not travelling First.’
‘She is, she is,’ said a voice.
Perdita gave a start. For there, lean as a spear in black jeans and a shirt the pale scarlet of a runner bean flower, stood Red. He was as high as a kite, his tiger eyes glittering, and absolutely reeking of Auriel’s new scent.
‘Perdita, baby, I had to come and say goodbye. Hi, Luke.’
‘Do introduce me, Perdita,’ shrieked Trace Coley whose eyes were popping like a squeezed peke. ‘You’re Red Alderton, and you’re having a walk-out with Auriel Kingham, and you’re an absolutely brilliant polo player.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with any of that,’ said Red.
He turned reproachfully to Luke. ‘How can you let this poor baby travel Economy?’
Then he smiled wickedly at Perdita. ‘I never gave you a Christmas present, so I’ve upgraded you instead. Paul and Joanne are in the VIP lounge and are dying to meet you. Let’s go and say hello.’
Luke looked at his brother, his face expressionless. ‘You are an absolute shit, Red.’
Whatever his feelings about Chessie, Ricky returned brown and incredibly chipper from Palm Springs. He was delighted that Perdita had improved so dramatically and that she had brought home two such good ponies.
Tero, having driven Victor’s grooms crackers on the journey calling piteously for Fantasma, had now chummed up with Spotty and the two were inseparable. Spotty, wearing three extra rugs and an expression of outrage on his red-and-white face at the arctic conditions that greeted him, was soon bickering with Wayne over who should be boss of the yard.
The first time he and Tero were turned out, Kinta, who was a thug and a bully, went for the timid little mare, shoving her into the water trough and laying into her with teeth and feet. Immediately, Spotty bustled round the corner to Tero’s rescue, and Kinta, who’d never come across a skewbald in polo or in her previous racing career, spooked and ran away in horror. After that, Ricky moved Spotty and Tero to another paddock, where, slavish with gratitude, Tero followed Spotty everywhere, but still had to be given a nose bag every day to stop Spotty and all the other ponies pinching her food.
The Argentine ponies Ricky had smuggled in, through France in the end, arrived looking very poor and miserable, but soon picked up as the winter turned mild.
The best tonic of all was that Ricky’s elbow had recovered. Having played every day in the warmth of Palm Springs, he was back to his old dazzling form. This summer he would play high goal with Bas, Mike Waterlane and Dancer, and medium goal with Bas, Dancer and Perdita. At the beginning of March they started getting the ponies ready for the new season, walking them out, then trotting them, then riding them up and down the steep Rutshire hills to harden up their muscles. Ricky also applied for membership for Dancer and himself at the Rutshire Polo Club, and was stunned to receive a letter from Brigadier Hughie saying they would be unwelcome. Going straight to the top, Ricky rang David Waterlane, the Club President, who, after some huffing and puffing, admitted that Bart Alderton was behind the blackballing.
‘Chap’s poured a lot of money into the club’s diminishing funds over the past three years. Got Hughie eating out of the palm of his hand. Bart says Rutshire’s reputation shouldn’t be tarnished by allowing in two players with police records, one an ex-junkie, and,’ David Waterlane added heavily, ‘a queer.’
‘Polo’s accommodated plenty of those in the past,’ said Ricky, ‘and bad hats too. Can’t be the real reason.’
‘Bart’s bought Rutminster Abbey,’ admitted David. ‘Due to move in with Chessie in April. Doesn’t want you bumping into Chessie week in week out at the club. See his point. Wouldn’t like to spend every weekend avoiding Clemency. Put me off my game.’
What did Fatty Harris think about all this? demanded Ricky.
‘Oh, his palm’s been so liberally greased by Bart, he’ll be able to bath in Margaux for the rest of his life. He’s quite happy to send you and Dancer to perdition. And Miss Lodsworth’s on his side. She’s never really forgiven you for your disgusting language, or Dancer for his burst water-main. ‘Fraid there’s not much I can do about it.’
Ricky was absolutely furious. Cirencester was a much better club than Rutshire, but it was twenty-five miles away instead of four, which was too far to hack to, and anyway his family had always played at Rutshire.
Bas Baddingham, who’d been skiing when the blackballing took place, came roaring to Ricky’s rescue. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll marshal support at the next AGM and get you reinstated.’
The AGM was held on the third Sunday in March at the Dog and Trumpet in Rutminster High Street. Excitement that spring had arrived and a new polo season was on the way was slightly doused by an overnight blizzard. Perdita, who’d just passed her driving test, pinched Daisy’s car to drive into Rutminster. The roads were very icy, and she enjoyed skidding all over them. She couldn’t understand why her mother was so protective about a clapped-out Volkswagen and had even burst into tears when Perdita backed it into a wall the other day.
And if she can afford a car, thought Perdita, pulling up with a jerk beside Brigadier Hughie’s Rover, she can jolly well buy me a new pair of boots.
The meeting was already packed. Brigadier Hughie waved Perdita to a lone empty seat in the second row on the left by the window. In front of her sat Sharon Kaputnik smothered in mink and Victor smothered in smugness over his recent knighthood. On the right sat a solid phalanx of players in tweed coats and check shirts, their heavily muscled arms and shoulders overflowing on either side of the back of their narrow gold chairs and making the rows look even fuller. The more highly handicapped players had suntans from playing abroad. The left side seemed to be largely inhabited by non-playing members, including Miss Lodsworth and her cronies, their capaciously drooping cashmere bosoms resting on their tweed-skirted bellies, their feet sensibly clad in brogues and coloured wool stockings. Miss Lodsworth, who was wearing burgundy-red tights to match her face, was making lists.
‘Bad language, five ponies abreast in Eldercombe High Street, loose grooms’ dogs in Rutminster Park, cruelty, excessive use of whip,’ wrote Miss Lodsworth in her masculine hand and glared at Perdita, who, having been guilty of at least three of these sins, glared back.
At a table facing the room sat Brigadier Hughie, Fatty Harris and Basil Baddingham. On the end sat Posy Jones, the pretty club secretary, who was already getting too hot in her Prussian-blue jersey.
He looks like a nineteenth-century French cavalry officer, thought Posy, gazing surreptitiously at Bas. There was something exotic and un-English about the highly polished gold buttons on his blazer, the beautifully manicured hands, and the uniformly dark gold suntan. His glossy, patent-leather hair was exactly the same Vandyke brown as his moustache and his wickedly roving eyes. He’s really attractive, decided Posy, then flushed as Bas shot her a look of unashamed lust. The reason the minutes were not recorded as accurately that year was because Bas’s long fingers kept idly caressing the back of Posy’s navy-blue stockinged legs, as he gazed equally idly at Perdita. Perdita was seriously worried. The purpose of the meeting for her was to get Ricky reinstated and Bas seemed to be the only one of Ricky’s supporters to have turned up. The twins and Jesus were playing in the Cartier Open and Handicap in Palm Beach. Mike Waterlane was too terrified of his father to be any use, and Drew hadn’t arrived yet.
‘I can’t think what’s happened to Drew,’ said Sukey, who was planning the menu for a dinner party on Tuesday. ‘He went to look at a pony outside Cotchester and was meeting me here.’
As Rutminster Cathedral struck the half-hour Brigadier Hughie rose to his feet.
‘Better get started. Our President, Sir David Waterlane, has been delayed by a puncture and is about to come through the door. I expect that’s him now, so I’ll shut up.’
Instead, in wandered Seb Carlisle, blond hair ruffled, tie over one collar, yawning widely and holding a treble whisky in one hand. A ripple of laughter went round the room.
‘We thought you were in Palm Beach,’ said Brigadier Hughie disapprovingly.
‘Cartilage playing up,’ murmured Seb. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Then, noticing Perdita on the end of the row, he made a furiously chuntering Miss Lodsworth and her cronies budge up so he could slide along and sit next to her.
‘How the hell did you get that whisky?’ whispered Perdita.
‘Booked a room on Victor and ordered room service,’ whispered Sebbie, giving her a smacking kiss. ‘We can try out the bed if this meeting gets too boring.’
Perdita shook her head. ‘We’ve got to get Ricky reinstated.’
‘That’s why I came back,’ said Seb. ‘I’ve brought you this.’
It was a feature from the American magazine
