Polo

68

The whole polo world – or rather 27,000 of them – gathered at the Guards Club next day for the Cartier International, the ritziest event in the polo calendar. The blustery weather seemed to be reflecting the tensions of the two teams. Clouds raced across the sky as a warm but frenzied south-west wind whipped off panamas, murdered hairstyles, stripped the petals from the red roses clambering up the clubhouse and fretted the fleet of hospitality tents that lined the pitch like yachts in a regatta. All morning, so their employers could get plastered, chauffeurs, driving everything from Minis to Rollers, edged into the parking lot where picnickers consumed vast quantities of quiche, smoked salmon and chicken drumsticks and drank Pimm’s out of paper cups.

Only the jade-green statue of Prince Albert on his splendid charger gazed bleakly northwards, away from such manic guzzling and later from the play, as if he were blocking some distant shot.

Angel escaped into one of the lavatories in the players’ changing rooms, so no-one could muddle him with more advice. He was outraged that Guards Club officials, themselves outraged that the Yanks had put him in their team, had insisted on frisking him on arrival. He was livid he was playing Number One. What chance would he have of scoring with the ground drying unevenly and the wind whisking the ball in every direction? His heart blackened in hatred against Drew, the enemy, whom he now suspected of cuckolding him. How could he not kill him? He was about to play for a country belonging to a wife who had deserted him, against a country he loathed. He had spent last night painting a white banner with the words ‘The Falklands Belong to Argentina’, which he had smuggled in with the tack and intended to brandish during the presentation.

Perdita, even more miserable and isolated, huddled in the stands next to the Royal Box. She wore dark glasses to hide her reddened eyes and the fact that there was no sun in the sky or in her life. After rowing with Red all night, terrified of losing him, she’d let him ride Tero. Now he’d banished her from the pony lines.

‘You screwed my sleep. I don’t want you hanging around dispensing gratuitous advice.’

The wind was taking everyone’s skirts over their heads. Girls with good legs seemed less embarrassed, reflected Perdita. She tipped Angel’s sombrero further over her nose for there, arriving with Bas, were Rupert and Taggie. Taggie seemed to have solved the force ten problem by wearing a sand-coloured suit with shorts instead of a skirt, showing off her long, beautiful legs. Over her shoulders was thrown a huge crimson cashmere shawl. From her ears hung long silver earrings, both birthday presents from Rupert. He could give her everything in the world except a baby. With her dark hair lifting and her bright crimson lips as smooth as a tulip, she looked absolutely gorgeous. As usual Rupert never took his arm off her shoulders from the moment they sat down. Perdita’s heart twisted with envy and loneliness. Would he never recognize her?

Now the celebrities, who’d come to be looked at, vying to take their seats later than each other, were streaming out of the Cartier tent, replete with champagne, lobster, chicken supreme and peaches poached in Sancerre. As they looked for their seats, they flashed all-embracing smiles at their public.

‘I’ve just seen a Beegee go by,’ boomed Miss Lodsworth as Ringo Starr passed by her seat up the gangway.

‘Looked like a Monkey to me,’ said Mrs Hughie.

‘Who are the Monkeys?’ asked Brigadier Hughie. ‘Those chimps who have tea on television?’

‘No, no, a dance band,’ said Mrs Hughie. ‘You remember the Monkeys when the children were young?’

‘We had a monkey in Borneo,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘Dear little chap. Had to leave him behind when I was posted to Malaya.’

‘Expect it’s Prime Minister now,’ muttered Rupert.

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as Juan O’Brien walked into the stands in a blazer of glory, hailing acquaintances.

‘Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,’ cried Lady Sharon. ‘Welcome, welcome, or rather bienvenida, back to Inglesias. Are you going to be allowed to play next year? Dave’s mad about the idea.’

Several members of the Guards Club turned purple and started muttering about Bluff Cove. Rapping out commands on his walkie-talkie, covering a field as flawless and as expectant as a newly laid carpet, strode Major Ferguson. The buttons on his blazer gleamed brighter even than the brass instruments of the band of the Irish Guards in their blood-red tunics.

Suddenly the photographers abandoned the celebrities and shot off to concentrate on the Prince and Princess of Wales, who’d just arrived and were shaking hands in the Royal Box. Only a couple of wagtails looking for worms took no notice.

On came the skewbald drum horse and his Life Guards rider in his gold coat, followed by the American team, the Stars and Stripes streaming out behind them. Angel, his face still as a gold coin, sulked because he’d just been sharply ordered to put out his cigarette. Big Bobby Ferraro, on a wall-eyed sorrel, his hat on the back of his head, had his mouth open at all the pomp. Bart was in a state of ecstasy at achieving two ambitions: to ride for his country and meet the Princess of Wales. Red, aware of the crowd’s adulation, was the only one grinning broadly – and he’s riding Tero, thought Perdita in fury. How dare he? Tero looked petrified, her pewter coat lathering up like a washing machine primed with too much Daz, big eyes darting, ears disappeared against her pretty head as Red held her in an iron grip. Nor did Perdita know that four grooms, as well as Angel, Bart and Bobby, had had to hold her in the pony lines to enable Red to get on her back.

The British team followed: Ricky very pale, Drew very red from hangover and jet lag, the Napiers very ugly and saturnine. At the clash of cymbals in ‘God Save the Queen’, the drum horse took off. Only Red sawing savagely at her mouth stopped Tero following suit.

Up in his glass box the commentator, Terry Hanlon, failed to make the boot-faced English team laugh by pulling faces at them, then thanked Cartier for sponsoring the Coronation Cup. As each member of the teams cantered forward to take a bow, Red got five times as many screams of excitement as all the others. I should never have let him ride Tero, thought Perdita bitterly. Not even Terry Hanlon thanking Sir David Waterlane, Sir Victor Kaputnik, Kevin Coley and Perdita Macleod for lending ponies to the Americans could placate her.

The first chukka went straight into polo history because, at the end of it, the Americans were 7-0 up with six of the goals scored by Red, the contemptuous smile hardly leaving his face. It was as though he’d already seen a video of the match and knew exactly where the ball was going, he and Tero achieving one of those miraculous fusions between rider and pony that happens once in a lifetime. Fear had given wings to Tero’s oiled hooves as she streaked after the ball, a blue greyhound chasing an Arctic hare, but at the same time her stopping and turning were so automatic, her positioning near the ball so exact that she seemed hardly to need a rider on her back except as a scoring machine. Perdita was torn between pride and utter humiliation, particularly as the crowd seethed with speculation around her.

‘Juan brought that grey over.’

‘No, he didn’t. Bart brought it for $100,000 from Jesus’s brother.’

‘She’s worth it,’ said Bas. ‘Christ, look at that acceleration.’

‘Isn’t that Perdita’s pony?’ asked Taggie.

‘Couldn’t be,’ said Bas dismissively. ‘She was never that good.’

‘It is,’ said Rupert. ‘Just needed a decent rider on her back.’

While America settled into a smooth rhythm, England were in total disarray, a quartet of prima donnas each used to captaining his own side, totally deficient in team spirit, marking badly, never in position. Ricky, in despair, was resorting to his old tricks, doing too much and exhausting his ponies. Drew was just tired. The Napiers barged about, bullies in china shops, bellowing with frustration.

By half-time the score was 12-2 and the crowd were reading their programmes. As the Americans rode back to the pony lines their knees bumped. The Brits rode apart, four thunderclouds symbolizing their alienation.

A square of pitch in front of the Royal Box, where the presentation would later be made, was temporarily roped off so the crowd could close in and gaze at the Prince and Princess of Wales. Babies in prams were wheeled over from the opposite stand. Two Jack Russells, a pug and a cairn in a green scarf were held aloft by their owners to have a good look.

After half-time the English steadied. Red, riding Tero again, stepped up his game and in his enthusiasm had three fouls blown on him. He redeemed himself by galloping across goal and blocking the penalties with a couple of amazing tennis volleys and, finally, with Tero’s head, just below the eyes.

‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita as, in anguish, she watched Tero shaking her head frantically back and forth.

But her protests were drowned by the roar of the crowd as Angel picked up the ball and took it upfield, riding Drew off with unnecessary violence.

‘That’ll teach you to seduce my wife,’ he hissed.

‘Fucking gigolo,’ howled Drew, wondering whether Angel’s elbow had broken his rib. David Waterlane, who was umpiring, gave England another penalty.

‘And what can Red Alderton do this time?’ said Terry Hanlon.

Once more Red flew out, blocking the shot with Tero’s shoulders and bringing Perdita screaming to her feet.

Rupert and Bas were almost as upset. With England putting up such a pathetic performance, their collossal investment in the Westchester was looking increasingly precarious.

‘Come on, England, you’re playing like assholes,’ yelled Rupert. ‘Get your fucking fingers out.’

‘Ben and Charles Napier are supposed to be nine,’ said Bas, ‘but when they play together they’re about four. They’re not putting their backs into it because you don’t get paid for an International.’

‘God, he’s handsome,’ said a beauty behind Perdita, as Red scored again, a lovely sweeping shot under Tero’s neck. ‘If he’s really chucked Perdita Macleod, could you introduce me?’

Perdita gazed across the field to where a shining shingle of parked cars seemed to stretch to infinity. I want to die, she thought. Hell will be as welcoming as a log fire on a cold day compared with this. And now Red and Charles Napier were hurtling towards the boards inside which the ball was nestling. Red must bring Tero down.

‘Careful, Red, for God’s sake!’ she screamed.

But the next second Tero had hopped over the boards at full gallop and somehow, straining every tendon, had turned right in midair, positioning Red perfectly for an offside forehand, enabling him to scoop the ball out and blast it to safety. The crowd gave a sigh of ecstasy as the bell went for the end of the fourth chukka. Tero’s part in the match was over. Passionately relieved, shoving protesting onlookers out of the way Perdita raced down to the pony lines by which time Red and Glitz were back on the field.

She found Tero heaving and gasping for breath as she’d only seen ponies doing in the sweltering heat of Palm Beach, with four-inch weals from Red’s whip dividing the sweat on her nearside flanks and quarters.

‘Oh, my poor baby,’ moaned Perdita. ‘What has that bastard done to you? And you played so brilliantly, I’ll murder him when I catch him.’

But although apparently sound, the little mare seemed utterly shellshocked, not even responding to her mistress when she covered her with kisses. Perhaps it was total exhaustion. Perdita helped dry her off.

‘Give her a polish and put on a couple of rugs. She might win Best Playing Pony,’ she told Bart’s groom, Manuel, before going back to the stands for the last chukka, where America, still leading 12-4, were beginning to get complacent. Red, trying to block another shot, leapt out before Ricky had hit the penalty and a free goal was awarded to England. Ricky then scored two goals and Angel missed an easy one. Furious with himself, he swung his pony’s head round inadvertently straight into Drew’s face.

Drew, who was far more jet lagged than he had realized, conscious of playing like a geriatric and fed up with Angel histrionically twirling his stick above his head at every real, contrived or imagined foul, lost his temper.

‘You fucking grease-ball,’ he howled.

‘It was a meestake,’ howled back Angel, the gold St Christopher glittering in the damp bronze curls on his chest. ‘I teach you to race after my wife,’ he hissed, lifting his stick.

‘Bad luck for her getting tied up with a gigolo,’ snapped Drew, also raising his stick.

‘Pack it in,’ said David Waterlane, riding between them, ‘or I’ll send you both off.’

‘Tempers getting up on the field,’ explained Terry Hanlon. ‘Polo’s been called a game for gangsters played by gentlemen, or a game for gentlemen played by gangsters. They say you need a cool head and hot blood to play it, and David Waterlane’s made the decision. Penalty to England.’

While Ricky converted the penalty Red belted off to change ponies. Looking eastwards Perdita noticed that the frantic activity in the pony lines had subsided and most of the grooms were lined up behind the scoreboard, holding spare ponies and cheering on their respective sides. Then she stiffened. It couldn’t be! Snatching Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars and nearly strangling him, she saw that Red was actually galloping back on Tero, riding her for the third time which was against the rules. Crashing along the row of protesting spectators, she tore down the steps, sending a returning B. A. Robertson flying.

‘Red, you can’t! Please not,’ she screamed from the second step. ‘She’s exhausted. You’ll kill her.’

But once again, as Red thundered past, her protests were drowned by the ecstatic screams from the crowd.

12-8 to the Americans with four minutes to go. At last England were in with a faint chance. The crowd, catching fire, began to roar. Frantic with worry, Perdita watched only Red. Tero was so game and willing, she’d give him her last ounce. Red picked up his whip. Suddenly the field seemed to stretch from one end of the world to the other as he galloped up and down hooking and fencing with his stick, frantic to gain position. Two minutes to go. Taking advantage of a loose ball, Ricky scored again.

‘Come on, England!’ shouted Rupert in exultation. ‘You can do it.’

At the throw-in, Drew got it out and passed it to Ricky who took off on Kinta towards the posts. Whipped by Red, somehow Tero caught up with them and grimly Red closed in to ride Ricky off. Tero, like the good pony she was, dropped her shoulder and shoved, but Kinta was almost twice the size and strength of her and she took the weight of the bump, flying through the air and nearly going down on her fore-end. As Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars shook in Perdita’s frantically trembling hands, Tero’s head seemed to be all white with lather. Her huge panic-stricken eyes rolled as Red yanked her round with all his strength to pick up the ball which Bart had backed upfield.

‘Bastard, stop him,’ screamed Perdita from the steps, but her cries were taken by the wind.

‘Sit down,’ yelled the crowd.

Oblivious, hands to her face, she watched, demented, as Red whipped Tero almost the length of the field, his spurs glinting in the sunshine as they stabbed at the little mare’s sides like the needle of a sewing machine. At the last moment he passed to Angel.

Angel, in turn, waited until Drew was almost on him before flicking the ball back to Red who, as Tero strained herself for a final, gallant effort, leaned right out of the saddle, stroking the ball between the posts, almost as an afterthought. 13-9 on the bell.

The cheers ringing out politely for an American victory turned to cries of horror as, like some ghastly danse macabre, Tero appeared to lose all co-ordination and Red and she were both down rolling over and over. Red jumped to his feet. Somehow, lurching drunkenly, Tero staggered up, but she was heaving, shuddering and careering round totally disconnected, with all four legs sticking out straight.

‘Christ, she’s broken something,’ said Dommie in horror.

‘Heart attack,’ snapped Rupert.

In an instant, Ricky and Drew had thrown their horses’ reins to the Napiers and were running towards her, followed by David Waterlane, Jesus, the other umpire, and Angel. Reaching her first, Ricky gently pushed Tero to the ground where she quivered convulsively and went still.

Frozen with horror, Perdita at last found her feet and ran down the steps, jumping over the white fence, dropping Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars, Angel’s sombrero and her bag out of which spilled her passport, diary and all her make-up. With the wind in her screaming mouth, hair ribbing her blanched face, she raced down the pitch, past the stands, past horrified faces in the Royal Box, hurtling towards the little group, outstripping the vet’s van bringing the screens, pummelling Ricky and Drew out of the way. ‘Lemme get at her.’

Falling to her knees and gathering up the pony’s head, which suddenly seemed as heavy as lead, she cradled it in her lap.

‘Tero darling, for Christ’s sake, you’re going to be OK. You’re just winded,’ she sobbed.

But Tero’s once-loving eyes were staring and glassy. ‘Tero, Tero, please, please.’ Tears ripping her apart, Perdita dropped her head down on the pony’s, ‘You’ve got to be all right. You’re all I’ve got. I love you.’

‘I’m afraid she’s had it.’ Desperately trying to keep his voice steady, Ricky put a hand on Perdita’s head. She had loved Tero as he had loved Mattie.

Hovering in the background, holding the others’ ponies, Bobby Ferraro and Shark instinctively removed their helmets in respect and sympathy. Red seemed quite unmoved, but Angel was less reticent. As the crowd, stunned and silent, watched the screens going round, he crouched down beside Perdita. Taking her in his arms, pulling her head on to his shoulder, crying himself, he gabbled half in Spanish.

‘She die playing best game of ’er life. People will always remember her.’

‘She can’t be dead,’ Perdita pleaded with the vet. ‘Make her better.’

The vet shook his head. ‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Absolutely tragic, wonderful pony.’

Perdita went absolutely still. For a second she watched the blood from Red’s spurs seeping down Tero’s damp, speckled flank, staining the emerald grass.

‘C’mon, Perdita,’ said Red in a shaken voice, holding out his hand. ‘It’s only a pony. Could have happened at any time,’ he added defensively.

Angel had to hold on to Perdita to stop her clawing Red’s face.

‘Murderer,’ she hissed through white lips. ‘You made me let you ride her. You flogged her to death.’

‘Oh, pack it in, baby,’ said Red, not unkindly.

‘It’s you I’m going to pack in,’ sobbed Perdita hysterically, ‘and I’m not a baby any more and not your baby ever again. I’ve grown up in the last five minutes.’

She had become so thin the huge sapphire slid off her finger easily. Flying through the air, the departing bluebird of her happiness, it crashed into Red’s chest.

‘Let her go. She’s outlived her usefulness,’ growled Bart, as, leaping to her feet, Perdita fled past the battlements of shocked faces, many of them in tears. Desperately looking for a way out, she paused in front of the Royal Box.

‘He killed her,’ she screamed. ‘Did you see Red kill her?’

Security guards and officials moved forward solicitously, but Taggie Campbell-Black was too quick for them. Stepping over the little white fence, she ran forward, tugging off her crimson shawl, wrapping it round Perdita. ‘I’m so sorry. She was such a sweet pony. You poor darling, please don’t cry. You’re coming home with us.’

‘Who? What?’ Perdita gazed at Taggie not registering.

‘Rupert and I are taking you home,’ explained Taggie, putting her arms round Perdita’s shoulder.

But the next minute Rupert had joined them. Rage that England had blown the match and Venturer possibly millions, bracketed with an almost pathological loathing of Perdita, made him totally irrational.

‘Leave her fucking alone,’ he yelled at Taggie. ‘She’ll bite you like a rabid dog. You don’t owe her anything.’

Taggie went very white, but stood her ground.

‘Yes, we do,’ she pleaded. ‘Look what’s happened to her. She needs you, Rupert.’

‘I’ll take her,’ said Ricky, pushing his way through the fast-gathering photographers. Taking Perdita from Taggie, he turned to Rupert. ‘When are you going to stop being so pig-headed and recognize your own child?’

It was part of the meticulous Guards Club organization that within seconds the afternoon was on course again. Ricky caused a few raised eyebrows and several accusations of bad sportsmanship when he missed the presentation. This was probably just as well because a jubilant Bart, making thumbs-up signs to Chessie in the stands, gloated so obscenely to the hovering press, predicting that America would annihilate England in the Westchester.

The object of all this conflict, the Coronation Cup, with its crown-shaped lid, gold, writhing serpent handles and patterning of laurel leaves and strange faces, rose serenely from its green baize table.

‘What a huge pot,’ boomed Miss Lodsworth. ‘Not Hughie’s, that cup!’

Silently the British team lined up, long-faced, eyes cast down, utterly gloomy, a total contrast to the laughing, overjoyed Americans. Out came Princess Diana in a silk dress that seemed woven from light blue and dark blue delphinium petals, her high heels sinking into the grass. Up went Bart to get the Cup, which was so heavy that the Chairman of Cartier had to help the Princess hand it to him. Bart had to wipe away a tear as the band played the Stars and Stripes.

Bobby Ferraro was so overwhelmed to meet the Princess that he seized her hands and kissed them, to the delighted screams of the crowd. Angel followed Red. His Falklands banner was tucked inside his shirt, but he was so appalled by Red’s callousness to Perdita and that Red could now joke and smile so devastatingly down at the Princess that he forgot to bring it out. Angel had planned so many gestures of revenge, but all the loathing he felt towards the British seemed to evaporate when he went up to get his clock in its red velvet box and gazed into the kind, blue eyes of the future Queen of England and saw the red roses in her faintly flushed cheeks. Her detective fingered his gun.

‘Whaddid she say to you?’ whispered Bart furiously when Angel finally floated back to the line-up.

‘She say she very sorry my brozzer was keeled in Malvinas,’ said Angel. ‘She ’ear he was jolly good player like ’er ’usband, and Argentine pilots was very brave, and her brother-in-law had flown ’elicopters in the Malvinas and how worried his mother was about heem and she knew how much I must mees Pedro, and,’ Angel added casually, ‘you can stuff your bloody job.’

But Bart wasn’t listening. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘I’m going to be photographed with the Princess.’

There was some booing when Angel won the Pegasus Award, a soaring golden horse for the Player of the Match, but deafening cheers when, posthumously, Tero won Best Playing Pony.

‘Keep it for Perdita,’ said Red when his groom collected the huge, dark maroon rug. ‘It’ll cheer her up when she cools down.’

They were outside the bar, surrounded by an admiring crowd, when Bart asked Angel, who was edging the top off a magnum of champagne with his thumbs, what he’d been about to say.

‘I say you can stuff your bloody awful job,’ said Angel politely. ‘You don’t treat players or ponies nice enough and you haff as you say outleeve the usefulness,’ and he aimed the spurting fountain of champagne straight into Bart’s absolutely furious brick-red face.

Back at Snow Cottage Daisy was still numb with misery over Sukey’s revelations. She was glad Ricky was at the International. If he’d seen her reddened eyes, he might have got the truth out of her. In the afternoon she tried to pull herself together and clean the house. She even forced herself to go into Perdita’s bedroom. The scarlet walls were bare since Perdita’d pulled down all Ricky’s photographs. A bluebottle crashed exhausted against the window pane. Perhaps she ought to take a lodger, a nice girl student from the Agricultural College, to keep her company on the long, lone evenings ahead. She mustn’t start crying again; there was enough damp in the cottage. It was a while before she heard the telephone. Crashing downstairs to get to it in time, she still prayed it might be Drew. But it was Taggie Campbell-Black. Her soft growling voice was unmistakable and she was stammering badly.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but Tero had a heart attack in the International and died.’

‘Oh, God! Darling little Tero and poor, poor Perdita,’ whispered Daisy aghast.

‘She’s broken it off with Red. Ricky’s bringing her home to you. We would have brought her, but Rupert wasn’t very keen, I do hope . . .’ Taggie was desperate to be fair and not disloyal to Rupert.

‘Of course I understand. I’m so sorry. It’s so kind of you to ring.’

Utterly desolate, Daisy collapsed on to a kitchen chair. In the middle of the table was a blue jug filled with meadowsweet. Nothing would ever grace a meadow more sweetly than Tero. Remembering the time the little pony had tiptoed into the kitchen during Christmas dinner and the delighted little nudges Tero used to give her in the back to ask for toast and Marmite, Daisy burst into tears.

But after a few minutes she was forced to pull herself together. Perdita was coming home: she must get ready. In panic and trepidation, she scurried round, hoovering frantically, finding hot water-bottles, making up Perdita’s bed with clean sheets and all Violet’s blankets and putting the jug full of meadowsweet on her bedside table.

There was Ethel barking and the sound of a car drawing up. Steeling herself for Perdita’s Force Ten rage, Daisy came slowly downstairs, but all her fears vanished as a thin, grey ghost with anguished funeral-black eyes ran through the door and collapsed, sobbing hysterically, into her arms.

‘Oh, Mummy, Mummy, how’ll I ever survive without Tero?’

Relief turned to horror as Daisy felt how thin she was. Following her in, still in breeches, boots and his dark blue England shirt came Ricky, who put a reassuring hand to Daisy’s cheek.

‘She’ll be OK. Give her a stiff drink. I’m going to ring the doctor.’

In the sitting room Perdita collapsed on the sofa. ‘What’ll happen to her now?’ she asked wildly.

‘She’ll go straight to heaven, of course. No pony was gooder,’ mumbled Daisy.

‘But that’s no good for her.’ Perdita’s sobs redoubled. ‘The only heaven for Tero was where I was.’

James Benson, the smooth, private GP from Cheltenham, who’d been Rupert’s and Ricky’s doctor for years, was just going out to drinks but couldn’t resist a chance to look at Rupert’s supposedly illegitimate daughter, and her mother as well, and arrived in his Mercedes. She certainly had the Campbell-Black bone structure – rather too near the surface at the moment.

‘She’s seriously underweight and in shock,’ he told Daisy and Ricky as he came downstairs. ‘I’ve given her a shot and something to make her sleep, but I think we should keep her heavily sedated, slowly reducing the dose over the next few days. I should keep these locked up,’ he added, as he handed Daisy anti-depressants and sleeping pills. ‘One can’t be too careful.’

Then, noticing Daisy’s own pallor and reddened eyes, ‘Are you going to be all right? I don’t think you should be alone.’

‘I’ll look after her,’ said Ricky.

‘I’ll just nip home and check the horses,’ he said when James Benson had gone, ‘and have a shower. I must smell like a rambler’s crotch.’

Daisy flushed. ‘You don’t have to come back. I’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t be silly. Don’t do anything. I’ll bring a take-away and some drink.’

‘I’m honestly not hungry.’

‘Don’t be even sillier. You can’t have two skeletons in one house.’ Then, more gently, seeing Daisy’s face quivering as she bent over the sink, ‘It’s all right, lovie, the worst’s over. She’s home.’