‘Man, man, man,’ screamed the tiny figure to the East Cotchester Number Three. ‘Take the fucking man, for Christ’s sake.’

The umpire blew his whistle. ‘That’ll be forty against you for swearing, young lady. Consider yourself lucky you haven’t been sent off.’

Bellowed on by her father, Tabitha scored three goals and East Cotchester won the Handley Cross.

Leaning against the Land-Rover, Daisy drew Rupert. Goodness, he had a beautiful face. Then she drew Ricky with his sombre, slanting dark eyes and then Drew twice, trying not to make him too handsome. In pencil, she could never capture the blueness of his eyes. Having sketched Bas as a merry Restoration rake, she had a crack at Sukey. Not easy – Sukey’s charm was all in her colouring. She had a long face and such a naked forehead, Daisy found herself turning her into a polo pony.

‘I’d hide that if I were you.’

Looking up with a start, Daisy saw that Ricky was actually smiling.

‘Oh my God.’ Daisy ripped out the page.

‘Very appropriate,’ said Ricky, taking it from her. ‘I’m sure Sukey turns on sixpence.’

‘She has a turn if Drew spends sixpence,’ said Bas, peering over Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Bloody good, that’s brilliant of Rupert. I’m much better looking than that.’

Giggling, Daisy stuffed the page into her pocket.

‘I’ve done a couple of Hermia, in fact several,’ she shoved the book at Ricky. He really was the most shy-making man.

Ricky flicked through, really looking. ‘You’ve got her, even that little scar over her eye. They’re marvellous.’

‘Keep them,’ said Daisy, blushing.

‘I framed your cat. You must come and see it.’

‘You must come and have supper sometime,’ Daisy was staggered to hear herself saying. It must be the vodka.

‘I’d like that,’ said Ricky.

And he always says no to Philippa Mannering, thought Daisy. Perhaps if he fancied Perdita he saw her as a potential mother-in-law.

‘Hello, Ricky,’ said a shrill voice. Grinning up at him, her two front teeth missing, was Tabitha Campbell-Black.

‘Hello, Tab. D’you know Mrs Macleod?’

‘You played very well,’ said Daisy.

‘I know. None of the others did.’ Tabitha, who had all the beauty and arrogance of her father, was now gouging out the centre of Sukey’s home-made fruitcake with both hands.

‘Have you had a good camp?’ asked Ricky.

‘Great. I haven’t cleaned my teeth for a week.’

‘They’ll fall out.’

‘No, they’re used to it.’

‘Where’s your father?’

‘Chatting up Randy Sherwood’s mother. He’s given Beattie Johnson the push, which is a shame. She never minded me getting into bed with her and Daddy.’

‘Has he bought any new horses?’

‘Yes, a stallion called Lord Thomas. He’s so good, I hold the mares when he mates with them. Lord Thomas is the perfect gentleman, he always licks the mares afterwards.’

‘Unlike his father,’ murmured Ricky to Daisy, as Tabitha scampered off.


21



The Rutshire and the South Sussex were warming up their ponies for the Jack Gannon. The long wait had told on Perdita’s nerves.

‘Think positive,’ she said through clattering teeth.

Mike Waterlane was grey. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Daddy.’

‘Hopefully, he’s had a shunt,’ said Patrick Lombard, tightening his girths.

The pale yellow flowers of the traveller’s joy entwined in the hedgerows brought no happiness to David Waterlane stuck behind a convoy of cars on the Midhurst Road which was held up by a huge lorry with a sign saying ‘Horses’ on the back.

‘Bound to be show-jumpers – bloody yobbos,’ said David Waterlane apoplectically.

There was no way he was going to reach Cowdray nor his son’s match for the throw-in. The new Lady Waterlane, having drunk three-quarters of a bottle of Bollinger and achieved two and a half orgasms, was well content.

‘Go for the girl,’ ordered Randy Sherwood, as South Sussex rode on to the field. ‘Mark her stupid, bash the hell out of her. Once she loses her rag, they’ll all go to pieces.’

‘I want 5-0 on the scoreboard by half-time,’ Drew told Rutshire, ‘and don’t let Randy get loose.’

‘My son is one,’ announced a large mother, whose red veins matched her dress.

‘That’s a lovely age. Is he crawling?’ asked Seb Carlisle’s girlfriend.

‘She’s talking about his handicap,’ said Sukey in a low voice, and looked very disapproving when Daisy started to laugh.

To a whirring of cine-cameras and a gratifying clicking of Nikons, Enid Coley progressed graciously into the stands. No-one could see a thing round her big spotted hat. Kevin Coley was busy supervising four different video cameramen to capture Trace’s every stroke of genius on the field. Seeing Dancer and Drew talking to Mrs Sherwood and Rupert and, being a terrible star fucker, he barged into the group.

‘Let the best man win,’ he smirked at Drew.

‘Well, it certainly won’t be you,’ drawled Rupert.

Mrs Sherwood turned and smiled at Kevin. After all, he was picking up her sons’ expenses. ‘Do you know Dancer Maitland and Rupert Campbell-Black, Kevin?’

‘Rather too well,’ said the new Minister for Sport, his eyes like chips of ice.

‘Shut up,’ said Drew out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I hope he’s going to sponsor me.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ went on Rupert, not lowering his voice at all. ‘Kevin sponsored a friend of mine a few years ago and took over his wife. If you’re going into business with Kev, I’d slap Sukey into a chastity belt pronto.’

‘That is quite uncalled for,’ spluttered Kevin.

‘They’re about to throw-in. Come on, Rutshire,’ shouted Bas, filling up everyone’s glasses.

‘Why are you wearing that wrist brace?’ Merlin asked Randy as he lined up behind Justin Lombard.

‘Too much wanking,’ said Mike Waterlane, going bright pink at his own daring.

‘I don’t need to wank, you little pipsqueak,’ snapped Randy, nodding and smirking in Trace’s direction. ‘I’ve got the real thing.’

‘I hope she’s better at screwing than polo,’ hissed Perdita, who, like a cat waiting to spring, was watching the umpire’s hand.

‘You bitch,’ squealed Trace.

The umpire, who was having great difficulty controlling his dapple-grey pony, hurled the ball in. Hermia hated throw-ins. It took all the strength of Perdita’s frantically squeezing legs to stop her ducking out. Reaching over, however, she managed to hook Randy’s stick, so Mike was able to tap the ball away. Thundering towards the centre of the field, giving two South Sussex players the slip, Perdita picked up a beautiful pass from Mike, skedaddled easily round Paul Hedley, hit two glorious offside forehands towards goal, before cutting the ball perfectly through the buttercup-yellow goal posts. Up went the yellow flag.

‘That’ll teach you to booze at lunchtime,’ she said sweetly to Randy as she cantered back.

After that Randy really had it in for her. Taking a pass from Patrick during the next chukka, she set out once more for goal.

‘Leave,’ brayed a hoarse donkey voice behind her, ‘leave, you bloody idiot.’

For a fatal second Perdita paused, thinking it was Mike shouting. Turning her head, she saw it was Randy Sherwood imitating Mike to muddle her, and that he was the only player in pursuit and had now gained valuable distance. The ball was ahead on her left. As she stood up in her stirrups, stretching over Hermia’s nearside shoulder to hit the forehand, her right leg automatically swivelled up in the air. Lined up along the south of the field, the crowd could only see her left side. One umpire was up the other end, the other was too busy controlling his refractory pony to watch what Randy was up to. A second later he had neatly kicked her right stirrup out. Perdita mis-hit wildly, and only by some miracle stayed in the saddle, by which time Randy had backed the ball upfield to Merlin, who scored.

‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita, racing down the field, twirling her stick in the air, which was against the rules.

She also knew that she should have reported the foul to Mike, who would then make an official complaint to the umpire, but she was too angry.

‘The fucking, cheating bastard,’ she screamed. ‘He kicked out my stirrup.’

‘I what?’ asked Randy, the picture of innocence.

The umpires conferred, then, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee in their striped shirts, cantered over to the third man in the stands, who’d been gazing at Mrs Sherwood at the time and missed the incident altogether, and who now waved his down-turned palms back and forth to indicate no foul.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Perdita hysterically. ‘Bloody, dirty cheat.’

The umpires awarded a thirty-yard penalty to South Sussex.

At the slowest, most mocking hand-canter Randy Sherwood circled and stroked the ball between the posts.

‘You’re making things seriously easy for us,’ he told a raging Perdita as he cantered back.

Despite dogged marking by Rutshire, the superior pony power of South Sussex was beginning to tell. They were six-five ahead and Drew and Ricky had their heads together at half-time. Then, as the Rutshire ponies’ girths were loosened and they were washed down, scraped and walked round by the grooms, Drew called a brief team meeting.

‘I’m going to swap you over,’ he said. ‘You’re going to Number Four, Justin, and you’re moving up to Number Two, Mike.’

Mike lowered the can of Coke which he’d been emptying down his parched throat.

‘I couldn’t. I’ll never hold Randy.’

‘Randy’s got a slower pony in this chukka, who won’t like Dopey taking a piece of him in the line-out one bit.’