Polo

9

‘Dark, dark, dark,’ wailed Daisy a week later. ‘The Hoover’s gone phut, the washing machine’s broken down, Hamish says the place is a tip, and the kitchen brush has alopecia.’

‘I’m off.’ Perdita, dressed for hunting in boots, skin-tight breeches and a dark blue coat, went straight to the housekeeping jar.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Daisy.

‘I need money for the cap.’

‘You took a tenner yesterday.’

‘I’ll pay you back out of my Christmas present money,’ said Perdita, rushing off towards the stables.

‘Where’s my dark green sweater?’ bellowed Hamish from upstairs. ‘There are two buttons missing off my blazer and why the hell isn’t there any loo paper?’

Daisy sighed. Hamish had come back exhausted after a week’s filming last night to watch one of his programmes – a documentary on road haulage. Daisy hadn’t helped matters by falling asleep because it was so boring. The moment the final credits went up, Hamish’s mother was on the telephone telling him how wonderful it had been. When no-one else rang, Hamish, who was pathological about his beauty sleep, retired to bed. The telephone then started up again, but instead of being congratulations from Jeremy Isaacs and Alasdair Milne, it was friends of the children, catching up on gossip and wondering what life in the country was like, until Hamish was screaming with irritation.

Now he was downstairs bellyaching because Perdita had whipped the last of the housekeeping money. ‘I told you to always keep a float. I don’t know them well enough in the village shop to ask them to cash a cheque. What time’s Peter Pan?’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Daisy hysterically. ‘I’d forgotten all about Peter Pan. I can’t go. I’ve got to get everything ready for your mother tomorrow, and do all the cooking, and shopping, and buy the stocking presents, and I haven’t wrapped any of the other presents, and I’ve got to stay in for the washing-machine man. We haven’t got any clean sheets.’

Hamish looked at her pityingly. ‘I can’t understand why you can’t treat Christmas like any other weekend. I suppose you’ve got your period coming.’

‘I’ve got your bloody mother coming,’ muttered Daisy into the sink.

‘Wendy can do the shopping,’ said Hamish loftily, ‘and the stocking presents. Give me the list.’

‘But she must be frantic,’ protested Daisy. Wendy was Hamish’s PA, who seemed to work for him twenty-four hours a day.

‘It’s always the busiest people who find the time,’ said Hamish sanctimoniously. ‘Wendy can take the children to Peter Pan. I’ll bring them and the shopping home afterwards. I hope,’ he added ominously, ‘you’re going to get things shipshape for Mother. She’s had a very stressful year and needs a rest.’

In the past, on hearing Hamish’s car draw up outside, Daisy had been known to take mugs out of the dish washer and frantically start washing them up in the sink, so much did Hamish hate to see her inactive. He was a successful film producer because he was good at keeping costs down, finicky about detail, and had brilliant empathy with his leading ladies who found him attractive because, to use one of his favourite phrases, he ‘targeted’ on them. Hamish, in fact, looked rather like an Old Testament prophet who regretted shaving off his beard for a bet. Copper-beech red hair rippling to his collar, a wide noble forehead, smouldering hazel eyes beneath jutting black brows, and a fine, hooked nose with flaring nostrils lapsed into a petulant mouth and a receding chin. Hamish also loved the sound of his own voice, which reminded him of brown burns tumbling over mossy rocks in the Highlands. Having muscular hips and good legs, he also wore a kilt on every possible occasion.

He was now, however, soberly dressed in grey flannels, and applying a clothes brush to the small of his blazered back, as he grumbled about cat hair. The moment he’d borne Eddie, Violet and the shopping list off to work, Daisy felt guilty about making such a scene. With the pressure off, she started reading the Daily Mail.

‘I believe it is possible,’ a young American girl was quoted as saying, ‘to have a caring, supportive husband, cherishing children, and a high octane career.’

I have none of these things, thought Daisy, I only want to paint.

Later that evening she and Violet decorated the house. Violet organized a bucket of earth and red crêpe paper for the tree, and Daisy was comforted by the rituals of hanging up the same plastic angel with both legs firmly stuck together and the tinsel with split ends and the coloured balls which had lost their hooks, and had to be tucked into the branches until they fell prey to Gainsborough.

In the alcove by the front door they set up the crib, which had been in the Macleod family for generations. There had nearly been a divorce the year Daisy painted the plain wooden figures, putting Mary in powder blue and Joseph in a rather ritzy orange.

‘Did you enjoy Peter Pan?’ asked Daisy, as she arranged straw from the stables in Baby Jesus’s manger.

‘It was fun,’ said Violet. ‘I’d forgotten Captain Hook went to Eton. Daddy loved it too.’

‘Daddy came with you?’ said Daisy in amazement.

‘Wendy got an extra ticket,’ explained Violet, standing on a chair to tie mistletoe to the hall light. ‘He gets on awfully well with Wendy. They’re always laughing.’

That’s nice, thought Daisy wistfully. Hamish seldom laughed at home.

‘The lost boys reminded me of Perdita,’ said Violet.

Life would be so peaceful, thought Daisy, if it were just her and Violet. Now they were alone, she could tell Violet how wonderful her report was.

Daisy also felt guilty that Perdita’s new pony had cost £1,500. A beautiful bay mare called Fresco, she had arrived with a saddle and a pound note tucked into her bridle for luck, which Perdita had nailed to the tackroom wall. But that was only the beginning. Fresco’s trousseau of rugs, so new they practically stood up by themselves, and headcollars and body brushes and curry combs, not to mention feed, had cost a fortune. At least Perdita was blissful. Having established an instant rapport with the pony, she was totally organized and reliable about looking after her. It was such a relief having her in a good mood and out of the house, hunting and exploring the countryside, particularly near Ricky France-Lynch’s land, but Daisy still felt she ought to buy better presents for the other two children.

Hamish had violently discouraged Daisy against taking any interest in money, on the grounds that she was too stupid to understand it. But she had felt mildly alarmed when he told her they were only going to rent Brock House, because he had invested almost the entire proceeds from the London house in a co-production with the Americans. The resulting movie, he assured her, would be such a sure-fire hit he’d recoup his original stake five times over and be able to buy Brock House or something far grander in a year or two. The spare cash left over gave Daisy the illusion that for once they were flush. She must find something more exciting for Violet than that Laura Ashley dress. Suddenly she had a brainwave.

At least Bridget coming made her tidy up, thought Daisy the following day, as she plumped the cushions in the drawing room and used eight fire-lighters and all yesterday’s Mail and Telegraph to light the logs Hamish had grudgingly chopped that morning. And at least they weren’t going to Bridget’s for Christmas. With a shiver, Daisy remembered the year when baby Eddie and Violet, and particularly Perdita, had trodden Lindt kittens into Bridget’s carpet and sacked her ultra-tidy house more effectively than any Hun or Visigoth.

Going into the garden to pick some pinched pink roses and winter jasmine for Bridget’s bedroom, Daisy breathed in the sweet, just freezing air, the acrid smell of bonfires and leaves moulding into the cocoa-brown earth.

The red had gone out of the woods now; they were uniformly dun and donkey brown, with the traveller’s joy glittering silken over the tops of the trees in the setting sun. In a fringe of beeches across the valley, rooks grumbled like waves scraping on shingle.

It was so beautiful. If only she could paint, but Hamish would be driving Biddy, as his mother was nicknamed, down from the airport now. I must try to be efficient and nice to her and forget about painting until she leaves, Daisy told herself firmly. I must be grateful for the millionth time to Hamish for saving me from solitary evenings in peeling bedsitters with one bar on the fire, and a forty-watt bulb and no money. And look at Perdita whom Hamish had enabled to live in this glorious house and hunt this wonderful pony. Every Macleod had a silver lining.

As always, she felt even guiltier when Hamish came through the door with his mother, such a frail little person with tears in her eyes who smelt of Tweed cologne and brought home-made fudge and shortbread and a bottle of whisky for Hamish.

How could I have turned her into such a monster, thought Daisy as she put on the kettle. There was a clatter of hooves outside and Perdita appeared at the back door.

‘I suppose there’s no hope the Glasgow shuttle crashed with no survivors?’ she asked.

‘Hush, she’s arrived,’ said Daisy. ‘You must try and be nice to Granny, and for God’s sake, tidy your room when you’ve sorted out Fresco. Daddy’s bound to show her round the house. Did you have a good day?’

‘Brilliant, we got three foxes. I got a brush.’ Perdita’s face was muddy, but her pale cheeks were for once flushed with colour and her dark eyes sparkled like jet.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black was out. Christ, he’s good-looking. He gave me several swigs of brandy, and Billy Lloyd-Foxe too; he’s really nice and gave me two fags, and they both said it wouldn’t hurt Fresco to hunt her and play polo. Hunting was the best way to get used to a young horse, and Rupert told me he was going to have one more crack at the World Championships next year, and then give up show-jumping. And Drew Benedict was there, and the twins. They’re off to Palm Beach just after Christmas, but we’re going to get together in the spring holidays, and Fresco jumped a bullfinch at least six foot high, and that journalist Beattie Johnson came to the meet. She said she was getting material for an in-depth interview with Ricky. Rupert pissed her up and said he was only interested in in-depth intercourse. Of course she was only digging up dirt. Evidently Ricky’s taken Will’s death terribly hard, and that bitch Chessie buggered off with all the France-Lynch jewellery, and when you think how rich Bart is. It’s all right, I’m coming, sweetheart,’ she turned back to Fresco. ‘I can’t tell you how much I like living in Rutshire. Rupert and Billy gave us a lift home in their lorry. We really must get a trailer.’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Daisy, coming out to give Fresco a piece of carrot.

‘Where’s the newly-wid now?’ asked Perdita.

‘She’s upstairs,’ Daisy giggled. ‘You mustn’t be naughty. It must be awful being widowed.’

‘Bet she’s knocked out. She can’t have loved Grandpa, the way she bossed him around. The poor old sod must be having the best Christmas ever, first time he’s rested in peace for forty years.’

By the time Biddy Macleod had expressed joy and amazement at the increased growth and splendour of Violet and Eddie, and at Hamish’s taste in putting up pictures (none of them Daisy’s) and arranging the furniture, although Aunt Madge’s chest of drawers in the spare room could do with a ‘guid’ polish, and come downstairs having unpacked – ‘I’m not happy till I get straight’ – and how it was late for tea at five, although flying made one work up a thirst, and what a nice young fellow had insisted on carrying her hand luggage at the airport, Daisy had decided Biddy was an absolute monster again.

And she didn’t look remotely frail any more – just a bossy old bag with mean little eyes like burnt currants, a tight white perm and a disapproving mouth like a puckered-up dog’s bum. She doesn’t mind being widowed at all, thought Daisy. It leaves her free to indulge her real passion: Hamish.

The first black Daisy put up was to forget Biddy had lemon in her tea.

‘Trust Hamish to remember,’ said Biddy, smiling mistily.

Chuntering, Daisy belted back to the kitchen, but got distracted. Through the clematis and winter jasmine which framed the hall window, she could see the red afterglow of the sunset, blackly striped by a poplar copse. I must remember it just like that, she thought, it wouldn’t be a cliché with the picture frame of creeper.

‘Mummy!’ called Violet. ‘You were getting Granny some lemon. Mummy was looking out of the window,’ she explained to her grandmother and Hamish. ‘She finds things so beautiful sometimes she forgets what she’s doing.’

Hamish’s and Biddy’s eyes met.

‘I must get that creeper cut back, it’s ruining the brickwork,’ said Hamish.

‘I got seventy-five Christmas cards,’ Biddy was boasting as Daisy came back having scraped the mould off a wizened slice of lemon. ‘I’d prefer it black,’ Biddy said pointedly.

‘Can’t you remember anything?’ snapped Hamish, glaring at Daisy.

‘As long as it’s wet and warm,’ said Biddy with a martyred sigh. ‘I was saying I got seventy-five Christmas cards. So many people wrote saying such nice things about your father, Hamish, I brought them with me.’

‘We didn’t get many this year,’ said Hamish petulantly. ‘Daisy was so late in sending out the change of address cards.’

As Daisy was clearing away the tea things and Biddy had been poured a wee glass of sherry, Hamish suddenly went to the gramophone and put on a record that had just reached Number One in the charts.

‘I must just play you this lovely record, Mother.’

It was some choirboy singing a poignant solo beginning, ‘If onlee your Christmas could be my Christmas,’ and going on to expound on the loneliness of being separated from loved ones during the festive season.

‘But you don’t like pop music, Daddy,’ said Violet in amazement.

‘I know, but I heard it on the car radio and fell in love with it. It’s great isn’t it, Mother?’

‘Very moving,’ said Biddy. ‘I love the sound of choirboys’ voices.’

At that moment Perdita walked in. Still flushed from hunting, still in her white shirt, tie, breeches and boots, she looked utterly ravishing. Surely Biddy will concede that, thought Daisy.

‘Hello, Granny,’ said Perdita guardedly, making no attempt to kiss her grandmother.

‘You’ve shot up,’ said Biddy accusingly. ‘I hear your father’s bought you a pony. I hope you realize what a lucky girl you are.’

‘She’s lovely,’ agreed Perdita. ‘What’s for supper, Mum? I’m starving.’

Going to the drinks tray, she poured herself a large vodka and tonic.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ thundered Hamish.

‘Mum always lets me.’

Biddy’s dog’s-bum mouth puckered up even more disapprovingly.

‘How’s your new school?’

‘Horrific.’

‘And have you decided what you’re going to do when you grow up?’

Perdita smiled. ‘I’m going to get divorced.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m going to marry a mega-rich businessman, catch him cheating on me, and take him to the cleaners. Mum, I truly am going to need a trailer. The meets after Christmas are too far away to hack to.’

Biddy’s and Hamish’s simultaneous explosions were diverted by the doorbell. Thankful to escape from the fray, Daisy fled to answer it.

‘Oh, the little duck,’ they could hear her saying from the hall. ‘Violet darling, I’m sorry you had to have her before Christmas, but here’s your present.’

The next moment an English setter puppy had padded happily and confidently into the drawing room. She had a black patch over one eye like Nelson, black ears, a lean speckled body like a baby seal, and a tail which hadn’t unfurled its feathers, but which shook her whole body every time she wagged it.

‘Oh, Mummy,’ gasped Violet as the puppy joyfully licked her bright pink face. ‘She’s the loveliest thing in the world. I can’t believe it. Is she really mine? Oh, I love her.’

‘And who is going to look after her when Violet goes back to school?’ said Hamish furiously.

‘I am,’ said Daisy. ‘Then I won’t be lonely when you’re away so much. I’ve had a lot of dropped telephone calls this week, which I’m sure must be burglars checking up – a large dog’s a terrific deterrent.’

It was hard to tell who looked more disapproving, when having rushed round in excitement, and tried to snatch Biddy’s knitting, the puppy peed on the rug in front of the fire.

‘That rug was a wedding present from the McGaragles,’ thundered Hamish.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ said Violet. ‘Oh, thank you, Mum, she’s the best present I’ve ever had.’

By the time Ethel, as the puppy was now called, had rampaged round the house, chased Gainsborough up the tree with subsequent loss of glass balls, peed again twice, had a bowl of scrambled egg, and fallen asleep on a cushion by the Aga, Daisy had managed to get supper ready.

It was the first time they had eaten in the dark green dining room with the big window looking over the valley and the red berries of the holly tucked behind every picture gleaming in the candlelight. Daisy had taken a lot of trouble to make coq au vin and a meringue and ice-cream pudding with raspberry purée. Hamish wasn’t going to have a public row with Daisy about the puppy; instead he pointedly ignored her, making no comment about the food and telling his mother at great length about the new film he was making on Robert Burns.

‘I’ve got no airpetite since your father passed away, but I must keep my strength up,’ said Biddy, piling a Matterhorn of mashed potato on to her plate. She had always been the most demonstrative leaver, always taking too much so she could leave a lot. Worst of all, she ate terribly slowly. Violet, who longed to play with the puppy, and Perdita and Eddie, who wanted to watch television, were nearly going crazy and only waited because they wanted some pudding.

Perdita lit a cigarette.

‘Put it out,’ thundered Hamish.

Perdita pretended to snore. Eddie got the giggles. Violet went bright crimson trying not to giggle. Daisy had to rush out of the room to get the pudding.

‘It’s absolutely yummy,’ said Violet, accepting a second helping.

‘Can we have it instead of Christmas pudding?’ asked Eddie.

Biddy Macleod said nothing. She wanted to leave it, but she was too greedy.

‘You must be tired, Mother,’ said Hamish. ‘Early bed with a hotty, I think.’

Biddy, who loved it when her son was masterful, admitted she was a little weary. ‘But before I turn in, I’d love to see your road haulage film again.’

‘But International Velvet’s on,’ protested Perdita.

‘You can watch it in your bedrooms,’ said Hamish heavily.

‘But we can’t tape it,’ wailed Eddie, ‘and my television shows snow storms on all four channels.’

‘Mine’s broken,’ said Perdita.

‘If your mother occasionally saw fit to get anything mended,’ said Hamish nastily, ‘you wouldn’t be in this predicament. For once you are not going to do everything you want.’

Biddy smiled at Violet. ‘Would you kindly make me a cup of Horlicks? I brought my own jar. It’s on the hall table. I didn’t think you’d have any here, although Hamish used to love a drink of Horlicks.’

Ignoring Perdita, who was looking at her with horror, a cold, blank stare coming straight off the North Pole, Biddy added, ‘And if you’re coming up, Eddie, there’s no waste-paper basket in the guest room, nor toilet paper in the guest bathroom.’

‘Where is Ethel going to sleep?’ said Daisy, as she wearily finished clearing up.

‘In my room,’ said Violet, who was gently teasing the diving, biting Ethel with an old slipper.

‘She is not,’ thundered Hamish, who had just dispatched Biddy to bed. ‘I am not having this house reduced to a urinal. How could you introduce a puppy at Christmas?’ he added to Daisy. ‘All the dog charities say it’s the worst time. She will sleep in the stables.’

Because he doted on Violet, he relented enough to allow Ethel to sleep in the kitchen with a ticking clock wrapped in a towel to simulate her mother’s heartbeat.

‘We must start as we mean to go on,’ said Hamish, getting into bed with his pyjamas buttoned up to the neck, and pointedly turning out the light on his side of the bed. A great howl rent the air.

‘Christ,’ said Hamish.

‘Oh, I love the sound of puppies’ voices,’ said Perdita from the television room, as an even more piteous howl rent the air.

‘Silent night, silent night,’ giggled Eddie from his bedroom.

‘Oh, poor Ethel,’ said Violet, from the landing, trying not to cry.

‘Typical,’ exploded Hamish. ‘My mother has come here for a rest, I am totally exhausted and have to be on location at six tomorrow, and you introduce that incontinent beast. I think you do these things deliberately.’

‘I truly don’t,’ said Daisy humbly. ‘I just thought Violet deserved something special.’

‘Because you’ve bankrupted me buying that pony for Perdita.’

Ethel’s howls were growing in volume.

‘Let Violet get her, just for tonight,’ pleaded Daisy.

‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘Will no-one listen to the voice of common sense? I hope you’re satisfied you’re ruining mine and my mother’s Christmas. There’s no way I’ll get to sleep now.’

As Daisy lay twitching in the darkness, waiting for the next explosion, Hamish started snoring. Unheard by her father, Violet had tiptoed downstairs and carried a delighted, wriggling Ethel upstairs to bed with her.

In the television room, unconcerned by any of the rumpus she had caused earlier, Perdita lit a cigarette and put in a tape of last year’s Polo International, freezing it every time Ricky hit the ball. One day she’d have a swing as good as his.

Christmas Eve started badly. Hamish buzzed off humming ‘If Onlee’, leaving Daisy with a mass of food to buy, all the presents to wrap up and dispatch, and Biddy Macleod to entertain. A hard overnight frost symbolized Biddy’s mood and put paid to any hunting, so Perdita was hanging around winding everyone up. The ever-tactful Violet took Biddy on an extended tour of the house. As some sort of death-wish, afterwards Daisy couldn’t resist showing Biddy the stables. Surely the old bag could find something nice to say about the immaculate tack room, and the gleaming, contented Fresco, fetlock deep in clean straw. But Biddy merely remarked it was a pity Perdita didn’t keep her bedroom like that and how ‘all that equipment must have cost puir Hamish a fortune’.

Daisy bit her lip.

‘But Fresco’s been a huge success, Perdita’s been so much easier since she’s got a real interest, and the children are fighting so much less,’ she protested.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ yelled Violet from her bedroom window. ‘Quickly, Perdita’s killing Eddie.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Daisy, racing over the gravel.

‘He’s recorded The Wizard of Oz over her International tape.’

Christmas Eve deteriorated. After lunch Biddy solemnly rootled out Hamish’s mending and sourly sewed to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. Ever-placating, Daisy kept rushing in, putting more logs on the fire and offering cups of tea. Hamish should have been back after lunch, but didn’t return until seven, singing ‘If Onlee’ and sucking extra strong mints.

‘At least, have a rest tomorrow and Boxing Day,’ Biddy implored him.

‘I’ll have to go in on Boxing Day and look at the rushes.’

‘You work too hard.’

Out of despair and to get her through the nightmare of packing presents, Daisy got stuck into the vodka and orange much too early. She made heroic attempts to have dinner bang on eight, leaving a beef casserole in the slow oven of the Aga. Then she discovered to her horror at ten to eight that Perdita had replaced the beef with some barley she was boiling overnight for Fresco.

‘You did it on purpose,’ yelled Hamish.

‘I did not,’ screamed Perdita. ‘I didn’t know it was for tonight.’

Daisy burst into tears. Biddy, who’d set like a jelly all day, suggested she rustle something up. Instead Hamish, with an air of martyrdom, swept Biddy, Violet and Eddie out to supper at the local pub, saying they’d go on to Midnight Mass afterwards. He refused to take Perdita. Seeing Perdita’s white, set face, Daisy said she had all the stockings to do and she’d skip supper and walk down to Midnight Mass later.

Upstairs in her bedroom, with a bottle of Benedictine, she started frantically cocooning presents with Sellotape. Biddy would be shocked; she believed in recycled paper and string.

It was past eleven-thirty by the time Daisy had finished the stockings. It’s the only time fat, lumpy legs are acceptable, she thought, laying them on the bed. She ought to get ready for church but she couldn’t find her boots anywhere.

Looking for them downstairs, she found Ethel crunching something up in the hall. She was so adorable with her thumping tail and speckled head. Then, as Ethel coughed up a piece of wood, which was definitely orange, Daisy let out a moan.

‘What’s up?’ said Perdita, who was eating Philadelphia cheese with a spoon in the kitchen.

‘Ethel’s eaten St Joseph,’ wailed Daisy. ‘Granny’ll have a heart attack.’

‘Hooray,’ said Perdita. ‘I’ve bought her the Jane Fonda Work Out Book for Christmas. Hopefully it’ll finish her off. It’s nearly midnight, let’s go out and see if Fresco’s kneeling down to honour the birth of Christ.’

The grey, lurex lawn crunched beneath their feet. Jupiter, Orion, Capella and the Dog Star blazed overhead. There were never such stars in London, thought Daisy. Fresco gave a low, deep whinny of welcome, but didn’t bother to get up as Perdita sat down beside her.

‘That means they’re happy and relaxed,’ said Perdita proudly. ‘If they lie down. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s the best friend I’ve ever had, thank you so much, Mum. I’ll be a great polo player one day, and then I can support you.’

Unbelievably touched, tight from tiredness and Benedictine, Daisy wandered away from the stable door. Then, behind her, from the black church spire, she heard the mad, romping din of the bells echoing down the white frozen valley, celebrating the birth of Christ.

The hopes and fears of all the years, thought Daisy, overwhelmed with a wave of loneliness and despair. How wonderful to love and be in love at Christmas. Then, wiping away the tears, she chided herself. How ridiculous to think there was more to life than a husband, children and a lovely house.

‘I do love you,’ she mumbled much later when Hamish came to bed.

‘Is that because you’ve drunk half a bottle of Benedictine? D’you want some sex, Daisy?’

Daisy didn’t. She was absolutely knackered, but she thought it might cheer Hamish up. Sex with him was always the same. Hand straight down to the clitoris, rubbing it until she was wet enough for him to go in, then ten brisk thrusts before he came.