Polo

37

Back in Rutshire, Daisy was dreading Christmas all on her own. Eddie and Violet were flying off to LA to spend a week with Hamish, Wendy, little Bridget and a two-month-old addition to the family called Fergus.

‘I must keep cheerful until they go,’ Daisy kept telling herself as she took the bus into Cheltenham to buy them Christmas presents. ‘I mustn’t cling. I must stay jolly for Ethel and Gainsborough.’

Her boss, the Caring Chauvinist, had sourly given her the afternoon off. After all, Christmas was his busiest time, but Daisy had managed to escape from the office party before he started chasing her round the desks. An added grievance was that she’d already had an afternoon off early in the month to show her paintings to a London gallery.

‘I really like your work,’ the owner had told her. ‘I could easily sell your paintings if you used brighter colours.’

Daisy gazed dolefully out of the bus on frost-bleached fields, bare trees, khaki stubble, beige houses and grey woolly sheep all blending in. She thought how hard it was to paint brightly in winter, particularly when all the money she’d saved to buy a car had been spent on mending the washing machine, and her hair needed cutting and she was seven pounds overweight. Even three years after Hamish had left her she still suffered from wildly ricocheting moods. Only that morning she’d wept to find a list – ‘Toads, Eddie’s tooth, Gainsborough’s mouse, sunset’ – which she’d once scribbled down as topics to keep the conversation going with Hamish at dinner. She had forgotten how demanding, bad-tempered, and intolerant Hamish had been. The breakdown of the marriage she now felt had been all her fault.

Suddenly, out of a ploughed field, rose four magpies.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a toyboy, thought Daisy longingly.

‘What d’you want for Christmas?’ her mother had asked the day before, and Daisy’s mind had gone completely blank, because all she wanted was a man. She’d tried going into pubs, but she always drank too fast out of nerves, then had to hide her empty glass in her skirt, so men didn’t feel they had to buy her a drink. There were a few party invitations, but without a car she had to rely on lifts. She’d even been to a Gingerbread meeting for single parents last month, but all the men had beards and kept insisting they weren’t remotely chauvinistic, but very caring. Daisy had got off with the only attractive man, who’d afterwards turned out to be married and only posing as single to take advantage of lonely women.

Cheltenham was hell – absolutely packed with people grumbling about the difficulty of parking their expensive cars and spending fortunes. The post-Christmas sales were already on. I’m a marked-down dress no one wants, thought Daisy.

She passed the record shop. She’d get the Wham record for Eddie and Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto for Violet on the way back. Out of the loudspeakers belched ‘Last Christmas’. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight, she thought to herself. So many fears, so few hopes. Daisy bit back the tears and nearly got run over crossing George Street before plunging into the supermarket to buy a tiny turkey for Christmas dinner for her, Ethel and Gainsborough.

‘Fresh luxury bird,’ said a large sign of a fat turkey holding a piece of mistletoe, ‘with wishbone removed for luxury carving.’

How awful, thought Daisy, when she’d got so much to wish for: Perdita forgiving her, Eddie and Violet wanting to spend Christmas with her one day, money getting all right, her paintings being good enough for an exhibition, Eddie and Violet passing their exams, Perdita not getting pregnant in Palm Beach.

Would she ever have a man in her life to carve the turkey? Rubbing her eyes, she ran out of the supermarket. She was getting nowhere, Eddie wanted the new Adrian Mole book, Violet was taking Emma for A levels and wanted the complete Jane Austen, the Caring Chauvinist wanted the latest Jeffrey Archer.

In the corner of Hammicks a beauty wafting a cloud of Jolie Madame was thumbing mindlessly through a biography of Wellington, constantly looking at her watch and checking her face in the mirror. She wore a wedding ring. Lucky thing, thought Daisy wistfully, to have a lover and a husband.

Handing over the books to the assistant, she burrowed in her bag. It was only after the till had been rung up that she realized she’d left both her cheque book and her cheque card behind. She wished that the carpet would swallow her up, but it was such a hideous green it had probably swallowed several people before that day and was suffering from frightful indigestion.

Her account was in Stroud and overdrawn, so there was no possibility they’d guarantee a blank cheque at a Cheltenham branch. There was no way she could buy anything now for Eddie and Violet, which Hamish and Wendy would construe as a further example of parental neglect and a reason to assume custody.

Running sobbing out of the shop, she collapsed on one of the octagonal benches in front of the clock at the north end of the arcade. A drunk reeled up to her and offered her the remains of his whisky bottle.

‘Go away,’ howled Daisy. Then, conscious of being ungrateful, howled even louder.

‘Mrs Macleod,’ said a soft voice.

Frantically wiping away the tears and the mascara, Daisy looked up. It was Drew Benedict, who seemed to have arrived from a different planet. He’d obviously been playing polo somewhere hot and he handed her his green-and-red Paisley silk handkerchief which smelt faintly of French Fern.

‘I got an afternoon off for Christmas shopping’ – Daisy blew her reddened nose noisily – ‘and I left my cheque book behind.’

Taking her arm, Drew pulled her to her feet.

‘I’ll get you some money.’

Waving aside her frantic apologies, he took her to his bank and drew out £150.

‘I’ve got to see my lawyer about a contract, have a pair of boots fitted, buy something for Sukey and some arsenic for her ghastly mother, who’s staying with us. I’ll give you a lift home in a couple of hours.’

Embarrassed but cheered up, Daisy scurried around, managing to get everything done in time, and even buying a bottle of Polo aftershave for Drew because she felt so guilty dragging him out of his way when he must be so busy. She was also shocked to find herself going into the Ladies at Cavendish House to clean her teeth, redo her face and retie her hair back in its elastic band. It was too dirty to wear loose. As she went past the scent counter she sprayed herself with Jolie Madame. Outside the beauty who’d been reading Wellington was sobbing uncontrollably as an embarrassed but very good-looking man ushered her into a taxi.

‘Don’t cry, darling,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll ring you every day when Emma goes out to walk the dogs. If Patrick answers I’ll hang up. It’s only nine days.’

‘Oh, come all ye faithful,’ sang the loud speaker.

‘Daisy,’ yelled a voice. It was Drew in a dark green Mini. Between them they managed to fill up the back seat with their purchases. The temperature had dropped. The sun was setting in nougat colours, pale purple and cyclamen-pink.

‘Where have you been to get so brown?’ asked Daisy.

‘Middle East with the Carlisle twins, playing for Victor Kaputnik against the Sultan of Araby. Contrary to what people say, the country is not dry. Everyone was so drunk on Sunday afternoon that the ball stayed in the same place while everyone swiped at it.’

‘How lovely,’ said Daisy.

‘Pay was good,’ went on Drew cheerfully. ‘The twins have gone to Italy so they can ski into Switzerland next door and put all their loot into a Swiss bank. I’ll bank mine when I play snow polo at St Moritz in January. How the hell d’you manage without a car?’

‘Very badly,’ said Daisy gloomily.

Drew had removed his coat and was wearing a light blue cashmere jersey, so new it still had the creases in and which matched his eyes. Rutshire, Cirencester and Guards polo stickers curled on the windscreen.

‘How did Perdita get on in Argentina?’

‘She adored it,’ said Daisy on the evidence of one letter, ‘but she found the Argentines a bit cruel.’

‘They train the best polo ponies in the world.’

‘And she’s spending Christmas in Palm Beach with Bart Alderton’s son, Luke.’

‘Bloody nice,’ said Drew approvingly. ‘She couldn’t be in better hands, and a very good polo player. Might get her over Ricky.’

‘D’you think Ricky’ll mind her spending Christmas so near Bart Alderton?’

Drew shook his head. ‘Ricky’s not small-minded. Bart’s the only person he’s got any fight with.’

Like all polo players, Drew drove very quickly, overtaking much faster cars on bends with a centimetre to spare. He was so nice to talk to, Daisy wished he would slow down She longed to ask him in, and tried to remember if she’d drunk all that bottle of cheap white last night, and if she’d put it back in the fridge. It was only drinkable if it were cold.

‘That’s Declan O’Hara’s house – he’s just moved in,’ said Daisy, pointing to towers and battlements hidden by yew trees and huge Wellingtonias. ‘I think his telly interviews are so wonderful. Everyone’s going to Midnight Mass at Cotchester Cathedral to gawp at him.’

‘We’re going to a party there on New Year’s Eve,’ said Drew. ‘Promises to be the thrash of the decade. Rupert’s got a terrific yen for Declan’s daughter, Taggie. He’s coming back specially from Gstaad to have a crack at her.’

‘What’s she like?’ asked Daisy wistfully.

‘Ravishing, but too tall for me. I don’t like standing on tiptoe to kiss girls.’

The setting sun was firing the windows of Snow Cottage as they bumped along the dirt track.

‘Ricky ought to do something about this road, it’s terrible,’ said Drew disapprovingly. ‘You need a snow plough rather than a car.’

Weaving, singing, her eyes screwed up with sleep, Ethel temporarily distracted them from the mess left by the children. All the kitchen chairs had been pulled out. Orange juice cartons, bowls barnacled with muesli, overflowing ashtrays littered the kitchen table.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Daisy, writing out a cheque at once, then blushing furiously, ‘but would you possibly mind not cashing it until the New Year.’

‘Won’t be going near a bank before then,’ said Drew, getting a bottle of Moët out of a Cavendish House bag. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

Daisy, having extracted two clean glasses from the washing-up machine, hastily cleared the kitchen table. As the cork flew out of the bottle, Ethel fled out of the room.

‘Not much use for shooting,’ said Drew as Daisy put some anemones she’d bought in water.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said, fingering the scarlet-and-violet petals. ‘They’re for Will’s grave.’ Then, blushing and wishing she hadn’t said that, she added, ‘Ricky asked me to keep an eye on it while he was away.’

Drew eyed her speculatively. ‘D’you find him attractive?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Daisy, taking a huge gulp of champagne. ‘One couldn’t not, but he’s only interested in Chessie, and I’m too old for him. I was six when he was born.’

‘And seven when I was born,’ said Drew.

‘I might have been allowed to give you your bottle.’

‘I can give you mine now,’ said Drew, topping up her glass.

Idly he picked up her sketch pad, immediately becoming transfixed with interest.

‘There’s Hermia and there’s Wayne! You’ve got his wicked eye to a T. Christ, they’re good, and recognizable even in their winter coats.’ Taking the sketch book to the light, he looked at it more closely. ‘And that’s marvellous of Little Chef.’

He gazed at Daisy with new respect. Drew had bought a lot of paintings since he married Sukey, because he liked them and expected them to shoot up in value. If Daisy could catch such vivid likenesses without being chocolate-boxy, she might well be worth investing in.

‘That’s good. That’s Kinta, dangerous brute. When’s Perdita coming home?’

‘Sometime in the New Year.’

Drew looked up sharply. ‘And the other children?’

‘They’re going to LA to my ex.’

‘You can’t stay here on your own.’

‘I’ve got Ethel,’ mumbled Daisy.

‘Not much of a guard dog.’ Drew filled up her glass again. ‘Don’t you get frightened by yourself?’

‘No,’ lied Daisy. ‘Anyway, I usually wear so many jerseys against the cold, any rapist would get dead bored before he managed to undress me. Lots of people asked me to stay, but Ethel’s a bit of a liability. She broke three Christopher Wray lamps and got into a chicken coop last time we went away.’

‘It’s all wrong. Come to us for Christmas dinner.’

Daisy’s eyes filled with tears.

‘You’re so kind, but honestly, I’ve got to paint.’

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Drew felt it trembling. ‘You’re not OK.’

Daisy gazed at the bubbles rising in her glass.

‘I’m getting better at being single,’ she mumbled, pleating her dark red skirt, ‘but my heart isn’t really in it. I’d love to find a man, but you never find mushrooms when you’re looking for them, do you? Anyway at my age you’d have to break a marriage up to get married yourself and I couldn’t do that, knowing how awful it was for me.’

Daisy’s cheeks were bright pink, but she was deathly white under her eyes, which were still red-rimmed from crying outside the bookshop. Her lovely soft mouth had nearly disappeared in her desperate attempt not to cry again.

Drew, who said nothing and went on stroking Ethel, had a reputation for coolness because he had an analytical mind and always thought before he spoke. Being in the Army for nine years had also given him a certain fixity of outlook, but he was extremely kind in a detached way, never took himself very seriously and was an excellent listener.

‘I bet you haven’t had any lunch,’ said Daisy leaping to her feet. ‘I’ll make us some scrambled eggs. Lots of people are like me,’ she rattled on. ‘There’s a frightfully pompous piece in the paper today saying the New Singleton is the emblematic, contemporary figure.’

Her hands shook so much she spilt most of the eggs as she cracked them on the edge of the bowl. Her coordination was so jiggered she could hardly manage to watch the toast and cook the eggs at the same time.

‘This piece rabbited on about always looking your best in case Mr Right Mark II came along, but I don’t see anyone except my awful boss and it seems silly looking smart while I’m painting or walking Ethel. D’you think the badgers would appreciate bright red lipstick to match a red scarf and taupe eyeshadow? Besides I don’t think anyone would put up with me now.’ She scraped the wooden spoon frantically against the bottom of the pan. ‘You get into such awful habits living alone. Talking to yourself, wiping your hands on your trousers. Oh, bugger, I’ve turned off the grill.’

‘I turned it off,’ said Drew. ‘I adore the way your bum judders when you stir those eggs,’ he added, turning off the gas as well, ‘and I like cold scrambled eggs.’

Next moment he had taken her in his arms.

‘Oh no,’ squeaked Daisy. ‘What about Sukey?’

‘Shut up,’ said Drew gently. ‘She’s at home making lists for Easter. I have a marriage of convenience. It was the only way I could play polo.’

The arctic-blue eyes which turned down at the corners were suddenly anything but cold. Daisy’s resolve weakened. ‘It’s still wrong.’

‘Hush, two wrongs make a Mr Right,’ said Drew and kissed her. Daisy was utterly lost. Until one kisses a man, one cannot tell if one truly desires him, and something melted inside Daisy and as Drew’s tongue coolly and languorously explored her mouth, her hands shot upwards to tangle in his fine silky hair, and then to feel the wonderful muscular strength of his shoulders. She was so taken by surprise that next moment she found herself upstairs. Thank goodness she’d changed the sheets that morning, Ethel hadn’t shredded a bone in her bed and there were more clothes on the chair than the floor.

‘Lovely room,’ said Drew, admiring the huge roses, peonies and delphiniums which Daisy had painted growing out of the skirting board. ‘It’ll be like screwing on the lawn on a summer evening.’

‘I haven’t slept with anyone for three years,’ mumbled Daisy in panic, as Drew slowly undid the buttons of her black cardigan, until he could drop an infinitely leisured kiss on her bare shoulder.

‘It’ll come back. It’s like riding a bicycle,’ whispered Drew as his hand slid round to the back to unhook her bra.

‘I’ll need stabilizers to start off with,’ said Daisy feeling wildly unstable.

‘Christ,’ said Drew lifting one heavy breast after another in delight, ‘they are beautiful.’

And he really admired them from all angles before bending his head and kissing each nipple. As he slowly removed her skirt, her laddered tights, and her pants, grey as a dishcloth which ought to have been retired years ago, Daisy curled up with embarrassment.

‘I haven’t shaved my legs or anywhere else. I’m like an old ewe.’

‘The Welsh Guards were always known as the sheep shaggers. That’s better,’ he went on as Daisy laughed and as his warm hands moved over her body, just grazing the hairs, he had her leaping with desire. Still dressed, he sat beside her on the bed and stroked down her belly.

‘This is the only bit that needs cutting back,’ he said, parting her pubic hair and gently fingering. ‘All you need is a bit of spit and polish. Don’t hurry, my darling. I’ve no desire to get back to my mother-in-law.’

Daisy giggled, shuddered, tensed, came and then burst into tears. Appalled, Drew pulled her into his arms.

‘Darling, what’s the matter?’

‘I never came with Hamish,’ sobbed Daisy, ‘never in fifteen years, I never believed anything could be so lovely.’

‘Then we’d better make up for lost orgasms. It’s my turn next.’

Dreamily Daisy watched him undress. Apart from slightly bow legs and a shrapnel scar from the Falklands, he was wonderfully built – stocky and muscular without being fat. Even his cock seemed to have biceps as, with the ball of his thumb seldom far away from her clitoris, he drove her to extremes of joy. She was amazed anyone so phlegmatic could be such a sensitive, imaginative lover. He didn’t even mind when Ethel, unaccustomed to sex, and stumbling upon an unbelievably jolly romp, decided to join in with a great leap on the bed.

Afterwards, as she sat wrapped in a scratchy, dark blue towel watching Drew have a bath, Daisy said again that she felt quite awful about Sukey.

‘Don’t,’ said Drew, who certainly scrubbed himself very vigorously. ‘As long as she doesn’t find out, it won’t hurt her. Anyway, I’ve always had a crush on you.’

‘Me?’ said Daisy incredulously.

‘Ever since you got rained on the first time we met at the Pony Club, and I could have hung my polo hat on your nipples.’

‘A crush helmet,’ giggled Daisy.

‘I’ve been wondering,’ went on Drew, ‘what you’d look like without your clothes on.’

‘Hairy,’ said Daisy.

Drew shook his head as he reared out of the bath. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’

Pulling off her towel, he gently squeezed her right breast. ‘Promise never to lose any weight.’

He glanced at the watch that he’d left on the edge of the basin. ‘Christ, I must go.’ Then, seeing the shadow of desolation flicker across Daisy’s face, ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow morning.’

‘How?’ asked Daisy.

‘When Sukey rides out with my mother-in-law.’

Outside, Ricky’s ash trees, like a clump of swaying broomsticks, were trying to sweep the stars out of a pearly grey sky. Drew kissed her again. ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Macleod, I’m afraid you’ve got yourself a toyboy.’

Daisy felt it was all dreadfully immoral, but she couldn’t help being hugely cheered up, particularly when Drew rang her as promised next day saying how much he wanted to see her again. Going into the garden, she found midges dancing and crab apples glittering crimson against a bright ultramarine sky. Breathing in the wild-rose scent of a pale pink rambler called The New Dawn, which clambered up to the cottage eaves, and always seemed to be in flower, Daisy hoped it would be a new dawn for her and she might do some brighter paintings.

On Christmas Day she had another surprise. Ricky rang up stammering badly and thanked her for the drawing of Little Chef she’d sent him as a Christmas present.

‘It’s f-f-fantastic. How is he?’

‘Fine, but missing you.’

‘And Perdita?’

‘Fine – in Palm Beach staying with the Aldertons.’

Oh God, why had she blurted that out? She must have wrecked his Christmas.

But, after a long pause, Ricky asked, ‘You’re not by yourself?’

‘Yes, but I’ve got a lot of friends dropping in’ (well, one friend).

‘Good.’ Then, after a really long pause: ‘Have you got Perdita’s number?’

Perhaps he was keen on Perdita after all, thought Daisy after he’d rung off. If she hadn’t met Drew again, she might have been very jealous.

Later on Violet rang from LA.

‘Daddy and Wendy have gone out. Eddie and I spend our time baby-sitting. Oh, Mummy, it’s awful. Daddy was present at the birth, and Wendy insisted we watched the video last night. It was disgusting. Eddie nearly fainted. And they’ve got a white album of even more disgusting photographs – even of the afterbirth, and they show it to everyone, and Wendy breastfeeds in public, in the shops and at parties. And she’s gone completely Californian, no salt in food, no getting brown, no drink, no fags. I wish we could come home. I love you, Mum. You’re not too lonely on your own?’

Daisy put down the telephone feeling so happy.

Drew seemed to have ignited some creative spark. Daisy painted and painted late into the night, listening to the foxes barking, and singing ‘I just called to say I love you’ that she slept until she was woken by Drew’s telephone call in the morning.

On Boxing Day it turned bitterly cold. In the west a band of crocus-yellow was fading into daffodil below a dark purple cloud. Having shaved her legs and her armpits, Daisy rigged up a mirror in the drawing room, lit the fire and did a series of sketches of herself in the nude. If Drew liked her body maybe it wasn’t that bad. She mustn’t be too obvious, she mustn’t glamorize herself. Completely absorbed, she didn’t hear the door bell at first. Wrapping herself in a rose-pink shawl she’d draped over the sofa to hide two large cigarette burns, she opened the front door and gave a gasp. For there was Drew in a red coat, white breeches and brown-topped boots.

‘I decided to change the quarry,’ he said, shoving her back into the house and slamming the door.

‘How lovely. Where’s your horse?’

‘Gone home. Sukey thinks I’m having a drink with Rupert.’

‘Does he know you aren’t?’

‘Yes, I’ve covered up enough for him over the years.’

Imagine Rupert being used as an alibi for me, thought Daisy amazed.

‘You been down a mine?’ asked Drew, taking in her charcoal smudged face and hands.

‘D’you want a drink?’ asked Daisy.

‘No, I want you.’ Drew ripped off her shawl.

As he took her in his arms the taut athletic muscular hardness of his body evoked some distant memory, something familiar yet incredibly disturbing, stirring like a hibernating butterfly at the back of her consciousness.

His face was ice-cold against hers, so were his hands as they moved over her body. There was nothing measured or leisurely about his approach today. Whisking her into the drawing room, he laid her down on the threadbare carpet, unzipped his flies and, forcing his way into her, came almost immediately.

‘Sorry, darling,’ he murmured into her shoulder, ‘that was bloody selfish, but I couldn’t help myself – pleasured my lady with my boots on. Stay there. I don’t want to ruin your carpet.’

Easing himself out, he returned with some kitchen roll.

‘That was lovely,’ sighed Daisy truthfully. After years of indifference from Hamish, the greatest aphrodisiac for her was that Drew wanted her so much.

‘How was your party at lunchtime?’ he asked.

‘Undemanding,’ said Daisy, flattered that he’d remembered. ‘Mawled wine and retired colonels rabbiting on about wind breaks and frost pockets. I still feel awful about Sukey. The same thing happened to me at Christmas. I remember the telephone always smelling of Paco Rabanne when I came back from being out and not understanding why when Hamish claimed no one had rung. Then there were all the dropped telephone calls.’

‘Don’t torture yourself,’ said Drew, leaning up on his elbow and stroking her belly. ‘Every situation is different. Ricky married for love, and look where that got him. I didn’t. I’m not attracted to Sukey. We never sleep together, but I love Jamie and I’m fond of the old thing. This isn’t doing her any harm, and it’s doing me so much good,’ he slid his fingers inside her, ‘and this is definitely not a frost pocket.’

Catching sight of them both in the mirror, he reached over and adjusted the angle so they could both watch.

‘Hamish never did that either,’ said Daisy afterwards.

‘Sounds a prat.’ Then, out of the blue: ‘If you didn’t come with him, what about Perdita’s father?’

Burying her face in his chest, Daisy decided to tell the truth and the circumstances because she trusted Drew to keep his trap shut.

‘So it might have been some handsome rock star or polo player,’ said Drew afterwards. ‘Could have been me. I was eleven and very precocious.’

‘Don’t think there were any children present. Jackie wasn’t into paedophilia.’

Making a joke of it suddenly made the whole thing less awful.

‘You’re not shocked?’ asked Daisy.

‘Having been a friend of Rupert’s for fifteen years, nothing shocks me. Anyway, you were a baby.’

Daisy felt weak with gratitude.

‘My parents were dreadfully upset. They tried to sweep it under the carpet, but as they had fitted carpets at home it was rather hard.’

‘I’m getting rather hard too,’ said Drew, pulling her on top of him.

‘Oh, I love you,’ said Daisy covering him with kisses, then added hastily, ‘but don’t worry, I say “I love you”, all the time to Ethel and Gainsborough and the children. I’m honestly not getting heavy.’

‘I know you’re not,’ said Drew, guiding his cock inside her. ‘I told you I didn’t want you to lose weight.’

‘Can I draw you before you get dressed?’ said Daisy later.

‘If you want to,’ said Drew, sitting down on the sofa. ‘As long as you hide it from Perdita. She’d be bound to sneak to Sukey.’

Oh, his face is so lovely when he smiles, thought Daisy, pinning a fresh piece of paper on the board.

‘You’ll have to draw an erection in in a minute,’ said Drew.

They were on the carpet in each other’s arms when Drew looked at his watch. ‘Jesus, it’s nearly eight o’clock. D’you mind running me over to Rupert’s?’

‘I haven’t got a car,’ said Daisy miserably. ‘I’ll try to ring for a taxi, or borrow Philippa’s.’

Drew brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed it.

‘The car I came here in is your Christmas present. It’s only an old banger, but it’ll get you about. It’s all right. Sukey didn’t pay for it, I bought it with my Sultan of Araby money.’

‘An old banger for an old bang-ee,’ said Daisy, ‘but I really can’t take it.’

Drew stopped her protests with a kiss.

After she’d dropped him off and bumped back home, grinding gears and singing at the top of her voice, Daisy hid the drawing of Drew in the potting shed. But she soon retrieved it and put it in her bedroom. After all, the children weren’t coming back until the New Year and Drew was without doubt the nicest thing that had happened in all her life.