Polo (30 page)

    Today her hair, the discreetest palest auburn, curled softly on her collar and she was wearing a white muslin midi-dress, white stockings and flat white pumps. Vast pearls, which some poor oyster must have needed an epidural to produce, circled her neck and wrists. The bracelet had gone from her ankle, the heavy makeup from her eyes. The graciousness of her entrance, however, was somewhat marred. Clinging on to her big picture hat with one hand and holding up her white parasol with the other, there was nothing left to prevent the hot wind from the Andes blowing her dress over her head, to reveal a white suspender belt and French knickers.

    `My people used to have an
estancia
in Chorley Wood,' she was telling an uncomprehending Mrs Miguel. `Oh, best of luck, Hoo-arn,' she cried, priding herself on her pronunciation, as Juan cantered on to the field, followed by a cloud of dust and the eyes of every woman round the pitch.

    Impossibly arrogant and handsome, teeth flashing beneath his ebony moustache, so much copied by the young Argentine bloods, black curls flowing from under a very unIrish tartan hat, Juan's long thighs gripped a bay mare who was so glossy he could have checked his reflection in her quarters. A great cheer went up as he started hitting the ball around, the merest tap sending it miles across a field as brown as Raimundo's goatskin apron.

`Idolo,
my hero, I am 'ere!' yelled a busty blonde through cupped hands, earning herself a wave from Juan and dirty looks from both Sharon and Mrs Juan, who had stationed themselves grimly on the halfway line, surrounded by supporters.

    `That bay Juan's riding is very powerful,' Luke told Angel. `Three days without oats and she can still play,but Juan has trouble stopping her, don't forget. He'll also try and hit you too late.'

    Knowing the others were depending on him, Luke kept his nerves to himself as he went round checking girths and bandages. To give Perdita confidence in her first chukka, he'd put her on a dark brown pony called Chimango (which meant bird of prey), who was as steady as a rock, but who swept down on the ball like a hawk.

    `Luke,' shouted Juan. Cantering up, he bent down and gave Luke a great hug. `My dear friend, 'ow are you? How is Alejandro? Still bent as a paper deep?'

    `No more than you,' said Luke. `We hear you've been selling Victor carthorses. Did you wax their fetlocks beforehand?'

    `No, we use ladies' razor,' giggled Juan. `Your father is very well. He ring me tomorrow wiz zee 'andicap listings. If he go up, we 'a
^y
e to look for another ringer.'

    Under Juan's pony's elegant hooves, the ground was cracking and blowing away in clouds of dust. `I 'ear you reduce to playing wiz girls. Alejandro must be sleeping,' he said.

    `He is not,' said Perdita, outraged.

    `He means slipping,' Luke reassured her.

    `That's even worse.'

    `This is Perdita,' said Luke.

    `Ay, ay, ay,' sighed Juan, peering under her hat. `You are twelve goal in looks,
senorita;
what does it matter about zee polo?'

    `Bloody sexist,' muttered Perdita, as Juan rode off. `He's pissed,' said Luke.

    `We'll show him,' said Perdita as she mounted Chimango. Angel and Patricio were about to ride on to the field.

    `Wait!' Perdita leant forward and removed a piece of straw from Angel's pony's eyelashes.

    Put on the Rimmel mascara next,' said Angel sarcastically. `Oh, fuck off.'

    `Knock it off,' said Luke, picking up his stick. `Now come on, you guys. We may be the underdogs, but we're gonna fight like pit bulls.'

28

    And fight they did. The O'Briens, expecting a canter over, were unpleasantly surprised to find themselves pegged. Both Juan and Miguel had lunched not wisely but too well. Under a punishing overhead sun, lobster, steak tournedos and
dulce de leche
churned uneasily in their bellies. Not used to drinking, Juan was seeing the ball, if not double, at least one and a third, which led to a lot of misses and botched shots at goal.

    The crowd, expecting a bloodbath, were captivated by such a young and aggressive side. Perdita goaded Miguel like an angry wasp. Angel, turned on by the odds stacked against him, hurled himself on Juan as though he was a Mirage pilot once again. He was also brilliantly interchanging with Patricio as Luke constantly fed them with passes, while doggedly taking out one O'Brien player after another as they thundered towards goal.

    The
cognoscenti,
however, noticed that, although Perdita was often in a position to score goals, Angel and Patricio never passed to her and that Alejandro's ponies, enjoying Luke's light hands and sympathetic riding, were going really well. The girls noticed Angel's hawklike good looks. Studying their score sheets and not realizing that he was a poor relation of the Solis de Gonzales, they were turned on by his ancient name. They were soon even more excited by his clowning. Miguel, sobering up and getting paunchy, was deeply unamused by this new young stag entering the forest.

    Just as Angel was throwing himself out of his saddle for a nearside forehand Miguel put his knee under Angel's knee so he overbalanced and tumbled off his pony. Next second Angel had leapt to his feet, belted after the pony and jumped on again before Miguel's brother-in-law, the umpire, could whistle `Man Down'.

`Idolo,'
shouted Juan's busty blonde admirer, transferring her loyalties.

    This piece of circus produced roars of laughter from the crowd and seemed to shatter the O'Briens' concentration. Juan throughout the first half was noticeably eyeing Sharon

    Kaputnik, who was standing behind Victor coyly resting her pointed chin on his bald head which enabled her to eye anyone she chose. At the beginning of the third chukka, Luke came out on Fantasma, whose beauty drew all eyes like the rising moon. She was so quick at the throw-in that Luke immediately got the ball out, lofting it upfield over Patricio's head, so he was able to ride Miguel off and score. Two minutes later Miguel, one of those aggressive backs who got bored hanging around the back line and irritated because Luke was playing so well, came roaring down with the ball. Tearing after him, Perdita lurched forward to hook his stick. A second later, to her utter humiliation, he had blasted the ball, taking Perdita's stick, and very nearly Perdita, with him. Acutely aware of Angel and Patricio raising their eyes to heaven, Perdita had to decide whether to dismount and pick up her stick or race to mid-field where Raimundo was brandishing another one. She opted for the latter. As Angel careered down the boards to stand in for her and bump Miguel, Miguel clouted the ball straight at Angel's face. Seeing it coming, Angel threw himself off his pony.

    `Get back on that horse,' screamed Patricio as Miguel picked up the ball again and took it towards the Mendozas' goal-mouth.

    `I don't want to be killed,' yelled back Angel. Once more the crowd howled with laughter.

    Fortunately Fantasma believed in defending her goal-mouth as ferociously as she protected Luke or even a bucket of pony nuts. Seeing Miguel hurtling towards the goal, she calmly sent his much larger pony flying, stumbled and miraculously righted herself. Then, positioning herself perfectly for Luke to hit the backhand, she instantly wheeled round and displayed a staggering burst of acceleration which enabled Luke to power the ball upfield.

    Juan's umpiring brother-in-law was so struck with admiration that his whistle dropped out of his mouth. What a horse, thought Luke exultantly.

    Devastating the O'Briens' defence with an offside forehand, he put the ball twenty yards in front of a remounted Angel. Only Perdita and an O'Brien cousin were between Angel and the goal now. Angel didn't want to pass to Perdita, but as a hundred and fifty-five pounds of O'Brien

    cousin with razor-sharp elbows hurtled towards him, it seemed the easier option. The sweat cascading into her eyes made it difficult for Perdita to see the ball.

    `Aim for the left goal post; don't go to pieces,' she told herself frantically as she scooped up the ball and tapped it into position.

    `You're going to be hooked,' bellowed Luke.

    Glancing round she saw Juan thundering down on her, a predatory smile on his handsome face. Lowering her stick, aware of Angel on her left, she flicked the ball to him under her pony's neck, and with a lovely click of his mallet, Angel stroked in an exquisite nearside cut shot making the score 28-9 to the Mendozas on the half-time bell.

    `Well played, Angel,' said Patricio, falling on his neck as they cantered off the field.

    Bastards, thought Perdita, patting her pony over and over again. We made that goal.

    Back at the pony lines, morale in the Mendoza camp was sky high. The O'Briens might have scored nine goals, but they had all been penalties. It was only when she stopped playing that Perdita realized how hot it was. Towelling the sweat off her face, she wrung out her wet shirt. She would have liked to have drunk a whole bottle of Evian but limited herself to a few gulps, which she immediately spat out. Angel's olive skin had hardly changed colour, but Luke rode up with his face brick red from the heat and delighted that Fantasma and his team had played so brilliantly.

    `Well played, you guys. They're mad now. They're rowing amongst themselves. That was a helluva shot, Angel, and from you, Patricio. You're making Juan look as though he's never been on a horse before.'

    Then, taking a swig of diet Coke, he turned to Perdita.

    `Well done, baby! You made that last goal, setting up the shot for Angel.'

    Perdita could have wept with gratitude, particularly when he turned on the others: `You gotta give Perdita more work. She's dying of loneliness and heat stroke out there.' For a brief minute he massaged her shoulders, pressing his thumbs in, unknotting the muscles. `And I hope you notice she's covering for you whenever you get loose.'

    Patricio put a perfunctory hand on Perdita's shoulder, which was an amazing concession, but Angel's eyes were still as cold as an Alaskan lake.

    `Christ, I wish there was a Ladies' loo,' said Perdita, taking a swig of Luke's diet Coke and rubbing ice all over her burning face.

    `Use the Men's room,' said Luke. `I'll keep guard, but be quick.'

    Perdita was in such a hurry that at first she didn't notice the gasps and groans that were coming from the next-door cubicle, the walls of which seemed to be heaving as violently as Fantasma's sides after the last chukka. Then, overwhelmed by curiosity, she climbed on to the lavatory seat and, peering over, had to stifle a scream of laughter. For there was Sharon, her big hat lying like a whole Brie on the floor, her parasol neatly folded in the corner, and her muslin skirt and silk petticoat once more over her head, while Juan, bronzed hands clamped to her snow-white bottom, drove in and out with far more energy than he'd shown on the field.

    `Oh, Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,' gasped Sharon, as one of his brown hands disappeared into her bush, 'ay'm comin'.'

    Glancing out of the glassless window, Perdita saw a grim-faced Mrs Juan advancing towards the Gents, and not wanting to be blamed, shot out of the door. Hysterical with giggles, she told Luke.

    `Sharon's umbrella is down - probably thinks it's unlucky indoors - but Juan is definitely up.'

    `Pity,' grinned Luke. `There'll be no holding him now.'

    `Sharon was certainly holding him just then,' said Perdita, doubling up with laughter again. `Talk about Long Dong Juan! Shall we tip off Victor? Then he won't buy any of Juan's ponies.'

    `Come on,' said Luke, trying to be serious. `Get back on We've e've got a match to win.'

    `Thank God my father isn't playing,' murmured Patricio to Angel as, aware of the admiration of the crowd, they rode back on to the field. `I love my father, but Senor Gracias is better captain. He doesn't shout all the time and he puts us on the right horses.'

    `I hope he stops that shit Miguel killing me,' said Angel, chucking away his cigarette. `I can't believe we're so much ahead.'

    And can beat them,' said Patricio.

    But as they went into the fatal fourth, the sun went behind a donkey-grey cloud and everything went wrong. Angel, trying to block a shot, went straight across Juan, who was given a thirty-yard penalty, which Miguel tipped between the posts. Patricio, at last obeying Luke's nagging, gave Perdita a lovely pass just in front of goal, which she promptly hit wide; then down the other end Angel backed the ball by mistake to Miguel, who promptly scored.

    `I know about zee horses,' sighed Raimundo at mid-field, `but not about zee players.'

    Two more dubious fouls were called against the Mendozas and then Juan, liberated by his bang in the loo, suddenly woke up. Eyes sparkling, medallion glittering in the returned sunlight, he went into an orgy of brilliance notching up nine goals in one chukka.

    `Hoo-arn has not lost his touch,' said Sharon smugly, as Juan swaggered back to the pony lines acknowledging the cheers with his stick.

    `Steady down, steady down. We can do it, we can do it,' urged Luke, walking round banging his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. `Juan's on a really fast pony this chukka, Angel. Don't get into a horse race with him. You gotta outfox him and not let him get the ball.'

    But nothing could stop Juan and his magic mallet now. Tapping in four goals in as many minutes, he levelled the score. Getting the ball out yet again, he set off upfield.

Tams, vamos,'
yelled the crowd as Angel whipped and spurred his slower pony after him. Luckily the ball hit a divot, Juan missed it and Angel checked his pony for the backhand. Instantly Miguel crashed into him broadside, ramming him so hard that the pony swung round 180 degrees, totally winded. Up went the sticks of the Mendozas.

`Faulazo,'
they yelled.

`Faulazo,'
yelled Claudia and the Mendoza supporters.
`Faulazo,'
yelled almost the entire crowd.

    Jaime, the umpire, shot a nervous glance at Mrs Juan, who folded her arms implacably and shook her head. Jaime was just awarding against Angel for crossing Miguel when

    Perdita took matters into her own sweaty hands. Charging up to Miguel, she bashed him on the wrist with her stick.

    `Stop it, you great bully,' she screamed. `That's the third time you've tried to kill Angel.'

    `For Chrissake, Perdita,' roared Luke.

    Lifting his stick, Miguel would have clouted her back if the O'Brien brother-in-law hadn't bravely ridden between them. Giving Perdita a bollocking, he awarded the O'Briens a free goal.

    `Why you do that?' Angel asked her in amazement.

    `I hate you,' spat Perdita, `but I hate dirty play even more.'

    Unfortunately Alejandro had chosen the worst possible time to arrive and witnessed the whole incident. Guilty at rolling up so late after a little detour to Buenos Aires and expecting carnage, he was irritated to see how staggeringly well his team had done without him. Stopping only briefly to kiss Sharon's hand and embrace Victor and make sure they would be staying the night in General Piran, he went off to shout at his team.

    `You're all loose. Stop tapping and 'eet it. You change wiz Angel, Luke, so you can mark Juan, and as for you,' he turned, roaring, on Perdita, "ow dare you 'it Miguel? You should 'ave been sent off. I said we shouldn't 'ave played her,' he added to Luke.

    Finally, glancing at the four ponies being walked round for the last chukka, he bellowed that they were the wrong ones and ordered Raimundo to tack up others, immediately.

    Luke had gone very still.

    `Leave those ponies as they are,' he said softly to Raimundo, then, taking Alejandro by the arm, drew him away from the others.

    `You asked me to captain this side because you were too goddam lazy to play and you don't like being pussy-whipped. They played like angels, right, and unless you want my fist in your fucking face, get off my case.'

    Alejandro was so flabbergasted that he sauntered off to regain some ascendancy by extravagantly complimenting Sharon.

    `Now, calm down,' said Luke, turning back with a grin to his astounded team. `They're only two goals ahead

    and we're younger, fitter and braver. Let's bury them.'

    Seeing Juan mounting a black thoroughbred who could have won the Kentucky Derby, he put Angel up on a very fast dark brown mare he'd intended to ride himself. Then he had a battle with his conscience. If he rode Fantasma again, they had twice as good a chance of winning, but if Victor and Sharon took another look at such a showy, beautiful horse they might want to buy her. He glanced over at Fantasma who was dying to get back into the action. Standing gazing at the pitch, her dark eyes wide with excitement, scraping up the dust with her hooves, she ran her muzzled nose restlessly along Umberto's arm until he cursed her as he led her round. Luke went over and tightened her girths. He'd have to find more money from somewhere else.