Campbell-Black. Bas heaved a sigh of relief. Posy blushed and pulled down her jersey. The last time she’d seen Rupert she’d been wearing no clothes at all. Miss Lodsworth inflated like a bullfrog. The press woke up and started scribbling.
Leaving the girls by the fire in the bar, the three men came straight into the meeting.
‘This is an honour, Minister,’ lied Brigadier Hughie. Rupert always spelt trouble. ‘I thought you were in Florida.’
‘We were eight hours ago,’ said Rupert.
‘He hasn’t been near an AGM in twenty years,’ hissed Fatty Harris.
‘I didn’t know Rupert played polo,’ whispered Perdita.
‘Only as a hobby between show-jumping,’ said Seb, ‘but he’s bloody good. Christ knows how far he’d have got if he’d taken it up seriously.’
‘Come and have a drink, Rupert,’ said the Brigadier, getting to his feet. ‘We’ve just finished.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ said Bas amiably. ‘Item eleven – any other business.’
‘They want to lay the room for a luncheon party,’ said Brigadier Hughie fussily. ‘No time for that now.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ said Rupert.
As he reached the top of the aisle the dull winter light fell on his blond hair and the crows’ feet round his hard, dissipated, blue eyes. He’s divine, thought Perdita wistfully. No one could resist him.
‘As a member of this club for many years,’ drawled Rupert, ‘I want to oppose the blackballing of Ricky France-Lynch and Dancer Maitland.’
‘Not a matter for an AGM,’ snapped David Waterlane, putting down the
‘Oh dear!’ Brigadier Hughie mopped his forehead with a red spotted handkerchief, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
The press scribbled more feverishly. Miss Lodsworth, dammed up in mid-flow, turned puce.
‘Hardly the time,’ said Fatty Harris.
‘When better?’ Rupert was speaking very distinctly as though he was dictating to some idiot typist. ‘I think the press might be interested to know that Ricky France-Lynch, the best player Rutshire has ever had, having survived a horrific car crash and six even more horrific operations, is anxious to return and bring back some glory to this clapped-out club.’
‘This is disgraceful. How dare you?’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.
‘Dancer Maitland may have been a junkie once,’ went on Rupert, ‘but has since raised millions for charity this winter, offering his services free to Band Aid. If you want crowds at Rutshire, Ricky and Dancer will pack them in.
‘Bart Alderton,’ Rupert was speaking even slower now, so even the reporters doing longhand got everything down, ‘not only stole Ricky’s wife, but now wants to rob him of the chance to return to the club he loves and for which his family has played for generations. Bart has therefore poured fortunes into the club and certain club secretaries’ pockets’ – Rupert smiled coldly at Fatty Harris – ‘on condition that Ricky and Dancer are kept out. Pretty shabby behaviour.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Victor. ‘Bart’s walked off with Ricky’s wife. He’s the one who ought to be blackballed.’
‘Hey, steady on,’ said David Waterlane. ‘That’s going a bit far. If we stuck to that rule we wouldn’t have any members left.’
Rupert turned to the players. ‘D’you lot want to play for a club as bent as it is lacking in compassion?’
‘I resent that, sir,’ said Fatty Harris.
‘No,’ shouted Dommie from the back of the hall. ‘If you don’t reinstate Ricky – and allow Dancer in – I’m off down the road to Cirencester.’
‘So am I,’ said Seb, draining his whisky and raising Perdita’s hand, ‘and so’s she.’
‘And so am I,’ said Bas.
‘And I,’ said Drew, ignoring Sukey’s look of disapproval.
‘And me,’ brayed Mike Waterlane, ignoring his father’s even blacker look of disapproval.
‘And I,’ said Jesus, who’d been nudged in the ribs by Dommie.
‘And I,’ said Victor.
‘Don’t be silly, Victor,’ said Sharon, seeing her ball for 350 fast rolling away.
‘Anyone else?’ said Rupert.
Every player and most of the non-playing members, except Miss Lodsworth and her satellite crones, got to their feet.
‘This is most irregular,’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.
‘But conclusive,’ said Rupert briskly.
‘I agree,’ said David Waterlane, turning to Fatty Harris, whose pockets were suddenly feeling very unlined. ‘You’ll have to accept a majority vote, Stanley. I declare the meeting closed, and now you can buy me a glass of beer, Rupert, and tell me what really happened with you and Declan O’Hara.’
‘I would,’ said Rupert, as the press swarmed round and the waitresses surged in to clear the room, ‘but we’ve got to go straight back to Florida. Dommie and Jesus are playing in the finals.’
Dommie, Jesus and the girls could now be seen running across the white lawn to the helicopter, as the blades blew the rest of the snow off the trees.
‘D’you mean you flew all the way from Florida just to vote, Minister?’ asked the
‘Ricky’s a very old friend,’ said Rupert.
39
Bart Alderton was so incensed at the result of the AGM that he promptly put Rutchester Abbey back on the market and cancelled his trip to England, preferring to spend the summer playing polo on the American circuit. This meant that, although Ricky was reinstated at Rutshire Polo Club, he was deprived of Chessie’s return.
‘Why d’you all have to interfere in my life?’ he shouted at Rupert.
‘Of all the ungrateful sods,’ complained Rupert furiously to Bas.
All this was extremely bad news for Angel who, banned as an Argentine from playing in England, had hoped for a restful summer, retained by Bart, but spared his company.
After a brilliant season in which he had contributed in no small way to the Alderton Flyers sweeping the board, Angel was tipped to go to four or even five in the November handicap listings. But this was no compensation for living in a horrible little bedsitter with no curtains nor air-conditioning and only a trickle of cold water which stopped altogether when the meter ran out; nor for being bullied by Miguel, who, operating his own mafia, bitterly resented Angel constantly seeking Alejandro’s advice, nor being bitched at by Juan, who equally resented Angel being as good-looking as he was and much better bred.
Angel detested Bart and dreamed of cuckolding him with the exquisite and discontented Chessie. His worst cross, however, was Bibi, who had taken on the job as Bart’s polo manager with all the fervour of a neophyte. Finding Angel surly and temperamental, she was constantly pulling him up for never getting up in the morning and letting down the Flyers by slopping round in sleeveless T-shirts, designer stubble, and too long hair flapping under his polo helmet.
In return, Angel had not revised his opinion at Christmas that Bibi was a spoilt, uptight, ugly bitch. He was fed up with her recording his botched shots in her little red book, and noisily remonstrating with him between chukkas. Argentine women were beautiful, submissive, admiring and not like this.
Angel had been often tempted to walk out, but swallowed his pride and clung on because he was desperate for a green card which would establish him as a registered alien and enable him to work anywhere in America. Half the foreign grooms and low-goal Argentine players were, like him, in the States illegally and, although they didn’t pay tax, they could be arrested, fined and immediately sent home if they were rumbled – which made Angel feel
