Polo

38

‘Quarantine,’ as Luke’s comely headgroom, Lizzie, was fond of pointing out, ‘is a real ass-kicker.’

But, predictably, Perdita left all the hassle of scrubbing out the boxes with disinfectant, isolating Spotty and Tero, and dealing with the interminable inspections by vets and government officials to Luke and his grooms. Luke even arranged for Spotty and Tero to be flown to Heathrow cheap, as part of a twenty-pony job lot which Victor Kaputnik was smuggling in from Argentina via Palm Beach. Aware that Perdita had no money, Luke picked up the bill for that, too.

He refused to hear a word against her, but it would be fair to say that his grooms regarded Perdita with a dislike bordering on hatred. They worked for the best boss in Palm Beach, but now this spoilt little bitch had swanned in, ordering him around, squandering his money and dragging him out to the high spots every night. Lizzie had even made a day chart until Perdita went back to England and the barn returned to normal.

Having spent her last day stick and balling in the tiniest bikini to top up her tan for Ricky, Perdita popped in on Chessie to say goodbye on her way to the airport. Luke was delayed at the barn because Ophelia was tied up with colic, but said he would catch up with her.

Perdita found Chessie by the pool in the same lime-green bikini she’d worn the day after Perdita had flown in from Argentina and which was now much too big for her. Nor did Chessie hitch it up in time to hide a dark bruise on her left hip.

‘Gosh, what have you done?’ asked Perdita without thinking.

‘Been gored on the horns of a dilemma,’ said Chessie bitterly. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, put on a bikini and come into the pool with me, I’m sure this umbrella is bugged, and probably the ice in your glass.’

Perdita didn’t want to swim. It would crinkle her newly washed hair and she wanted to look her best in case by some miracle Ricky met the plane. But such was the force of Chessie’s discontent that five minutes later she was dog-paddling into the centre of the pool.

‘Every time I go shopping Bart insists that two guards accompany me,’ rattled Chessie, who’d lost all her normal laid-back cool and whose jaw above the blue water was rigid with tension.

‘I daren’t ring England, I know the telephone’s bugged. Look, can you give Ricky a message? Tell him not to risk getting in touch with me. Security’s too tight, but tell him I’ll ring him somehow the minute I get to London.’

For a stunned second Perdita disappeared beneath the water, then she emerged spluttering and had to paddle backwards until her feet touched the bottom.

‘I d-d-don’t understand.’

‘The reason Ricky rang at Christmas,’ said Chessie hysterically, ‘was to tell me in those few desperate seconds that he’s still absolutely mad about me – only me. Talking to you later was just a smokescreen.’

‘But he seemed so happy to hear my voice.’

‘That’s because he’d just heard mine. Can’t you understand? All Ricky wants is to have me back. I’d love to go, but I’m not sure if one should turn back the clock, and would I be constantly reminded of Will again, and Ricky hasn’t got any money, and would I hate being poor again?’

Despite the warmth of the pool and the day, Perdita suddenly felt icy cold and dizzy. Her mouth had gone dry and acid. She wanted to scream at Chessie not to be so bloody selfish, screwing up Ricky’s life again. Then Chessie disarmed her by bursting into tears.

‘I’m dying of homesickness. I haven’t been back to England since Will died, and now Bart’s bought Rutminster Abbey so we can spend the summer there, and think of all the memories. I can’t face it, and I know I can’t not face it.’

Perdita wanted to plunge into the soft silky water, which was the same duck-egg blue as the Alderton Flyer shirt Ricky had been wearing the first day she’d fallen in love with him, and never come up again. Involuntarily her thoughts strayed to Red, the only other man who’d seriously jolted her, but Red was a playboy. As if in answer to her prayer the Rottweilers started barking furiously and there, chatting to one of the guards and stroking the head of the no-longer snarling dog, stood Luke.

‘That’s the one,’ said Chessie reading her thoughts. ‘He’s the nicest, strongest man you’ll ever meet.’

Luke has no money, thought Perdita, and, after the glitz of Palm Beach, she was never, never, going to be poor again.

The divide between rich and poor was further intensified when they got to Miami Airport, which was its usual shambles of bewildered passengers and despairing hair-tearing insolent porters. Luke hadn’t even had time to change his shirt which was soaked with sweat. His white jeans were filthy, and dust streaked one side of his face. Ophelia was still fighting colic. He ought to drop Perdita off and go straight back to her, but he couldn’t tear himself away. She’d been so manic when she’d set off to see Chessie; now her eyes were glittering with unshed tears and her mouth trembling. Perhaps miraculously, she’d suddenly realized she was going to miss him. He bought her a vodka and tonic and they sat in the bar. Perdita, in whom deep unhappiness invariably manifested itself as bad temper, stared moodily at the other passengers; Luke stared at Perdita. Frantic excitement was generated because Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were on the same flight and immediately wafted through to the VIP lounge.

‘Christ, he’s attractive,’ grumbled Perdita. ‘Why the hell can’t I travel First?’

Luke was tired and had to resist snapping at her that she was bloody lucky to have her return ticket paid for at all. Committed to play for Hal in Chicago, Houston, Detroit, and then Greenwich in the Fall, there was no way he’d get to England to see her this year.

He took her hand. ‘I’m gonna miss you. Will you write?’

Perdita shrugged. ‘I’m a stinking correspondent.’

Not to Ricky you weren’t, thought Luke, remembering the dozens of unanswered letters.

‘At least you’ll have your own bed back,’ Perdita tried to pull herself together, adding listlessly, ‘Thanks for everything. It’s been great.’

‘What did Chessie say to you?’ asked Luke.

‘Nothing,’ said Perdita, about to blurt the whole thing out. ‘Oh, hell, that’s all I need.’

Coming towards her was her old Pony Club enemy, Trace Coley, clanking duty free and looking a million dollars.

‘Last time we met,’ Perdita muttered to Luke, ‘I tried to drown her mother.’

Trace, however, was prepared to suspend hostilities in order to swank.

‘Hello, Perdita, long time no see. What are you doing here, buying ponies?’

‘I’m bringing back two,’ said Perdita defiantly.

‘Daddy bought me seven,’ said Trace. ‘I’m playing medium goal with him and Drew Benedict and the most heavenly Mexican out of Cowdray next season. I must check in. Let’s gossip on the flight.’ Then, glancing down at the label on Perdita’s handluggage: ‘Oh, poor you. Economy gets so hot and smelly on this flight. What a pity you’re not travelling First.’

‘She is, she is,’ said a voice.

Perdita gave a start. For there, lean as a spear in black jeans and a shirt the pale scarlet of a runner bean flower, stood Red. He was as high as a kite, his tiger eyes glittering, and absolutely reeking of Auriel’s new scent.

‘Perdita, baby, I had to come and say goodbye. Hi, Luke.’

‘Do introduce me, Perdita,’ shrieked Trace Coley whose eyes were popping like a squeezed peke. ‘You’re Red Alderton, and you’re having a walk-out with Auriel Kingham, and you’re an absolutely brilliant polo player.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with any of that,’ said Red.

He turned reproachfully to Luke. ‘How can you let this poor baby travel Economy?’

Then he smiled wickedly at Perdita. ‘I never gave you a Christmas present, so I’ve upgraded you instead. Paul and Joanne are in the VIP lounge and are dying to meet you. Let’s go and say hello.’

Luke looked at his brother, his face expressionless. ‘You are an absolute shit, Red.’

Whatever his feelings about Chessie, Ricky returned brown and incredibly chipper from Palm Springs. He was delighted that Perdita had improved so dramatically and that she had brought home two such good ponies.

Tero, having driven Victor’s grooms crackers on the journey calling piteously for Fantasma, had now chummed up with Spotty and the two were inseparable. Spotty, wearing three extra rugs and an expression of outrage on his red-and-white face at the arctic conditions that greeted him, was soon bickering with Wayne over who should be boss of the yard.

The first time he and Tero were turned out, Kinta, who was a thug and a bully, went for the timid little mare, shoving her into the water trough and laying into her with teeth and feet. Immediately, Spotty bustled round the corner to Tero’s rescue, and Kinta, who’d never come across a skewbald in polo or in her previous racing career, spooked and ran away in horror. After that, Ricky moved Spotty and Tero to another paddock, where, slavish with gratitude, Tero followed Spotty everywhere, but still had to be given a nose bag every day to stop Spotty and all the other ponies pinching her food.

The Argentine ponies Ricky had smuggled in, through France in the end, arrived looking very poor and miserable, but soon picked up as the winter turned mild.

The best tonic of all was that Ricky’s elbow had recovered. Having played every day in the warmth of Palm Springs, he was back to his old dazzling form. This summer he would play high goal with Bas, Mike Waterlane and Dancer, and medium goal with Bas, Dancer and Perdita. At the beginning of March they started getting the ponies ready for the new season, walking them out, then trotting them, then riding them up and down the steep Rutshire hills to harden up their muscles. Ricky also applied for membership for Dancer and himself at the Rutshire Polo Club, and was stunned to receive a letter from Brigadier Hughie saying they would be unwelcome. Going straight to the top, Ricky rang David Waterlane, the Club President, who, after some huffing and puffing, admitted that Bart Alderton was behind the blackballing.

‘Chap’s poured a lot of money into the club’s diminishing funds over the past three years. Got Hughie eating out of the palm of his hand. Bart says Rutshire’s reputation shouldn’t be tarnished by allowing in two players with police records, one an ex-junkie, and,’ David Waterlane added heavily, ‘a queer.’

‘Polo’s accommodated plenty of those in the past,’ said Ricky, ‘and bad hats too. Can’t be the real reason.’

‘Bart’s bought Rutminster Abbey,’ admitted David. ‘Due to move in with Chessie in April. Doesn’t want you bumping into Chessie week in week out at the club. See his point. Wouldn’t like to spend every weekend avoiding Clemency. Put me off my game.’

What did Fatty Harris think about all this? demanded Ricky.

‘Oh, his palm’s been so liberally greased by Bart, he’ll be able to bath in Margaux for the rest of his life. He’s quite happy to send you and Dancer to perdition. And Miss Lodsworth’s on his side. She’s never really forgiven you for your disgusting language, or Dancer for his burst water-main. ‘Fraid there’s not much I can do about it.’

Ricky was absolutely furious. Cirencester was a much better club than Rutshire, but it was twenty-five miles away instead of four, which was too far to hack to, and anyway his family had always played at Rutshire.

Bas Baddingham, who’d been skiing when the blackballing took place, came roaring to Ricky’s rescue. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll marshal support at the next AGM and get you reinstated.’

The AGM was held on the third Sunday in March at the Dog and Trumpet in Rutminster High Street. Excitement that spring had arrived and a new polo season was on the way was slightly doused by an overnight blizzard. Perdita, who’d just passed her driving test, pinched Daisy’s car to drive into Rutminster. The roads were very icy, and she enjoyed skidding all over them. She couldn’t understand why her mother was so protective about a clapped-out Volkswagen and had even burst into tears when Perdita backed it into a wall the other day.

And if she can afford a car, thought Perdita, pulling up with a jerk beside Brigadier Hughie’s Rover, she can jolly well buy me a new pair of boots.

The meeting was already packed. Brigadier Hughie waved Perdita to a lone empty seat in the second row on the left by the window. In front of her sat Sharon Kaputnik smothered in mink and Victor smothered in smugness over his recent knighthood. On the right sat a solid phalanx of players in tweed coats and check shirts, their heavily muscled arms and shoulders overflowing on either side of the back of their narrow gold chairs and making the rows look even fuller. The more highly handicapped players had suntans from playing abroad. The left side seemed to be largely inhabited by non-playing members, including Miss Lodsworth and her cronies, their capaciously drooping cashmere bosoms resting on their tweed-skirted bellies, their feet sensibly clad in brogues and coloured wool stockings. Miss Lodsworth, who was wearing burgundy-red tights to match her face, was making lists.

‘Bad language, five ponies abreast in Eldercombe High Street, loose grooms’ dogs in Rutminster Park, cruelty, excessive use of whip,’ wrote Miss Lodsworth in her masculine hand and glared at Perdita, who, having been guilty of at least three of these sins, glared back.

At a table facing the room sat Brigadier Hughie, Fatty Harris and Basil Baddingham. On the end sat Posy Jones, the pretty club secretary, who was already getting too hot in her Prussian-blue jersey.

He looks like a nineteenth-century French cavalry officer, thought Posy, gazing surreptitiously at Bas. There was something exotic and un-English about the highly polished gold buttons on his blazer, the beautifully manicured hands, and the uniformly dark gold suntan. His glossy, patent-leather hair was exactly the same Vandyke brown as his moustache and his wickedly roving eyes. He’s really attractive, decided Posy, then flushed as Bas shot her a look of unashamed lust. The reason the minutes were not recorded as accurately that year was because Bas’s long fingers kept idly caressing the back of Posy’s navy-blue stockinged legs, as he gazed equally idly at Perdita. Perdita was seriously worried. The purpose of the meeting for her was to get Ricky reinstated and Bas seemed to be the only one of Ricky’s supporters to have turned up. The twins and Jesus were playing in the Cartier Open and Handicap in Palm Beach. Mike Waterlane was too terrified of his father to be any use, and Drew hadn’t arrived yet.

‘I can’t think what’s happened to Drew,’ said Sukey, who was planning the menu for a dinner party on Tuesday. ‘He went to look at a pony outside Cotchester and was meeting me here.’

As Rutminster Cathedral struck the half-hour Brigadier Hughie rose to his feet.

‘Better get started. Our President, Sir David Waterlane, has been delayed by a puncture and is about to come through the door. I expect that’s him now, so I’ll shut up.’

Instead, in wandered Seb Carlisle, blond hair ruffled, tie over one collar, yawning widely and holding a treble whisky in one hand. A ripple of laughter went round the room.

‘We thought you were in Palm Beach,’ said Brigadier Hughie disapprovingly.

‘Cartilage playing up,’ murmured Seb. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Then, noticing Perdita on the end of the row, he made a furiously chuntering Miss Lodsworth and her cronies budge up so he could slide along and sit next to her.

‘How the hell did you get that whisky?’ whispered Perdita.

‘Booked a room on Victor and ordered room service,’ whispered Sebbie, giving her a smacking kiss. ‘We can try out the bed if this meeting gets too boring.’

Perdita shook her head. ‘We’ve got to get Ricky reinstated.’

‘That’s why I came back,’ said Seb. ‘I’ve brought you this.’

It was a feature from the American magazine Polo saying that Luke had recovered from his shoulder injury and was playing gloriously again. The accompanying photograph showed Luke in the barn with Leroy bristling at his feet and an adoring Fantasma resting her pink nose on his shoulder with her top lip curled upwards.

‘Oh, how sweet,’ murmured Perdita.

‘That’s a dream horse when she’s not savaging patrons and biting other ponies in the line out,’ said Seb. ‘Luke ought to rename her Fang-tasma.’

‘How’s Luke’s spoilt brat of a brother?’ asked Perdita ultracasually.

‘Spoilt,’ said Seb. ‘Fancy Red, do you?’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ snarled Perdita, going absolutely crimson.

‘Be the only one who doesn’t,’ said Seb grinning. ‘Victor’s frightfully excited,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘because his company’s just discovered a cure for piles.’

‘I know a cure for piles of money – it’s called polo,’ said Perdita.

‘Can we get started?’ said Brigadier Hughie sternly.

Apologies for absence were received and minutes of the previous meeting passed before they moved on to last year’s accounts, which had been disastrous owing to the weather. Attendance and bar takings were right down.

‘Not surprising,’ interrupted Seb, taking a slug of whisky, ‘when it takes the barmaid five minutes to chop the cucumber for each Pimm’s.’

‘Matters are not helped,’ Brigadier Hughie glared at Seb, ‘by far too many players not settling their bar bills.’

They were lucky, he went on, that Basil Baddingham, who ran a most successful wine bar in Cotchester High Street, had joined the committee and agreed to act in an advisory capacity.

‘To keep an eye on Fatty,’ muttered Seb.

Fatty Harris, feeling curiously naked without a panama or a flat cap from under which to crinkle his bloodshot eyes, was livid that Bas had been brought in, and even more so because the bounder was fingering Posy Jones, which Fatty felt was strictly his prerogative.

‘Another more serious problem,’ went on the Brigadier sternly, ‘is that far too many players have been using Commander Harris’s mobile telephone without paying. There were calls recorded to Paris, Florida, Chile, Tokyo, Palm Beach and Sydney. The bill for the two summer quarters came to well over £2,000. In future a lock will be put on the telephone.’

‘There have also been complaints,’ the Brigadier peered over his bifocals, ‘from several local restaurants that certain players, after winning matches, haven’t behaved as well as they might. There was the case of the Star of India in Rutminster High Street.’

‘That was my brother, Dommie,’ said Seb tipping his ash on Sharon’s mink which was now hanging over the back of her chair, ‘and he had extreme provocation. He mistook the kitchen door for the Gents and found the Chef piling Pedigree Chum into the Chicken Vindaloo pan, so he landed him one.’

The room rocked with laughter.

‘That’s quite enough, Seb,’ snapped David Waterlane, who’d just arrived with snowflakes melting in his hair. ‘We don’t want post mortems, we want better behaviour.’

‘Curried unanimously,’ murmured Perdita.

‘Where is Drew?’ said Sukey, glancing at her watch. ‘The roads are awfully icy. I hope he hasn’t had a shunt.’

The meeting droned on. The news wasn’t all bad, announced Brigadier Hughie. They had Bart Alderton to thank for the magnificent new pavilion, new stands and excellent new changing rooms. Then, seeing Victor turn puce at such preferential treatment of his hated rival: ‘And of course we must thank Victor Kaputnik . . .’

‘Sir Victor, if you please,’ reproved Sharon.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir Victor, for providing us with a splendid first-aid hut and a year’s supply of his excellent medical products and for a new marquee for sponsors’ lunches. We must also thank him for boarding our third and fourth pitches, and for giving us a new commentary box to replace the one that blew away and is probably someone’s garden shed now.’

Moving on to the Social Calendar, Brigadier Hughie praised Miss Lodsworth for her excellent floral arrangements in the tea room and announced dates for several barbecues and cocktail parties. The highlight of the season, however, would be in June, when Lady Kaputnik had very kindly offered her home for a ball, but felt 350 was the limit she could accommodate at one time.

‘Three fifty would be stretching it even for Sharon,’ said Seb, grinning broadly as he returned with his second glass of whisky.

The meeting switched to the perils of ringworm. Brigadier Hughie remembered ringworm in Singapore. Perdita fought sleep and looked out of the window. The blizzard had come from the west, so the trees in the hotel garden resembled a Head and Shoulders ad with their east sides black and bare and the west sides powdered with snow. Pigeons drifted disconsolately round a blanked-out bird table. Yellow-and-purple crocus tips rose like flood victims out of an ocean of white snow. It was hard to believe she’d be playing chukkas again in a month.

If Seb and I and Perdita can get here, thought Bas, as his fingers moved upwards to caress the softness of Posy Jones’ thighs, why can’t the others.

He had a lunch date, but he wondered if it was worth booking Posy into a room upstairs for a quickie. He liked the way her bosom rose and fell as she wrote the shorthand outline for wrongworm rather than ringworm.

‘Which brings us to the matter of dogs,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘I cannot reiterate too strongly that they should be kept on leads during matches.’

‘Here, here,’ Miss Lodsworth rose to her feet, ‘I for one . . .’

David Waterlane pointedly unfolded the Sunday Express. ‘What’s all this about Rupert Campbell-Black and Declan O’Hara getting drunk together, and your brother firing Declan from Corinium Television?’ he asked Bas in a very audible whisper.

Sharon Kaputnik discreetly unfolded the News of the World to read the same story.

It was nearly midday. Brigadier Hughie was rabbiting on about the necessity for a decent walkie-talkie system.

‘Drew Benedict must have plenty of experience of walkie-talkies, having recently left the Army. Where are you, Drew?’

‘Not here,’ said Fatty Harris thankfully. He feared Drew’s exacting standards far more than Bas’s.

‘Yes, I am. Sorry I’m late, Hughie,’ said Drew, walking in. ‘There was a pile-up on the Cotchester bypass. My experience of walkie-talkies was they never worked.’ Coming back to earth, warm from Daisy’s arms, he sat down beside Sukey and took off his jacket.

‘It wasn’t ponies he was trying out,’ whispered Seb, nudging Perdita. ‘He’s got his jersey on inside out.’

Catching Drew’s eye behind Sukey’s back, Seb pointed frantically to his own sweater and then at Drew’s. Drew looked down and hastily put his jacket on again.

‘I warmly recommend Drew Benedict for the committee,’ said Brigadier Hughie smiling at Drew. ‘I can’t think of anyone who shoulders responsibility more willingly and I know his wife, Sukey, will be a tower of strength.’

‘Has Drew got someone else?’ whispered Perdita, utterly riveted.

‘So Rupert says,’ whispered back Seb, ‘but Drew won’t say who she is.’ ‘Hush,’ thundered Miss Lodsworth down the row.

‘Any other business?’ said Brigadier Hughie, looking at his watch and gathering up his papers.

‘I have,’ said Miss Lodsworth, rising to her feet again. ‘First, I would like to deplore the repeated use of bad language on the field.’

‘Hear, hear,’ chorused the old trout quintet who flanked her.

Fatty Harris heaved a sigh of relief. Miss Lodsworth would bang on until twelve, when they had to vacate the room anyway, so no one would have time to bring up the matter of Ricky and Dancer. Bart had already lined Fatty’s pockets liberally, but there was much more to come if the blackballing survived the AGM. Perdita looked despairingly at Bas, who grinned and squared his shoulders to interrupt Miss Lodsworth’s invective. But as the Cathedral clock struck twelve, distraction from bad language and ponies thundering five abreast was provided by a government helicopter landing on the lawn outside, blowing snow off the trees and sending it up in swirling, white fountains, as if the blizzard had started again. Then, out of the door, spilled Dommie Carlisle and Jesus, followed by a brunette and a blonde, who ran shrieking across the lawn in their high heels, and finally the Minister for Sport, Rupert Campbell-Black. Bas heaved a sigh of relief. Posy blushed and pulled down her jersey. The last time she’d seen Rupert she’d been wearing no clothes at all. Miss Lodsworth inflated like a bullfrog. The press woke up and started scribbling.

Leaving the girls by the fire in the bar, the three men came straight into the meeting.

‘This is an honour, Minister,’ lied Brigadier Hughie. Rupert always spelt trouble. ‘I thought you were in Florida.’

‘We were eight hours ago,’ said Rupert.

‘He hasn’t been near an AGM in twenty years,’ hissed Fatty Harris.

‘I didn’t know Rupert played polo,’ whispered Perdita.

‘Only as a hobby between show-jumping,’ said Seb, ‘but he’s bloody good. Christ knows how far he’d have got if he’d taken it up seriously.’

‘Come and have a drink, Rupert,’ said the Brigadier, getting to his feet. ‘We’ve just finished.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ said Bas amiably. ‘Item eleven – any other business.’

‘They want to lay the room for a luncheon party,’ said Brigadier Hughie fussily. ‘No time for that now.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ said Rupert.

As he reached the top of the aisle the dull winter light fell on his blond hair and the crows’ feet round his hard, dissipated, blue eyes. He’s divine, thought Perdita wistfully. No one could resist him.

‘As a member of this club for many years,’ drawled Rupert, ‘I want to oppose the blackballing of Ricky France-Lynch and Dancer Maitland.’

‘Not a matter for an AGM,’ snapped David Waterlane, putting down the Sunday Express. ‘These things should be discussed in camera.’

‘Oh dear!’ Brigadier Hughie mopped his forehead with a red spotted handkerchief, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

The press scribbled more feverishly. Miss Lodsworth, dammed up in mid-flow, turned puce.

‘Hardly the time,’ said Fatty Harris.

‘When better?’ Rupert was speaking very distinctly as though he was dictating to some idiot typist. ‘I think the press might be interested to know that Ricky France-Lynch, the best player Rutshire has ever had, having survived a horrific car crash and six even more horrific operations, is anxious to return and bring back some glory to this clapped-out club.’

‘This is disgraceful. How dare you?’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.

‘Dancer Maitland may have been a junkie once,’ went on Rupert, ‘but has since raised millions for charity this winter, offering his services free to Band Aid. If you want crowds at Rutshire, Ricky and Dancer will pack them in.

‘Bart Alderton,’ Rupert was speaking even slower now, so even the reporters doing longhand got everything down, ‘not only stole Ricky’s wife, but now wants to rob him of the chance to return to the club he loves and for which his family has played for generations. Bart has therefore poured fortunes into the club and certain club secretaries’ pockets’ – Rupert smiled coldly at Fatty Harris – ‘on condition that Ricky and Dancer are kept out. Pretty shabby behaviour.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Victor. ‘Bart’s walked off with Ricky’s wife. He’s the one who ought to be blackballed.’

‘Hey, steady on,’ said David Waterlane. ‘That’s going a bit far. If we stuck to that rule we wouldn’t have any members left.’

Rupert turned to the players. ‘D’you lot want to play for a club as bent as it is lacking in compassion?’

‘I resent that, sir,’ said Fatty Harris.

‘No,’ shouted Dommie from the back of the hall. ‘If you don’t reinstate Ricky – and allow Dancer in – I’m off down the road to Cirencester.’

‘So am I,’ said Seb, draining his whisky and raising Perdita’s hand, ‘and so’s she.’

‘And so am I,’ said Bas.

‘And I,’ said Drew, ignoring Sukey’s look of disapproval.

‘And me,’ brayed Mike Waterlane, ignoring his father’s even blacker look of disapproval.

‘And I,’ said Jesus, who’d been nudged in the ribs by Dommie.

‘And I,’ said Victor.

‘Don’t be silly, Victor,’ said Sharon, seeing her ball for 350 fast rolling away.

‘Anyone else?’ said Rupert.

Every player and most of the non-playing members, except Miss Lodsworth and her satellite crones, got to their feet.

‘This is most irregular,’ spluttered Brigadier Hughie.

‘But conclusive,’ said Rupert briskly.

‘I agree,’ said David Waterlane, turning to Fatty Harris, whose pockets were suddenly feeling very unlined. ‘You’ll have to accept a majority vote, Stanley. I declare the meeting closed, and now you can buy me a glass of beer, Rupert, and tell me what really happened with you and Declan O’Hara.’

‘I would,’ said Rupert, as the press swarmed round and the waitresses surged in to clear the room, ‘but we’ve got to go straight back to Florida. Dommie and Jesus are playing in the finals.’

Dommie, Jesus and the girls could now be seen running across the white lawn to the helicopter, as the blades blew the rest of the snow off the trees.

‘D’you mean you flew all the way from Florida just to vote, Minister?’ asked the Rutshire Echo.

‘Ricky’s a very old friend,’ said Rupert.