Polo

19

Polo is largely a matter of pony power. Having left the Army, Drew Benedict had spent a great deal of Sukey’s money buying really good ponies. With these he turned his game around and was gratified when his handicap was raised to eight in the autumn listings a year later. The following year, after an excellent May and June playing for David Waterlane, Drew felt he ought to put something back into the game. He therefore agreed to coach the Rutshire Pony Club for the polo championships, the finals of which were held at Cowdray at the end of July. Drew also quite liked an excuse to get away from Sukey on summer evenings. Used to commanding platoons, he was determined to knock the Rutshire teams into shape. One of his crosses was Perdita Macleod, who had now been working full time for Ricky for nine months and felt she knew everything.

Perdita, on the other hand, even though she was playing with seventeen to twenty-one year olds, regarded playing for the Pony Club as deeply infra dig. She loathed being parted from Ricky for a second, and Felicia, the ponies Ricky and Drew had lent her were still very green.

Consequently she never stopped bellyaching to Daisy about how all the other Pony Club members had at least three ponies, and how humiliating it was having to hack to meetings when everyone else rolled up either in the latest horse boxes with grooms, or driving Porsches with telephones. Nor, she told Daisy, did that ‘bloody old geriatric’ Drew Benedict ever stop picking on her, and all the other boys in the team were such wimps. ‘One of them started crying yesterday, when I hit him with my stick. It was only because he was using his elbows all the time. I tried to explain to Drew, but he just sent me off.’

‘Aren’t any of the boys attractive?’ enquired Daisy hopefully.

‘Not compared with Ricky,’ snapped Perdita, ‘and they all think Drew’s absolutely marvellous, because he’s an eight and a Falklands hero and all. He’s such a bastard.’

‘You’re always saying that about Ricky,’ said Daisy reasonably.

‘But I’m madly in love with Ricky, so I put up with it.’

It was nearly two and a half years since Hamish had walked out on Daisy and she could no longer claim to be madly in love with him, but she missed the presence of a man in her life, and her self-confidence was in tatters. By some miracle she had hung on to her job with the Caring Chauvinist, but she found it exhausting coping with that, and running the house, and looking after Perdita, and more and more after Violet and Eddie. Now Wendy had a daughter, called Bridget, after Biddy Macleod, Hamish seemed less interested in his older children. Snow Cottage simply wasn’t big enough for all of them, particularly when Perdita, who still hadn’t forgiven her mother, was always banging doors and making scenes.

Daisy, ever hopeful and optimistic, however, still made heroic efforts to win Perdita round. She couldn’t afford a car yet, but on the day of the final trials for the Pony Club Championships, which were held at Rutshire Polo Ground, she and Ethel took two buses and walked a mile in pouring rain to lend Perdita support.

Perdita, however, was deeply embarrassed to see her mother arriving in unsuitably colourful clothes and dripping wet hair, like a superannuated hippie. Why the hell couldn’t she turn up in a Barbour, a headscarf and a Volvo like everyone else’s mother? Nervous because she was due to play in two chukkas’ time, Perdita refused even to acknowledge Daisy’s presence.

Momentarily the rain had stopped. It was a hot, very muggy evening. The sun, making a guest appearance between frowning petrol-blue clouds, floodlit the dog daisies and hogweed in the long grass and turned the pitch a stinging viridian. A sweet waft of lime blossom mingled with the rank, sexy smell of drying nettles and elder flowers.

Daisy had brought her sketch pad, but found it difficult to capture the action and hold on to a straining Ethel. Perhaps she could let Ethel off. There seemed to be an awful lot of dogs around for her to play with. Liberated, Ethel frisked with a Jack Russell in a red, spotted scarf and wolfed up a half-eaten beefburger bun. Then, as the players came thundering down the boards, she joined the stampede, trying to steal the ball and nearly bringing down the pony of a fat child with pigtails, whose mother promptly started yelling at Daisy.

Fortunately her torrent of abuse was diluted by a downpour of even more torrential rain. All the mothers raced for their Volvos as the players struggled over to another part of the field. Sheltering her sketch pad under her shirt, Daisy looked helplessly around. She had no mackintosh. She’d just managed to catch a joyously soaked Ethel when a blond man with a flat cap pulled over his straight nose asked her if she’d like to sit in his Land-Rover.

‘It’s all right. I don’t mind the dog.’

Ethel clambered into the back and slobbered down his neck.

‘You are kind,’ said Daisy gratefully. ‘Being a Pisces, I normally love rain, but this shirt’s a bit see-through when it’s wet.’

She was wearing a fringed dark purple midi-skirt and a pink muslin shirt from the early seventies, which had tiny mirrors sewn into it, and which was clinging unashamedly to her breasts. Her dark hair fell damp and straight, just grazing her nipples.

‘You look like Midi Ha Ha,’ said the blond man, smiling slightly, but when Daisy unearthed a bottle of made-up vodka and orange from the chaos of her bag he shook his head.

Helping herself, Daisy noticed he never took his eyes off the play and was now turning on the windscreen wipers to watch a dark-haired boy coax a fat roan pony down the field. ‘That child’s definitely team potential, but the pony’s an absolute bitch, I must have a word with his parents. And Christ, that pony’s improved since last year.’ Then, consulting a list on the dashboard, ‘No, it hasn’t, it’s another pony. Do you want my coat?’

‘I’m fine.’ Daisy took another swig out of her bottle. ‘Midi Ha Ha. Laughing Vodka. At least I can’t be done for being drunk in charge of a setter.’

‘Nice dog,’ said the blond man, putting back a hand and rubbing Ethel behind the ears.

‘Isn’t she?’ agreed Daisy, who was beginning to perk up.

She noticed that the man was very handsome in a stolid, heavy-lidded, way. She would have to mix Manganese blue with a little Payne’s grey to get the colour of his eyes. He had a lovely mouth and lovely muscular thighs. Daisy suddenly wanted to check her face, and when he went off at the end of the chukka to talk to the next group playing, which included Perdita, she toned down her rosy cheeks and drenched her neck with Je Reviens, but failed to put the top back on properly, so it stank out the Land-Rover.

‘Je Reviens,’ said the blond man, sniffing as he got back inside. ‘And I did.’

‘You’re too young to have a child playing?’ asked Daisy, fishing.

‘Yes.’ Checking the list of players again, he opened the car door, yelling, ‘For Christ’s sake, Mark, you’re not on your man.’

‘Ought to be called Un-Mark,’ said Daisy, taking another swig. ‘I’m dying to find out which is Drew Benedict.’

‘Really?’

‘Ghastly old fossil,’ went on Daisy happily. ‘He’s giving Perdita such a hard time. I would have thought having worked for Ricky for nearly two years, she might be allowed to evolve her own style.’

She offered the diminishing bottle to him again.

Again he shook his head.

‘How’d you get on with Ricky?’ he asked.

‘Never see him. I just pay his farm manager our rent. He rides past occasionally. He still looks pretty miserable, but Dancer seems to have cheered him up, and the specialist says he’ll definitely be playing again next year.’

‘Then we’ll all have to look to our laurels,’ said the blond man, ‘but he’s not a good teacher. Too impatient and introverted, too obsessed with his own game.’

He’s got a sexy voice, thought Daisy, soft and very quiet. She wished she knew if he were married.

‘There are lots of boys playing,’ she said in surprise. ‘Perdita seems to be the only girl.’

‘Boys tend to avoid the Pony Club, because they’re always being told to keep their toes up and clean tack. Give them a stick and ball and it’s a different story. Some of them are pretty bloody impossible when they arrive. No idea how to play as a team or to think of other people. Most of them get far too much pocket money.’

‘Not Perdita’s problem,’ said Daisy.

‘Nor enough discipline. Parents’ marriages are so often breaking up.’

‘Hum – Perdita’s problem,’ sighed Daisy whose tongue had been totally loosened by drink on no lunch. ‘Everyone keeps telling me she needs a father. But it’s tricky if you’re a single parent – isn’t that a ghastly expression? If you go out at night looking for a father for your children, everyone brands you a whore. People like Philippa Mannering and Miss Lodsworth. D’you know them?’

‘Only too well.’

‘And if you’re too miserable because you’ve been deserted, people think you’re a drag and don’t ask you to parties. And if you’re too jolly, wives think you’re after their husbands. I feel like taking a pinger to parties to stop myself talking to anyone’s husband longer than two minutes. Even girlfriends I know really well get insanely jealous. Mind you, the husbands think you’re after them as well. If you don’t have a man, even the plainest ones think you’re dying for it.’

‘And are you?’ asked the blond man, who was watching Perdita jump the boards and execute a particularly dazzling back shot. ‘Good girl, she kept her head down.’

‘Not really, but on lovely days you’re suddenly overwhelmed with longing to be in love again.’

He turned and looked at her. Did she detect compassion or was it slight wistfulness in those incredibly direct blue eyes? She was just thinking how easy he’d be to fall in love with, and that she really mustn’t start cradle-snatching when he said, ‘Perdita’s seriously good. She’s already been picked for the Jack Gannon, that’s the eighteen to twenty-one group. But she ought to apply for a Pony Club polo scholarship.’

‘What’d that entail?’

‘Six months in New Zealand or Australia. The BPA pay for her ticket out there and put her in a yard. She’d get pocket money. In return she’d look after the ponies, school them and play polo.’

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ sighed Daisy, thinking longingly of the peace at home; then added hastily, ‘For Perdita, of course.’

‘They have to be heavily vetted beforehand, so they don’t let the side down. Some winners in the past have been temperamental and failed to get up in the morning, but on the whole they go out as boys and come back as men.’

‘I hope Perdita doesn’t grow hairs on her chest,’ giggled Daisy. ‘Sorry, I’m being silly. It’s a wonderful idea, but I’m sure Drew Benedict won’t allow it.’

‘Why not?’

‘He thinks she’s useless.’

The blond man looked faintly amused. ‘There’s the bell,’ then, as a woman strode past in plus fours with an Eton crop, added, ‘and there’s the DC. I’d better go and have a word with her.’

‘Looks more AC to me,’ said Daisy, draining the last of the vodka and orange.

The sinking sun had appeared again, gilding the wheat fields and splodging inky shadows in the rain-soaked trees. Daisy got unsteadily out of the Land-Rover. Next moment Ethel nearly pulled her over as Perdita galloped up.

‘Hello, Mum. You’ve got tomato skin on your front tooth. What on earth were you talking to Drew about for so long.’

‘Drew?’ said Daisy faintly. ‘But you said he was old.’

‘So he is, at least twenty-nine, but I really like him now. He’s picked me for the Jack Gannon, and I’m four months under age, and he says Hermia’s really improved.’

Daisy was almost too embarrassed to accept a lift home from Drew.

‘I had no idea,’ she mumbled.

‘I’ll have to be a bit nicer to Perdita in future,’ he said drily.

Perdita was in such a good mood that she and Daisy actually had supper together for the first time in months.

‘Er – is Drew Benedict married?’ asked Daisy as she mashed the potato.

‘To a terrific Sloane called Sukey,’ said Perdita, not looking up from Horse and Hound. ‘She’s just had a baby – it popped out during the semi-finals of the Queen’s Cup. If it had been a girl, Drew wanted to call her Chukka. Bas said it ought to be called Chuck-up because it’s always being sick.’

Daisy added too much milk to the potatoes. ‘Is she pretty?’

‘Sukey? No-oo,’ said Perdita scornfully. ‘Drew married her for her money.’

‘I thought he was gorg – I mean quite attractive,’ said Daisy.

‘Too straight for me,’ said Perdita. ‘I wonder if I ought to take up weight-lifting.’

Daisy nearly said Perdita could start off by weight lifting some of her belongings upstairs, but desisted because it was such heaven to be on speaking terms again.

Encouraged by Drew, Daisy applied for a Pony Club scholarship for Perdita, and they were duly summoned to Kirtlington to meet the Committee in early July. As their appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, Sukey Benedict asked them to lunch beforehand. To the Caring Chauvinist’s extreme irritation, Daisy took the day off and hired a car.

Very out of practice at driving, she had several near-misses on the motorway and her nerves weren’t helped by Perdita spending most of the journey with her hands over her eyes, as Daisy ground recalcitrant gears and proceeded in a succession of jerks down the High Streets of Oxfordshire villages.

Having thought about Drew Benedict rather too much in the last fortnight, Daisy was fascinated to see what Sukey was like. But, as she came down the steps of the beautiful russet Georgian house, first impressions were very depressing. Only five weeks after having a baby, Sukey’s figure was back to an enviable slimness. The perfect pink-and-white skin had no need of make-up. Her collar-length, mousey hair was drawn off her forehead. She wore a blue denim skirt on the knee and a striped shirt with the collar turned up. Noting the lack of creases, the air of calm efficiency, the brisk, high-pitched voice, Daisy thought gloomily that Sukey couldn’t be more different from her. If this was Drew’s type, she didn’t stand a chance. Then she felt desperately guilty. Who was she, who’d been crucified by Hamish’s departure, to hanker after someone else’s husband?

Escaping into the downstairs loo, which had photographs of Drew in various polo teams all over the walls, Daisy repaired her pink, shiny face. It was so hot outside that she had settled for an orange cheesecloth caftan, which she’d jacked in with a belt of linked gold hippos. The gathers over the bosom made her look as though she was the one breast-feeding. She wore brown sandals, and tried to arrange the cross-gartering over two scabs where she’d cut herself shaving. The telephone had rung just as she’d finished washing her hair, so it had dried all wild and was now held back with an orange-and-shocking-pink striped scarf, off which Ethel had chewed one of the corners. Gold-hooped earrings completed the picture. I look awful, thought Daisy, particularly as Perdita, who’d be expected to ride, looked absolutely ravishing in a dark blue shirt and white breeches.

Coming out of the loo, she found Drew, looking equally ravishing in a blue striped shirt rolled up to show very brown arms. He had that high-coloured English complexion, which looks so much better with a suntan.

He took her into the sitting room, which Daisy was comforted to see was absolute hell – far too much eau-de-Nil and yellow and ghastly paintings of polo matches interspersed with some excellent watercolours. Over the fireplace was a very glamorized portrait of Sukey in a pale blue ball dress and some very good sapphires. Over the desk was a portrait of Drew, probably painted in his late teens. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, and his blond hair flopped over his eyes, which were smiling with a lazy insolence.

‘Johnny Macklow?’ said Daisy, impressed.

Drew nodded. ‘Good girl. Only had one sitting, spent the whole time fending the old bugger off. Refused to go back for any more. My mother was furious. Vodka and orange, wasn’t it?’

‘Not too large,’ chided Sukey. ‘She’s got to talk sense to the Committee later.’

‘Need a stiff one to cope with that lot,’ said Drew.

Having handed the glass to Daisy, he turned to Perdita: ‘Like to come and see the yard?’

‘Lunch at one fifteen on the dot. Don’t be too long,’ ordered Sukey.

After they’d gone Sukey paced up and down sipping Evian water. Out of the window, Daisy admired the incredibly tidy garden. Not a weed dared to show its face. Beyond, a heat haze shimmered above the fields which sloped upwards to a wood which seemed about to explode in midgy darkness. On the piano was a picture of a baby in a silver frame.

‘He’s sweet,’ said Daisy.

‘Just beginning to smile,’ said Sukey, her voice softening.

‘And you’ve got your figure back so amazingly.’

‘Exercise and not drinking helps.’

‘It must,’ said Daisy guiltily, taking a huge gulp of her vodka and orange.

Sukey had reached the window in her pacing and was about to start on the return journey.

‘Look, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I know Drew’s frite-fly keen for Perdita to get this scholarship.’

‘He’s been so kind,’ mumbled Daisy.

‘But the Committee are really rather stuffy.’ Sukey was like a comely steamroller. ‘I honestly think you ought to wear something more conventional. That orange dress would be lovely at a party, but it makes you look a bit arty and hippy. And you should wear tights.’

‘They all had holes,’ said Daisy, flushing.

‘Let’s just pop upstairs and see if we can find something more suitable.’

‘But you’re miles thinner than me.’

Before she knew it Daisy was upstairs in the tidiest bedroom she had ever seen. Even the few pots of make-up on the blue-flowered dressing table seemed to be standing to attention. The double bed was huge too. Lucky thing to be made love to by Drew on it, Daisy was appalled to find herself thinking.

‘When I was having Jamie, I had this lovely dress, which I hardly got out of,’ said Sukey, raking coat hangers along a brass bar. ‘Ah, here it is.’

Triumphantly she extracted a navy-blue cotton dress with a big white sailor collar, presumably to distract from the bulge.

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ protested Daisy.

But, as if mesmerized, she found herself getting out of her orange caftan and darting almost minnow-like into the navy-blue dress, so ashamed was she of the greyness of her pants, which had practically detached themselves from the elastic.

‘It really isn’t me,’ she protested.

‘It is. You need the whole look,’ insisted Sukey bossily. ‘Here’s a pair of tights. They’ve even got a darn; the Committee’ll like that and these shoes will be perfect. I love flatties, don’t you? But a little heel’s better for this dress. They do fit well. And the earrings don’t really go, or the scarf. Just let me brush your hair back and put on this Alice band. There! Don’t you look charming? Neat but not gaudy.’

Daisy gazed at herself in the mirror. Her forehead was unnaturally white where her fringe had been drawn back. She suppressed a terrible desire to fold her arms and break into a hornpipe.

‘It’s truly not me.’

‘It’ll certainly be the Committee,’ said Sukey firmly. ‘You want Perdita to get this scholarship, don’t you?’

There was a knock and a Filipino maid put a shiny dark head round the door.

‘It’s ready, is it, Conchita? We’ll be down in a sec. Can you tell Mr Benedict?’

Drew didn’t recognize Daisy when she crept in.

‘Where’s Daisy got to?’ he said, breaking off a grape.

‘Christ!’ said Perdita. ‘You’ve been Sloaned, Mum.’

‘Doesn’t she look nice?’ said Sukey.

‘She looks gross.’

Sukey’s lips tightened. Drew looked at Daisy incredulously, torn between rage and a desire to laugh. ‘But that’s your maternity dress,’ he added to Sukey.

‘And as my disgusting stepfather walked out two and a half years ago,’ pointed out Perdita, ‘the Committee are going to think it pretty odd that Mum’s got a bun in the oven.’

‘She doesn’t look at all pregnant,’ said Sukey.

‘She looks like Jolly Jack Tar,’ snapped Perdita. ‘Shiver your timbers, Mum.’

‘Shut up, Perdita.’ Fighting a fearful urge to burst into tears, Daisy giggled instead.

‘Daisy looked lovely before,’ said Sukey, plunging a knife into the yellow, red and green surface of the quiche, ‘but you know how stuffy Brigadier Canford and Major Ashton are.’

‘Charlie Canford’s such a DOM he’d have much preferred Daisy as she was,’ said Drew coldly.

No-one could have told from his face that he was absolutely livid with Sukey, but he didn’t want a row, which would upset Daisy and gee Perdita up before the interview.

Patting the chair beside him, he told Daisy, ‘If Perdita gets the scholarship, Sukey and I may well be going out to New Zealand at the same time to buy some ponies, so we can keep an eye on her.’

‘Not if you’re going to dress me in sailor suits,’ said Perdita, giving a bit of pastry to Drew’s slavering yellow Labrador.

‘I don’t think Perdita ought to have wine if she’s going to ride,’ said Sukey. ‘Would you like salad with or after, Daisy?’

Ignoring her, Drew filled up Perdita’s glass, then, seeing Daisy’s eyes had suddenly filled with tears, asked her if she’d like another vodka and orange.

‘Another thing to remember at the interview,’ said Sukey pointedly, ‘is to let Perdita do the talking. Some mothers answer all the time for the children, which makes the Committee think the child lacks initiative.’

‘What have you done to my Mum, Suke,’ sang Perdita.

‘Shut up, Perdita,’ said Drew and Daisy simultaneously.

‘And do try and appear really keen, Perdita,’ advised Sukey. ‘The Committee loves enthusiasm.’

The interview lasted half an hour. Very kindly, they asked Daisy about her financial circumstances. She stuck out her darned leg, hoping to give an impression of genteel poverty, smiled so much her face ached and, despite Sukey’s warnings, found herself talking too much to compensate for Perdita’s bored indifference.

Brigadier Canford, who was indeed a lover of pretty girls, looked at Perdita’s impassive, dead-pan face, and had a strange feeling he’d seen her before somewhere.

‘And what d’you want to get out of polo?’

‘I want to go to ten.’

‘Bit ambitious. Nearest a woman’s ever got is five.’

Out of the window Perdita could see children riding in pairs and dribbling balls in and out of soap boxes.

‘I know, but there was a piece in a polo magazine the other day saying many women were ten in beauty, but never could be ten in polo. Fucking patronizing.’

‘Perdita,’ murmured Daisy.

‘I hope you wouldn’t use language like that in New Zealand, young lady,’ said the Brigadier. ‘You’d be representing your country, you know.’

‘Still patronizing.’

Later they watched her playing a chukka with seven other contenders for the scholarship.

Brigadier Canford admired the lightning reflexes, the way she adjusted to a not-very-easy pony in seconds and showed up the others as she ruthlessly shoved them out of the way and cat-and-mouse-whipped the ball away just as they were about to hit it.

‘Wow,’ he said, turning to Drew. ‘I’m not sure she couldn’t go to ten, and she’d certainly be ten in looks if she smiled more often.’

Puzzled, he shook his pewter-grey head. ‘I can’t think where I’ve seen her before.’