Polo

14

To avoid the press, Ricky was let out of prison by a side door two hours early. His tweed jacket hung off him, the faded brown cords were held up by an old school tie, the cuffs of his check shirt slipped over his knuckles like mittens. Once through the door, he took a great shuddering breath. A thrush was singing in the sycamores. The sun had just risen in a tidal wave of rose and turquoise, but dense inky blue storm clouds gathered menacingly in the West.

Ricky was expecting Joel, his farm manager, with the Land-Rover. Instead, spotlit against this thunderous backdrop, lounging around a vast open Bentley, like characters out of Scott Fitzgerald, were Rupert, Bas, Drew and a tousled but undeniably desirable blonde who was wearing Rupert’s dinner jacket over her rose-printed silk dress.

Bas, being half-Latin and the most demonstrative, came straight up, put his long muscular arms round Ricky and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Welcome back, dear boy,’ he murmured in his husky, caressing, almost exaggeratedly English accent.

Drew, very brown from the troopship, but more reserved, relieved Ricky of his suitcase. Rupert, his blue eyes bloodshot and slightly off centre, lipstick all over his evening shirt, put an arm round Ricky’s shoulder, leading him to the car: ‘You made it, you poor sod. Christ, I’m glad you’re out.’ Then, drawing forward the tousled blonde, ‘This is Beattie Johnson.’

Ricky stiffened, his eyes wary and hostile. Beattie Johnson had written some vicious lies about him and Chessie during the trial.

‘It’s OK,’ said Rupert quickly. ‘She’s off duty.’

Although Rupert had kissed off all her make-up and reddened her face with his stubble, she was even sexier close up. Curling her arms round Ricky’s neck, she kissed him on the edge of his mouth.

‘You poor old thing, the nightmare’s over. I have to tell you, you’re much more glamorous in the flesh.’

Beattie’s flesh, in its clinging softness, reminded Ricky agonizingly of Chessie. Beneath the sharp tang of her scent, he caught the unmistakable fishlike reek of sex and nearly blacked out.

‘Leave him alone, Beattie,’ snapped Bas. ‘You sit in the front, Ricky. Isn’t this a truly terrific motor car?’

‘We decided it wasn’t worth going to bed,’ said Rupert, as he headed towards the motorway. ‘We thought we’d all have breakfast at Sheepfield Chase. Bas got them to lay on a private room, so you won’t get gorped at.’

‘And the uncondemned man is going to eat a hearty breakfast,’ said Beattie, putting her hands on Ricky’s shoulders. Ricky tried not to freeze away. Having taken a large swig out of a bottle of Krug, Bas handed it forward to him. Ricky shook his head.

‘Go on,’ chided Beattie. ‘You’re about three bottles behind the rest of us.’

‘No thanks,’ said Ricky. Looking down he saw Beattie’s rather dirty toe-nailed foot edging down the gear lever to rub against Rupert’s black thigh. Putting down a hand, Rupert caressed her instep.

‘Bugger off now,’ he said to her, ‘or I’ll be done for drunk driving. And for Christ’s sake, get that black tie off, Bas.’

Ricky wished he could go straight home. He needed to touch base, but it had been so kind of them to turn up, he must make an effort. He turned to Drew. ‘Glad you got back safely.’

‘Bloody nuisance missing a whole season,’ said Drew.

‘It must have been wonderful all those cheering crowds welcoming you back,’ gushed Beattie.

‘We’d no idea of the strength of feeling back home,’ said Drew. ‘It was a complete surprise. We were overwhelmed.’

‘How did you feel when the truce was finally signed in Port Stanley?’ went on Beattie. ‘Did you have a fantastic piss-up?’

‘No,’ said Drew. ‘We were simply glad to be alive.’

He’s changed, thought Ricky. The golden boy’s grown up and been jolted out of his habitual sang-froid.

‘Drew’s being recommended for an MC,’ said Bas.

‘Sukey must be thrilled,’ said Ricky.

They’ve all done so well, he thought wistfully – World Champions, Gold Cups, MCs.

The conversation inevitably got on to polo and what a bore it was not being able to buy ponies from Argentina any more.

‘I’m getting some from Australia,’ said Bas, ‘and the Prince of Wales.’ Then, realizing Beattie was listening, he started gabbling away in Spanish to Drew.

‘Speak English,’ said Beattie furiously, hearing the words, ‘Charles and Diana’. ‘It’s bloody rude.’

When she could get no change out of either Drew or Bas, she turned back to Ricky.

‘Did they give you a hard time inside because you were a gent?’

‘No.’

‘How was Dancer Maitland?’

‘Great.’

‘Did he make a pass at you?’

‘Oh, shut up, Beattie,’ said Bas.

‘Well, he is a screaming pouf. I’d have made a pass at Ricky if I’d been in prison.’

‘Dancer’s f-f-fine,’ said Ricky, wanting to strangle Beattie. ‘He’s a lovely man. Everyone adored him.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Beattie writing ‘lovely man’ on her wrist with eye pencil. The inky black cloud had spread over the whole sky. They only just managed to reach the hotel and get the roof up when the heavens opened.

‘I guess MP stands for Moderately Pissed,’ said Rupert, as ravishing waitresses, hand-picked by Bas, brought more bottles of Krug into the private room. Ricky put his hand over his glass.

‘Go on,’ said Bas. ‘You must celebrate today.’

‘Honestly, I’ve given it up.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Rupert. ‘You used to drink for Rutshire.’

‘I don’t want a drink,’ said Ricky through gritted teeth. Then, lowering his voice, ‘I’m sorry, I just feel I owe it to Will.’

‘Ah,’ said Rupert, also dropping his voice, ‘I understand. Sorry. But don’t punish yourself too hard. Christ, look at the tits on that waitress.’

Attack came next from Ricky’s left.

‘You mustn’t be sad,’ said Beattie, pouring him a cup of coffee. ‘Spare men are at such a premium these days, you’ll be snapped up in a trice. I’ve got some stunning girlfriends. You must make up a four with Rupert and me.’

Her hot, brown eyes ran over him, telling him what fun they could have together. She’s not sure of Rupert and is trying to make him jealous, thought Ricky. God knows, he’d be impossible to hold.

‘Is it true,’ asked Beattie, ‘that Chessie said she’d only come back to you if you went to ten and won the Westchester?’

‘For fuck’s sake, shut up,’ snarled Rupert; then, turning back to Bas, ‘No, it was definitely half-brother to Nijinsky.’

Breakfast arrived – eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, cold ham and a mountain of kedgeree.

‘I’ll help you,’ said Beattie, piling up Ricky’s plate. ‘You definitely need feeding up.’

Then they all watched in horror as Ricky tried to cut up a piece of ham. His right arm simply wasn’t up to it.

‘I’ll do it for you,’ said Drew, taking Ricky’s knife and fork.

The prettiest waitress was already sitting on Bas’s knee, feeding him fried bread spread with marmalade.

‘They’re all booked for the morning,’ murmured Rupert, who had his hand halfway up Beattie’s skirt. ‘I’d go for that redhead over there.’

‘I’ve found an amazing girl for you to teach polo to,’ Bas called across the table.

‘Smile, please,’ said Beattie, who had suddenly produced a camera.

Ricky got to his feet, fried egg churning in his stomach. He only just reached the lavatory in time, then it was mostly bile he threw up. Drew was waiting as he came out, the blue eyes matter-of-fact, but not insensitive.

‘I’m sorry, we thought you needed cheering up. We went about it the wrong way. I’ll run you home.’

On the motorway the windscreen wipers fought a losing battle with the downpour and Drew talked idly about the Falklands.

‘Once we reached the actual island, I had the somewhat unenviable task – because I speak Spanish – of debriefing the Argie POWs. One of their pilots, shot down in the sea, was actually a polo player. Arrogant sod, although I must say British methods of obtaining information are somewhat reprehensible.’

‘So are Beattie Johnson’s,’ said Ricky. ‘Christ, she’s awful.’

‘Awful,’ agreed Drew. ‘Ever since Rupert packed in show-jumping he’s been drinking and screwing his brains out. I had a look at your ponies, by the way. They look very well. A season off’s probably done them good.’

‘I don’t know if I’m going to be able to . . .’ Ricky’s voice trailed off.

‘Course you will. You’ve got to get to ten.’

Frances, the head groom, and Joel, Ricky’s farm manager, were furious to be caught on the hop. Not expecting Ricky for hours, and by then absolutely plastered, they hadn’t swept the yard. There was hay and straw everywhere, floating in huge puddles. Louisa was just furious that she’d failed to keep up the crash diet she’d started every morning for the last month in anticipation of Ricky’s return. But Ricky didn’t seem to notice anything. Having patted the Labradors, he said he wanted to be on his own for a bit and he’d see them later.

Inside the house, the emptiness hit him like a boxing glove. No silken whippet coiled herself round him, jumping for joy. His one craving was to look at Will’s photographs again. The one in his wallet had cracked and almost disintegrated. But on the piano in the drawing room he found only empty silver frames. Shaking, he opened the photograph album and found every picture of Will had been removed, and where there had been photographs of Ricky and Chessie together, Chessie had cut out herself.

As he looked round the room, he noticed pieces of furniture missing, pictures taken from the walls, huge gaps in the bookshelves. Churning inside, feeling bile rising in his mouth again, he raced upstairs. Someone had tactfully removed the child gate from across the top stair, but the rocking-horse with most of its paint chipped away by Will’s polo stick still stood on the landing.

Will’s bedroom had obviously been tidied up. Opening a drawer, he found the policeman’s helmet Will had been wearing when he squirted Grace with Bloody Mary. There were all the Dinky cars Will so adored. Snoopy lay spreadeagled on the bed, with his vast inflated belly.

‘Oh God,’ groaned Ricky, finding Will’s piggy bank empty on the window sill. Chessie’d even broken into that.

Stumbling into his dressing room, he found the photographs of his ponies still up, but the pictures of Chessie and Will once again removed. Next door, in the bedroom, he nearly fell over Millicent’s basket lined with his old dressing gown, but found all Chessie’s clothes and her jewellery gone. And there, mocking him, was the huge four-poster with its blue chintz curtains covered in pink peonies and roses – he remembered how she’d accused him in that terrible last row of being such a failure in bed. Hopelessly overexcited by her, he supposed he had often come too quickly. The glow-stars Chessie had stuck on the ceiling had long since lost their luminosity. Howling like a dog, Ricky threw himself down, burying his face in the pillow for some faint trace of the Diorissimo she always wore, but there was nothing.