toupee as well as removing his hat.
‘Ay encouraged Victor to wear his toupee,’ announced Sharon in the stands. ‘Ay think one is as young as one looks.’
There was another dicey moment when a vicar took the microphone and exhorted the crowd to ‘pray for these brave players’, and begged God to look after them all and save the President.
‘Ay-men,’ said Sharon bowing her head.
Hal, being a born-again Christian, insisted on putting his gloved hands together and closing his eyes during the prayer. Horace would have taken off again if Luke hadn’t grabbed his reins.
‘Hal is about to be borne away again,’ said Red, wiping his eyes.
‘Pack it in,’ snarled Luke. ‘And where the hell’s Auriel?’
Auriel, who had promised to ride on to the pitch in a Cheetah convertible and throwin, had not turned up.
‘Oh, she’ll show,’ said Red arrogantly. ‘She likes making an entrance.’
Luke’s reply was drowned by a rock star in a maroon shirt slashed to the waist inviting the crowd to sing along to the Star Spangled Banner.
Among the two teams there was great potential for aggro. The thuggish Shark Nelligan was determined to take Luke out for pinching his patron. Alejandro and Shark, both backs, hated each other anyway, and Shark was particularly irritated today because Alejandro, being the higher-rated player, had retained the Number Four spot, forcing Shark to play at Number Three. Shark also hated Bobby Ferraro because he was younger and better looking. Jesus, the Chilean, hated Alejandro because they’d tangled over a Cuban beauty last year, and Jesus had a long- standing grudge against Victor because Victor had sacked him after finding him on the floor of a trailer with Sharon. All of them except Luke mistrusted Red because he was conceited and unpredictable.
After ten minutes, when Auriel still hadn’t shown up and the pop groups had played ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ twice more, her place was taken by Hal’s wife, Myrtle, who was even fatter and jollier than Hal, and who whooped and thrust up her arms to the crowd as the purple Cheetah convertible cruised to mid-field.
Chessie, who was sitting in the stands with Perdita, looked at Mrs Peters in horror. ‘Is Hal advertising spare tyres as well as cars?’ she said. ‘If he gets seriously caught up in polo, he’ll certainly dump Mrs Peters in a year or two for a Mark-II model with bum-length hair and a
‘Luke says they adore each other,’ said Perdita, ‘and pray by the bed every night.’
‘Mrs Peters ought to pray for a fifty-pound weight-loss,’ said Chessie. She was looking particularly beautiful in beige bermudas, a white cricket shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a straw hat trimmed with pale pink roses.
Perdita, who’d had her hair cut and thinned and was wearing a kingfisher-blue suit which had given absolutely no change from one of Bart’s $1,000 bills, was also feeling pretty good. Chessie had taken her to Worth Avenue on Friday and increased Perdita’s conviction that if she couldn’t have Ricky she’d only settle for a seriously rich man.
Huge thunderclouds were now gathering on the horizon. With all the delays, Mrs Peters didn’t throwin until a quarter to four which wasn’t much fun for the ponies who’d been eaten alive by flies for two hours. As the players waded in as though they were killing rattlesnakes a huge illuminated scoreboard, like a Blackpool illumination, flashed up the name of the player hitting the ball and, later, whether he’d hit a safety or a penalty or scored, and how many seconds were left in the chukka.
‘Ay hear Angel, that charmin’ Argentine boy, is playing for Bart this season,’ Sharon said to Perdita. ‘Victor was most impressed by him. Do give him our number. That player is
‘My stepson,’ said Chessie drily.
‘He’s very appealing,’ said Sharon.
‘He never stops appealing,’ snapped Chessie. ‘He’s the bane of every umpire in Palm Beach.’
Sharon was bubbling with happiness and hardly able to keep secret the fact that Victor had poured so much money into the Tory party that he was to be knighted in the New Year’s Honour’s List.
‘Lady Sharon, Lady Kaputnik,’ she kept murmuring to herself. What a shame Victor hadn’t changed his name to something like Cavendish Whapshott.
‘Oh, there’s Hoo-arn arraiving,’ she squeaked in excitement. ‘Hello, Hoo-arn.’
‘Not a panti-girdle untwanged,’ said Chessie as Juan in a black bomber jacket, teeth flashing, progressed along the crones to sit beside Sharon.
‘Mrs Juan’s obviously been left in Argentina,’ murmured Chessie.
The commentator, meanwhile, was filling every second with chatter.
‘The leather contraption these brave ponies wear on their heads, ladies and gentlemen,’ he was telling the crowd, ‘is called a bridle.’
Perdita giggled. But she soon forgot the commentary and the crowd, unable to believe the ferocity and the gladiatorial splendour of the game, nor the crookedness of the umpiring as egos and mallets clashed below her.
‘Why doesn’t the Argentine umpire ever blow a foul on Alejandro,’ she asked Bart, who had just joined them, after yet another piece of deliberate obstruction.
‘Because he’s playing with him in the Rolex Challenge Cup,’ said Bart. ‘You’ll also notice a tremendous dimension of intimidation not picked up. In Palm Beach you don’t make fouls anyone sees.’
Bart was furious that Peters’ Cheetahs, despite the collective weight of Jesus, Luke and Red, were losing badly against his detested rival Victor Kaputnik. The large crowd, always interested in a new patron, watched Hal Peters charging round like a baby elephant crossing every player in sight, so the umpire kept awarding penalties to the other side, which Alejandro effortlessly converted. Jesus was playing beautifully when Alejandro allowed him to, but Red was simply not trying, all his energy going into arguing with the umpire. Luke had to cover up for him again and again. Luke’s Novocaine was also wearing off. His head was muzzy and he really had to concentrate to see the ball.
Red, in fact, was sulking. He had boasted that the notoriously unpunctual Auriel would, for once, be on time because she was so crazy about him. Now she had made a fool of him by not turning up. Perhaps she’d got wind of the fight.
At the end of the chukka the sun came out. Cautiously coats were being shed and crepey elbows and arms, hanging in festoons, emerged from wildly expensive little-girl jerseys.
‘They’ve even got designer liver spots in Palm Beach,’ said Chessie.
Why does she bitch about everything, wondered Perdita.
On the field, matters were getting serious. The orange and black shirted Tigers were leading the Lenten- purple Cheetahs 8-0 when Luke came out in the third chukka on Fantasma who, throwing off any jet lag, showed staggering bursts of speed, enabling Luke to scorch down the length of the pitch and score two goals. Her action was so smooth and graceful that she jarred his damaged shoulder far less than his other ponies. Her coat was as dazzling white in the sunshine as the thunderclouds. As usual her beauty caught everyone’s eye.
‘That’s a good pony,’ said Bart. ‘Runs to a stop. So many horses stop on their back legs and take so much more effort to get started.’
Victor, however, was absolutely outraged.
‘That was the mare I bought in Argentina,’ he bellowed at Alejandro. ‘You told me it had broken its leg. I paid for that mare.’
‘Eees different mare,’ protested Alejandro innocently. ‘Would I cheat you, Veector?’
‘Yes,’ said Victor.
Hal wasn’t very pleased either. It was his first Palm Beach match and all his clients had flown down to watch him.
‘I thought you said your brother was a six. He’s playing like minus six. And where’s his famous woman-friend you promised?’ he grumbled at Luke.
A minute later Luke picked up the ball – God, his shoulder was agony now – and, giving Fantasma her lovely head, he took it upfield again. Carefully he placed it five yards in front of goal on the end of Hal Peters’ stick.
‘Now’s the chance for Hal to be a hero for his team,’ said the commentator.
Hal took an almighty swipe and missed.
Half-time – and the crones took out their compacts and fluffed powder on their faces. People poured on to the
