‘Hoo-arn has not lost his touch,’ said Sharon smugly, as Juan swaggered back to the pony lines acknowledging the cheers with his stick.

‘Steady down, steady down. We can do it, we can do it,’ urged Luke, walking round banging his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. ‘Juan’s on a really fast pony this chukka, Angel. Don’t get into a horse race with him. You gotta outfox him and not let him get the ball.’

But nothing could stop Juan and his magic mallet now. Tapping in four goals in as many minutes, he levelled the score. Getting the ball out yet again, he set off upfield.

‘Vamos, vamos,’ yelled the crowd as Angel whipped and spurred his slower pony after him. Luckily the ball hit a divot, Juan missed it and Angel checked his pony for the backhand. Instantly Miguel crashed into him broadside, ramming him so hard that the pony swung round 180 degrees, totally winded. Up went the sticks of the Mendozas.

‘Faulazo,’ they yelled.

‘Faulazo,’ yelled Claudia and the Mendoza supporters.

‘Faulazo,’ yelled almost the entire crowd.

Jaime, the umpire, shot a nervous glance at Mrs Juan, who folded her arms implacably and shook her head. Jaime was just awarding against Angel for crossing Miguel when Perdita took matters into her own sweaty hands. Charging up to Miguel, she bashed him on the wrist with her stick.

‘Stop it, you great bully,’ she screamed. ‘That’s the third time you’ve tried to kill Angel.’

‘For Chrissake, Perdita,’ roared Luke.

Lifting his stick, Miguel would have clouted her back if the O’Brien brother-in-law hadn’t bravely ridden between them. Giving Perdita a bollocking, he awarded the O’Briens a free goal.

‘Why you do that?’ Angel asked her in amazement.

‘I hate you,’ spat Perdita, ‘but I hate dirty play even more.’

Unfortunately Alejandro had chosen the worst possible time to arrive and witnessed the whole incident. Guilty at rolling up so late after a little detour to Buenos Aires and expecting carnage, he was irritated to see how staggeringly well his team had done without him. Stopping only briefly to kiss Sharon’s hand and embrace Victor and make sure they would be staying the night in General Piran, he went off to shout at his team.

‘You’re all loose. Stop tapping and ’eet it. You change wiz Angel, Luke, so you can mark Juan, and as for you,’ he turned, roaring, on Perdita, ‘’ow dare you ’it Miguel? You should ’ave been sent off. I said we shouldn’t ’ave played her,’ he added to Luke.

Finally, glancing at the four ponies being walked round for the last chukka, he bellowed that they were the wrong ones and ordered Raimundo to tack up others, immediately.

Luke had gone very still.

‘Leave those ponies as they are,’ he said softly to Raimundo, then, taking Alejandro by the arm, drew him away from the others.

‘You asked me to captain this side because you were too goddam lazy to play and you don’t like being pussy-whipped. They played like angels, right, and unless you want my fist in your fucking face, get off my case.’

Alejandro was so flabbergasted that he sauntered off to regain some ascendancy by extravagantly complimenting Sharon.

‘Now, calm down,’ said Luke, turning back with a grin to his astounded team. ‘They’re only two goals ahead and we’re younger, fitter and braver. Let’s bury them.’

Seeing Juan mounting a black thoroughbred who could have won the Kentucky Derby, he put Angel up on a very fast dark brown mare he’d intended to ride himself. Then he had a battle with his conscience. If he rode Fantasma again, they had twice as good a chance of winning, but if Victor and Sharon took another look at such a showy, beautiful horse they might want to buy her. He glanced over at Fantasma who was dying to get back into the action. Standing gazing at the pitch, her dark eyes wide with excitement, scraping up the dust with her hooves, she ran her muzzled nose restlessly along Umberto’s arm until he cursed her as he led her round. Luke went over and tightened her girths. He’d have to find more money from somewhere else.

Perdita was now riding a beautiful chestnut called Cuchilla.

‘Good milk, Perdita,’ Angel called to her as they cantered upfield for the throwin. Perdita ignored him.

‘I say, good milk, Perdita.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ she snapped. She assumed it was some beastly crack implying that she should be breast-feeding rather than playing.

Somehow in the last chukka the Mendozas steadied. But it was a pandemonium of frantic swordplay and scrimmaging around the Mendoza goalmouth until it seemed impossible that the goal-hungry green-and-white posts hadn’t swallowed the ball. Finally, taking a fearful risk, Luke left his back door open and took the ball upfield, outrunning Juan, snaking Fantasma past the two O’Brien cousins, then passing to Angel. Once again only Perdita, who was glued to Miguel, stood between him and goal. Aware there was no way Angel would give Perdita the chance to score, Miguel galloped forward to bump him off the ball. Discounted, ignored, Perdita waited despondently behind him. Good milk indeed. Then, to her amazement, Angel had passed Miguel with a ravishing offside forehand landing right at her feet. For a second she froze as Miguel yanked his horse round so violently that he cut its mouth and pounded towards her. Then, with her back to the goal and no time to position herself, she executed that most foolhardy of shots, known as the millionaire’s, because only a rich man can afford to jeopardize his pony in this way. Pulling the ball towards her, she slammed it between Cuchilla’s beautifully clean front and back legs and under her bound-up tail. Having miraculously missed any limbs, the refractory ball hit the posts and bounced back.

‘Bad milk, Perdita,’ shouted Angel, then galloped up screaming, ‘Dejala, dejala, dejala.’

Next moment he had scored and the crowd went wild. Only one goal behind with two minutes left.

‘Bad milk, Perdita,’ said Angel, riding up to her as they cantered back for the throwin.

Jaime Calavessi, who longed for an O’Brien victory to get him off the hook, hurled the ball in. Taking no chances, Juan tapped it away and set out, like Paul Revere, on his thoroughbred black pony Glitz. As he galloped down the boards Patricio raced alongside him waiting for a chance to ride him off and pinch the ball. Failing to tempt Patricio on to his line, Juan suddenly pulled Glitz up in a frenzy of outrage, twirling his stick to indicate he’d been crossed.

‘Manufactured,’ yelled Luke, Patricio, Angel and Perdita in unison. Then, advancing on a cringing Jaime, ‘That foul was manufactured.’

‘Faulazo,’ yelled the O’Briens, closing in on Jaime.

Jaime fingered his aching jaw. Glancing up, he saw an unsmiling Mrs Juan draw her finger across her throat. In a superb display of arrogance, Miguel walked his pony off to a spot thirty yards from the Mendozas’ goal as though the penalty was a fait accompli. Jaime awarded the penalty to the O’Briens.

‘It’s not bloody fair,’ said Perdita as they lined up behind their back line. ‘This whole game is rigged and why does that bastard Angel keep saying good and bad milk to me?’

Luke was revving Fantasma up to block Miguel’s shot, but suddenly he laughed. ‘The word leche means milk and luck in Spanish. I guess Angel was trying to wish you luck.’

Jaime’s conscience was troubling him. There was only a minute left and Miguel was messing around joking with the other umpire, his brother-in-law, making a great play of teeing up the ball. Jaime caught sight of Perdita’s anguished face. She’d played so well and she was so much prettier than Mrs Juan – and he was, after all, a susceptible Argentine. Shutting his eyes, waiting for a thunderbolt to descend, he blew a foul on Miguel for wasting time. When all the O’Briens closed in on him he appealed to the third man, who woke up with a start. Deciding that the O’Briens were getting above themselves, he upheld Jaime’s decision. Giving the O’Briens no time to reassemble themselves, Luke lofted the ball over their heads, slap between the posts.

With a minute to go the score was tied. The throwin was murder, sticks going everywhere. Luke felt Fantasma wince as the ball hit her smack on the knee, but such was her courage that she limped for only a few paces, then set out again, vroom, vroom, vroom, to defend her own goal.

The clock showed only twenty seconds left as Luke saved the Mendozas from certain defeat with another backshot. Swinging round, he streaked up the field like a man on a motor bike, outrunning Juan’s black thoroughbred, passing the two O’Brien cousins. What a glorious horse! Any minute he expected her to take off like Pegasus.

Leering like some terrible shark, Miguel was now coming towards Luke and Fantasma at right-angles. Luke waited until the last moment to pass to Patricio who passed to Perdita.

I’m going to score at last, she thought joyfully, then groaned in horror as she hit wide. They were all in the goalmouth now, raising such a dust with their flailing sticks that no-one could see. Five seconds to go. Then, miraculously, Perdita saw the ball six feet in front of her. One of the O’Brien cousins was looming in through the smokescreen on her right. Clambering halfway up Cuchilla’s neck, only just managing to stay on by clinging on to the martingale with her left hand, she lunged forward and, with a one-handed billiard-cue shot, ignoring the pony crashing in on her left, she shunted the ball between the posts. She would have fallen under the pounding hooves if someone hadn’t grabbed her primrose jersey, ripping it apart in the process so her slim brown shoulder was laid bare, and tugged her back into the saddle.