Shaggy palm trees quivered with stillness above the mushroom-brown houses that flanked the outfield. As sweating ponies lined up and the umpire chucked the ball into a shifting forest of legs, Lysander could be heard saying, ‘I wonder if Elmer’s paramedics have got any Fernet-Branca.’
By half-time, Safus was trailing 2–8 and Lysander was dying of shame. Not having played since last summer, he was scuppered by hangover and the cauldron heat of Palm Beach after a freezing English winter. Unused to such fast well-bred ponies or such hard dry ground, he had had a terrible three chukkas. Mr Beefy’s three Argentine hired assassins hadn’t allowed him near the ball. Nor were matters helped by Elmer barging around like some geriatric in an ancient Mini, who keeps pulling in front of faster drivers on the motorway. Of the eight goals scored by Mr Beefy, six had been penalties awarded against Elmer. Elmer was also aware that a photographer, hired by the Safus PR Department, was videoing the entire game to show at the sales conference next month and he hadn’t touched the ball once.
‘I pay for this fucking team,’ he was now yelling at Seb and Dommie in the pony lines, ‘and I’m going to fucking well hit the fucking ball as much as I fucking well like, and as for him,’ he stabbed a stubby finger at a cringing Lysander, ‘hired assassin indeed. Hired asshole more likely, that son of a bitch couldn’t assassinate a fly.’
Matching Elmer’s mood, the black clouds now hovered above the pony lines like a vast impenetrable yew hedge. Lysander’s eyes and throat were lined with dust. He’d towelled off a bucket of sweat as he came off the field, and now he was wringing wet again.
Comfort, however, was at hand from a honey-blond groom called Astrid.
‘Don’t listen to Elmer,’ she told Lysander, ‘and don’t be fooled by this mare. She doesn’t have brakes, but she sure is fast,’ she added as she pulled down the stirrups of a mean-looking yellow pony, whose coat quivered irritably against the flies.
‘What’s she called?’ Lysander asked listlessly as he put his foot in the stirrup.
‘Mrs Ex, after Elmer’s ex-wife,’ said Astrid, jumping to avoid the mare’s darting teeth, ‘because she’s always bombing around causing trouble.’
‘Surprised he got anyone to marry him,’ shuddered Lysander, gathering up his reins and his stick.
In defence of her master Mrs Ex put in a terrific buck. Next moment Lysander was sitting on the ground.
‘See what I mean,’ bellowed Elmer, ‘that asshole can’t even stay on a fucking horse. Get the paramedic. He’ll certify the guy injured and we can put in a sub.’
But the fall had sobered Lysander. Vaulting on to Mrs Ex, he galloped back into the fray. In the fourth chukka, Dommie and Seb both scored twice, and Lysander once. Then Mr Beefy’s Argentines rallied and Lysander was so transfixed with admiration for Juan O’Brien’s forehand pass that he completely forgot to mark the number two player to whom Juan was passing.
‘Take the bloody man, Lysander,’ screamed Dommie. But he was too late, the number two had scored.
Three minutes later to placate Elmer, who was bellyaching about being the only member of the Safus team not to have scored, Dommie dropped a ball a foot in front of him and bang in front of the goal.
‘Take your time, Elmer,’ he shouted, galloping upfield in support.
‘Elmer Winterton is looking awful good,’ said the commentator.
Elmer took a swipe, missed, and, losing his temper, started to beat his pony.
‘Hi,’ yelled Lysander, thundering across the field, ‘that is absolutely not on.’
‘It absolutely isn’t on, is it, you little fuckwit.’ Elmer mimicked Lysander’s English accent. ‘I can hit anything I want,’ and raising his stick he took a furious swipe at Lysander who promptly lifted his stick in retaliation.
‘Stop it,’ roared Seb.
Fortunately, like a bucket of water over a dogfight, the dense black cloud keeled over in a tidal wave. Like cats, the spectators shot into their cars. Most of the players, particularly the Argentines, who detested rain, would have followed suit. But Lysander felt only blessed relief. For the first time in forty-eight hours he was cool and he was utterly used to playing in the rain.
‘Lysander Hawkley is looking awful good,’ crackled the loudspeaker a minute later. ‘He’s got the line and he’s really motoring on Elmer Winterton’s yellow pony. Oh, where are you going, Lysander?’
Shying at one of Mr Beefy’s white-and-red paper napkins which had blown on to the field, Mrs Ex had taken off through the downpour carting Lysander, who was whooping with laughter, past Elmer’s and Mr Beefy’s ambulances, beyond the goal posts and goal judge off into the Everglades. Three minutes later, he cantered back, still roaring his head off.
‘When a horse takes off, there’s not much you can do. The only thing that stopped Mrs Ex was a huge croc on the river bank. I thought it was one of your security guards. Sir,’ he added hastily seeing the sudden fury in Elmer’s beady little eyes.
Fortunately Mrs Ex’s turn of speed proved more effective going the other way. Hanging on Lysander’s hands like an express train, she whisked him past three outraged Argentines, which enabled him to lean right out of the saddle and flick the ball between the red-and-white posts with a glorious, offside cut shot.
As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka the crowd hooted approval from the inside of their cars. Riding back to the pony lines through the deluge Lysander noticed a lone spectator huddling in the stands beneath the totally inadequate protection of a Prussian-blue Safus umbrella. Catching a glimpse of long brown legs Lysander recognized the brunette in the pink skirt he’d admired earlier. Returning for the last chukka, he carried a spare blue rug which had kept dry in Elmer’s trailer.
‘Oh, how darling of you,’ said the brunette as he jumped off and spread it over her legs.
Her hair, the rich brown of soy sauce, fell in dripping rats’ tails. The rain intensified the dark freckles that polka-dotted her thin face and arms. She was shivering like a dog in a vet’s waiting room.
‘You should be inside your car,’ reproved Lysander.
‘My husband likes to know where I am, in case he breaks a mallet.’ The girl pointed to three spare polo sticks propped against the low white fence in front of her.
‘Lucky bloke,’ sighed Lysander.
‘Lysander,’ called Seb sharply.
Glancing round, Lysander saw the other players were already lined up for the throw-in and galloped over to join them.
‘Don’t chat up girls in the middle of a game,’ said Seb in a furious undertone, ‘particularly when they’re the patron’s wife.’
‘She’s married to Elmer?’ asked Lysander, appalled.
‘Yup, and unless we win, he’ll take it out on her afterwards.’
In the last chukka, with Mr Beefy only one goal ahead, the tension got to both sides. Then Juan O’Brien swore so badly at the umpire for ignoring one of Elmer’s more blatant fouls that the umpire retaliated by awarding a penalty against Juan.
As Seb took the hit for Safus, Lysander belted back to the pony lines to change horses and have another look at Elmer’s wife. The way her white silk shirt was clinging to her body was nothing short of spectacular. How could she have married such an ape?
While Seb circled his pony then clouted the ball between the posts, Juan O’Brien came off the back line and blocked the shot with his pony’s shoulder. Lysander winced. He’d seen players stop goals with their pony’s heads. Enraged, he galloped upfield, picked up the ball, played cat and mouse with it, hit it in the air, before slamming it between the posts. The spectators honked their horns in ecstasy.
The storm had passed. Ponies steamed. Bits, stirrups and the huge silver cup on its red tablecloth glittered in the returning sun.
‘I guess Safus is going to stage a come-back situation,’ said the commentator.
Juan O’Brien guessed otherwise. In the closing seconds of the game he roared downfield, black curls streaming under his hat, swinging his stick, driving the ball gloriously before him, then, unmarked and overconfident, just in front of goal he hit wide.
Pouncing, Lysander backed the ball upfield to Seb who passed to Dommie, who carried on through the puddles until he encountered a wall of Argentine resistance and hastily cut the ball to a furiously racing-up Lysander, who met it gloriously. With twenty seconds on the clock, Lysander was perfectly poised to score the winning goal but, seeing Elmer scowling red-faced in front of the posts, and remembering Elmer’s drenched wife, who would get hell after the game, he passed instead to Elmer. The twins groaned in disbelief, but, by some
