Polo

22

Ricky was so furious with Perdita for deliberately sabotaging her scholarship that he gave her the sack.

Even the sight of Little Chef and the ponies longingly looking out for her every morning didn’t make him relent.

‘He’s a hard man,’ said plump Louisa, who also missed Perdita dreadfully. Only the sullen, scrawny Frances was delighted.

At home Perdita behaved more atrociously than ever before, storming round the house, refusing to get a job and screaming at Violet and Eddie when they returned bronzed from a month in LA with Hamish and Wendy. Nor were matters helped by Violet gaining ten ‘A’s in her O levels, losing a stone and getting her first boyfriend, who rang her constantly at all hours of the night from Beverly Hills. Violet and Eddie then went back to their respective boarding schools, paid for by Granny Macleod, which only stepped up Perdita’s paranoia and jealousy.

At the end of September Violet came home for a long weekend and Perdita was so bloody-minded that in despair Daisy escaped to Harvest Festival for an hour of peace. Eldercombe Church was packed. Miss Lodsworth, who organized the flower rota, had excelled herself. Huge tawny chrysanthemums big as setting suns, gold dahlias like lions’ manes, yellow roses, sheaves of corn, briar and elder glowing with berries all brought a glow to the ancient yellow stone. Every window-ledge was crammed with apples gleaming like rubies, vast vegetable marrows and pumpkins and, more prosaically, tinned fruit, sardines and baked beans. Some joker had even added a tin of Doggie Dins.

Daisy also noticed, as she slid into an empty pew at the back, that the church was unusually full of attractive women. There was Philippa Mannering looking avid in a beautifully cut check suit and a brown beret at a rakish angle. There was the pretty girl from the village shop wearing an emerald-green dress more suited to a wedding. Exotic scent mingled with the more religious smells of incense, furniture polish and veneration. Putting paid to Daisy’s hour of peace were also hoards of children clambering over pews, chasing each other down the aisles, punching their mothers, and having to be repeatedly hushed for talking. Not children used to being brought to church, thought Daisy. Then she realized she’d forgotten to kneel down when she came in, and blushing, sank to her knees.

Oh, please God, she prayed, shake Perdita out of this ghastly mood and make her happy again, and look after darling Violet and Eddie, and Gainsborough and Ethel, and please God, if you think it’s right, let me fall in love with a man who isn’t married, who falls in love with me and don’t make it too long.

Hell, she’d picked a pew next to the radiator. She’d be as red as those beetroots in the window in a minute. Please God, don’t make me so vain, she asked, scrambling to her feet with the rest of the congregation as the organ launched into ‘We plough the fields and scatter’.

Then Daisy twigged the reason for all those glammed-up women. Far ahead, in the France-Lynch pew, poignant because he was the sole inhabitant, stood Ricky. He was looking unusually smart in a pin-stripe suit and a black tie which was the only colour he’d worn since Will died. With the pile of huge marrows, the whole service seemed like some ancient fertility rite, with Ricky the unattainable corn king whom everyone wanted.

‘He only is the maker of all things near and far,’ bellowed Miss Lodsworth, totally out of tune. ‘He paints the wayside flower, He lights the evening star.’

Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. What beautiful words. Would she ever find time to paint wayside flowers again? Ricky certainly lit the Evening Star for Perdita. She must ask him round for a drink.

The gay Vicar, who loved the sound of his own voice, took a long time over the service and Daisy’s thoughts started to wander. Tears filled her eyes again as she thought of the little gravestone in the churchyard: In loving memory of William Richard France-Lynch, 1978–81.

Oh, poor Ricky. Daisy blew her nose on a piece of blue loo paper. She felt even sorrier for him with that stammer when he went up to read the first lesson, and had to announce that it came from the eighth chapter of Deuteronomy, a word which took him four goes. His face was impassive, his hands steady. Only the long pin-striped right leg, shuddering uncontrollably, betrayed his nerves. Now he was wrestling with the bit about ‘God leading thee into the w-w-wilderness for forty years to humble thee and to p-p-prove thee.’

Comparing his grey frozen features with the carved stone angel beside the lectern, looking at the long lit-up scar, and the furrowed forehead as he wrestled with the difficult words, Daisy thought he didn’t need to humble or prove himself any more. She supposed because he was ostensibly Lord of the Manor, he felt he had to do it. Dancer would have had much more fun.

Daisy was sweating for him, and as he stumbled over the word ‘pomegranates’, she could feel the collective goodwill of the painted ladies in the congregation urging him home like the favourite in the Grand National.

The Vicar then took the text for his sermon from the second lesson, ‘God loveth a cheerful giver’, and was so carried away by his own rhetoric that he absent-mindedly helped himself to most of the grapes hanging down from the top of the pulpit.

Daisy was screwing up her courage to accost Ricky and ask him for a drink after church when the Vicar launched into the final prayer about being made flesh, and she suddenly remembered the vast ox heart cooking in the oven for Ethel, which would burn dry if it wasn’t taken out, so she belted home. Anyway Ricky had been buttonholed outside the church by the gay Vicar and scores of eager ladies.

‘Come to dinner this evening, just kitchen sups,’ Philippa was saying.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got to work,’ Ricky said brusquely.

‘I’d simply love to,’ said the Vicar.

Daisy was still giggling when she got home to Snow Cottage and made the mistake at lunch of telling Perdita that Ricky had read the lesson.

‘Did you speak to him?’ demanded Perdita, dropping her forkful of braised fennel with a clatter. ‘What did he say about me? Did you ask him for a drink?’

‘I didn’t get near him. He was surrounded . . .’ Daisy was about to say ‘by women’, but hastily changed it to ‘by members of the congregation as I was leaving, and I had to get back for Ethel’s heart.’

‘What about my fucking heart?’ screamed Perdita. ‘You don’t give a shit that it’s broken. You’re so bloody wet, one could grow waterlilies all over you,’ and, storming out of the kitchen, slammed the door behind her.

‘Why don’t you stand up to her, Mum?’ asked Violet.

I must not cry, Daisy gritted her teeth. After she’d cleared up lunch she hoisted Ethel’s huge ox heart out of its water on to the chopping board. Usually she got through cutting it up by fantasizing that she was Christian Barnard saving the life of Francis Bacon or Lucian Freud. Today it didn’t work, the tears started flowing again. I mustn’t go to pieces, she whispered, tomorrow I’ll be brave, and ask Ricky round for a drink.

Fortunately the Caring Chauvinist was away the following day, but Ricky’s number was always engaged. Only when she checked with directory enquiries did she learn that the receiver was off the hook.

Getting home from the office, she found Violet and Perdita having another screaming match.

‘I’m not coming home at half-term if she’s here, Mum,’ complained Violet. ‘She’s destroying all of us.’

Having cleaned her teeth, washed, put on a bit of make-up and brushed her hair, Daisy set out up the ride to Robinsgrove. The sun was sinking in a red glow, the lights were coming out in Eldercombe Village. Once more Daisy was knocked out by the fecundity of everything, the blackthorn purple with sloes, plump hazel nuts already shredded by squirrels, elderberries shiny as caviar hanging like shower fittings from their crimson stems. She ought to make elderberry wine, then she wouldn’t spend so much on vodka.

Ethel bounced ahead, crashing joyfully through the russet bracken, then splashing and rolling in the stream, spooking as ponies loomed out of the dusk. Ahead towered Robinsgrove – such a large house for one unhappy man.

I must be brave for Perdita’s sake, said Daisy through chattering teeth as she pressed the door bell. He can only tell me to eff off. Inside she heard frantic barking. The door opened an inch.

‘Yes,’ said an incredibly unfriendly voice.

Little Chef had other ideas. Barging through the gap, he hurled himself on Ethel in a frenzy of tightly curled tail-wagging. Then, on tiptoe with excitement, he danced round her licking her eyes and ears.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Ricky. ‘C-come in.’

‘Ethel’s soaking.’

‘She’s OK. Little Chef seems to like her.’

Following him through the dark, panelled and tapestried hall, Daisy noticed the telephone off the hook in the drawing room, then froze. Ahead on the kitchen table lay a twelve bore. Ricky must be about to commit suicide. She must get him out of the house.

‘I came to ask you to supper,’ she babbled looking back into the drawing room. ‘You must come at once. Autumn’s awfully depressing, it affects lots of people. I’m sure things’ll seem better tomorrow.’

Ricky followed her gaze.

‘Oh, that accounts for the peace today. I must have left it off the hook this morning. Rupert rang about a pony. I went out to the yard to check some detail.’

He replaced the receiver. Instantly it rang – Philippa trying to fix up a dinner date.

‘I’m working tonight,’ snapped Ricky, ‘and next week I’m going to Argentina.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘Fucking woman.’

He was going to shoot himself and Little Chef, thought Daisy numbly.

‘I don’t think you should be on your own,’ she said in what she hoped was a calming voice. ‘I know you’ll never get over what’s happened. But nice things do happen. They played “Invitation to the Waltz” on Radio 3 this morning’ – she was speaking faster and faster, edging towards the gun – ‘such a heavenly tune, I played it at school, and suddenly found myself waltzing round the kitchen, then Ethel leapt up and waltzed with me, and I thought perhaps there is a life after Hamish. If you came to supper now, you could watch television, and Violet learnt how to play poker in California, she’s teaching me, we could have a game and Perdita would love to see you.’ Her voice trailed off when she saw Ricky looking at her in utter amazement.

‘What are you going on about?’

Daisy pointed nervously at the gun. ‘I think you should put that horrid thing away.’

Suddenly Ricky smiled with genuine amusement. It was as though the carved angel by the lectern had suddenly come to life.

‘You thought I was going to top myself. I’ve been shooting partridge with Rupert. I was cleaning my gun. Look.’ He held up his oily hands.

‘Oh, gosh,’ said Daisy appalled. ‘How stupid of me!’

‘Anyway, you can’t commit suicide with a twelve bore, although they’re always doing it in books. Look.’ He picked up the gun, and held it to his temples, ‘One’s arms simply aren’t long enough to pull the trigger.’

Daisy had gone absolutely scarlet.

‘I was just worried, with the telephone off the hook and all.’

‘I’m quite OK,’ said Ricky, slotting the gun back in its case, ‘and I would like to come to supper.’

‘You would?’ Daisy’s jaw dropped. All they had in the house was six eggs for scrambling and the remains of Ethel’s heart. As if reading her thoughts, Ricky said, ‘Better still, we’ll go out.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Daisy, appalled. ‘I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t dream of foisting myself on you. And the children . . .’

‘Are quite capable of looking after themselves. I got my licence back last week, so it’s a treat to drive someone.’

‘I’m not dressed.’

‘Nor am I.’ He was wearing faded olive-green cords, a check shirt and a dark brown jersey.

Daisy would so like to have got tarted up, but at least her hair was newly washed that morning and her teeth were clean. But Perdita would never forgive her for going out with Ricky.

‘I’ll just wash,’ he said, ‘and you can ring home.’

Daisy was desperately relieved to get Violet, who was wildly encouraging. ‘Go for it, Mum, he’s gorgeous. Got yourself a decent date at last.’

Ricky took her to a French restaurant in Rutminster with low beams, scrubbed pine tables, sawdust on the floor, rooms leading one into another and mulberry red walls covered with hunting prints. The head waiter, enchanted to see Ricky after three years’ absence, kissed him on both cheeks, enquired after his elbow, and found him a quiet corner.

Daisy was mildly encouraged that Ricky deliberately sat on her right, on his non-scar side. He ordered her a large vodka and orange and Perrier for himself. At first the pauses were dreadfully long.

‘D’you miss not drinking very much?’

He nodded. ‘I’m lousy at small talk, and it helped.’

‘Couldn’t you just drink occasionally when you need it – like at parties?’

‘Once I start I can’t stop – like Kinta.’ He uncrossed a pair of knives.

‘I suppose you feel it’s a way of making sure it never happens again.’ She flushed as red as the mulberry walls. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t remind you.’

Ricky broke up a piece of brown bread, but didn’t eat it.

‘Does it get better?’ asked Daisy.

‘Not much.’

The flame from a scarlet candle lit up the stubble darkening his chin and the even blacker rings under his eyes.

Oh, Christ, that’s torn it, thought Daisy.

‘Are you ready to order, Meester France-Lynch?’ asked the head waiter. ‘The moules marinières are very very nice.’

‘I’ll have that,’ said Ricky, then turned to Daisy.

Oh help, she thought. One of the things that had driven Hamish crackers was her inability to make up her mind.

‘No hurry,’ said Ricky. ‘Give us a few more minutes.’

‘I’d like mushrooms à la grecque,’ said Daisy quickly,

‘And to follow, les perdreaux sont superbes. We serve them stuffed with foie gras and cooked in Madeira.’

‘Partridge,’ explained Ricky. ‘They do them very well here.’

Daisy nodded hastily. ‘I’d like that.’ Anything not to irritate.

‘And don’t overcook them,’ said Ricky. ‘And we’ll have a bottle of the Number Fourteen.’

‘I’ll be plastered,’ said Daisy, aghast.

‘No-one could accuse me of being a half-b-b-bottle man,’ said Ricky. ‘What was your husband like?’

‘Very half-bottle, very noble-looking, very serious. He thought I was too silly for words, but he made it possible for me to keep Perdita, so I’ll always be grateful.’

‘You miss him?’

‘I miss all the things he did – like policies and banks and keeping the children in order. And I miss having a pair of arms round me. It’s like being a house without a roof.’

She was boiling. She’d have to take off her thick blue jersey soon, and she couldn’t remember how many buttons had come off the shirt underneath, and it was sleeveless, and she hadn’t shaved her armpits since Philippa asked her to supper last week.

‘It’s such a pity,’ she gabbled on, ‘one can’t go out and buy a new husband or wife the next day, like you do with puppies or kittens. I’m sure it’d be much easier to help one get over things.’

‘I don’t want a new wife,’ said Ricky flatly.

‘No,’ said Daisy humbly, thinking of poor Perdita. ‘I can see that. Chessie was so beautiful. I’ve seen pictures.’

‘Better in the flesh. Her colouring was so p-p-perfect. It was my fault I neglected her. I was foul-tempered and arrogant and polo-mad. I never had any money to buy her the things she wanted.’

She had you, Daisy wanted to say. It was no good, she’d have to take her jersey off. Horrors, two middle buttons were missing to show an ancient grey bra. Hastily she breathed in and clamped her arms to her sides to hide the stubble. Then, seeing Ricky looking at her in amazement, said quickly, ‘Bart Alderton sounds hell.’

‘He’s a sadist,’ said Ricky as the waiter arrived with their first course. ‘That’s why I must get her back.’

And while the black mussel shells rose in the spare plate, like cars on a scrap heap, he told Daisy about Chessie’s last taunt.

‘But that’s wonderful,’ said Daisy, ‘so romantic. You can win the Gold Cup and the Westchester, and go to ten like the labours of Hercules. I’d rather do that than kill the Hydra. You must do it.’

Ricky passed Daisy a mussel. ‘They’re very good. I will if Dancer has anything to do with it. Now they’ve lifted the ban on my going abroad, I’m off to Argentina next month to squander his millions on some really good ponies.’

‘Perdita adored Dancer,’ said Daisy. ‘These mushrooms are bliss. In fact, the whole thing is a real treat.’ She took a huge gulp of wine.

‘How is she?’ asked Ricky casually.

‘Suffering from massive withdrawal symptoms. She misses you – all,’ she added hastily.

‘I miss her,’ said Ricky. ‘She’s a menace, but she makes me laugh.’

‘I wish she occasionally made us laugh at home,’ sighed Daisy.

‘Giving you a hard time, is she?’ Ricky filled up Daisy’s glass.

It was not in Daisy’s nature to bitch, but faced with Ricky’s almost clinical detachment, everything came pouring out – Perdita’s endless tantrums, her impossible demands, her spite to the other children.

‘I haven’t got many wits, but I’m at the end of them. That was lovely.’ She handed her plate to the waiter. ‘Hamish going affected her dreadfully. They fought the whole time, but underneath she was frantic for his love and approval.’

‘Who was her father?’

‘It’s so shaming,’ whispered Daisy.

‘Can’t be that bad.’

She was saved by the waiter shimmying up with the partridges, making a great show of how pink they were inside, pointing out the foie gras stuffing, the celeriac purée and the exquisitely dark and glistening Madeira sauce. But the moment he left Ricky returned to the attack.

‘So, what happened?’

Being Daisy, she blurted it all out. ‘I should have told Perdita years ago, but I’m such a drip I funked it.’

Tears were flooding her face and she wiped them frantically away with the sleeve of her jersey. Aware a drama was taking place and dying to know if this was Ricky’s latest, the waiter sidled over.

‘Everything all right, Meester Franch-Lynch?’

‘Perfect, now push off.’ Ricky put a hand over Daisy’s, a large rough hand with callouses beneath the base of each long finger from endlessly holding a polo stick.

‘You are a good mother,’ he said gently. ‘I can read between Perdita’s lies. I know what sacrifices you’ve made, working in that ghastly Christmas pudding factory, not buying any new clothes for years.’ He picked up the frayed, very pointed collar of her shirt.

‘I didn’t know I was going out to dinner,’ said Daisy defensively.

‘Course you didn’t.’

‘I don’t know what to do with her.’ Daisy blew her nose on her red-checked table napkin, then realized what she’d done. ‘Oh God, I’ll wash it and send it back.’

‘She needs polo,’ said Ricky, ‘but serious polo. She ought to be playing ten chukkas a day with really good players, and she ought to get miles away from you so she can’t kick the shit out of you.’ As he filled her glass again he knocked over the salt cellar and quickly chucked the spilt salt over his left shoulder. ‘Are you painting?’

‘Not much.’ Daisy was pleating the edge of the tablecloth. ‘All my inspiration seems to have dried up since Hamish left and I seem to have lost all my confidence as a woman. Not that I had much, anyway.’

‘In what way?’ Ricky was stripping the partridge leg with his teeth, very white and even except a front one chipped by a polo ball. ‘Come on, eat up.’

It is quite difficult cutting up a partridge when your elbows are glued to your ribs. Daisy started forking up celeriac.

‘Last week I went to dinner at Philippa’s. She insisted she’d got a lovely man for me. But it was just as an excuse to get her latest lover into the house. He wasn’t remotely interested in me and brought Philippa some goat’s cheese that looked like Tutankhamun’s brain. They disappeared for hours to look at some rare book and Lionel insisted on seeing me home.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I’m sorry, this is awfully boring.’

‘Horror films aren’t boring,’ said Ricky.

‘And suddenly he leapt on me.’

‘Disgusting old goat!’ Ricky was comfortingly furious.

‘Appropriate, really! He tasted of goat’s cheese. I’ve never been very good at rejecting people, so I told him I was frigid. He just leered and said, “I’m a psychiatrist, little girl. I can cure that.” ‘ Daisy gave a shudder.

‘I’ll chuck them out,’ said Ricky angrily.

‘Joel says they’re model tenants,’ said Daisy. ‘They’re always cutting their lawn.’

‘Can’t imagine Lionel modelling anything. You’re not to have anything more to do with them. Understand?’

Ricky put his knife and fork together. ‘Let’s get back to Perdita. I’ll take her to Argentina with me next week. No, it’s a good idea. You know Alejandro Mendoza?’ Then, with incredulity, ‘But he’s the greatest back in the world. The Mendozas are blood rivals of the O’Brien brothers, Juan and Miguel, who used to play for David Waterlane before the Argies were banned. They invariably end up on opposite sides in the Argentine Open. I’m going out to buy ponies from Alejandro. He takes a few players every year on his estancia. They bring on the young ponies and in return he teaches them. My handicap went up in twos the winters I spent with him. There are always young boys hanging round the place. Perdita needs a boyfriend. I’ll leave her with Alejandro till Christmas.’

‘We couldn’t possibly afford the plane fare,’ mumbled Daisy.

‘Dancer’ll pick that up,’ he said. ‘He wants Perdita to play for him next year. She’ll add some much-needed tone. He’s been nagging me to take her back for weeks. He can just advance her some salary. There’s no need to cry.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Daisy wiped her eyes on her sleeve again. ‘I ought to get the Niagara Falls Award for bawling. I’m just not used to lucky breaks. Are you sure?’

‘Positive. Now Rupert’s Minister for Sport, he can fiddle her a visa.’ As he smoothed back his dark hair, his signet ring caught the light.

‘What’s your motto?’ she asked.

‘Never surrender,’ said Ricky bleakly.

And he won’t until he gets Chessie back, thought Daisy. Three-quarters of a bottle of wine had loosened her tongue.

‘I’ve been moaning on about Perdita all evening, but at least she’s alive, whereas Will . . .’

‘ . . . isn’t,’ said Ricky watching the bubbles rise in his glass of Perrier. ‘Suffering’s supposed to make you nicer. Didn’t work for me. That’s probably why I’ve been so bloody to Perdita. The guilt still knocks me sideways – just being alive. Sometimes I panic because I can’t remember what he looked like. Chessie took all the photographs. She needed them. He’d be six now, old enough to start hitting a ball around. It comes in waves, doesn’t it?’ He glared at her. ‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I just think you ought to try and forgive yourself,’ mumbled Daisy. We’re like two chickens side by side trying to defrost, she thought.

‘When are you coming back to England?’

‘February or March. I can’t stand another English winter. Dancer’s fixed up for me to make a bomb coaching movie stars in Palm Springs. My elbow still plays up when I play too long.’

After that they talked about Dancer and Ethel and Little Chef and Ricky’s ponies, and drank so many cups of coffee and Daisy even had a crème de menthe frappé that it was long after midnight when they left.

‘The colandered Barbour,’ said Ricky, holding out her coat for her. ‘You’ve been crawling through my barbed wire!’

Outside, in the back of the BMW, Ethel’s great spotted goofy face was grinning out. Beside her, his front paws on her shoulder, tail wagging his small body into a frenzy, was Little Chef.

‘It’s easy for dogs,’ said Daisy with a hiccup. ‘I’ve had such a lovely time,’ she said as Ethel fell on her in ecstasy, ‘and Ethel’s lick is much more efficient than cleansing cream.’

‘This road is awful,’ said Ricky as they bounced down the rough track to Snow Cottage. ‘I must get it fixed before the winter.’

Seeing all the lights on, Daisy quailed. Surely Perdita wouldn’t kick up when she knew she was going to Argentina. Desperate Ricky shouldn’t think she was giving him the come-on, she had the door open before the car stopped.

‘Do come in and tell Perdita. She’ll be so excited,’ she called back as she scuttled up the path. If Ricky was there Perdita might not make a scene, but he had paused to look at the front gate which needed mending.

Perdita sat on the kitchen table dressed all in black. She looked like a hell cat, sloe eyes glittering, teeth bared in a terrifying rictus grin, body rigid with loathing.

‘Darling – the most heavenly news,’ said Daisy.

‘How dare you go out to dinner with Ricky?’ screamed Perdita. ‘I bet his telephone wasn’t off the hook at all. You just wanted an excuse to vamp him. You can’t do without it, you bloody old tart, can you? I bet you asked him out.’

Next minute Ricky had walked into the room and slapped her across the face. ‘Don’t you ever talk to your mother like that again, you revolting little bitch,’ he howled. ‘Now go to bed!’

Perdita gazed at him, her white left cheek slowly turning bright scarlet, her eyes widening in horror.

‘Nothing wrong with your elbow if you can hit like that,’ she spat. ‘She’s poisoned you against me, I knew she would.’

‘I said go to bed,’ said Ricky harshly. ‘Go on, bugger off.’

With a stifled sob Perdita stumbled upstairs, slamming the door so hard that every ornament in the house shook.

There was a pause, then both Ricky and Daisy jumped at the sound of clapping. Slowly Violet walked into the room.

‘I always heard how marvellous you were,’ she said to Ricky, ‘but I’d no idea how marvellous. I’ve been waiting for years for someone to do that.’

‘Good,’ said Ricky, unmoved.

Then, slowly, he looked round the kitchen and the sitting room at the flowers painted all over the pale green walls, like a meadow in summer, at the dark green ivy crawling up the stairs and the bears and tigers and dragons decorating every piece of furniture.

‘Christ,’ he said in amazement.

‘I can always paint over it,’ said Daisy hastily.

‘It’s stunning. You said you hadn’t been painting. Stop shaking. It’ll be all right.’

‘Should I go to her?’

‘Leave her to stew,’ said Violet and Ricky in unison.

‘Oh, and by the way, Mum,’ went on Violet, ‘Philippa rang and said could you man the bric-à-brac stall on Saturday.’

‘No, she can’t,’ snapped Ricky.

‘I said you couldn’t,’ said Violet gleefully. ‘I told her you’d gone out to dinner with Ricky. She sounded put out.’

‘Oh goodness,’ said Daisy.

‘I’ve been hearing how marvellous you are,’ said Ricky drily to Violet, ‘but I’d no idea how marvellous. Might put the bloody nympho off.’

After he’d had another cup of coffee, he went up to see Perdita. She was crying great wracking despairing sobs into her pillow. Ricky sat down on her bed.

‘Fuck off.’

‘It’s me, Ricky.’

‘Fuck off even more. I hate you.’

‘You better stop sulking and apologize to your mother or I won’t take you to Argentina.’

‘I’ll never apologize to her,’ said Perdita tonelessly. ‘What did you say? How? When?’

‘Week after next, to stay with Alejandro. He’ll teach you a few manners and how to play polo properly.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ Perdita flung her arms round his neck.

He could feel her hot soaked cheeks, her wet hair, her lips against his cheek, the bars of her ribs, the softness of her breasts, the contrasting bullet hardness of her nipples.

‘And then can I come back to Robinsgrove?’

‘If you behave yourself.’

Still she clung. He could feel her heart pounding. She was so like Chessie. He’d never wanted to screw anyone more in his life, but gently he disengaged himself.

‘Go and apologize to your mother.’

Next day the weather turned cold, bitter winds systematically stripping the trees. Walking through Ricky’s woods, Daisy noticed ruby-red sticky buds thrusting out on the chestnuts, although many of the trees still clung on to their shrivelled brown leaves. Like Ricky and me clinging on to the past, thought Daisy.

Ten days later Ricky and Perdita left for Argentina.

‘I want to ask two f-f-favours,’ said Ricky as he put Perdita’s suitcases in a boot crammed with polo sticks. ‘Could you possibly put flowers on Will’s grave sometimes for me? And if Little Chef goes into a real decline will you promise to ring me?’

Perdita hardly bothered to kiss her mother goodbye. She hadn’t forgiven her her night out with Ricky. The wireless blared ‘I just called to say I love you’ as Daisy went back into the house. She couldn’t help envying Perdita.

It was a terribly long journey, even though they broke it in Florida. Ricky hardly took his nose out of a Frederick Forsyth novel. Perdita, bra-less, in a T-shirt and a skirt that buttoned up the front for easy access, writhed and burned beside him. She cleaned her teeth every three hours and had Juicyfruit continually at the ready in case he wanted to kiss her. She deliberately got a bit drunk at dinner and when the lights were switched out let her head fall on to his shoulder.

‘I’m cold,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll get you another blanket.’

As he would for any of his ponies, thought Perdita bitterly.

‘I’m still cold,’ she whispered half an hour later.

Ricky put an arm round her shoulders, but made no pass and eventually she fell asleep. Ricky gazed out of the window at stars as sleepless as himself. If he slept he might have nightmares about Will and Chessie. He couldn’t bear to wake up screaming on the plane as he so often did alone at night at Robinsgrove.