‘Drop!’ Luke tightened his grip on her and the pitchfork clattered to the ground.
‘That hurt,’ shouted Perdita. ‘Are you on those bastards’ side?’
Just as Angel was about to leap on her, Luke picked her up and carried her yelling into the house. Desperately she kicked backwards like a buck rabbit, trying to get him in the groin.
‘Let me go, put me down,’ and when he wouldn’t, she tried to plunge her teeth into his arms which were clamped round her like steel bands. The next second he had put her under the shower and turned on the cold tap. For once it decided not to have cystitis and gushed out like the Victoria Falls funnelled through a hose pipe.
‘Had enough?’ he said fifteen seconds later.
Gasping, choking, spluttering, she struggled to escape.
‘Are you going to behave yourself?’ He pulled her away from the driving jet of water.
‘No,’ screamed Perdita, aiming a kick at his shins. ‘Now I know how Enid Coley felt.’
‘Well, go back under again.’
Her drenched hair stranded her face, her pale lilac dress clung to her body, her eyelashes divided like a starfish as he pulled her out a second time. As she opened her mouth to shriek, he grabbed a green towel hanging over the shower rail and slapped it over her mouth.
‘Pack it in,’ he said sharply. ‘D’you want to get sent home?’
‘I don’t care,’ mumbled Perdita, trying to bite him through the towel. ‘Bastards, how can you stand there and not mind?’
‘Of course I mind, but we’re here to learn, Miss McEnroe.’
‘Don’t call me that, you great jerk,’ said Perdita, hammering her fists against his chest, which was as hard as the ground outside. ‘They’re going to break that pony’s leg.’
‘Or teach it to rein back,’ said Luke. He drew back the dingy plastic curtains covering the small window overlooking the yard.
‘Angel’s on her back now, and she’s reining back pretty good. Their methods are cruel, but they get results.’
‘I hate this bloody country,’ hissed Perdita.
Luke made an attempt at levity. ‘There are good things about it. Polo boots are three times cheaper than they are in the UK.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Out of the window, she could see a huge pink moon, like the inside of a guava, climbing out of the gum trees.
‘Even the moon’s blushing at the horrible way they treat ponies,’ she snarled. ‘Why’s it that stupid colour anyway?’
‘Catching the last of the sun’s rays,’ said Luke. ‘Sun’s rising in the East now; gone to shine on your Mom.’
Suddenly Perdita had a vision of Daisy, kind, scatty, busty, in her awful clothes, constantly making concessions, whom she hadn’t written to since she’d arrived. Glaring at Luke, she burst into tears.
‘Hush, honey, hush, I hate it too,’ he murmured, enfolding her in his arms and stroking her sopping hair. ‘I know it’s awful. I guess I wanta play polo better so I can beat the shit out of them on the field.’
One moment she was sobbing her heart out, then, lulled by the bearlike warmth of his chest and the comforting shelter of his great arms and shoulders, she had fallen asleep like a child. Gazing down, Luke thought how beautiful she was despite the tear-stains and the swollen eyelids. She hardly stirred as he pulled off her lilac dress and carried her in her bra and pants into her bedroom. Laying her gently on the bed, he removed the dark red blanket from his bed and put it over her.
Perdita woke at two in the morning. Slowly the events of the previous evening re-assembled themselves. Had it been a nightmare? No, her bra and pants were still wet. Luke must have put her to bed.
Oblivious of any guards, she stole downstairs. Outside, huge stars blazed like shaggy white chrysanthemums; the moon had stopped blushing and was now flooding the pampas with ghostly silver light. A warm breeze ruffled the leaves of the gum trees, which cast a thousand ebony shadows on the burnt dusty yard, which was now palest grey instead of brown. She could hear the occasional snort and stamp of a pony, then jumped out of her skin, as something cold and snakelike was thrust into her hand. It was the wet nose of one of Raimundo’s shaggy lurchers, who was frantically waving her long crooked tail.
‘Sweet thing,’ Perdita crouched beside her, stroking her rough fur, as the bitch writhed against her in delight. Both jumped as a great snore rent the air. Umberto, tonight’s guard, was slumped against the bottom of a tree, an empty bottle at his feet.
Now was her chance. Out in the corral, tied so tight to the big stake in the centre that the Argentines call a
‘You poor little duck,’ said Perdita gently.
Nearly breaking her neck, the pony pulled away in panic, the whites of her eyes glinting in the moonlight, coat curled with dried sweat like an Irish Water Spaniel.
At first, when Perdita held out the bucket, she was too frozen with fear to drink. But when her muzzle was dunked in the water almost over her nostrils, the temptation became too much. Sucking in great drafts, she drained one bucket and then half another.
Watching her fondly, Perdita was reminded of Fresco. If only she could jump on her back and not stop galloping until she got to Ricky and Palm Springs. As she laid her hand on the little mare’s neck, she quivered violently, but didn’t move away.
‘I’m going to call you Tero,’ she whispered, ‘because you and I are going to fly away from this hellhole.’
Loosening the rope so the mare’s nose could reach the ground, she left her with a pile of hay.
Next morning the post strike ended, bringing five letters from Daisy, none of which Perdita opened. She was in a black gloom because not even a postcard had arrived from Ricky.
Alejandro, having been out on the bat the night before, returned at breakfast time with the pallor and red eyes of a white rat. He was then thrown into a frenzy by a letter announcing the impending arrival of Lando Medici, the richest of American patrons who always paid for ponies in readies out of a Gladstone bag.
Soon Alejandro was venting his hangover on all the staff, yelling at them to tidy up the place and all the ponies.
‘Where’s Raimundo?’ he shouted at a wincing Umberto.
‘He sick,’ said Umberto.
‘Well, get him up.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ demanded Perdita, who was busy trimming the hairy fetlocks of a gelding that resembled a Clydesdale more than a polo pony.
Just for a second Umberto forgot his own hangover. ‘Senor Gracias give heem the eye black.’
‘He what?’ gasped Perdita.
‘Raimundo was in the bar with his friends last night. Senor Gracias come in and talk to eem very quietly, then he heet him across the room. Everyone cheer. They no like Raimundo – very hard man.’
‘What did Raimundo do?’ asked Perdita in awe.
‘He run away,’ said Umberto with a grin. ‘He leave very quick. Senor Gracias – how you say? – too beeg to tango with. Angel was in the bar too. Upchatting girl from the gas station. Senor Gracias turned towards him and Angel ran away too – all down the road like Carl Lewis. He was very frightened. He not drive car tied to pony again in an ’urry.’
Later Perdita cornered Luke. He looked tired and his eyes were bloodshot from the dust.
‘I thought we were here to learn not to criticize,’ she said sternly. Then that wonderful once-a-year smile split her face in two. ‘You have definitely won the Man of the Macho Award.’
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. Luke blushed beneath his freckles and his heart jumped several beats. It’s only because there’s a dearth of available women out here, he told himself sternly.
Alejandro, fed up with Raimundo’s laziness and his exorbitant whining demands, was put in such a good mood when he saw the black eye that he agreed that Perdita could take over the breaking of little Tero.
‘She no good for polo, too cheeken, but eef you want to waste your time.’
