Polo

63

The inquiry was held the following afternoon in an upstairs room at the Naval and Military Club in Piccadilly. Stewards from the British Polo Association, including David Waterlane, Charles Napier, Brigadier Hughie and Brigadier Canford from Cowdray, made up the Committee. Evidence was given by the umpires, Bobby Ferraro and Ricky, looking particularly bleak in a dark suit and his habitual black tie, and from the third man. The BPA had tried to get a signed statement from Drew. But, confined to hospital with severe concussion and a cracked jaw, he could remember nothing.

The ramblings of Brigadier Hughie, who’d had two glasses of port at luncheon and who could see parallels for everything in Singapore and India, were mercifully cut short by David Waterlane, who was not drinking because it was the polo season and who wanted to go to a strip club.

Victor Kaputnik had been furious that Drew, his star player, had been taken out. But his fury had been considerably assuaged when, with Ben Napier standing in for Drew, the Tigers had smashed the Flyers (down to three men after Angel had been sent off) by 12-8, which put them in the final. To upstage Bart, who’d only brought four lawyers, Victor rolled up with five, whereupon Bart promptly sent out for two more – like a takeaway.

Angel, sullen and shell-shocked from being bawled out by an enraged Bart and an even more hysterically angry Red, had been ordered by Bart’s principal lawyer, Winston Chalmers, who’d flown through the night on Concorde at vast expense, to keep his pretty trap shut.

‘All you gotta do,’ said Winston, ‘is to say you’re very sorry and admit it was a terrible mistake.’

‘The only meestake was not to keel him,’ snarled Angel.

‘D’you want to be sidelined for ten years?’

Angel shrugged sulkily.

‘Well, shut up then, and, for Chrissake, take him to Jermyn Street, Red, get him a tie and a haircut.’

Winston Chalmers was a fine lawyer.

‘Angel Solis de Gonzales,’ he told the stewards, ‘comes from one of the oldest families in the Argentine and was one of the most distinguished pilots in the Falklands War. All players get strung up before a match – particularly a semi-final. Suddenly, by extraordinary coincidence, he sees on the opposite side a British officer who interrogated him in the Falklands. A volatile, hot-blooded Latin, he sees red and hits him.’

‘No,’ piped up Angel, ‘I did not heet Red. I saw Drew and heet him.’

‘Pack it in,’ muttered Winston Chalmers savagely.

‘I come to Eengland to avenge my brother, Pedro. We in Argentina honour the family.’

‘Your brother was a fine player?’ asked Brigadier Hughie, easing a sliver of cutlet en gelée out of his teeth.

‘Excellent. He make Red Alderton look like Veector Kaputnik.’

The Committee tried not to laugh.

‘I must tell zee truth,’ continued Angel. ‘I know Drew Benedict was polo player. I know everytheenk about ’im. ’E torture me in Falklands.’

‘What we want to know,’ asked David Waterlane, ‘is whether the whole thing was premeditated?’

‘I no understand.’

‘Did you plan it beforehand?’

Angel glanced out on to the dusty plane trees of Green Park. People were lounging in emerald-green deck chairs, girls were stretched out in bikinis. He felt a great wave of shame as he said, ‘No, I did not.’

Everyone left the room except the stewards and the discussion became very acrimonious.

‘We’ve got to suspend him for a year and send him home,’ said Brigadier Canford from Cowdray, who wanted to continue the ban. ‘Solis de Gonzales’s behaviour is utterly indicative of what will happen if we get the Argentines back. If he comes up against Rutminster Hall in the next few weeks he could easily take out the Prince of Wales.’

David Waterlane, however, who hadn’t won a major cup nor lost a wife since Miguel and Juan played for him, came down heavily in support of Angel.

‘Chap hasn’t displayed a trace of aggression in any other game. Played against Brits in Palm Beach. Plays in the same team as Perdita. She’s a Brit. Drew’s an isolated case. Gave him a hard time in the Falklands, had a rush of blood to the head. Suspend him for a week with a £5,000 fine.’

‘I remember a chappie in India,’ began Brigadier Hughie, ‘furious with another player for walking off with his wife. About to kill him, when a wild pig, wounded by some guns, ran across the pitch, so we all gave chase.’

‘Oh, shut up, Hughie,’ snapped David Waterlane. ‘I know for a fact that if you ban Gonzales, Bart for one will pull out of the Gold Cup altogether and go back to America.’

‘We don’t want that,’ said Brigadier Canford, going pale. Bart had promised to pour a vast amount of money into the club which he’d just joined, but hadn’t signed the cheque yet. Brigadier Canford had visions of being landed with a bill for new showers, a new bar and Ladies’ loos with a Tampax machine.

‘When I was in Singapore,’ interrupted Brigadier Hughie, ‘chappie got so miffed at being beaten, he hijacked the opposition ponies and syces on the train home.’

‘Oh, shut up, Hughie,’ said Brigadier Canford.

Angel waited outside in the smoking room. Forgetting its similarity to the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires, he thought how odiously British were the thick red carpet, the ornate plaster ceiling, the heavy, dark furniture, the members silently reading The Times and the Sporting Life.

He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning and he felt exhausted, miserable and desperately ashamed of himself for having lied to the stewards. Glancing up, he thought he was hallucinating, for there, hovering in the doorway with the club porter, was Bibi, looking adorably fragile and worried.

‘I just came from the airport. What’s happening?’

‘They’re still talking,’ said Angel.

Joyously crossing the room, he was about to take her in his arms when she said coldly, ‘What in hell were you doing trying to murder Drew Benedict?’

Angel could lie to the inquiry, but not to Bibi.

‘Drew Benedict is complete sheet who torture me in Malvinas. Now his jaw is cracked he won’t find it so easy to interrogate people.’

They were out in the passage now, both shaking with animosity and longing.

‘How long have you planned this?’

‘For ever,’ said Angel. ‘I had to avenge Pedro.’

Bibi went to the window and gazed past the swooning Union Jack over the windowbox of red geraniums at the lovers in the park. My life is over, she thought. Angel, gazing at her long, beautiful legs, her tousled, red hair and her hunched, padded shoulders in the petrol-blue suit, thought he’d never needed or wanted her so badly.

‘So you didn’t marry me for my money,’ whispered Bibi, turning on him. ‘You did it to get American nationality and your revenge on poor Drew.’

‘What other reason could there be?’ hissed Angel.

He didn’t mean it, but he was fed up with being lectured and shouted at, and was aware of newspapers being lowered in the smoking room next door.

‘I want a divorce. Winston’s over here, so he can handle it right away,’ said Bibi, and, sobbing hysterically, she fled down the stairs out into the traffic of Piccadilly. Angel was about to run after her when a voice said, ‘Mr Solis de Gonzales, will you come in, please.’

He felt no better when Brigadier Hughie told him that this time he’d get away with a fortnight’s suspension and a £5,000 fine.

‘And you can fucking well pay it,’ roared Bart. ‘You only got off because I threatened to pull out of the Gold Cup.’