Polo

55

Back in Rutshire on an October afternoon, Ricky, having worked young ponies all day, by way of light relief was hacking Wayne through the Eldercombe woods. Little Chef, riding pillion on the pony’s plump quarters, bristled at rabbits and occasionally leapt down to chase them through leaves still starched by the morning’s frost. A sinking sun, like a day-glo grapefruit, caught the shaggy silver pelts of the traveller’s joy and gingered the last leaves of the turkey oaks.

In the distance Ricky could hear the mournful pa, pa, pa of the horn. The hunt must be on their last run of the day. He passed Daisy’s cottage. A few pale pink roses still clambered up the walls. Fuchsias drooped in tubs, clashing with the scarlet nasturtiums which splayed across the path. The lights were on in the sitting room and the first flickerings of a fire in the grate. Gainsborough, perched on the wall washing his orange fur, crashed fatly through the cat door at the sight of Little Chef. Ricky suddenly thought how comforting it would be to follow Gainsborough in for tea, crumpets and fruitcake. But he didn’t want to inflict his black gloom on poor Daisy who was unhappy enough over Perdita’s defection.

So, opening the gate, he turned right up the long, green ride to Robinsgrove. Bracken the colour of Red Alderton’s hair singed the sides of the valley, yellow ash wands clogged the stream and Ricky’s muddy, unrecognizable ponies, whisking their burr-filled tails, stood head to tail gently gnawing at each other’s withers. As he reached the top of the hill a sycamore was systematically shedding shoals of amber leaves, as if slithering out of a silk dress and, in the sunfired waters of the lake, the beeches rinsed their last red leaves.

The most beautiful autumn he could remember was coming to an end, and he was no nearer winning his bet and getting Chessie back. He had two painful cracked ribs from the hoof of a recalcitrant pony. He was worried about Dancer who had a cough that wouldn’t go away. He missed Luke’s endless good humour and reassuring solidarity since he had returned to America, and, although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he missed Perdita horribly – and so did Little Chef and the ponies, who had all responded to her passionate attentions. All the fun seemed to have gone out of the yard. And now he had to start welding a new team with the twins, who were charming but foxily unreliable, and the on dit was that Bart was spending so much on ponies that next year he really would be unbeatable. Ricky felt like Sisyphus whose boulder had not only rolled down the hill but squashed him flat as well.

As he rode into the yard, Louisa, having taken the geraniums out of the tubs, was planting wallflowers and forget-me-nots instead. He had not forgotten Chessie, but she had not left Bart.

The other grooms raced round the boxes of the ponies that were still inside, chucking wodges of hay into their mangers, anxious to get off and dolled up for Saturday night jaunts.

‘Don’t forget the clocks go back,’ said Louisa to Ricky as she took Wayne from him. ‘Heaven to have an extra hour’s sleep.’

Or an extra hour’s insomnia, thought Ricky wearily.

A second later a dark blue Ferrari roared up the drive scattering an appropriately red carpet of beech leaves and screeched to a halt. It was Bas and Rupert on their way home from hunting, their white breeches spattered with mud, jerseys over their shirts, red coats chucked in the back. Both were in tearing spirits. Ricky thought for the hundredth time how well being happily married suited Rupert. Suddenly the grooms seemed in not nearly such a hurry to slope off.

After a quick whirl round the yard to look at Ricky’s new ponies, they went into the house. Ricky, still not drinking, got a bottle out of the cellar.

‘Christ, this is priceless,’ said Bas, rubbing the dust off the label. ‘You sure you want to waste it on us? Why not flog it and buy a pony?’

Ricky shrugged and got two glasses out of the cupboard.

‘Black dog?’ asked Bas, handing Ricky a corkscrew from the knife drawer. Then, as Ricky nodded, he added: ‘You should have come out today. The last fox would have cheered anyone up.’

‘I seem to have gone off hunting.’

‘You ought to be hunting for a new wife,’ said Rupert.

‘If I could guarantee getting one like yours,’ admitted Ricky. ‘And why are you looking so bloody pleased with yourself?’

‘Taggie’s having a baby,’ said Rupert triumphantly. ‘I am absolutely knocked out, and I’ve never known anyone so delighted as she is. She’s adorable with children anyway. She’s so excited she keeps waking me up in the night.’

As the setting sun, now a blazing blood orange, lit up the long scar down the side of Ricky’s face, the corkscrew came out of the bottle with only half the cork.

‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,’ said Rupert. ‘I forgot about Will. Bloody tactless of me.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Ricky as Bas took the bottle from him. ‘I’m very pleased for you. Is Taggie feeling OK?’

‘Wonderful,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s me who had the morning sickness today. I got such a hangover celebrating.’

‘Now you’re forty, d’you think you’ll be able to cope with all those interrupted nights?’ said Bas slyly.

‘I’m not forty yet,’ said Rupert coldly.

To the left in the faded blue sky hung a slim, new moon like a ballerina on her points, so sweet, innocent and virginal beside the blazing orange sun in the west. Taggie and Chessie, thought Ricky. How much happier he’d be with someone like Taggie.

‘How’s Venturer?’ he asked as Bas extracted tiny bits of cork from the two glasses of wine.

‘Fantastic. Advertising’s terrific. We’ve flogged loads of programmes to the network and abroad. Cameron Cook may be a bit vocal, but she’s bloody good at her job. The only problem with Rupert’s new fidelity kick is that the most influential programme buyers in America are women. Once Rupert could have screwed them into submission. Now he has to use his powers of persuasion and he gets frightfully bored.’

Rupert grinned. ‘Tell it not in Gath, but I have actually been faithful to Tag for a whole year, and I want to get home to her,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘but first – Christ, this claret is good – we’ve got a proposition to make to you. We’re definitely going to revive the Westchester in America next year. We want you to act as consultant.’

Ricky went very still; the colour drained from his face.

‘The plan,’ added Rupert, ‘is to transmit it in America, the UK, Europe, certainly Australia and the Argentine, and God knows where else in October. The English team would have to rest their horses after the Gold Cup, then fly them out in September to acclimatize them. You’ll captain the English team.’

‘American sponsors are crazy about the idea,’ chipped in Bas. ‘Revlon, BMW, Cartier, Cadillac, Michelob, Peters Cars, they’ll all take air time. The network’s mad about it, too, and are talking about prime time if we get the Prince and Princess of Wales to present the cup.’

‘Polo doesn’t work on television,’ said Ricky flatly.

‘We’ll have to edit,’ said Rupert. ‘The plan is not to change ends until half-time, shorten the pitch a little, play with a yellow ball and have cameras overhead. We’ve got to capture the excitement and the glamour and the snob element. It’ll be like a walking Tatler crossed with Chariots of Fire.’

‘Sounds hell,’ said Ricky.

‘If properly promoted,’ went on Rupert, ignoring the jibe, ‘it’ll create as much interest as the Ryder Cup or even the America’s Cup.’

Ricky’s hand shook as he put two heaped spoonfuls of coffee in a mug and filled it up with cold water from the tap.

‘That won’t taste very nice,’ said Bas, removing the cup, throwing the contents away and starting all over again.

‘We are utterly pissed off with Perdita for buggering off,’ said Rupert, ‘but Cameron’s got some incredible footage already.’

‘She’s a disgrace,’ snapped Ricky, ‘and should be left to stew.’

‘She’s still under contract,’ said Rupert, who liked making money. ‘Now she’s living with Little Red Riding Hood, she’s an even hotter property. Cameron’s going to follow her in Palm Beach when she comes up against some really tough opposition, then transmit the film as a teaser just before the Westchester.’

‘She’ll never hold Red,’ said Ricky, sitting down on the window seat with his cup of coffee and patting his knee for Little Chef to jump up.

‘Bart’s signed up both of them to play with him and Angel Solis de Gonzales in Palm Beach and England,’ said Bas.

Now Bart’s got Chessie and Perdita, thought Ricky savagely.

The whole west had turned a brilliant rippling vermilion. Silhouetted black against it, a poplar copse looked like Daisy’s paintbrushes neatly stacked in a jamjar after a day’s work. The little moon had turned gold.

‘Well,’ said Bas, ‘are you going to come in with us or not?’

If Chessie had really loved him, reasoned Ricky, she would have come back by now. Rivers of blood had flowed under the bridge since she had left him. On the other hand he could go to ten, he could win the Gold Cup, and now there was a possibility to win the Westchester. He was still utterly obsessed with burying Bart. It was worth a try.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But Venturer putting so much money in scares the shit out of me. You sure you can afford it? The Americans are virtually unbeatable on their own territory.’

‘Well, that should please the Americans if they’re putting up most of the money,’ said Rupert sensibly.

‘Well, I wouldn’t waste money on Perdita,’ said Ricky harshly. ‘Her form’s going to plummet once she starts playing with Bart and Red. They’re both so hooked on winning, they’ll gee her up rather than calm her down, and she’ll get more and more explosive.’

‘Great,’ said Rupert rubbing his hands. ‘Tantrums fill stadiums. Look at Nastase. Look at McEnroe and Botham.’

‘Look at you,’ said Bas. ‘You were the biggest crowd-puller of all times.’

‘I don’t pull crowds any more,’ said Rupert, gathering up his car keys. ‘I only pull Tag.’