Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘Oh, God,’ said Chessie, not knowing what to say, but feeling passionate relief that no-one would bother where she’d been. ‘For a terrible moment I thought it was Will.’

Shooting her a look of pure hatred, Ricky walked past her into the night. In the kitchen she found Will patting the plump shoulder of a frantically sobbing Louisa.

‘Mummy,’ he turned in delight, ‘Louisa crying. Did you bring me a present?’

‘Delicious sweeties,’ said Chessie, producing a handful of Rubens’ Retreat’s petits fours out of her bag.

‘Ugh,’ said Will spitting a marzipan banana out all over the floor.

Ricky didn’t come back all night. Chessie thought he must have gone to his father’s, until the telephone woke her at eight o’clock next morning.

‘Herbert here,’ barked a voice. Trust the old bugger not to apologize for ringing so early, or after so long. ‘Can I speak to Ricky?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Well, tell him I’ve just heard about Mattie. Bloody shame. I’m very sorry.’

It must have cost Herbert a lot to ring, but Chessie decided not to pass on the message. She didn’t want him back in their lives, hanging around, restricting her freedom. Looking out of the window, she saw Ricky was back and with a couple of men from the village, was digging a grave in the orchard, where generations of dogs and stable cats had been buried. The two Labradors, tails wagging, were trying to join in, frantically scrabbling the earth with their paws. Wayne, Ricky’s second favourite pony, a custard-yellow gelding with lop ears who’d been devoted to Mattie, stood by the paddock gate, neighing hysterically.

Keen to escape such a house of mourning, longing to be alone to think about Bart, Chessie drove into Rutminster on the pretext of doing the weekend shopping. Out of curiosity, on the way home, she stopped off at a jeweller to get Bart’s necklace valued. The bumpy, veined, arthritic hands trembled slightly as they examined the stones.

‘Very, very nice,’ said the jeweller in reverent tones. ‘I’d be surprised if you’d get much change out of £100,000, might be even higher. Pretty stones, for a pretty lady,’ he added with a smile at Chessie’s gasp of amazement.

Chessie was so stunned she went straight out and committed the cardinal indiscretion of ringing Bart at home from a call box.

‘Pretend I’m a wrong number. Look, I’m sorry I was so horribly ungrateful. I’d no idea those diamonds were real.’

‘Like my love for you,’ said Bart softly. ‘I can’t talk now,’ and hung up.

‘Did you bring me a present?’ said Will when she got home.

Joyfully Chessie gathered him up, and swung him round till he screamed with laughter.

‘I’ve got a hunch,’ she murmured. ‘I may have got you a new Daddy.’

Bart rang her later. ‘Can you talk?’

‘I could talk when I was eighteen months,’ said Chessie, ‘but I’m precocious.’

Out of the window, she could see Louisa wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as she planted primroses round Mattie’s grave.

‘Mattie had to be put down,’ she told Bart.

‘I’m sorry – she was a helluva horse. How’s Ricky taking it?’

‘Bottling it up as usual.’

‘Any repercussions last night?’

‘Ricky was too shell-shocked even to realize I’d been away. I forgot to ask yesterday. Are you still going to drop him?’

‘I guess I’m going to drop Ricky and Grace,’ said Bart.

The polo community were flabbergasted when Bart didn’t come to Deauville and allowed the team that he was forking out so much for to play without him. His place was taken by an underhandicapped Australian who interchanged so dazzlingly with Ricky that the Alderton Flyers clinched the French Championships after a very close fight against David Waterlane and the O’Brien brothers. Kinta, suddenly clicking with Ricky, won the Best Playing Pony award, to Juan’s fury. So much were the Flyers on form they were hotly tipped to win the French Gold Cup next Sunday.

Although Ricky desperately missed Mattie, he felt his luck was changing. During the endless barbecues and parties, the racing and gambling which characterize Deauville, players and patrons who aren’t rushing home every evening get a chance to talk. Ricky spent a lot of time with David Waterlane, and his son, Mike, a raw, silent, spotty youth, back from Harrow for the holidays. Hopelessly inhibited by his father, Mike showed considerable promise. Feeling the boy’s relationship with David was very like his own with Herbert, Ricky immediately struck up a rapport with Mike. They exercised their horses at dawn every day in the surf and stick and balled together. Mike’s game improved dramatically, and as a result David signed Ricky up as his senior pro for the next year. He and Ricky had been to the same school and understood each other. David was sick of the double-dealing and histrionics of the O’Briens.

Ricky had to confess that to the abscess-draining bliss of Bart’s absence was added the relief of not having Chessie with him. He could concentrate on his game, and not worry the whole time whether she was bored, or spending too much money, or sulking because she wasn’t spending money. He was well aware that his marriage was going badly, but being used to cold war over the years with Herbert, he didn’t feel it was the end of the world.

After drinking at least a bottle and a half of champagne after the French Championships, Ricky tried to ring home, but the telephone was dead – probably been cut off. Suddenly, missing Chessie like hell, he decided to accept Victor Kaputnik’s offer of a lift back to the Tiger’s yard at Newbury. Sukey and Drew, who were coming too, had parked their car there, and could give him a lift back to Rutshire. Buoyed up by champagne, ecstatic with victory, he bought a dark green cashmere jersey for Chessie, a cowboy suit for Will, and stopped off at the supermarket and loaded up with garlic sausage, salami, Toblerone, huge tomatoes, and the cheese which smelt like joggers’ socks which Chessie adored so much.

Victor’s helicopter seated eight, so drinking continued on the flight, and Sukey, who didn’t drink, drove Drew and Ricky back to Rutshire, so they were able to carry on boozing, reliving every chukka. Next Sunday’s Gold Cup seemed well within their grasp now. Ricky sat in the back addressing occasional fond and drunken remarks to the huge silver cup which he would have to hand over to Bart tomorrow.

‘We’re going to spend the second half of our honeymoon in Argentina and find Drew some really good ponies,’ said Sukey as she turned off the M4.

It must be nice having a wife who acted as chauffeur and remembered every shot you’d ever scored, thought Ricky. But he didn’t think he could bring himself to sleep with Sukey. He was overwhelmed again with longing for Chessie. He should have forked out for a temporary nanny. They needed to spend more time together.

My luck has turned, he told himself again, as Sukey drove up the lime avenue. I’m going to be a better husband from now on. Robinsgrove was in darkness. Perhaps Chessie’d gone to stay with her mother. As he stood reeling uncertainly in the yard, he suddenly felt a sword-thrust of misery that Mattie wasn’t there to welcome him. Then a white ghost shot out of the grooms’ flat. Millicent the whippet, frisking round his legs, was overjoyed he was home. She was shortly followed by the two Labradors, and Louisa, who was spilling out of a yellow sundress. Sounds of revelry were going on behind her.

‘Whatever are you doing back?’ she asked in horror.

‘Just for the night,’ said Ricky, clanking bottles as he searched in the carrier bag. ‘We won.’

‘Ohmigod, how wonderful,’ said Louisa, flinging her arms round his swaying body. He was absolutely plastered, bless him.