Polo

15

Later in the day Ricky pulled himself together and had a bath. Outside the rain had stopped and everything dripped and sparkled in the hopelessly overgrown garden. Tortoiseshell butterflies rose indignantly as he picked Michaelmas daisies, honeysuckle and roses to put on Will’s grave in the little churchyard at Eldercombe, where generations of France-Lynches had been buried.

William Richard France-Lynch, 1978-81, said the newest headstone. The vicar, toddling past to choir practice, was about to stop and speak to Ricky, but, seeing his face, moved quickly away.

Towards sunset, missing Dancer’s prattle and overcome by restlessness, Ricky told Frances to saddle up Donaghue, his old hunter. Now was as good a time as any to see if he’d lost his nerve. Once mounted, the ground seemed miles away, the saddle impossibly slippery, so he tried to concentrate on his surroundings. Joel had got very slack; the fences were in a terrible state.

Bypassing the orchard and a field of stubble, he set out to look at his ponies which were turned out in the watermeadows at the bottom of the valley. After the rain, the ground steamed like a Grand National winner. The sinking yellow sun was turning the steam amber gold. Flocks of gulls were returning to the Bristol Channel after a day’s looting in the newly ploughed fields.

With only one arm working, Ricky had difficulty opening the gate leading to the valley. But Donaghue stood like a statue. Checking the sheep grid alongside the gate, Ricky was pleased to see that at least the wooden ramp which enabled field mice or hedgehogs to clamber out was still in position. The view down the valley, as always, took his breath away. On each steep side dense ashwoods plunged to fringes of reddening bracken, then into a green ride which was divided by a stream which hurtled down through caverns of wild rose, hawthorn and the elders the valley was named after, then raced on to meet the Frogsmore Stream where it flowed under Snow Cottage.

At least this is all still mine, thought Ricky, kicking Donaghue into a canter. Thank God there wasn’t anyone around to see him clinging to the horse’s mane. Relief on reaching the more level watermeadows turned to joy and a great lump rose in his throat as he saw Kinta, who’d kept carting him last summer, and Wayne, Mattie’s hideous custard-yellow admirer and the yard escapologist, standing together idly chewing and scratching each other’s necks. Their tails and their punk, growing-out manes were full of burrs. Then Ricky froze, for, on a stretch of grass eaten flat by sheep, some strange female was riding Pilgrim, his finest mare from Argentina. She was cantering bareback with just a headcollar, and with a polo stick, was tapping a ball in and out of a row of stones, presumably pinched from one of his walls. For a second, he was transfixed with pleasure by how well she rode, then as he drew nearer, and the ponies stopped grazing and looked up, he realized she was only a schoolgirl, with her skirt tucked into dark blue wool knickers, and her platinum-blond pony tail tied back with her school tie. For a further few seconds, he watched her execute a perfect figure of eight, changing legs in and out of a couple of stones. Then he flipped. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

The roar was loud enough to send the ponies scuttling away, almost to start an avalanche of ash trees. Turning, the girl gave a gasp of horror, then swinging Pilgrim round, set off at a gallop up the valley. Ricky gave chase, all thought of his damaged arm forgotten. Donaghue was bigger and had a longer stride than Pilgrim, but the girl was lighter, and God, she made the pony shift. Oblivious of stones and rabbit holes, jumping over fallen logs, she reached the top of the hill and thundered towards the sheep grid.

‘Come back,’ howled Ricky. ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot.’

Perdita ignored him. Digging her heels into Pilgrim’s heaving sides, she put her straight at the sheep grid. For a second, the pony hesitated, then the iron bars flew beneath her and she had landed safely on the other side. By the time Ricky had gone through the side gate, he found Pilgrim running around the barley stubble, and the girl vanished into the beech woods like a gypsy’s lurcher.

Pilgrim was gratifyingly delighted to see her master, digging him in the ribs and searching his pockets for Polos, whickering with joy, until Donaghue was squealing and snapping with jealousy.

By some miracle Pilgrim seemed all right, but, as Ricky ran his hands down her delicate dark brown legs, he shuddered at the thought of them snapped by those murderous iron bars. Grimly he rode back to the stables to tell Joel what had happened.

‘Sounds like Perdita Macleod,’ said Joel.

‘Who the hell’s she?’

‘Daisy Macleod’s daughter. They’ve rented Snow Cottage.’

‘They what? I know nothing about it.’

‘You do,’ said Joel. ‘You signed the lease the day Martin came to see you. I guess you had a lot on your mind.’

‘Well, they’re not living there much longer,’ snapped Ricky.

‘I’d no idea she was riding the ponies,’ said Joel. ‘I haven’t been down that end of the valley for a few days.’

‘Well, you should have been; half the fences and walls are down.’

‘She’s a stuck-up bitch, that Perdita.’ Joel hastily changed the subject, ‘They can’t stand her at the village shop.’ Then, because he wanted an excuse to go and see Daisy, added, ‘I’ll pop down and have a word with her mother.’

‘I’m going to talk to her mother,’ said Ricky grimly.

‘I’ll drive you,’ said Joel.

‘No. I’ll walk down through the woods.’

Daisy Macleod had had a gruelling day. She absolutely loathed her new job. Her boss, Mr Bradley, the Christmas pudding manufacturer, was a revolting thick-voiced, potbellied letch, who was constantly chiding her because her typing and filing, particularly in her current state of post-divorce shock, were not up to scratch. Almost worse, he insisted she wore high heels and dresses to the office, adding that as a ‘Caring Chauvinist’, he was only making her dress as femininely as possible for her own good, so that she might one day attract a new husband. He made Daisy’s flesh creep, but she put up with it because she desperately needed the money, and the factory, on the far side of Eldercombe Village, was in walking distance, so she could rush home and take Ethel out during her lunch hour.

Now Eddie and Violet had gone back for the autumn term, Daisy had hoped Perdita would be less disruptive. She had got straight ‘U’s in her O levels, but any remonstrance from Daisy triggered off a storm of abuse. Then on the first Friday of term she was suspended for a week for punching a girl in the playground.

‘At least I wasn’t being laid by the art master,’ she screamed at Daisy when she got home. ‘I don’t take after you that much.’

Daisy knew that when Perdita was frightened she became more abusive – but it didn’t make things easier. Now, a fortnight later, Perdita should have been back at school, but, to the intense irritation of the Caring Chauvinist, the switchboard at the Christmas pudding factory had been besieged by calls all day – from mothers complaining that Perdita had terrorized their children, from the village shop grumbling that Perdita had walked out twice without paying and asking Daisy to settle a horrifying drink-and-cigarette bill, and, worst of all, from Perdita’s form mistress saying Perdita hadn’t been near the school since Tuesday and was supposed to be retaking her O levels, which didn’t bode well.

Walking wearily home along the cart track which ran alongside Ricky’s woods and at right-angles to the Eldercombe valley, Daisy kicked off her shoes. Although sharp pebbles cut her bare feet, anything was better than those punishing high heels. Even the undeniable prettiness of Snow Cottage didn’t cheer her up, because she was so aware of crumbling mossy walls that should be pointed, and hart’s tongue ferns growing out of the roof, and the hayfield of a lawn, and a door bell that didn’t work, and red apples littering the orchard floor, reproachfully waiting to be turned into pies.

There was no sign of Perdita, but at least Daisy got a wonderful welcome from Ethel, who whimpered and moved from foot to foot with joy, then bounded straight into the stream, splashing about, then shaking herself all over Daisy.

Daisy’s love for Ethel had deepened almost into idolatry over the last months, despite her frightful naughtiness and her great destructive paws. Ethel never seemed to mind how much Daisy sobbed into her shaggy shoulder, and this morning, to cheer Daisy up, she had even chewed up Hamish’s copy of Robert Burns.

Turning on the washing-up machine and looking out into the red twilight, Daisy decided that too many evenings since she moved in had been spent drinking too much vodka, when the budget ran to it, and trying to change television channels on the cordless telephone. Nor had she painted since she moved in, her inspiration seeming to have dried up. Tonight she would do something practical. Perdita was always grumbling she had nowhere to put her clothes. A cupboard on the landing was full of the children’s old toys. If Daisy put them in plastic bags they could be stored in the attic and Perdita would have a new cupboard.

Daisy had a bet with herself: a large vodka and orange if she could empty the cupboard in half an hour. But then the memories came flooding back of a time when Hamish and she had seemed happy, as she found corn dollies never made up, kites never built, jigsaws of Windsor Castle never even opened. She was so busy trying on Mickey Mouse masks, and plugging in clacking false teeth, and turning soapy liquid into a stream of bubbles, she didn’t notice Ethel beating a retreat downstairs with a large stuffed panda.

And there was one of Eddie’s all-time best presents – the plastic, bloodstained knife which hooked round the back, but looked as though it was going through the head. Putting it on, catching sight of herself in the landing mirror, Daisy burst into tears.

Wiping her eyes and rushing downstairs to answer the telephone, she found Perdita’s headmistress on the line. Her first fears were that Perdita had been expelled. Instead the headmistress gave her a pep-talk.

‘We don’t feel, Mrs Macleod, that Perdita is getting quite the right home back-up. It’s very hard being a latch-key child and the victim of a broken home. We do realize you have to earn your living, but I gather that Perdita never sees her father.’

‘They really don’t get on,’ said Daisy apologetically.

‘Are you sure you’re not letting your animosity towards your ex-husband poison your judgement? Perdita’s not a stupid child, just very disturbed. Perhaps if you could spend more time talking to her.’

Instead of slumped in front of the telly with a bottle of vodka, thought Daisy. In despair at the prospect of finding Perdita another school, she noticed the washing-up machine had stopped. It was so ancient, the door kept opening. Seeing Gainsborough sitting on the kitchen table with his back paw in the air like a leg of mutton, Daisy grabbed her sketching pad. Keeping the door of the washing-up machine shut with her bottom, she started drawing frantically. Next moment Ethel gave a bark of delight and Daisy steeled herself for another frightful row with Perdita. Instead, through the kitchen door, hardly knocking, came the most ravishing-looking man. Gosh, she thought, my luck has changed. Then as he turned towards her she noticed the long, livid scar running down the side of his face and realized to her horror that he must be Ricky France-Lynch, her landlord.

‘Oh dear,’ said Daisy, ‘I thought you were Perdita.’

‘It’s her I’ve come to talk about,’ said Ricky bleakly.

‘Join the queue,’ said Daisy helplessly, as the washing-up machine, changing direction, gave a great dragon’s roar. ‘What’s she done now?’

Stammering, Ricky told her about riding Pilgrim and jumping the sheep trap. ‘She could have killed herself and £10,000 worth of pony.’

‘I didn’t know she’d been riding them,’ said Daisy appalled. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘She’s also been taking them to the pony club all summer.’

‘Oh my God,’ gasped Daisy. ‘She’s not here at the moment, but I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘I’ll t-t-take her to court if she doesn’t stop.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, do sit down.’

As she moved forward the washing-up machine stopped.

‘You have to lean against it,’ she explained. Then, her eyes falling on the breakfast and last night’s supper washing-up in the sink: ‘I’m afraid it’s an awful tip. Look, do have a drink, I’ve got some vodka, and I know Perdita’s got the remains of a bottle of Malibu. She certainly owes it you.’

Ricky shook his head. Just for a second he looked slightly less grim. ‘D’you always go around with knives through your head?’

‘I expect Perdita wishes I did.’ Crimson with embarrassment, Daisy tore the knife off. ‘I was sorting out the children’s toy cupboard. Oh hell, poor panda,’ she pointed helplessly at black-and-white fur and blue foam rubber littering the hall.

‘We’ve got so little space,’ she went on, ‘and you know how hopeless children are at allowing anything to be thrown away.’

‘Yes,’ said Ricky.

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Daisy, mortified as she remembered about Will. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Mind if I look round?’

Quailing, Daisy nodded. The only thing she’d done to the house was to put rose-printed paper up in Violet’s room, and the damp had come straight through.

‘We love it so much here.’ Her voice trailed off as she thought of the dreadful mess he’d find in the children’s bedrooms. Mindlessly, she drew in some whiskers on Gainsborough’s face and thickened his tail. It was no good, she’d have to have a drink. As she was tugging the ice tray out of the hopelessly frozen ice box, Ricky came downstairs looking grimmer than ever. ‘This place is an absolute disgrace.’

‘It is,’ agreed Daisy humbly. ‘Anarchy somehow broke out after my husband walked out.’

‘No, the state of it,’ said Ricky. ‘There’s damp in every room. That sink’s coming away from the wall. You need bookshelves and cupboards fitted in all the rooms. I’ve got builders starting in the yard tomorrow. I’ll send a couple down here to sort things out. They can probably mend the washing-up machine.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Daisy had great difficulty not bursting into tears again. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’

Ricky shook his head. ‘I don’t – not since Will . . .’

‘Oh, how stupid of me,’ said Daisy, appalled. ‘How could I be so crass?’ And how awful too, she thought, for Ricky to be reminded of Will’s death by that scar every time he looked in the mirror.

She was amazed when he sat down at the kitchen table and started stroking Ethel’s lovely speckled head.

‘Why’s Perdita so screwed up?’

And he listened without interrupting while she told him about the failed O levels and having to sell Fresco, the first thing Perdita had really loved, and about Hamish never loving her and spoiling the other two.

‘He wasn’t Perdita’s father,’ Daisy blurted out.

‘Who was?’ asked Ricky.

‘Some other man,’ said Daisy, going scarlet. ‘But because aunts and grandmothers and teachers and family friends all prefer Violet and Eddie, I sort of over-compensate to make it up to her. You give in because it’s easier than facing one of her tantrums.’

Getting up, she put two pieces of melting ice into her glass of vodka, then, going to a yellow tin on the shelf, took out a tea bag and put it on top of the ice, then, unseeingly gazing out into the darkening garden, she switched on the kettle.

Taking the glass from her, Ricky removed the tea bag, switched off the kettle and, looking in the fridge and not finding any tonic, added orange juice to the vodka before handing it back.

Here’s someone in an even worse state than I am, he thought. To his amazement, he found himself saying, ‘Bas has already spoken to me about Perdita. He thinks she’s got fantastic potential. If she promises not to bunk out of school any more, and tries to get her O levels, I’ll give her a weekend job working in the yard. If she takes that seriously, and passes her O levels, I’ll teach her to play polo.’

For a second Daisy’s face quivered; then she blew her nose noisily on a piece of kitchen roll.

‘Are you sure it won’t be a bore?’

Ricky shook his head. ‘The probation officer’s keeping tabs on me, I can’t drive or leave the country for a year. Give me something to do.’

‘That is the nicest thing that’s ever happened,’ said Daisy slowly. Like a golden retriever searching for a sock to give a returning master, she looked frantically round the room. Then, ripping the drawing of Gainsborough from her sketching pad, she thrust it into his hand.

Perdita came in ten minutes after Ricky had left. She looked pale, truculent and dangerous.

‘Something wonderful’s happened,’ said Daisy.

‘You’ve found a lover,’ spat Perdita. ‘So what else is new?’

Daisy winced. ‘Ricky France-Lynch came round.’

‘So?’ For a second, Perdita looked terrified, then resumed her normal expression: furious dark eyes in a white, cold stony face.

‘You’re to go and see him at eleven on Saturday.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘He’s going to offer you a part-time job. And if you work hard and get your O levels, he’ll take you on full time.’

‘After the way he swore at me this afternoon I’m not sure I want it,’ said Perdita coldly.

Daisy resisted a desire to shake her. Instead, she asked what she wanted for supper.

‘I’m not hungry,’ snapped Perdita. Stepping over the toys Daisy had turned out, she flounced into her bedroom and slammed the door. Waltzing deliriously round the room, she pulled out the only photograph of Ricky she hadn’t ripped up and, whispering, ‘At last, at last,’ started covering it with kisses.