Polo. Part 81

'Luke,' yelled Bart impatiently, 'For Chrissake, stop yakking. Come and take a look at this fetlock.'

'I gotta go,' said Luke.

'Good luck,' whispered Perdita.

The press surged forwards. 'How was Red? Any chance of a reconciliation?'

Perdita had behaved well for too long. 'Why don't all you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds f.u.c.k off?' she screamed.

She was further jolted when she climbed up into the packed stands to the seat Taggie had kept for her and found herself knocked backwards by a huge, juddering, black, rubber bullet. It was Leroy who'd slipped his lead and, bashing his tail back and forth like a hooked salmon, was frantically licking her face.

'Oh, darling,' she moaned, clutching his wonderfully solid body. Then, on his forehead she breathed in a scent,sharp, sophisticated with musky overtones which unsettled her far more than the waft of orange blossom had yesterday. She got a sudden vision of Luke in hospital doubled up with pain.

'Leroy, you're incorrigible,' said a cool voice. 'If you're going to a.s.sault the opposition, you'll have to stay in the truck.' Perdita found herself looking up into the lean, olive-skinned face of Margie Bridgwater, the beautiful girl who'd been sitting on Luke's bed in hospital. She was wearing white jeans, loafers and a red shirt and the brilliant sunshine bounced joyfully off her blue-black hair.

'Hi, Perdita,' she said drily. 'Congratulations on making the team.'

'Thanks,' muttered Perdita, collapsing beside Taggie.

'Yes, congratulations, Perdita,' called Chessie and Bibi, who were sitting above Margie, both looking thoroughly over-excited.

'I do hope you win,' added Chessie in a much-too-audible whisper. 'I'm knocked out Luke's been picked,' she added to Margie. 'About b.l.o.o.d.y time.'

'What's Luke doing now?' asked Bobby Ferraro's wife.

'Running a green pony clinic in Florida,' said Margie proudly. 'He's managed to pay off all his debts. That sonof-a-b.i.t.c.h Hal Peters has run away to Chile so he can't be extradited.'

'I'd have helped Luke out if I'd known,' said Chessie, 'but he's so proud he never told anyone until it was too late. Where are you staying?'

'Luke hates hotels because they won't take Leroy,' said Margie, stroking Leroy's panting shiny head, 'so we've rented a condo.'

'He's so lovely, Luke,' said Chessie.

'Why d'you think I'm with him?' said Margie.

Looking down, Perdita found her nails had drawn blood in the palm of one hand. How dare they discuss Luke as if he was a new biography they were all enjoying?

'Oh, look,' said Taggie, as a burst of band music echoed round the mountains. 'Here come the teams.'

The first match, as Red and the entire polo world had predicted, was a ma.s.sacre. From the moment Bob Hope threw in the ball from the back of a Cadillac, Ricky knew it would be a tough game and that he, as the most dangerous player in the English team, would take the punishment. For six chukkas it seemed the Americans took positive pleasure in hara.s.sing the h.e.l.l out of him. Particularly violent whenever he got the chance was Red, who seemed less interested in scoring, which he should have been doing from the number two position, than in paralysing Ricky. Time and again Ricky found himself forced off the ball, crushed between the explosive, unpredictable Angel and the sleek, viciously smiling Red, who jabbed his elbows into Ricky's ribs as though he intended to puncture his heart.

On the rare occasions Ricky did get through, like a gundog finally escaping the shackles of a bramble thicket, there was Luke solid as the Rockies backing ball after ball such an incredibly long way that they invariably fell ten yards in front of goal beside the one American player that was loose. And when the English got rattled and started fouling, he hit four glorious penalties from the sixty-yard line.

Luke, whose horses had all been sold to pay his debts, was riding Bart's ponies, which, as Ricky suspected, he had been tuning up for days with all the skill of a Ferrari mechanic. Because of his height and endless legs he still gave the air of a father riding a seaside donkey to amuse his children. But his hands were so light, and so supple was his thirteen-stone bulk that he managed to shift it like a contortionist. For the first time he had the chance to show the world how brilliantly he could ride when given top-cla.s.s horses. Apart from Fantasma his own ponies had only been good because he'd trained them so well.

But his air of calm was deceptive. A despairing Dommie, who was supposed to be marking him and who had hardly touched the ball at all, saw Luke setting off upfield yet again. Unable to catch him because he was riding one of Bart's fastest ponies, an exquisitely pretty little bay thoroughbred mare, Dommie panicked and ran Corporal into Luke's mare broadside.

There was a sickening thud as the mare hit the ground and lay still. Leaping to his feet, Luke seized a horrified Dommie by his dark blue shirt and pulled him down off a quailing Corporal.

'You G.o.ddamm a.s.shole,' he roared, lifting his huge fist.

'Luke, for Chrissake, don't hit him,' howled Red, galloping up. Then, as the bay mare scrambled to her feet: Pony's only winded.'

For a second the fist trembled in the air.

'You G.o.ddam a.s.shole,' said Luke more gently. Then, seeing how terrified Dommie was looking, he started to laugh and let him go, whereupon Juan O'Brien awarded a free goal to the Americans. Rupert put his head in his hands.

'Unlike Luke to flip his lid,' said Chessie to Bibi. 'Must be more strung up than he looks.'

But Bibi was coc.o.o.ned in happiness. She was expecting a baby by easily the most dashing man on the field, who, between blowing kisses in her direction, was making Seb Carlisle's life a misery by scoring all the goals. The most miserable man on the field, however, was Mike Waterlane, who'd spent the last twenty-four hours on the loo, whose mallet had developed an allergy to the ball and who, like a policeman on point duty, had waved every American player through. With Ricky pegged like Gulliver, the young English team lost direction and ran out the losers 3-13.

Poor Ricky plunged into another nightmarish week as the clamour of his detractors intensified. Colossal recriminations followed from the sponsors and the two polo a.s.sociations. Ricky, by his b.l.o.o.d.y-minded obstinacy, had sabotaged the Westchester. The press carved him up, baying for the return of Drew and the Napiers to prevent the second match being a complete joke.

Drew was quoted as saying he would make himself available but that 'It would be rather like joining the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic in mid-voyage' which didn't improve Ricky's temper. Rupert stood by him staunchly in public, but, in private, the rows were awful and shook the white walls of the Villa Victoria. If the Americans won the second match the third would be cancelled which meant Venturer would lose a fortune in television rights and sponsorship money. Worse still, David Waterlane insisted on flying over to sort things out. He arrived around midnight on the eve of the second match and was even more incensed to discover that Mike had been out since lunchtime with the twins. in mid-voyage' which didn't improve Ricky's temper. Rupert stood by him staunchly in public, but, in private, the rows were awful and shook the white walls of the Villa Victoria. If the Americans won the second match the third would be cancelled which meant Venturer would lose a fortune in television rights and sponsorship money. Worse still, David Waterlane insisted on flying over to sort things out. He arrived around midnight on the eve of the second match and was even more incensed to discover that Mike had been out since lunchtime with the twins.

Perdita, who'd valiantly tried to keep everyone's spirits up during the week, had retreated to her room to avoid the brickbats. She'd been unable to concentrate even on d.i.c.k Francis since she'd arrived, but, flipping through the paperbacks she'd scooped up at random before she left, she discovered an old poetry anthology of Luke's. Outside, the delicious spicy smell of Taggie's paella had been overwhelmed by the sweet, voluptuous scent of orange blossom and stephanotis. A shooting star careered across the indigo sky. Croaking tree-frogs harmonized s.e.xily with Bob Marley, throbbing and pounding out of the outside speakers. Perdita started flipping through the anthology. It fell open at Emerson: 'Give all to love, Obey thy heart,' read Perdita. read Perdita.

'Tis a brave master, Let it have scope, Follow it utterly.'

She had difficulty reading the last verse because she was crying and because Luke had written the word Perdita' in the margin: 'Though thou loved her as thyself As a self of purer clay.

Though her parting dims the day Stealing grace from all alive.

Heartily know When half-G.o.ds go, The G.o.ds arrive.'

Red had been a half-G.o.d, she thought bitterly, and he'd gone. And she'd been a half-G.o.d and left Luke. That was why he was now with Margie Bridgwater, who was as clever as she was good and beautiful and Perdita absolutely loathed her guts.

Outside, raised voices were definitely winning over Bob Marley and the tree-frogs. Perdita, creeping to the window, noticed Rupert's cigar glowing redly as he increasingly drew on it, trying to keep his temper. His other hand, holding a gla.s.s of brandy, rested on Taggie's shoulder. She was sh.e.l.ling peas for tomorrow night's dinner which would either be a celebration or the wake to end all wakes. No one was taking any notice of Sharon, who, rippling the oily, pale turquoise surface of the pool, dog-paddled up and down in the nude, piled-up hair held firmly abovethe water, diamond earrings upstaging the huge stars. 'Do come in and have a dip, boys. The water's laike satin. Ay'm sure it will cool you down.'

But David was yelling at Ricky. 'I want to know where the h.e.l.l Mike is. He's not even in bed by midnight on the night' - he looked at his watch - 'or rather the day of the most important match of his life. If I'd been in charge, this would never have happened.'

He was interrupted by the sound of a Mini-Moke roaring up the dust track pouring out Dire Straits, followed by raucous laughter and slamming doors.

'There is a green hill far away, Without a city wall,' sang Seb Carlisle in a light tenor, as he pushed his way through the crimson mane of bougainvillaea. sang Seb Carlisle in a light tenor, as he pushed his way through the crimson mane of bougainvillaea.

'Where our dear Lord was crucified.'

'Who died to save us all,' joined in Dommie in harmony. joined in Dommie in harmony.

'For He's a jolly good fellow,' brayed Mike coming in on an even lower register, brayed Mike coming in on an even lower register, 'For He's a jolly good fellow, for He's 'For He's a jolly good fellow, for He's a jolly ' a jolly '

The singing tailed off as the trio encountered a solid phalanx of disapproval lined up round the pool.

'Where have you been?' thundered David Waterlane.

'h.e.l.lo, David,' said Seb, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. 'We thought there was no point Mike worrying all evening about you flying over and tomorrow's match so we took him for a jaunt.'

'A seriously good jaunt,' said Mike, swaying towards the swimming-pool and only being saved from falling in by Dommie catching hold of his shirt. Mike's normally slicked-back hair flopped all over his forehead and he was wearing an outsize T-shirt on which was printed the words: 'Fran's Friendly Fornicating Facilities'.

'We took him to a brothel in Nevada,' said Seb who was wearing a T-shirt which said: 'Have a good lay'.

'Pretty sophisticated. Customers landing all the time on the airstrip,' he went on.

Dommie's T-shirt said: 'Support your local hooker'.

'We bought ones for you and Perdita,' he beamed at Ricky. 'You OK, darling?' he shouted up to Perdita, who was by now nearly falling out of the window with laughter. Rupert threw his cigar into the swimming-pool, only just missing Sharon's nose.

'You took Mike to a knocking shop and got him drunk?' he said softly.

'He's not drunk. He smoked a joint on the way home,' said Seb, taking the cigarette from Mike and inhaling deeply. 'You should try this place, Rupert. They've got an orgy room with blue s.h.a.gpile, leading up to the waterbed and a jacuzzi with red lights under the water and we saw some brilliant blue movies. Much better for Mike's morale than that frightfully depressing video of him letting everyone through in the first match.'

'We nearly tried the dominance dungeon,' added Dommie. 'We thought how much Chessie would have enjoyed it - whoops, sorry,' he added, giggling, as Ricky's face tightened with rage.

'Seriously nice girls,' said Mike, collapsing on to a sun-lounger. 'Really seriously friendly.'

'He's had Mona, Lily and Annie,' explained Seb. 'Severally and together, and he's so tired and relaxed he'll sleep like a baby for the first time since he's been out here.'

'Are you crazy?' hissed David. 'You've probably caught AIDS.'

'It's OK, Daddy,' said Mike cheerfully. 'I used a condominium.'

Glancing at Rupert, Perdita saw that he had his head in his hands again, trying to disguise the fact that he was quite hysterical with laughter.

73.

The second match was quite different. In losing his virginity Mike seemed to have shed his terrible nerves as well. Primed by Rupert with a vast slug of brandy when his father wasn't looking, he played with unshakeable authority, sledge-hammering the ball upfield, tigerish on any loose b.a.l.l.s and twice pounding down like a Panzer division to score splendid goals. Time and again, the US team took the ball right down the field, but the English wouldn't let them score.

Realizing Luke was the most dangerous player on the field, Seb and Dommie weighed in like the two musketeers, duelling with their sticks, hooking, b.u.mping and stabbingthe ball away from him, playing a stoically defensive game. With Luke pegged, Red and Angel's life-support machine was cut off and they were unable to score. Ricky, on the other hand, hit form with a knock-out punch. Elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel, swift as a lurcher, always there to whisk the ball away when Mike or the twins made a frantic last-ditch clear, he played the game of his life.

The crowd, reluctant to witness a second bloodbath, had halved, but now over and over again broke into spontaneous cheers. Umpires Juan and Jesus were so often distracted by Ricky's virtuosity that they missed fouls on other parts of the field. At half-time the English were leading 7-3 and as word flew round the Californian coast that a tussle was in process, spectators started screeching in in their limos and helicopters swooped down out of the sky like gulls on a newly ploughed field.

The temperature had also rocketed. Huge brown-bottomed clouds like dusty meringues gathered menacingly on the horizon beneath a royal-blue sky tinged with purple. But the English players and ponies under Rupert's fitness regime were standing up well. Perdita envied the bikinis and sundresses all round her, as once again she sweated in the stands in her England gear.

In the fifth chukka the English steeled themselves for Red's and Glitz's legendary bombardment. But due to Ricky's sticking to Red like chewing gum to a dog's fur, it never materialized. Bart was gnashing his beautifully capped teeth on the sideline.

'Come on, England,' screamed Chessie. 'Well, I am English,' she added defiantly to a shocked Bibi.

Terry Hanlon, flown specially over from Cowdray to do the commentary, was so petrified of flying that he'd practically had to be doped before he would get on to the plane. But so encouraged was he by his country's gutsy performance that he quite forgot his jet lag.

'And the ball goes out of play. Sorry, Granny,' he added as Red, in a fury of frustration, hit a ball straight into the stands. 'If you watch the ball, you'll never get hit by it. Hit-in to England. And there goes Ricky France-Lynch on his way to ten goals. Did you see the way he just stroked the ball under the nose of Red Alderton, and took it away, sending a lovely lofted pa.s.s to Dommie Carlisle? What a chance!

'But here comes Luke Alderton,' he went on, 'steady as the Rockies, thundering down to ride Dommie off, but Dommie flicks the ball back to his captain who powers it between the posts. That's 8-3 to England.' Then, waiting for the cheers to subside, 'You can't fight the entire English side on your own, Luke.'

With a wry grin, Luke lifted his stick in the direction of the commentary box.

In the closing seconds of the chukka, however, the ball was once more bouncing towards the seemingly insatiable American goal-mouth. Frantic to clear, Bobby Ferraro opened his shoulders and let fly. Valiantly Dommie hurled little Corporal forward to block the shot. As if fired by a cannon, it smacked Dommie just below his kneepad as the bell went.

'Oh, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t,' he screamed, slumping over his saddle. To a man, the crowd winced. As the players gathered round and the ambulance roared up, Dommie had gone greener than the inside of an avocado pear.

'I'm sorry, Dommie, I'm real, real, sorry,' said a horrified Bobby Ferraro.

'My fault for riding into it,' mumbled Dommie.

Fortunately he was near the pony lines and, refusing any help from the ambulance, managed to ride Corporal off the field.

'I don't like the look of that,' said the paramedic.

'Give me a bucket of Novocaine,' gasped Dommie, trying not to scream with pain as Ricky, Seb and a demented Louisa lifted him down from Corporal. 'I'll be OK in a minute.'

'You can't go back into that h.e.l.l-hole,' said Louisa aghast.

Rupert agreed and, sprinting along the edge of the boards, yelled up to Perdita in the stands to get her kneepads on.

The only person, in fact, who was happy when Dommie insisted on playing on was Bart. Slapping a clenched fist into his other palm, he moved round the American team. 'Now we can zap them. Ride into the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d's knee as often as possible. Force him to retire and we can get the girl in.'

'Don't be so f.u.c.king unsporting, Dad,' said Luke in outrage. 'You could put the guy out of the game for good.'

'Safe journey, my darling.' Louisa's voice broke as Dommie rode back on to the field to deafening applause.

Dommie was as brave as his own bull terrier, but the blow had smashed his left knee and the pain was clearly unhinging him. As Red and Angel unleashed a fusillade of shots, the crowd, who had no idea quite how badly Dommie was hurt, kept up a continuous roar of encouragement. As the score drew level, Dommie, battered by the inevitable rough and tumble, grew greener and greener. Ricky was torn. He ought to protect Dommie but, aware that the Westchester was fast slipping out of his grasp, the only answer was to forget him and plunge into the fray. Thirty seconds later, with a glorious cut shot, he put England ahead. Now it was a question of staying there.

Despite the punishing heat Perdita shivered, encased in an ice-cold sweat. Padded and gloved, with her stick resting against the white fence below the stands, she expected any moment to have to leap on to Dommie's beautiful, fickle pony, Bardot, who was known to be as tricky as she was fast.

'I must read the play,' she kept telling herself grimly.

As poor Dommie came down the field it was like watching a bird trying to fly with two broken wings. But slowly, as she forced herself to concentrate, she became aware that Luke, unlike the rest of the US team, was contradicting Bart's orders and as the man who should have been marking Dommie, and despite the undeniable advantage it would have given him, was deliberately not riding Dommie off on the side of his damaged knee.

There, Dommie had the ball again and Luke, who could have b.u.mped him into the stands, laboriously rode round to hook him on the other side.

Glancing at Perdita, Taggie noticed that tears were pouring down her face. Gently she put her hand over Perdita's. 'Luke's the one, isn't he?'

Perdita nodded. 'I guess he always has been,' she mut tered, 'but I've only just realized it, and now it's too late.' As the teams lined up, jostling and shoving, for the throw-in, Dommie's agony was so blinding he thought he'd faint. Pain was in the mind. He must push himself through the pain barrier and go into mental overdrive.

Bardot, his chestnut mare, fond of batting her long eyelashes and giving a colossal buck when chastised, was for once behaving impeccably and carrying her master as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce. When Mike, menaced by Angel and Red, hit the ball upfield ahead of him, Bardot swung round to follow it. Alas, Red didn't have any of his brother's scruples. Seeing Dommie pounding towards goal looking for an offside drive, Red cannoned into his smashed knee with his pony's right shoulder. Howling with pain, Dommie had to cling on to Bardot's neck to stay on.

'You f.u.c.ker!' Hysterical with rage, Seb rode straight at Red, slicing the ball away from him towards goal. But Luke was too quick for Seb. Riding him once more off the ball, he turned the play with a staggering sixty-yard backshot.

With ten seconds on the clock, everyone collided in a cloud of dust in front of the British goal, the Americans frantic to whack it home so the game could go to a seventh chukka. Looking for his backhand in a tangle of threshing sticks, Ricky kept his cool. As he cleared for England, saving the game on the bell, everyone crashed over the line, sending a goal post flying in the process and all ending up in a great heap.

'You OK, Dommic?' yelled Seb in anguish through the dust.