Polo (18 page)

    `How much did they sting you?' asked Ricky, disapprovingly.

    `Nearly a million, but Bas reckons it'll be worf four million by the end of the eighties. There's rooms we canknock froo for a recording studio, and uvver rooms we can knock froo for parties. An' a nice piece of flat land where we can build a polo field.'

    `The village have been playing cricket on that for generations.'

    `Well, they'll have to watch polo now.'

    `And Miss Lodsworth, the village bossyboots, will be next door marshalling the Parish Council like a tiger. She's not going to like her girl guides being corrupted by all your musicians.'

    Dancer grinned. `Sounds kind of fun. Bas didn't mention any incentives in the hand-out about under-age schoolgirls. And talking of schoolgirls, I just love that Perdita. I watched her stick and balling this morning. Never missed the goal posts once.'

    `She is
not
supposed to be playing.'

    `You can't hold her back,' protested Dancer. `Why are you so foul to her?'

    `Got to bash the stems of roses to get the water in,' said Ricky flatly.

    `She told me about losing 'er pony,' said Dancer. `Fort I might buy her another one.'

    `You will
not,'
snapped Ricky, suddenly looking pale and tired. `I can only just control her as it is. I got complaints about her from Miss Lodsworth only last week - taking seven ponies up Eldercombe High Street to save making two journeys so she could get back and stick and ball. And she gives them too much road work, so they won't get dirty and she won't have to waste time scraping off the mud. Every time my back's turned, she picks up a stick.'

    `Probably want to sleep wiv her,' said Dancer slyly. `That's why you're so 'orrible.'

    `The only thing I'm interested in is getting Chessie back,' snapped Ricky.

    He was bitterly ashamed that, having been assured by Seth that his arm would recover, he was still overwhelmed with black gloom.

    The day before Ricky was due home the ancient washing machine finally croaked because Perdita had overloaded it with saddle blankets and Frances had made such a scene that Dancer whipped Perdita off to Rutminster to buy Ricky a new one as a welcome-home present.

    `We don't want him any crosser wiv you than he already is,' said Dancer, as they stormed back to Eldercombe along the motorway.

    Perdita adored Dancer's car, a gold Ferrari, fitted with all the latest gadgets including a synthesizer, a CD player, whose speakers were blaring out `Gaol Bird', and two telephones.

    `Let's try ringing each other up,' she suggested; then she gave a scream. `Look! There's a little dog running along the verge. It must have been dumped. Stop, for Christ's sake!'

    `Can't stop 'ere,' protested Dancer.

    `You bloody can. Get in the left-hand lane.'

    Then, for a second the traffic slowed down to allow cars to turn off at Exit fifteen and Perdita was out of the Ferrari, narrowly avoiding being run down by a Lotus, and on to the grass track in the centre of the motorway. Tears streaming down her face, she belted back the way they had come, looking desperately for the little dog. Cars were hurtling past her in both directions. How could the little thing possibly survive? Her heart was crashing in her ribs as she stumbled over the uneven divots.

    Just when she felt she couldn't run another step, she saw the little dog again. He had huge terrified eyes with bags under them like a basset, and one ear that stuck up and the other down, and a long, dirty grey body and stumpy legs. He wore no collar, and was poised, absolutely terrified, on the far side of the right-hand traffic lane. Perdita didn't call to him, but, seeing her, he suddenly dived into the traffic, narrowly missing a milk lorry and a BMW and only avoiding a Bentley because it swerved to the left, causing great hooting and screaming of brakes. Now the dog was racing down the green track ahead of her. Two hundred yards away loomed a Little Chef restaurant.

    `Oh, please God, let him make it,' sobbed Perdita.

    Stumbling on, ignoring the wolf whistles and yells of approval from passing drivers, she watched in anguish as the dog decided to make a dive and plunged into the traffic again. Trying to avoid a Volvo going at 100 m.p.h. he was hit by the front of an oil lorry which knocked it on to the hard shoulder.

    Perdita gave a scream of horror, which turned into joy as the dog stumbled on to three legs and dragged himself into the safety of the restaurant.

    Oblivious of cars, forgetting Dancer, Perdita somehow crossed the road and sprinted the last hundred yards. The dog was nowhere to be seen but, following a trail of blood, Perdita found him underneath a parked lorry. His eyes were terrified, his lip curling, his little back leg a bloody pulp.

    `It's all right, darling.' Gradually she edged towards him, but when she put out her hand, he snapped and cringed away. Perdita tried another tack. Crawling out, she explained what had happened to the driver of the lorry and asked if she could have a bit of his lunch. Grinning, he gave her half a pork pie. At first the dog looked dubious, then slowly edged forwards and gobbled it up, plainly starving.

    `More,' yelled Perdita.

    By the time the dog had finished the pork pie and eaten three beef sandwiches, several drivers were gathered round admiring Perdita's legs.

    `You've got to help me catch him,' she said, peering out, her cheeks streaked with oil. `He'll bleed to death if we don't get him to a vet.'

    The dog was finally coaxed out with a bowl of water, so frantic was his thirst. The first lorry driver gave Perdita an old blanket to wrap him in, the second offered to drive her to the nearest vet and went off to borrow the Yellow Pages from the restaurant. The third was suggesting the RSPCA might be better when Dancer screamed up in his Ferrari.

    `Fuckin' 'ell, Perdita, fort you'd been totalled.'

    All the drivers had to have Dancer's autograph for their wives and tell him what a bleedin' shame he'd been put inside before he and Perdita finally set off for the vet's. Perdita had to hold on to the little dog very tightly as he shuddered in her arms. Despite the blanket, he bled all over Dancer's pale gold upholstery. Mercifully the vet was at the surgery. Putting the dog out, he operated at once. The leg needed sixty stitches. Once again Dancer and Perdita waited.

    `He won't have to lose the leg,' said the vet as he washed his hands afterwards, `but he'll have very sore toes for a bit. You can pick him up tomorrow.'

169

    `What are you going to do with him?' Dancer asked Perdita.

    `Give him to Ricky. He's got to learn to love something new.'

    Getting home to find Little Chef, as he was now known,
in situ,
Ricky was absolutely furious.

    `I do
not
want another dog, and, if I did, it would be a whippet. That must be the ugliest dog I've ever seen.'

    `He's sweet,' protested Perdita. `He's had a bad time' - like you have, she nearly added.

    `A dog is a tie.'

    `Not a very old school one in Little Chef's case,' admitted Perdita. `But mongrels are much brighter than breed dogs and you need something to guard the yard. Frances is getting very long in the tooth.'

    Little Chef hobbled towards Ricky. The whites of his supplicating, pleading eyes were like pieces of boiled egg. His tail, instead of hanging between his legs, was beginning to curl.

    `I don't want a dog,' said Ricky sulkily. `It broke Millicent's heart every time I went away. I'm not into the business of heart-breaking.'

    `Could have fooled me,' drawled Dancer. `I've gotta go. I've got a concert.'

    `So have I. Dancer's got me a ticket,' said Perdita, scuttling out after him. `See you tomorrow. Just give him a chance.'

    Left alone with Ricky, Little Chef limped to the door and whined for a bit. When it was time to go to bed, Ricky got Millicent's basket down from the attic and put it in front of the Aga.

    `Stay,' he said firmly.

    Little Chef stayed.

    Upstairs he had difficulty getting out of his clothes. Across the yard, he could see a light on in Frances's flat. She'd be across in a flash if he asked her. Since the operation he'd had terrible trouble sleeping. To get comfortable he had to lie on his back with his left hand hanging out of the bed.

    His body ached with longing for Chessie. For a second he thought of Perdita, then slammed his mind shut like adungeon door. That could only lead to disaster. Frances's scrawny body was always on offer, but on the one night when despair had driven him to avail himself of it he hadn't even been able to get it up. That was why she was so bitter.

    He turned out the light, breathing in the sweet soapy smell of hawthorn blossom. Through the open window the new moon was rising like a silver horn out of the jaws of the galloping fox weather-vane. Before he had time to wish, he jumped out of his skin as a rough tongue licked his hand. In the dim light he saw Little Chef gazing up at him beseechingly.

    `Go away,' snapped Ricky. Then, as the dog slunk miserably away, `Oh all right, just this once.'

    But when he patted the bed, Little Chef couldn't make it, so Ricky reached down and helped him up. Immediately he snuggled against Ricky's body, giving a sigh of happiness. For the first time in years, both of them slept in until lunchtime.

18

    Within a week Little Chef was running the yard, bringing in the ponies from the fields, doing tricks for pony nuts, retrieving lost balls from the undergrowth, then running on to the field and dropping them when there was a pause in play.

    He also learnt not to scrabble Dancer's leather trousers and who was welcome in the yard, biting the ankles of visiting VAT men, growling at Philippa Mannering when, ever hopeful, she dropped in on Ricky, and lifting his leg on the probation officer's bicycle.

    He adored Perdita, but Ricky was his great love, and gradually as the ugly little dog limped after him, barking encouragement during practice chukkas, and even hitching a lift on the back of a pony in order not to be separated, Ricky succumbed totally to his charms.

    And when the vet came to take out Little Chef's stitches, it was Ricky who held the wildly trembling dog in his arms. Any visiting player who was foolish enough to make eyes at Perdita, or disparaging cracks about Little Chef's appearance, got very short shrift.

    By the beginning of August Ricky's arm was so much better that he was able gently to stick and ball. By the end of August so excessive had been the overtime paid the builders and excavators that Dancer and his gaudy retinue were able to move into Eldercombe Manor.

    Miss Lodsworth had a busy summer. When she wasn't inveighing against cruelty to ponies and disgusting language at Rutshire Polo Club, and furiously ringing up Ricky to complain about Perdita thundering ponies five abreast down Eldercombe High Street, she was writing to Dancer, to grumble about cheeky builders, truculent security guards, and Alsatians chasing her cat, Smudge. Nor was she amused by helicopters with flashing lights landing like fireflies at all hours, nor the deafening boom of all-night recording sessions.

    Worst of all, some sadist of a landscape designer had slapped down Dancer's stick-and-ball field right next to her house, so she not only had fairies at the bottom of her garden, but also a microcosm of Rutshire Polo Club. As Commissioner for Rutshire, how could she hold dignified get-togethers with her guides when expletives and polo balls kept flying over her hawthorn hedge?

    Nor did any of the rest of the Parish Council come to her aid. The Vicar, who was a closet gay, and the local solicitor, who reckoned that such development would triple the price of his house, both thought Dancer was splendid.

    Dancer, however, was warned well in advance that Miss Lodsworth would be holding an All-Rutshire Jamboree in her garden on the first Saturday in September and had promised there would be no stick and balling that afternoon. A perfect day dawned. Rising early, Miss Lodsworth prayed that it would continue fine and her guides would find enjoyment as well as fulfilment in their Jamboree. Believing in economy, Miss Lodsworth had already baked rock and fairy cakes and spread hundreds of sandwiches with crusts still on with Marmite and plum jam which was cheaper than strawberry. Nor was Coca Cola or Seven-Up allowed. Her guides would have lemon squash because it was better for them and less expensive.

    Creaking up from her knees, Miss Lodsworth snorted with indignation. Even on a Saturday Dancer's bulldozers were still knocking down trees and flattening hillocks toextend one of the loveliest cricket grounds in England into a polo field. Just after lunch, as she was wriggling into her guide uniform, which had grown somewhat tight, Miss Lodsworth looked out of the window and saw a girl not wearing a hard hat clattering five ponies down the High Street.

    It was that fiendish Perdita Macleod. Now she had pulled up outside the village shop and was yelling to them to bring her out an ice-cream. The Vicar's wife, who had parked on a yellow line while her gay husband went into the shop to get a treacle tart, got such a shock when Wayne stuck his big, hairy white face in through the window that she jumped out and ran away. A traffic warden, finding an empty car, gave the Vicar a parking ticket.

    Clattering on, trying to hold five ponies and eat an ice-cream, Perdita was not amused to hear whoops and noisy hooting behind her. It was Seb and Dommie Carlisle packed into their Lotus, with two sumptuous brunettes, and a bull terrier spilling out of the luggage compartment.

    Aware that she was hot and sweaty and her hair was escaping from its towelling band, Perdita greeted them sulkily.

    `We're going to see over Dancer's
palazzo,'
yelled Seb, `and swim in his pool, which is even bigger than Loch Lomond. Why don't you come over?'

    `I haven't got a bikini.'

    `That's the last thing you'll need. See you later.'

    When she got back to the yard, however, Ricky had other ideas.

    `What the fuck were you doing taking out five ponies at once? I've just had Miss Lodsworth
and
the Vicar's wife on the telephone. If you step out of line once more you're fired. And don't think you're going to turn them out and slope off. I want each pony washed down and
all
the sweat scraped off. I'm going out to look at a pony, and don't forget to double-lock Wayne's door.'

    The Jamboree was in full swing. Guides were marching, pow-wowing, flag-waving and singing stirring songs as Dancer showed the twins over a totally transformed Eldercombe Manor. As they progressed through the great hall, which was now a recording studio, and practice rooms and six master bedrooms, with bathrooms and jacuzzis
en

suite,
and an intercom service so Dancer's retinue could chatter to each other all night, the twins' whoops of laughter and excitement grew in volume.

    `I want a mistress bedroom,' said Seb, bouncing on one of the huge double beds.

    Outside they admired a pink brick yard for twenty ponies, which looked like three sides of a Battenburg cake, and an indoor school, completely walled with bulletproof mirrors.

    `Bas said it looked like a tart's bedroom,' said Dancer cheerfully.

    `He's seen enough of them,' said Dommie. `How the hell did you get planning permission?'

    `Bas and I gave a little drinks party for all the local planning committee. An' greased their palms so liberally their glasses kept sliding out of their 'ands.'

    `And there were German Shepherds abiding in the fields,' said Seb, keeping a close hold on Decorum, his bull terrier, as Twinkie the security guard prowled past with an Alsatian. `But this is designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.'

    `It will be when my ponies arrive next week,' said Dancer cosily.

    Soon the twins and their brunettes and various glamorous hangers-on were all stripped off round the pool. Miss Lodsworth, exhorting her guides to greater endeavour in this modern world, was having great difficulty making herself heard over the din of Dancer's group, who were warming up in the recording studio.

    Seb, standing on the top board with binoculars, was peering into Miss Lodsworth's garden in excitement.

    `That blonde one looks very prepared to me. Lend a hand, darling,' he shouted. `Isn't that what girl guides are supposed to do?'

    `I wish someone would lend me a farm hand,' said Dancer's interior designer sulkily. `Wilhelm won't speak to me since I chucked his Filofax in the jacuzzi.
He's nice,'
he added, as one of Dancer's workmen went past wielding his JCB like Ben Hur.

    `Now they're doing semaphore,' said Seb. `Get me a goal flag, Dancer, then I can signal, "Do you screw?" to that blonde.'

    `She'll tie a clove hitch in your willy if you're not careful,' said Dommie.

    `Then it'll be a guided missile!' Collapsing off the diving board with laughter at his own joke, Seb just managed to keep the binoculars above the water level.

    Meanwhile over in Snow Cottage, Daisy Macleod, trying to fill up her painting jar, found there was no water in the tap. In the house above her, Philippa Mannering, who wanted to wash her hair before the dinner party to which Ricky had refused to come yet again, found not only no water in the tap but that the washing-up machine had stopped in mid-cycle. Over at Robinsgrove, finding no water to hose down the ponies, Perdita put them in their boxes and, having given them their hay nets and filled up the water buckets from the water trough, raced off to Dancer's for a swim.

    Wayne, Ricky's favourite pony, had such a low threshold of boredom that he had a special manger hooked over the half-door so he could eat and miss nothing in the yard at the same time. The yard escapologist, he had been known to turn on taps and flood the yard and, even worse, let other ponies out of their boxes when he got bored. At matches he had to be watched like a hawk in case he wriggled out of his headcollar, and set off for the tea tent, where his doleful yellow face and black-ringed eyes could coax sandwiches and cake out of the most stony-hearted waitress. Left to his own vices, deserted even by his friend Little Chef, who'd gone with Ricky, Wayne started to fiddle with the bolt.

    At the Jamboree it was time for tea. The Marmite and plum jam sandwiches were already curling on the trestle table under the walnut tree. The guides were hot and thirsty, but as Miss Lodsworth went to the kitchen tap for water to fill up the jugs of concentrated lemon squash, only a trickle came out of the tap.

    `Please, Miss Lodsworth,' said a pink-faced Pack Leader, `the upstairs toilet isn't flushing.'

    `Nor's the downstairs,' said her friend.

    Looking out across Dancer's emerging polo fields, Miss Lodsworth first thought how beautiful as a huge fountain of water gushed a hundred feet into the air, throwing up rainbow lights in the sunshine against the yellowing trees.

    Picking up the telephone, she was on to Dancer in a trice.

    `D'you realize,' she spluttered, `that your bulldozers have gone slap through the chief water main? The whole village will be cut off, and my guides have nothing to drink.' She couldn't mention the question of lavatories to Dancer.

    Round the pool they were all having hysterics as Dancer tried to calm her down.

    `I'll get on to the emergency services immediately. Of course they work on a Saturday. An' if it gets too bad, your little girls can come and drink out of the swimming-pool. And we've got plenty of Bourbon if you're pushed.'

    He had to hold the telephone away from his ear.

    An hour later Perdita sidled into the yard with wet hair to be confronted by Frances quivering with ecstatic disapproval.

    `Why the hell didn't you bother to dry off the ponies?'

    `I just nipped over to Dancer's for a swim.'

    `Can't keep away from the boys, can you? Did you turn Wayne out?'

    No. Yes, I must have done.' Perdita always blinked when she was lying. `Oh Christ, he must be in one of the paddocks or the garden.'

    `He isn't, I've looked,' sneered Frances. `Thank God Ricky'll come to his senses and sack you now.'

    `Oh, please don't tell him,' pleaded Perdita. She hadn't realized quite how much Frances detested her.

    `You stay here.' Frances handed her Hermia's lead rope. `I'll take my car and go and look for him.'

    `I'll go,' sobbed Perdita, and, leaping on to Hermia's back, she clattered off down the drive.

    Perdita couldn't get any sense out of the gaudy retinue round Dancer's pool. They were all drunk or stoned.

    Wayne's gone missing,' she screamed. `Please someone come and help me look for him.'

    `Probably gone to the Jamboree,' said Dommie, looking up from his brunette. `Miss Lodsworth'll be teaching him how to untie clove hitches.'

    `Don't be so fucking flip.'

    Pulling on a pair of Garfield boxer shorts, grumbling Dommie tiptoed barefoot across the gravel out to his Lotus.

    `You go west, I'll go north.'

    `Have you seen a yellow pony with a white face? Have you seen a yellow pony with a white face?' Getting more and more desperate, Perdita stopped at every house and scoured every field. Ricky would go apeshit if anything happened to Wayne. Then, as she entered Eldercombe Village, she saw a pile of droppings in the middle of the road.

    `Looking for a pony?' said an old man. `He went into that garden.'

    Perdita went as green as the guides' unconsumed lemon squash. For there in the gateway, framed in an arch of clematis as purple as her face, stood Miss Lodsworth. She'd had to buy all her guides Coca Cola from guiding funds, and send them home early in a hired bus in case they electrocuted themselves storming the gates of Eldercombe Manor in search of Dancer. She would be eating Marmite sandwiches and rock buns for months.

    `Dancer Maitland has wrecked my Jamboree,' roared Miss Lodsworth. `Your pony has wrecked my garden. He's trampled on my alstroemerias and my dahlias, kicked out my cucumber frame and broken down the fence into the orchard.'

    `I'm terribly sorry. I'll pay,' begged Perdita.
`Please
don't ring Ricky.'

    `I'm going to ring my solicitor.'

    Wayne was enchanted to see Hermia and Perdita, and gave the appearance of having been searching for them all day. As she only had one lead rope, Perdita had to walk both ponies the mile and a half back to Robinsgrove. At the bottom of the drive, Wayne started to totter, and his yellow belly gave such a thunderous rumble, he started looking round at it in surprise and reproach.