Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘I could eat them alaive at that age,’ said Sharon.

In retaliation, Eddie had borrowed a tenner off Daisy to buy stationery for school and instead came back with a bottle of crème de menthe for Sharon which he insisted on serving her frappé and sitting chatting to her all afternoon so she never sat still.

‘We didn’t have girls at my prep school,’ he was now telling her, ‘as we didn’t really need them, but we’ve got fifty per cent at Bagley Hall, which is OK, as it’d be awful if there weren’t enough to go round.’

‘Oh look, there’s Mrs Thatcher on the telly. What a smart blue costume,’ said Sharon. ‘She always looks well turned-out, doesn’t she?’

‘I admire her,’ said Eddie reflectively, ‘but I wouldn’t like her as a mother.’

I suppose that’s something, thought Daisy, mixing white with burnt umber to get the colour of Sharon’s nipples.

In the corner two puppies were now having a tug of war with a pink-and-black scarf.

‘Have some more crème de menthe ,’ said Eddie.

‘Ay shall be tiddly,’ said Sharon with a giggle as he filled her glass.

‘Eddie darling, do rescue that scarf,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m sure it’s Perdita’s.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Eddie stonily. ‘I hate my sister,’ he added to Sharon.

‘How’s she getting on being coached by Rupert Campbell-Black? There’s an attractive man.’

Eddie’s face fell. ‘He’s depressingly sexist,’ he said disparagingly. ‘Not that I blame him for rubbishing my sister. I would, if she wasn’t so strong.’

There was a bang on the door, a bark from Ethel and in came Ricky.

‘Christ,’ he said taking in the chaos.

‘Ricky!’ said Sharon excitedly. ‘Come in. Don’t be shay, although I love shay men. Come and tell us what you think of Daisy’s portrait.’

Stepping over several chewing puppies, Ricky looked at the painting.

‘It’s very good,’ he said in surprise. ‘Extremely good. Rubens crossed with Renoir.’ Then, looking at Daisy’s exhausted face: ‘Come on, Sharon, Daisy’s done enough for one day.’

Sharon leant forward, giving Ricky the benefit of her cleavage to look at her diamond watch: ‘Heavens, taime does flay. Can I borrow your bathroom, Daisy? Goodness me,’ – swaying as she got up, she deliberately clutched on to Ricky’s arm – ‘I really do feel a bit tiddly.’

Having toasted some crumpets and put them with the fruitcake and the tea things on a tray, Daisy suggested that they went in the garden as it was the tidiest place.

‘You’re sweet.’ Ricky took the tray from her. ‘But I honestly don’t want anything to eat. Have you had a ghastly week?’

‘Pretty standard,’ said Daisy. ‘I really must paint that bench before winter.’

Next minute Violet erupted into the garden in an uncharacteristically bad temper. ‘Fucking hell, Mum, you’ve shrunk my olive-green jersey. Oh hi, Ricky.’ She grabbed a crumpet.

She was followed by Eddie in an even worse mood.

‘I was cleaning out my fish tank and Perdita’s emptied her ashtray into it. I’m leaving home.’ He snatched up two crumpets.

A second later Perdita put her head out of her bedroom window. ‘Sharon fucking Kaputnik’s locked herself in the bathroom, and I’ve got to go out.’

‘I don’t want to hear,’ said Ricky firmly. ‘Go inside all of you, and tidy up the kitchen, and then the sitting room. I’ve never seen such a tip, and it’s all your junk. Go on, bugger off.’

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ said Eddie, pinching another crumpet.

‘Oh, thank you,’ sighed Daisy. ‘You’re so wonderful.’

Blushing, Ricky said he’d found homes for two of the puppies and he’d take one himself.

‘Oh, how lovely. That only leaves one. Perhaps we could keep it.’ Rubbing buttery fingers on her jeans, Daisy started to sew nametapes on Eddie’s school socks. Ricky watched her.

It was a beautiful evening. The sun was setting behind the wood. Arrows of migrating birds, flown in from the sea to scavenge in the newly ploughed fields, were following a hyacinth-blue-and-crimson air balloon drifting across the softest, pink-flecked sky. In the garden red berries glowed on the honeysuckle and sapphire spears of delphiniums, pink Japanese anemones and pale roses crowded the flower-beds, not as vigorous as at their first flowering, but sweeter.

‘Is Eddie being a pain too?’ asked Ricky.

‘Not really. Adolescence is so awful.’ Almost as bad as being in one’s late thirties, thought Daisy sadly. ‘His uniform’s being a bit of a bore. In the old days I just went and bought it and the only problem was money. Now he’s worse than Beau Brummel about the relative tightness and length of his trousers.’ Looking up from her nametapes, Daisy giggled, ‘And having witnessed the rejection of every slip-on shoe in Rutminster, I know exactly how Prince Charming must have despaired at the thought of finding the owner of the glass slipper.’

She broke off the thread and picked up a pair of rugger shorts.

‘I’ll take him to London tomorrow,’ said Ricky, cutting himself a piece of fruitcake. ‘I’ve got to pick up the England shirts from Harrods. I’ll get him some trousers and some shoes.’

‘Oh no, it’d be such a bore for you,’ said Daisy.

‘I’d like his company. You know how I loathe London.’ Lucky Eddie, thought Daisy.

‘Perdita’s not the only one who’s lost too much weight around here,’ said Ricky, handing Daisy the last crumpet.

Daisy shook her head.

‘A handsome husband and a thousand a year,’ said a voice. ‘Ay’ll have it,’ and Ricky and Daisy were enveloped in a cloud of Chanel Number 5 as Sharon stretched out a braceleted hand to help herself, pressing her splendid breasts against Ricky’s shoulders as she did so.

‘You’d certainly make the handsomest husband in the world, Ricky. Do drop in on us sometime.’

‘She’s definitely having an affair with David Waterlane,’ said Ricky after she’d gone. ‘He always buys Chanel Number 5 for all his mistresses.’

‘She says she’s going to marry him,’ said Daisy.

In the darkening trees the pigeons were fluttering and cooing. Iceberg roses and white phlox grew more luminous, night-scented stock replaced Chanel Number 5.

‘It’s so beautiful here,’ said Daisy, who was getting cold, but didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. ‘How’s Perdita getting on with Rupert?’

‘Not brilliantly,’ said Ricky carefully, not wanting to hurt Daisy. ‘Rupert’s so desperately protective of Taggie, he can’t really bring himself to forgive her, even though Taggie has. But he’s getting results. He’s sharpened up her game two hundred per cent.

‘That’s mine,’ he added quickly, as one of Ethel’s puppies tottered out, speckled as a seal, eyes frowsty with sleep, patrician except for one ear pointing up and an irredeemably curly tail. He picked the puppy up. ‘He’s just like Little Chef.’

Watching him gently stroking the pink-and-speckled belly, Daisy was appalled to find herself longing to swap places with the puppy. She must get a grip on herself.

‘How’s the Westchester going?’

Ricky sighed. ‘I feel as though the entire contents of your septic tank has been tipped over my head. The BPA and the APA have both written me threatening letters and ring constantly. The American sponsors are collectively threatening to sue. The Prince rang up and said Hughie had actually had the cheek to ring him and advise him not to fly over to present the cup, as it would be so embarrassing for him to witness a bloodbath. Fortunately the Prince told Hughie to get stuffed, and that if he’s said he’ll go to something he always goes. Cartier, Asprey, Tiffany and Dunhill have all written complaining. I wrote back saying I would not be dictated to by a bunch of watchmakers in Mayfair.’