pitch to tread in and play some sponsored game in which they wriggled along a rolling poll and tried to hit a ball between two posts. A helicopter dropped $100 and $10 bills on to the pitch and people scurried hysterically after them. Heart-shaped gas balloons floated into the air, trailing red ribbons.
Down in the pony lines Victor, in between threatening to sue Alejandro and Luke for diddling him over Fantasma, was on his car telephone to Hong Kong trying to close a deal.
Half-time – ten minutes in England and normally fifteen in America – stretched out to forty-five minutes. The game was losing all momentum. They were just throwing-in when another helicopter landed on the pitch bringing Bob Geldof. Cheering hysterically, the crowd rose to their feet.
Gaunt, white-faced, unshaven, totally unsmiling and all in black, he was driven round the edge of the field in an open Peters Cheetah, looking as though he’d been to hell and caught it on an off-day.
‘That’s an attractive man,’ said Chessie. ‘Takes suffering head on.’
‘He reminds me of Ricky,’ said Perdita, unthinking.
Chessie glanced at her. For a second her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes, he does,’ she said.
Bob Geldof then picked up the microphone, thanked the crowd for raising the incredible sum of $250,000 and said he was sorry he couldn’t stop but he had other engagements in New York and LA.
As he left the wind got up and the rain came down and all the crones dived for cover under the roof at the top of the stand. Hanging baskets rocked hazardously in the wind, men watched golf on tiny portable televisions. Perdita looked over a sea of coloured umbrellas as the players came back on to the field. Peters’ Cheetahs were still 2-8 down and Luke was the colour of the pitch.
The fourth chukka was characterized by Jesus having a shouting match with Shark Nelligan.
‘You should have checked,’ he screamed at Shark. ‘You don’t ’ave to ’eet me so hard.’
‘You came in front of me, you greaseball,’ bellowed Shark. ‘You always do.’
‘For Chrissake shut up, fucking eedioto,’ screamed Jesus.
‘If you take the name of Our Lord in vain once more, young man, you will not play for me again,’ Hal sternly chided Jesus, who thundered off in a frenzy of Latin shrugs.
Alejandro smote the resulting free hit yards down the pitch bang in front of Victor and the goal.
‘Leave the fucking thing, Victor, you’ll only miss it,’ yelled Shark, thundering down the pitch.
‘Now Victor Kaputnik has the chance to be a hero for his team,’ said the commentator.
Victor took a great swipe and missed. Luke rode him off and backed the ball up the field to Jesus, who dummied round Alejandro and passed to Red, who hit the ball once, then took an idle shot at goal and missed. Luke rode up to him.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he hissed, ‘those heavies have totally buggered my shoulder. Get your finger out. All you’re doing is riding up and down breaking up the divots.’
‘I can’t pull rabbits out of the hat every time,’ said Red sulkily. ‘It’s only a fucking charity match.’
‘I’ll murder that boy,’ said Bart furiously. ‘I’m going to chew him out.’
He had just reached the pony lines at the beginning of the fifth chukka when a figure entered the stands smothered in a mink-lined Barbour, a fur hat, dark glasses and several silk scarves. She was so surrounded by minders that a rumour went round that it was Princess Diana or the President’s wife.
‘I want absolutely no publicity,’ she was saying in a loud, deep, throaty voice to the bowing and scraping club secretary. ‘I’ve just come to watch a friend play polo.’
‘Miss Kingham is here on a private visit,’ said her publicity manager to the press.
A chukka’s anonymity, however, was more than enough for Auriel. As Red rode back to the pony lines after failing to score once again, Auriel called out to him. Instantly a smile illuminated his scowling face and he cantered towards her. Immediately she whipped off her fur hat, her dark glasses, her silk scarves and her Barbour; everyone recognized her and screamed with delight, and the press swarmed on to the field, lighting up the gloom with a firework display of flash bulbs. Auriel then insisted on going down to the pony lines and massaging Red’s shoulders and running her hands through his damp hair.
‘This is a fucking circus,’ said Luke, on whose shoulder the latest shot of Novocaine had totally failed to work.
Hal Peters, in the meantime, was kneeling down in the pony lines: ‘Dear Lord Jesus, if you think it’s right make Hal Peters and his team win this match . . . ’ and was nearly run over by Shark Nelligan returning on his fastest pony for the last chukka.
‘Now will you start playing properly?’ begged Luke as he and Red rode back on to the pitch.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll win this match for you,’ said Red.
‘What a beautiful woman,’ said Hal Peters, gazing so hard at Auriel that he bumped into the umpire.
Red, who always got a charge from holding back and lulling the opposition into a feeling of false security, now proceeded to storm through with a volley of goals all in front of the press and the television cameras.
‘Red, Red, Red,’ was suddenly the only word on the commentator’s lips. Despite disapproving strongly of Red, Perdita couldn’t help melting. As he hit the ball on the ground, in the air, to the left, to the right, underneath, over, behind and in front of his matching sorrel pony, she realized that he was so supremely gifted he could win a match off his own stick.
‘If he played like that all the time,’ said Bart in an I-told-you-so voice to Chessie, ‘he’d go straight to ten.’
Red also had Ricky’s ability to get the last ounce out of his pony. As he felt her tiring, he picked up his whip. Hal Peters was in ecstasy.
‘The Lord has answered my prayer,’ he told Luke.
The Tigers were only one goal ahead now, with two minutes to go. Victor, at this point, decided to fall off and lie on the ground. Sharon, busy making an assignation with Juan, looked without interest at the pitch. Then the horrid possibility dawned on her that if Victor passed away she’d never be Lady Kaputnik.
‘Oh, Victor, oh, may husband,’ she screeched.
‘He’s done it on purpose,’ muttered Chessie to Perdita. ‘Then they’ll put in a ringer instead to win the match.’
‘Water, water,’ moaned Victor.
On ran an official with a silver tray, a jug and a glass. Picking up the jug, Shark emptied it over Victor, dislodging his ginger toupee.
‘Get up, Victor,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’re not hurt.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ squealed Victor. ‘You haven’t had your cheque yet.’
From the ground he could also see the freckling of rust spots on Fantasma’s belly.
‘It
Spitting with fury, he laboriously climbed on to his pony. The umpire chucked in the ball.
‘Come on, you guys,’ said Luke faintly. All he could see was a swirling mist in front of his eyes; it was like riding through a snow storm. Next moment Victor had crossed Red and the Argentine umpire, suddenly taking against Alejandro, awarded a rightful penalty three to the Cheetahs.
‘Now is Luke Alderton’s chance to be a hero for his team and level the score for another chukka,’ said the commentator.
‘I can’t take it, my shoulder’s fucked,’ gasped Luke. ‘You take it, Jesus.’
Down came Jesus in a slow theatrical canter. Alejandro, cantering across goal, blocked the shot for the Tigers. Jesus pounded down to score, but the next moment Alejandro, with a ten-goal swing, had hit the ball again, lofting it halfway upfield into the stands, only just missing Sharon, as the whistle went.
As the players surged together to shake hands, Fantasma, showing a responsibility belying her four years, swung round and gently bore Luke back to the pony lines as though she were carrying a tray of Waterford glass.
‘Luke’s hurt,’ cried Perdita, fighting her way through the crowds. She found Luke slumped on an upturned bucket, with Fantasma and Leroy ferociously but misguidedly protecting him from two of Bart’s paramedics.
Mrs Peters sportingly stood down so that Auriel could present the prizes. The crowd surged forward to get a closer look. Auriel had reached an age when people wanted to see how many times her face had been lifted, if it was all make-up, or whether the cracks were showing. In fact she was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She wore a smoke-blue chiffon dress to match her smoke-blue eyes, and her wafting dark hair certainly wasn’t a wig and she had a good enough pink-and-white skin not to need much make-up. With her full bosom and hips emphasizing her
