‘and the opposing white back and the black number one are in pursuit of the ball riding each other off,’ Ricky moved the black-and-white bishops forward so they clashed into each other, ‘if black number one judges himself beaten, he should move to the left and draw white off the line. Black number two, watching the play, charges up the line – Dancer, are you listening to me?’
‘I was finking how nice it’d be if you said Apocalypse instead of black.’
‘You thinking of taking up polo?’
‘I’ve got a lot of money I want to get rid of.’
‘If you teach me to make money,’ said Ricky, ‘I’ll teach you to play polo.’
‘Apocalypse is a great name for a polo team,’ said Dancer.
That night Ricky told Dancer about Chessie’s parting jibe: ‘She says she’ll only come back to me if I go to ten, and win the Gold Cup and England win back the Westchester.’
‘Piece a cake,’ said Dancer airily. ‘You said the teams with the longest purses win. I was goin’ to retire, but I’ll write anuvver song. It’ll go to number one, because everyone’s missed me while I’ve been inside. Then I’ll take up polo, and wiv me as your patron, we’ll take everyone out.’
Good as his word, Dancer abandoned his autobiography which he’d been scribbling in a red notebook and wrote a song called ‘Gaol Bird’ about a robin trapped in a cage. The tune was haunting. In the right mood, Dancer would sing it suddenly in bed at night. Few prisoners threw shoes at him, the words spoke for all of them.
In April they were all distracted by the Falklands War. A man in the dormitory had a son in the Paras. Ricky was worried about Drew Benedict who had resigned his commission and was due out of the Army in August, but who was now steaming out with the task force. Drew had the kind of crazy courage and lack of nerves to get himself killed. Ricky dropped a line to Sukey, who was no doubt now diligently schooling Drew’s new Argentine ponies and watching every bulletin.
In early May Ricky got a letter from his solicitor requesting a visit. The night before, he was lounging on his bed, watching the trees thickening with young leaves against a pale pink sunset. Dancer, peering in the mirror, was grumbling about his roots.
‘I wish you’d first seen me on stage wiv my hair all wild, and my make-up on, Rick. How can anyone operate wiv no eyeliner? Can’t even get your eyelashes dyed in this dump. When you were at boarding school did you try anyfink with blokes?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Not much,’ said Ricky, who was now concentrating on
‘Might be better than nuffink here.’ Dancer put a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Want to try it sometime?’
There was a long pause. The prison building was turning a pale rose madder in the sun which was sinking like a blazing ruby into the far blue horizon. Chessie was wearing rubies the night Will died.
‘Not really,’ said Ricky. ‘I’m still married.’
‘Don’t mind my asking?’ Dancer’s drawl had a slight tremor.
‘Not at all. I just want Chessie back. But you’ve been fucking good to me, Dancer. I wouldn’t have survived the last months without you.’
The sunset was no longer responsible for the red glow which suffused Dancer’s long, sad face.
‘Now that is Enid Blyton,’ he said sardonically. ‘Ian’s coming to see me tomorrow. That’s why I’m uptight.’ Then, when Ricky raised his eyebrows, ‘Ian’s the bloke I smuggled the coke in for.’
There was no sun the next day. Thick mustard-yellow fog hung round the prison. The visitors’ room, with its potted plants and its bright mural of a farmyard and ‘No Smoking beyond this point’ sign, was a bit like an airport lounge. Children played underfoot. Wives and girlfriends with dyed hair, short skirts, no stockings and very high heels held hands with inmates, but said little. The screws delivered coffee and tea at 20p a cup. Martin, Ricky’s solicitor, in his dark grey suit, clinging to his ox-blood briefcase for extremely dear life, looked out of place.
‘No sugar for me,’ he said, dropping saccharin in his cup. ‘I envy you your waistline,’ he added heartily, privately thinking how thin and drawn Ricky looked, hoping he hadn’t caught something nasty in prison.
Across the room Ricky was aware of Dancer, coiled into a relaxed theatrical pose, hand exaggeratedly cupping his pointed chin to hide the tension as he chatted to a thickset, blond young man with a sulky face. This must be Ian. He was quite unlike the birds of paradise with their rainbow hair and tight leather trousers who usually visited Dancer.
‘The news is not exactly good,’ Martin was saying as he opened his briefcase. ‘I’m afraid Chessie’s filed for divorce. In fact I’ve got the papers and a letter for you here.’
Ricky went very still, but felt his heart was leading some crazed life of its own, trying to fight its way out of his ribs. The letter was written from Bart’s New York flat. The Palm Beach season would be over. Chessie’s small, almost illegible, writing only covered a quarter of the page.
‘Dear Ricky, Please sign these papers and give me a divorce. I think you owe it to me. I need to forget and everything about you reminds me of Will. I’m sorry. Yours, Chessie.’
Yours, Chessie, thought Ricky dully, what a ridiculous way to end a letter when she’s not mine any more. Borrowing Martin’s gold Cartier pen, he signed the papers.
‘I’m afraid the other bad news, which Frances told me to tell you, is that Millicent’s dead. She was run over.’
It seemed a kinder way than to tell Ricky the little whippet had simply stopped eating.
Christ, thought Ricky, another death. Dancer was always saying they went in threes: Matilda, then Will, now Millicent.
‘It was very quick – no one’s fault.’
Ricky put his head in his hands. He’d missed Millicent more than the ponies – the way she’d curled her silken body almost inside him, snaking her head into his hand, shivering with nerves and adoration. She was the thing he’d most looked forward to coming out to.
After that the fog seemed to invade his brain so he took in nothing, particularly that Bas in some ludicrous Robin Hood gesture had let Snow Cottage to someone called Daisy Macleod.
‘Ridiculous when your plan was to redecorate and sell it as soon as the existing tenant died,’ said Martin, thinking of his huge unpaid bill.
‘What’s up?’ said Dancer afterwards.
‘Nothing. How did it go?’
‘I wouldn’t give him any more dosh, so he got nasty, and said he’d got someone else. A plague on both your arses, I said. Fanks to you, Ricky, I don’t feel nuffink for him any more. What did your bloke say? You look as though your ’ouse burnt down.’
Ricky shrugged. ‘He brought divorce papers. I signed them.’
He couldn’t tell even Dancer about Millicent. He was terrified of breaking down.
‘Divorce is nuffink,’ said Dancer furiously. ‘Just a piece of paper. How can you fight when you’re stuck in here. But I promise you, Ricky, when we get out of ’ere we’ll buy the best ponies in the world and outmount
