Polo

upwards.

‘Oh, how sweet,’ murmured Perdita.

‘That’s a dream horse when she’s not savaging patrons and biting other ponies in the line out,’ said Seb. ‘Luke ought to rename her Fang-tasma.’

‘How’s Luke’s spoilt brat of a brother?’ asked Perdita ultracasually.

‘Spoilt,’ said Seb. ‘Fancy Red, do you?’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ snarled Perdita, going absolutely crimson.

‘Be the only one who doesn’t,’ said Seb grinning. ‘Victor’s frightfully excited,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘because his company’s just discovered a cure for piles.’

‘I know a cure for piles of money – it’s called polo,’ said Perdita.

‘Can we get started?’ said Brigadier Hughie sternly.

Apologies for absence were received and minutes of the previous meeting passed before they moved on to last year’s accounts, which had been disastrous owing to the weather. Attendance and bar takings were right down.

‘Not surprising,’ interrupted Seb, taking a slug of whisky, ‘when it takes the barmaid five minutes to chop the cucumber for each Pimm’s.’

‘Matters are not helped,’ Brigadier Hughie glared at Seb, ‘by far too many players not settling their bar bills.’

They were lucky, he went on, that Basil Baddingham, who ran a most successful wine bar in Cotchester High Street, had joined the committee and agreed to act in an advisory capacity.

‘To keep an eye on Fatty,’ muttered Seb.

Fatty Harris, feeling curiously naked without a panama or a flat cap from under which to crinkle his bloodshot eyes, was livid that Bas had been brought in, and even more so because the bounder was fingering Posy Jones, which Fatty felt was strictly his prerogative.

‘Another more serious problem,’ went on the Brigadier sternly, ‘is that far too many players have been using Commander Harris’s mobile telephone without paying. There were calls recorded to Paris, Florida, Chile, Tokyo, Palm Beach and Sydney. The bill for the two summer quarters came to well over ?2,000. In future a lock will be put on the telephone.’

‘There have also been complaints,’ the Brigadier peered over his bifocals, ‘from several local restaurants that certain players, after winning matches, haven’t behaved as well as they might. There was the case of the Star of India in Rutminster High Street.’

‘That was my brother, Dommie,’ said Seb tipping his ash on Sharon’s mink which was now hanging over the back of her chair, ‘and he had extreme provocation. He mistook the kitchen door for the Gents and found the Chef piling Pedigree Chum into the Chicken Vindaloo pan, so he landed him one.’

The room rocked with laughter.

‘That’s quite enough, Seb,’ snapped David Waterlane, who’d just arrived with snowflakes melting in his hair. ‘We don’t want post mortems, we want better behaviour.’

‘Curried unanimously,’ murmured Perdita.

‘Where is Drew?’ said Sukey, glancing at her watch. ‘The roads are awfully icy. I hope he hasn’t had a shunt.’

The meeting droned on. The news wasn’t all bad, announced Brigadier Hughie. They had Bart Alderton to thank for the magnificent new pavilion, new stands and excellent new changing rooms. Then, seeing Victor turn puce at such preferential treatment of his hated rival: ‘And of course we must thank Victor Kaputnik . . .’

‘Sir Victor, if you please,’ reproved Sharon.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir Victor, for providing us with a splendid first-aid hut and a year’s supply of his excellent medical products and for a new marquee for sponsors’ lunches. We must also thank him for boarding our third and fourth pitches, and for giving us a new commentary box to replace the one that blew away and is probably someone’s garden shed now.’

Moving on to the Social Calendar, Brigadier Hughie praised Miss Lodsworth for her excellent floral arrangements in the tea room and announced dates for several barbecues and cocktail parties. The highlight of the season, however, would be in June, when Lady Kaputnik had very kindly offered her home for a ball, but felt 350 was the limit she could accommodate at one time.

‘Three fifty would be stretching it even for Sharon,’ said Seb, grinning broadly as he returned with his second glass of whisky.

The meeting switched to the perils of ringworm. Brigadier Hughie remembered ringworm in Singapore. Perdita fought sleep and looked out of the window. The blizzard had come from the west, so the trees in the hotel garden resembled a Head and Shoulders ad with their east sides black and bare and the west sides powdered with snow. Pigeons drifted disconsolately round a blanked-out bird table. Yellow-and-purple crocus tips rose like flood victims out of an ocean of white snow. It was hard to believe she’d be playing chukkas again in a month.

If Seb and I and Perdita can get here, thought Bas, as his fingers moved upwards to caress the softness of Posy Jones’ thighs, why can’t the others.

He had a lunch date, but he wondered if it was worth booking Posy into a room upstairs for a quickie. He liked the way her bosom rose and fell as she wrote the shorthand outline for wrongworm rather than ringworm.

‘Which brings us to the matter of dogs,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘I cannot reiterate too strongly that they should be kept on leads during matches.’

‘Here, here,’ Miss Lodsworth rose to her feet, ‘I for one . . .’

David Waterlane pointedly unfolded the Sunday Express. ‘What’s all this about Rupert Campbell-Black and Declan O’Hara getting drunk together, and your brother firing Declan from Corinium Television?’ he asked Bas in a very audible whisper.

Sharon Kaputnik discreetly unfolded the News of the World to read the same story.

It was nearly midday. Brigadier Hughie was rabbiting on about the necessity for a decent walkie-talkie system.

‘Drew Benedict must have plenty of experience of walkie-talkies, having recently left the Army. Where are you, Drew?’

‘Not here,’ said Fatty Harris thankfully. He feared Drew’s exacting standards far more than Bas’s.

‘Yes, I am. Sorry I’m late, Hughie,’ said Drew, walking in. ‘There was a pile-up on the Cotchester bypass. My experience of walkie-talkies was they never worked.’ Coming back to earth, warm from Daisy’s arms, he sat down beside Sukey and took off his jacket.

‘It wasn’t ponies he was trying out,’ whispered Seb, nudging Perdita. ‘He’s got his jersey on inside out.’

Catching Drew’s eye behind Sukey’s back, Seb pointed frantically to his own sweater and then at Drew’s. Drew looked down and hastily put his jacket on again.

‘I warmly recommend Drew Benedict for the committee,’ said Brigadier Hughie smiling at Drew. ‘I can’t think of anyone who shoulders responsibility more willingly and I know his wife, Sukey, will be a tower of strength.’

‘Has Drew got someone else?’ whispered Perdita, utterly riveted.

‘So Rupert says,’ whispered back Seb, ‘but Drew won’t say who she is.’ ‘Hush,’ thundered Miss Lodsworth down the row.

‘Any other business?’ said Brigadier Hughie, looking at his watch and gathering up his papers.

‘I have,’ said Miss Lodsworth, rising to her feet again. ‘First, I would like to deplore the repeated use of bad language on the field.’

‘Hear, hear,’ chorused the old trout quintet who flanked her.

Fatty Harris heaved a sigh of relief. Miss Lodsworth would bang on until twelve, when they had to vacate the room anyway, so no one would have time to bring up the matter of Ricky and Dancer. Bart had already lined Fatty’s pockets liberally, but there was much more to come if the blackballing survived the AGM. Perdita looked despairingly at Bas, who grinned and squared his shoulders to interrupt Miss Lodsworth’s invective. But as the Cathedral clock struck twelve, distraction from bad language and ponies thundering five abreast was provided by a government helicopter landing on the lawn outside, blowing snow off the trees and sending it up in swirling, white fountains, as if the blizzard had started again. Then, out of the door, spilled Dommie Carlisle and Jesus, followed by a brunette and a blonde, who ran shrieking across the lawn in their high heels, and finally the Minister for Sport, Rupert