Dead Heat Part 20

'Don't the neighbours object?' I asked.

'No,' she replied rather firmly. 'I don't play late at night or before nine in the morning and no one has complained. In fact, the lady upstairs has said how much she loves to listen.'

'Will you play for me?' I asked.

'What, now?'

'Yes.'

'No,' she said. 'I'm not playing for you until you've cooked for me.'

'That's not fair. I would have cooked for you during the week if my car hadn't crashed.'

'Excuses, excuses,' she said, laughing.

'What's in your fridge?' I asked her. 'I'll cook for you now.'

'No you won't,' she said. 'We're going down the pub. I've had to bribe the barman to keep us a table.'

Going to the pub with Caroline on a Sat.u.r.day night was everything I had hoped it would be. The pub in question was The Atlas round the corner in Seagrave Road, and it was packed. Even though she had somehow managed to make a reservation, this was unquestionably a pub and not a restaurant like the Hay Net, our bleached wooden table being underneath the window of the public bar. Caroline sat on an upright wooden chair that reminded me of those at my school, while I fought my way through the crowd at the bar to choose a bottle of Chianti Cla.s.sico from the blackboard and chalk wine lists that were proudly displayed above the mirror-backed serving area.

The food was good and also imaginative. Caroline chose grilled whole sea ba.s.s with couscous salad while I plumped for the c.u.mberland sausages and garlic mashed potato. I wondered about the garlic and so, obviously, did Caroline. She used her fork to pinch some of my potato. I caught her eye as she was putting it in her mouth. For a moment we glanced deeper, into the inner soul, and then laughed as we both understood, unspoken, the reason why.

Caroline was excited about the Chicago trip and we talked about her job and especially about her music.

'I feel so alive when I'm playing,' she said. 'I exist only in my head and, I know this sounds stupid, but my hands on the bow and the strings seem somehow disconnected from my body. They have a mind of their own and they just do it.'

I sat there looking at her, not wanting to interrupt.

'Even if I have a new piece that I haven't played before, I don't really have to consciously tell my fingers where to go. I just look at the notes on the paper and my fingers seem to do it by themselves. I can feel the result. It's wonderful.'

'Can you hear what you yourself are playing with all the other instruments around you?' I asked.

'Oh yes,' she said. 'But I actually feel the sound I make. I feel it through my bones. If I press hard on my viola with my chin, my whole head becomes full of my music. In fact, I have to be careful not to press too hard as then I can't hear any of the rest of the orchestra. Playing in a great orchestra is so exhilarating. Apart, that is, from all the d.a.m.n people.'

'What people?' I asked.

'The other members,' she said. 'They can be so catty, so prima donna-ish. We are all meant to be one team but there are so many petty rivalries. Everyone is trying to be one better than everyone else, especially in their own section. All the violinists want to end up being leader and most of the other instruments hate the fact that the leader is always a violinist. It's like a b.l.o.o.d.y school playground. There are the bullies and the bullied. Some of the older members hate the younger ones coming along and getting the solo parts that they think they should have. h.e.l.l hath no fury like a pa.s.sed-over would-be soloist, I can tell you. Once, I even saw a senior member of an orchestra try to sabotage the instrument of a younger soloist. I just hope I never get to be like that.'

'Chefs can be pretty devious too, you know,' I said, and I wondered again if jealousy of my success had been the real reason for someone adding poisonous kidney beans to the c inner.

'But I bet you've never had to work with eighty or so of them at once, all trying to show that they're better than their neighbours, while at the same time having to come together to bring a score to life.'

'Maybe not,' I said. 'But it feels like it sometimes.'

She smiled. 'Now don't get me wrong,' she said. 'I adore being in a really good professional orchestra. It can be so moving and so wonderfully fulfilling. The climax to a work can be fantastic. You know, like Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture 1812 Overture with all the cannon blasts and everything, in the Royal Albert Hall with seven thousand people there, it's unbelievably exciting.' She laughed. 'Better than an o.r.g.a.s.m.' with all the cannon blasts and everything, in the Royal Albert Hall with seven thousand people there, it's unbelievably exciting.' She laughed. 'Better than an o.r.g.a.s.m.'

I wasn't sure how to take that comment. Practice, I thought. I just needed more practice. 'Wait and see,' I said.

'Is that a promise?' she said, laughing.

'Absolutely,' I replied, stroking her hand across the table.

We sat and finished our meals in contented silence, perhaps not wanting to break the spell, until a waiter came over to collect our empty plates. We ordered two coffees and I poured the last of the Chianti into our gla.s.ses. Neither of us gave the outward impression that we wanted to rush back to her flat and put my promise to the test. So much for outward impressions. Inside, I was desperate.

'So what are you playing in Chicago?' I asked her, putting my desperation back in its box.

Her face lit up. 'Mostly Elgar. We do his first symphony and also the Variations, which I love. There is also some Sibelius in the programme. His fourth symphony to be precise, but I'm not as keen on that, I find it too heavy. Very dark.' She screwed up her face.

'Who chooses what is played?' I asked.

'The directors and the conductor, I think,' she said. 'I don't really know. I expect the Americans had something to do with it too. I suppose the Elgar is there as it is quintessentially English. And, of course, there's the anniversary of his birth.'

Of course, I thought.

'Surely Sibelius wasn't English,' I said.

'No,' she said. 'Finnish, I think, but I'm not sure. But the Americans seem to like his stuff. Must be something to do with all that hardship and living in log cabins.' She laughed. 'Par too dark and gloomy for me.'

'Like treacle,' I said.

'Exactly, but less sticky.' She laughed again. An uninhibited, happy laugh.

'But it will be worth going just for the Elgar,' she said. 'Nimrod 'Nimrod was one of the pieces I had to play for my audition to the Royal College. I adore it and I play it every time I need some comfort in my life, which, I have to tell you, has been quite often. My music and especially my viola have been a huge support to me at times.' She stared somewhere over my head, but she wasn't really looking. 'I love my viola so much that I couldn't possibly live without it.' was one of the pieces I had to play for my audition to the Royal College. I adore it and I play it every time I need some comfort in my life, which, I have to tell you, has been quite often. My music and especially my viola have been a huge support to me at times.' She stared somewhere over my head, but she wasn't really looking. 'I love my viola so much that I couldn't possibly live without it.'

I was jealous. It seemed silly. Of course Caroline loved her music. After all, I loved my cooking. Could I live without that? No, I couldn't. Well then, I told myself, stop being jealous of a viola. It was an inanimate object. I tried hard to, but with limited success.

In time, we walked back arm in arm to her flat and both went eagerly to her bed, where I strived to make good on my promise.

She didn't exactly say that it was better than Tchaikovsky's 1S12, 1S12, but she didn't say it wasn't. Viola, eat you heart out. but she didn't say it wasn't. Viola, eat you heart out.

CHAPTER 13.

We woke early and lay dozing side by side in the bed, just touching occasionally. I rolled over and cuddled her but she didn't respond and I sensed that she was troubled.

'What's the matter?' I asked her.

'Oh nothing,' she said. 'I was just thinking.'

'About what?' I asked.

'Nothing important,' she said. But it clearly was.

I started to explore her body with my hands but she sat up. 'Not now,' she said. 'I want some tea.' And she proceeded to get up, put on her dressing gown and go down the corridor to the kitchen. I lay back on the pillow and wondered if I had said or done something wrong.

She returned with two steaming mugs of tea and got back into bed but she did not remove the dressing gown.

'Was I that much of a disappointment?' I said, propping myself up on an elbow and sipping my tea.

'Oh no,' she said. 'In fact, quite the reverse. That's part of the problem.'

'So what is the problem?' I said. 'Tell me.'

She leaned her head back against the wall with a sigh. 'I can't come and live in Newmarket,' she said. 'I need to live in London for my job.'

I laughed with relief. 'I'm not asking you to live in Newmarket,' I said.

'Oh,' she said rather gloomily. 'I had thought you might.'

'Well, I might,' I said. 'But I will probably be coming to live n London.'

'That's all right then,' she said with a big smile. 'But when? What about your restaurant?'

'It's not certain when,' I said, 'and I don't want my staff to know yet, but the plan is to open a new restaurant in London sometime later in the year.'

'Oh goodie,' she said with excitement.

'Am I right, therefore, in thinking that you are throwing yourself into my life on a permanent basis?' I asked.

'Maybe.' She shrugged off her dressing gown and snuggled down next to me in the bed.

'That is definitely all right then,' I said.

At lunchtime, we caught the train to Virginia Water and took a taxi from there to Smith's Lawn, the home of the Guards Polo Club. Neither of us had the faintest idea of what to expect but we had chosen to dress for all eventualities. Caroline selected a black and white floral printed dress which seemed, to me, to touch her in all the right places, showed off her considerable natural attributes and turned many an eye on the train. Over the dress, she wore a fitted tweed coat with brown fur around the collar and the cuffs. If she had brought a deerstalker and magnifying gla.s.s with her, I couldn't see where she'd hidden them. Meanwhile, I had decided on a blue blazer above grey flannel trousers, with white shirt and striped tie. Uniform, I reckoned, for any self-respecting off-duty Guards officer.

We both opted not to wear green wellies, not least because we would have had to buy them first. The weather forecast for the day had improved as the weekend had progressed, and the promised rain was not now due to arrive from the west until the following day, so I wore my usual slip-on black brogues while Caroline picked a pair of sensible knee-length black leather boots with low heels.

Having been brought up in the world of horseracing, where any physical contact between the compet.i.tors was frowned upon and where even the slightest b.u.mp between partic.i.p.ants could result in the loss of a race in the stewards' room, I was unprepared for the roughness, almost violence, perpetrated on the polo field.

Players were permitted to 'ride off' an opponent even when he was not in possession of the ball. Riding off involved crashing one's pony into the flank of an opponent's mount and pushing with the knee and the elbow to change the direction of travel. The players all wore big thick knee pads for that very purpose, along with spurs which, I was reliably informed, were not actually permitted to be dug into an opponent's leg, although it appeared to me that they were.

I knew that the aim of the game was to hit the little white ball with the mallet between the goalposts to score. But that is to simplify what seemed to me to be a hybrid cross between hockey, croquet and American football, all played at high speed on horseback.

It was clearly hugely exhilarating both for the players and for the spectators. There was lots of shouting between the team members and appeals to the umpire for some penalty or other to be awarded. I knew from my brush with the fifty-page rule book that the game would be more complicated than just riding down the field and slotting the ball between the goalposts. However, in play, it had a simplicity I had not expected and both Caroline and I were soon caught up in the excitement on the members' grandstand.

We had arrived at the grounds, as they were referred to, to find that there was a members' area for those who are, and the remaining s.p.a.ce for those who aren't. The 'members' was where I wanted to be. There was no point in being there at all unless I was able to ask my questions of those in the know.

We had hung around a bit in the members' car park until a group of five others had arrived in a Range Rover. Caroline and I had simply attached ourselves to the rear of the party as they were waved through past the gateman. I decided not to push my luck by trying to bluff my way into the holy-of-holies, the two-storey Royal Box with its colonial-style verandas and red-tiled roof, together with neatly tended window boxes and a white-picket-fenced lawn in front.

As I had no idea of what to expect, I didn't know whether the 'crowd' of just two or three hundred was considered a good turnout or not. Many of the spectators had parked their vehicles on the far side of the field and simply sat on the roofs to watch the action. A chorus of car horns rather than applause tended to greet each goal.

Fortunately the day was fine, with even some watery sunshine helping to warm us as Caroline and I sat in the open on green plastic seats along with about a hundred or so others, most of whom appeared to either know or be related to the players, exchanging waves and shouts, as the teams milled around in front of us before the start.

Polo matches are divided into periods known as chukkas, each chukka lasting about seven minutes. Matches can be four, five or six chukkas long with gaps in between. In this particular event each match was four chukkas with approximately a five-minute gap between each, and a little longer at half-time.

Caroline asked a middle-aged man sitting close to her what the score was. Now this was not as stupid as it may have sounded as the game can be very confusing. For a start it was not always clear if a goal had been scored as, unlike in soccer, there was no net for the ball to end up in. Secondly, the teams changed the direction of play after each goal and, for a beginner's eye, it was not always easy to decide which team was playing in which direction.

'That depends,' said the man. 'Do you mean with or without handicap goals?'

'What are "handicap goals"?' Caroline asked him.

The man resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, not least because they were firmly fixed on the alluring cross-over at the front of Caroline's dress. 'Each player is a.s.signed a handicap at the beginning of the season,' he said. 'In matches you have to add the handicaps of each player in the team and subtract one team's handicap from the other's. That gives you how many goals' start the lower-handicapped team get.' He smiled, but he wasn't finished. 'But, of course, in this match, which is only four chukkas, you only get two thirds of those goals.'

'So what is the score?' asked Caroline again, rather desperately.

'The Mad Dogs are beating Orchio Rios by three and a half goals to two.' He pointed to the scoreboard at the left-hand end of the field, where the score was clearly displayed in large white numbers on a blue background for all to see.

We wished we had never asked. We didn't even know which team were the Mad Dogs and which weren't, but it didn't matter. We were having fun, and we giggled to prove it.

At half-time many of those in the stands went forward to meet the players as they dismounted and changed their ponies. There were about thirty animals tied to the pony lines alongside the field and some players had all their spare mounts saddled and bridled ready for quick changes during a chukka if a pony tired, the game not being stopped for such a subst.i.tution. They each appeared to have a groom or two to look after their mounts and to a.s.sist with the quick transfer of rider and equipment from one pony to another. Playing polo was clearly not a poor man's sport.

During the half-time break I asked our friend on the stands if he had ever come across Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney from a polo club in Wisconsin, in the United States. He thought for a bit but shook his head.

'Sorry,' he said. 'But it's unlikely. US polo is somewhat different from this. They mostly play arena polo.' I must have looked somewhat quizzical as he went on. 'It's played indoors or on small board-bounded areas, like a menage. You know, like they use for dressage.' I nodded. 'They play just three players to a team and...' he tailed off. 'Well, let's just say it's different from what we enjoy.' He didn't actually say that he thought it was inferior but he meant it.

'How about someone called Pyotr Komarov?' I asked.

'Oh yes,' he said. 'Everyone's heard of Peter Komarov.'

'Peter?' I said.

'Peter, Pyotr, it's the same thing. Pyotr is Peter in Russian.'

'How come everyone knows him?' I asked.

'I didn't say everyone knows him, I said everyone's heard heard of him,' he corrected. 'He is the biggest importer of polo ponies in Britain. Probably in the world.' of him,' he corrected. 'He is the biggest importer of polo ponies in Britain. Probably in the world.'

'Where does he import them from?' I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

'Anywhere,' he said. 'But mostly from South America. Flies them in by the jumbo-jetful. I should think at least half the ponies here were bought from Peter Komarov.'

'Is he based in England?' I asked.

'No, I don't think so,' he said. 'I know he spends quite a lot of time here but I think he lives in Russia. He runs a polo club over there and apparently he's done wonderful things for Russian polo. He's often brought teams over to play here.'

'How do you know how much time he spends here?' I asked him.

'My son knows him,' he replied. 'That's my son over there. He's number three for the Mad Dogs.' He pointed at some players but I wasn't sure which one he meant. 'He buys his ponies from Mr Komarov.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'You've been most helpful.'

'How?' he said with a hint of annoyance. 'How have I been helpful? You're not a d.a.m.n journalist, are you?'