Polo

12

Fifteen years of marriage to Hamish had made Daisy feel a total failure as a wife, but they had equipped her even less for a divorce. Hamish had never let her pay a bill, renew a car licence or an insurance policy or look at a tax document. The first crushing blow on visiting her solicitors was to discover that the Hollywood co-producers had decided to ground Hamish’s movie project and his entire £200,000 investment had gone up in smoke. A visit to the bank manager confirmed that there was not only no money, but massive debts. Hamish was OK. The co-producer of the movie, feeling guilty about Hamish’s losses, offered him work in LA for at least a year and had also taken on Wendy as a PA. This took Hamish outside the jurisdiction of the courts, so it would cost Daisy a fortune in lawyers’ fees to get a penny out of him.

Cruellest of all, now that Hamish had dumped Daisy, Biddy Macleod was quite prepared to subsidize him. For a start she was going to pay Violet’s and Eddie’s school fees and give them a fat allowance, but she refused to fork out anything for Perdita, which meant Perdita would have to leave her current boarding school – who were kindly allowing her to stay on until the end of term in late March.

As the creditors moved in, Daisy’s jewellery, the silver and pictures and the better pieces of furniture all had to be sold. The owner of Brock House, who lived abroad, said Daisy could stay until April, but he must have his rent. Investigating the possibility of a council house, Daisy was told she was at the bottom of the list.

Locals tended to ignore her, not knowing what to say. A few London friends rang for grisly details and gave her more grisly details of the women, usually themselves, that Hamish had tried to get into bed. Then they shrugged their shoulders. Daisy was always losing things; why not her husband as well?

‘Do ring us if you need us,’ they said.

But Daisy didn’t ring. However miserable she was inside, she projected an image of cheerfulness. Like her namesake already dotting the lawn outside, however much you mowed her down, she would pop up the next day.

Just before half-term Fresco’s owner, Tim Jeddings, came to re-possess her because she hadn’t been paid for either. Daisy couldn’t watch as the pony was loaded into the trailer. Merry-eyed, muddy, a little fat from no exercise, she had brought so much happiness.

Daisy’s plan had been to tell Perdita on the drive home, when no eye contact would make it easier. Then Perdita got a lift home with a schoolfriend, and instead of running into the house, headed straight for the stable, extracting a Granny Smith from her school skirt and joyfully screaming for Fresco.

It was a glorious day. The sun was lighting up the crimson buds on the beech trees; snowdrops spread like the Milky Way across the lawn.

‘Fresco, Fresco,’ Perdita’s cries rang round the valley, bouncing off stone walls and trees. By now, greedy and loving, Fresco should have been belting up the field. A minute later, Perdita had burst into the kitchen, her breath coming in great gasps, shuddering and shaking from head to foot.

‘Fresco must have jumped out of her field. We must get her a friend. Ring the police at once.’

‘Darling, I’m afraid she’s gone.’

‘What d’you mean, gone?’

‘Tim Jeddings took her back. The cheque bounced. We haven’t got enough money to pay for her.’

For a second Perdita stared at her, her face changing from alabaster to putty. ‘I don’t believe you. There must be money from selling this house.’

‘It’s only rented.’

‘You could have taken me away from school, I’d have got the money from somewhere. What about your jewels?’

Daisy held out her ringless hands. ‘They’ve all gone.’

Then Perdita screamed and screamed.

‘She’s gone to a wonderful home up North,’ babbled Daisy. ‘I didn’t want to tell you while you were at school.’

‘But I never said goodbye,’ screamed Perdita. ‘I don’t believe Tim’s sold her yet.’

Rushing into the hall, she found the telephone book. She was shaking so badly, she mis-dialled three times. ‘Mr Jeddings, Mummy’s lying. You haven’t sold Fresco on yet.’

There was a long pause. Perdita slumped against the wall.

‘You rotten bastard,’ she screeched and crashed down the receiver.

Hearing the din, Ethel came rushing in with a muddy nose and a dug-up dahlia root in her mouth, and threw herself delightedly on Perdita.

‘Go away,’ yelled Perdita, shoving Ethel violently away. ‘Why haven’t you sold her as well? Because she’s darling Violet’s dog, I suppose. Why the fuck can’t you go out to work and earn some money like everyone else’s mother, instead of producing crappy, awful paintings no-one wants?’

For half an hour she was so hysterical that Daisy was about to ring the doctor. Then she went silent, and wouldn’t talk to Daisy or the other children when they came home. Nor would she eat. After she’d taken all three children back to school on Tuesday night, Daisy went into Perdita’s room. Every cutting of Ricky France-Lynch, every photograph of Fresco, was ripped into tiny pieces all over the floor.

‘Oh God, what have I done,’ moaned Daisy, bursting into tears. She was interrupted half an hour later by the door bell. Imagining it was some creditor, she was just sidling downstairs intending to bolt the door when it opened and Basil Baddingham walked in. He looked so opulent with his patent leather hair and his even suntan and his wide, wolfish smile showing his perfect teeth, that he seemed to have come from another planet.

‘Please go away,’ said Daisy, clapping her hands over her blubbered, swollen face. ‘It’s not a good time.’

‘Always a good time for a drink,’ said Bas. Brandishing a bottle of Dom Perignon, he set off purposefully towards the kitchen where lunch still lay on the table and Gainsborough was thoughtfully licking up Perdita’s untouched shepherd’s pie.

‘I’m really not up to it,’ mumbled Daisy.

‘Get some glasses,’ said Bas, removing the gold paper from the bottle. ‘I am your knight in shining armour.’

‘I had one of those,’ said Daisy, ‘but he walked out because I didn’t keep it shining enough.’

‘I know. You’ve had a rotten time. But you’re well shot of him. I’d have been round sooner, but I’ve been in Palm Beach. Have you found somewhere to live?’

‘There’s a flat on the Bledisloe Estate.’

‘Won’t do, far too rough,’ said Bas. ‘You and Perdita’d be sitting ducks for all the yobbos.’

At the pop of the champagne cork, Gainsborough shot out of the room, sending the remains of the shepherd’s pie crashing to the floor.

‘Let’s go and sit somewhere slightly more comfortable,’ said Bas, filling up their glasses. There was still a sofa in the drawing room, but it was bitterly cold.

‘Bailiffs do this?’ asked Bas, then, as Daisy nodded: ‘You poor old thing.’

Under his gentle questioning, Daisy told him about the selling of Fresco and Hamish’s departure.

‘I know it seems like the end of the world,’ said Bas, ‘but you’re an extremely pretty lady, and scores of men are going to come running after you once you’ve got your confidence back, including me.’

Daisy giggled, feeling slightly happier.

‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ Bas went on. ‘You can’t move into the Bledisloe Estate. One of Ricky’s tenants finally kicked the bucket during the big freeze. He lived in a lovely little house, Snow Cottage, on the edge of Ricky’s land. Been there for thirty years. Only paid ten pounds a week. Ricky was too soft to put up the rent. Now he wants me to sell the house to some rich weekenders. It’s a bit tumbledown, but there are three bedrooms and an orchard, and the same stream that runs through Rupert’s land, so you’ll have condoms flowing past your door. The only problem is you’ll also have Philippa and Lionel Mannering – I met you at their party – gazing down at you from their awful house. But come the summer they won’t be able to see through the trees. Anyway, she’ll be far too interested in Ricky when he comes out of prison to waste much time on you.’

‘Won’t Ricky mind us living there?’ asked Daisy, hardly daring to hope.

‘He’s not minding anything much at the moment, poor bastard, except Will dying and Chessie buggering off. I’m sure he’ll let you stay for a year while you sort yourself out. I see no reason to alter the rent.’

‘But I thought he was desperately short of cash. Oughtn’t you to sell it for him?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Bas, filling up her glass. ‘It’s insane to sell anything at the moment. Since the Prince of Wales moved into the area, property’s going to quadruple in Rutshire over the next few years. I’ll take you to see it tomorrow.’

‘It’s a heavenly cottage,’ said Daisy brightly as she drove a stony-faced Perdita home at the beginning of the school holidays. ‘I know we’re all going to be terribly happy there.’

‘You said the same thing about Brock House,’ snapped Perdita.

She looked pinched and miserable, her hair had lost all its sheen, her eyes their jetty sparkle.

‘How many bedrooms are there?’

‘Three, so someone will have to share; perhaps you and Violet.’

‘We will not!’

‘Well, there’s a room off the sitting room we can use,’ said Daisy placatingly, wistfully bidding goodbye to a possible studio, ‘and it’s surrounded by fields, so perhaps one day we’ll be able to afford a pony again.’

Perdita shot her mother a black stare of hatred.

‘Shut up about that,’ she hissed.

The holidays were a nightmare. Daisy was so broke that they were living virtually on bread and jam, and Perdita’s hatred corroded everything. Although she had grumbled in the past about her boarding schools, she bitterly resented being sent to a comprehensive and was absolutely mortified that Biddy was forking out for Violet and Eddie.

Daisy felt awful and wished she could raise two fingers to Biddy and send all the children to the local comprehensive, but to make ends meet she was due to start a job as a filing clerk at a nearby Christmas pudding factory at the beginning of May, and she thought Eddie and Violet were too young to come home to an empty house every evening.

Besides, the women’s magazines all advised one to leave children at their schools: ‘At the time of divorce, school is often the only continuity.’

The day before Violet went back, she and Perdita had a terrible row. Perdita had just endured a week at her new school, where her strange set face and uppity manners had done nothing to endear her to her classmates. One boy had called her Turdita, and when she screamed at him, the others had taken up the refrain. Getting home, Perdita took it out on Violet, who’d just had a letter from Hamish announcing that Wendy was pregnant.

‘Disgusting letch,’ screamed Perdita. ‘Wendy’s a whore. And now she’s got a bun in the microwave, Hamish’ll favour the new brat and lose interest in you.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Violet furiously. ‘At least we know who our father was.’

‘What d’you mean?’ snarled Perdita.

‘Nothing,’ said Violet, realizing she’d gone too far.

‘My father was killed in a car crash.’

‘Of course he was,’ mumbled Violet. ‘I must go and finish packing.’

Half an hour after her mother had gone to bed that night, Perdita began searching. It had grown much colder, the wind had risen and creepers rattling long fingers against the windows kept making her jump. Her heart was beating so hard she felt it must wake her mother. The blood was pounding in her ears, her whole body was throbbing, as she crept downstairs into the study.

At least we know who our father is? What had Violet meant? What poison had she been fed by Hamish? Bugger, the overhead bulb had gone and they’d been too poor to replace it. Perdita crept round the room groping like a blind man, tripping over a small stool, at last finding the side light by the desk which was too eaten by woodworm for the bailiffs to take.

Only yesterday she’d come in and found her mother crying over a letter which Daisy had quickly stuffed into one of the drawers. Everything was in a frightful mess, but Perdita could only find bills and business correspondence. Her hands moved around, pressing drawers and shelves, frantic to find the pulse point that opened the secret drawer. At last her fingers rubbed against a little switch on the inside right of the top shelf, and the centre of the desk swung round. In a small drawer at the back was a bundle of papers tied up with a green ribbon. Icy with sweat, Perdita collapsed on to the wooden wing chair to read them.

On top was a photograph of Daisy in her teens. Even allowing for changes in fashion, she was unbelievably pretty, with her dark hair longer than her mini skirt. There were also some photographs of herself as a baby, and then a snapshot of a man surrounded by a group of students. On the back, Daisy had written, ‘Jackie being admired’. Her father had been called Jackie. Was that him? Perdita examined the man’s face again. It was handsome, slightly weak. Her hands were trembling so much she nearly tore the cutting from the Guardian. It was a review of Jackie Cosgrave’s exhibition. The reviewer thought well of his work. ‘Bold, brave and starkly original.’ The review contained another photograph of Jackie. He was handsome. Was that her name, Perdita Cosgrave?

Next she found a marriage certificate between Daisy James and Hamish Macleod on 14 December 1966, at Ayrshire Register Office. That was only fifteen years and four months ago. They’d certainly lied about the length of their marriage. A picture of Daisy and Hamish on their wedding day showed Hamish, with a beard, in an awful kilt, looking surprisingly happy and proud. Daisy looked awful, very peaky and thin in a ghastly pale coat and skirt, her hair tucked into an unbecoming hat. And here was a birth certificate.

‘Perdita James, born 6 November 1966.’ Her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat now. ‘Mother, Daisy James, father unknown.’

Perdita gave a croak of misery. At the bottom of the pile was a yellowing, torn, tear-stained letter dated 13 December 1966, which was from Hamish.

‘Darling Little Daisy,’ so he was capable of tenderness, ‘Tomorrow we will be married. Please don’t worry, my family will come round when they realize how adorable you are, and how happy you’re going to make me. Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ The letter was shaking so much now she could hardly read. ‘It doesn’t matter, she’s the bonniest wee bairn in the world. I’ll be her father, and love her far more than whoever he is would ever have done. I will take care of you always, Hamish.’

The next minute, the outside drawer, which had been on her knee, crashed to the ground, scattering papers everywhere. There was a muffled bark from Daisy’s bedroom overhead.

Jumping up with the letter in her hand, Perdita thought she was going to black out. ‘Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ Had her mother lied to Hamish about Jackie Cosgrave, had she been a prostitute or a nympho who’d bedded so many men she didn’t know who the father was? The next moment Perdita jumped out of her shuddering skin as a reluctant Ethel, shoved by a terrified Daisy, burst into the room.

‘We’ve got nothing for you to burgle,’ began Daisy, brandishing Eddie’s airgun – ‘Darling, what are you doing?’

‘What were you doing,’ hissed Perdita, ‘sixteen years ago? You told me Jackie had been killed in a car crash.’

‘He was,’ stammered Daisy, looking far more scared than by any burglar.

‘Don’t lie to me, or were you lying to Hamish to get him to marry you, poor sod? Who was my father?’ her voice rose to a shriek.

Daisy had gone deathly pale. Her teeth were chattering. ‘Shall we have a drink?’

‘No. For once we’re going to talk.’

‘I tried to tell you,’ sobbed Daisy. ‘Hamish thought it better not when you were younger, and then it was too late.’

‘You’d better tell me now.’ Perdita’s black brows were pulled right down over her furious, hating eyes. ‘Were you on the game, or raped by a gang of louts?’

‘No, no,’ Daisy shook her head. She was wearing a peach woollen nightdress she’d got for 20p in a jumble sale. Her hair was dragged back with an elastic band, her eyes popping out huge like a rabbit with myxomatosis. Ethel, gazing at them both soulfully, started to scratch.

‘I was just seventeen when I went to art college,’ mumbled Daisy. ‘Jackie was my art master. I fell madly in love with him. He was so frightfully attractive, all the class, irrespective of sex, had crushes on him, but for some reason he chose me. He was a very good painter.’

‘I saw the cutting.’

‘He was also divorced, heavily into drugs and the king of the swingers. He didn’t love me but he was flattered by my hero-worship. One evening he took me to a party in Chelsea. I’d never seen such people, only about a dozen of them, but so beautiful, sophisticated and jet set. They were all rock stars, actors and polo players. I was desperately shy. I’d hardly touched drink before, and never, never drugs. But I took both to please Jackie to show I was up to it and got absolutely stoned.’ Her voice faltered, so low now Perdita could hardly hear it over the moan of the wind. ‘I’m sorry to shock you, but I was very young.’

‘About a year and a half older than me,’ said Perdita spitefully.

‘The p-p-party degenerated into what people talk about as a typical sixties orgy,’ stammered Daisy. ‘At least it was the only one I ever went to. Everyone was, er, making love to everyone.’

‘Don’t you mean fucking?’ sneered Perdita.

‘Yes,’ whispered Daisy. ‘I know it’s awful, but I was so stoned I don’t remember anything about it.’

‘Inconvenient,’ said Perdita, lighting one cigarette from another. The wind was screaming down the chimney, thorns from the climbing rose outside were scraping the window-pane like fingernails.

‘I woke up next morning with a terrible hangover, lying on the host’s hearth rug, utterly appalled by what I remembered doing. Then horror turned to panic when I discovered I was pregnant. I went to Jackie. He refused to accept any responsibility.’

‘Can’t say I blame him,’ said Perdita tonelessly. ‘Any of the guys at the party could have been my father.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Daisy hung her head.

‘What happened then?’

‘I was devastated. I loved Jackie so much, I hoped he’d come round. I put off telling Granny and Granddaddy James because I was so frightened.’

‘Same old story,’ blazed Perdita. ‘You’re too worried to let down Jackie at the orgy, too wet to tell me about Fresco or my father, too wet to tell your parents – till it’s too fucking late.’

Daisy’s voice broke: ‘Granny and Granddaddy were sweet at first. They just couldn’t cope with me not knowing who your father was. They said I must have you somewhere else. So I went to this unmarried mothers’ home in Scotland.’

Huge tears were pouring down Daisy’s face now. ‘You were so beautiful, I wanted to keep you so badly. Then one bitterly cold day there was this big pond frozen over beside the unmarried mothers’ home. I looked out as I was feeding you. All the children were skating with their parents. One little girl was just sliding along shrieking with joy while her father held her hands. I felt it was so selfish to deprive you of two parents, and I must let you be adopted. There was this wonderful couple who wanted you, they were so longing to have a child. I knew I was going to lose you, that’s why I called you Perdita.’

‘The Lost One,’ said Perdita tonelessly.

‘Hamish’s firm was overseeing the adoption. He sought me out at the unmarried mothers’ home and offered to marry me. He was different in those days. He had ideals, he was so kind and so good-looking, I was sure I could grow to love him. Anyway I’d have married the devil, I was so desperate to keep you.’

‘No wonder Biddy looked so sour at the wedding,’ said Perdita savagely. ‘Did you tell her I was a little orgy bastard? No wonder she loathes me. What chance did I ever have? Hamish took me on because he had the temporary hots for you. Once he got bored, he got fed up with me.’

‘It’s all my fault and I’m sorry,’ sobbed Daisy. ‘I love you more than anything in the world. Please forgive me.’ Getting up, stumbling over a pile of art magazines, she fell towards Perdita, holding out her arms, frantic to comfort and be comforted. But Perdita, who’d always detested physical contact, shoved her away.

‘Don’t touch me, you disgusting slag. All those men in one night. I bet you loved it, and what’s more Violet knows.’

‘She doesn’t,’ said Daisy aghast. ‘I swear it.’

‘Bloody does. Biddy or probably Hamish tipped her off.’

‘Oh my God,’ whispered Daisy. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you let that wonderful couple adopt me?’ hissed Perdita. ‘They’d have given me a much better life than you or Hamish have.’