Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘ Gracias, gracias, ’ croaked Luke, collapsing on her neck again.

Next moment Juan and Miguel were pumping him by the hand and he had been pulled off Fantasma and was being carried shoulder-high round the stadium.

‘Americano, Americano,’ shrieked the crowd in ecstasy, over and over again.

They knew Luke had stepped into the boots of the mighty Alejandro at the last moment and they wanted to salute his courage because he had turned the game around and never stopped fighting.

‘Americano, Americano,’ roared the crowd as, with his widest grin, Luke went up to collect the great Gold Cup with the soaring eagle on its lid and they roared on and on, refusing to let him go. Glancing up at the stands, Luke saw that Bart was yelling his head off, tears of joy coursing down his cheeks.

Another great cheer went up for Angel, olive skin tinged with colour, peacock-blue eyes bloodshot, bronze curls clinging damply to his forehead. All his cousins were shouting, crying and congratulating each other. He knew now that he’d been taken back into the fold.

As Angel brandished his own gold trophy he smiled across at Bibi who was crying as much as Bart and he thought how lovely she looked with her mascara running and her long nose red.

Luke ruffled his hair. ‘I guess God looked after his Angel today.’

Luke won the Best Player Award. Fantasma won the two Best Playing Pony prizes and was only just restrained from kicking the President of the Argentine Polo Association when he put the white blanket of honour on her even whiter back. She had never looked more beautiful, thought Luke, shimmying round in her new white rug, ears pricked to hear the cheers, dark eyes searching restlessly for Luke, terrified to let him out of her sight for a second. Soon she would be his again.

Determined to clinch the deal at once, leaving the others swigging champagne and signing autographs, Luke set off to find Alejandro. Post-mortems were already going on in the bars in every language under the sun. The Buenos Aires Herald stopped Luke for his views on the match.

‘We should remember the horses,’ he said, suddenly sombre. ‘They played their hearts out in this heat and three of them died. It was the worst I’ve ever known.’

He found Alejandro ecstatic, tearful and already drunk.

‘Well done, amigo . I taught you well.’

‘And now you can sell me my horse back.’

Suddenly Alejandro looked shifty.

‘She play well. I decide I cannot part with ’er. Friendsheep ees friendsheep, but business ees business.’

‘I’ll give you one hundred and fifty thousand bucks,’ said Luke in desperation. ‘It’s all I can raise.’

But Alejandro refused to budge. He had put nothing in writing.

‘If you hadn’t broken your leg, I’d beat you to a pulp, you greasy, double-crossing son of a bitch,’ shouted Luke, storming off.

Luke was so distraught that he nearly boycotted the massive celebrations afterwards, but he felt it was unfair to his own team who had played so well and to the O’Briens who had defended so gallantly. Everyone wanted to discuss his last goal which seemed to grow in length and splendour by the glass. He was almost more bruised by people clapping him on the back than by the game. He tried to get plastered, but it didn’t work, and after a few hours he drove back to Angel’s and Bibi’s house. Arriving at dawn he found a primrose-yellow banner across the drive to welcome him, and bitterly remembered how he had covered up Perdita with a shawl the same colour when she’d ridden naked into the Casino.

He longed to drive over to Alejandro’s to tell Fantasma in private how brilliantly and bravely she had played, but having raised her hopes once, he couldn’t bear to raise them again – not if he was no longer going to be able to take her back to Palm Beach.

All the next day it poured with rain and Angel’s cousins, still tight from the night before, swarmed through the house and the telephone rang with congratulations and offers for Luke and Angel to play next season anywhere in the world.

By six o’clock the rain had cleared and Luke, desperate to be on his own, went out for a ride with Leroy who had had a boring day confined to barracks. It was a beautiful evening with the turquoise sky reflected in the huge puddles and the acid-yellow and green sweep of the pampas, only interrupted by the occasional windmill or grey fringe of gum trees, stretching to infinity. Luke wished he could ride off the edge of the world.

Every bone in his body ached but not nearly so much as his heart. Tonight the cousins were giving a celebration for him and Angel. But what was the point without Perdita? Even the loss of Fantasma was nothing by comparison. He wondered if there had been a moment in the last three years when he hadn’t longed for her or if there would ever be in his life again. Even yesterday’s success had already turned to ashes in his mouth.

He had so wanted to go to her after she broke up with Red, and again on the night of the Westchester when Red had bolted with Chessie. She’d looked so desolate that evening in her black dress, he’d longed to help her pick up the pieces. But he knew it would be wrong. His love was so strong he’d never be able to control it and she’d feel claustrophobic. She could never marry anyone she didn’t love or survive in captivity like Chessie had for so long.

Down by the river into which Fantasma had once galloped, he dismounted and sat on the bank letting his horse graze and Leroy charge off after hares. He watched a flock of white birds winging slowly homewards, turning pink in the setting sun. In three weeks it would be Christmas and suddenly the pain became unbearable as he remembered that first Christmas in Palm Beach with Perdita when he still had hope.

Luke had always had brilliant eyesight but his eyes were so misted over that at first he couldn’t identify the cloud of brown dust on the horizon. Then, as he got to his feet, he heard hoof beats and realized it was a pony and rider going ludicrously fast. He couldn’t identify the colour of the horse because they were against the sun. Now they were flashing through a blue puddle, now disappearing behind a field of alfalfa, faster and faster. As they curved round towards him down the rough track, he realized the rider was bareback and guiding the pony in just a headcollar.

Luke recognized the pony first. Rose-pink in the sunset, as she had been in that sunrise after he had saved her life, she was covering the ground at breakneck speed with that beautiful, low, inimitably smooth action. He had a moment of outrage that anyone should ride her so dangerously fast after such a gruelling match yesterday. A split second later he recognized the rider. No, he was hallucinating. No-one rode so aggressively, so gracefully, or in such a hurry to get to goal. It must be a mirage.

Perdita was only wearing a khaki shirt and shorts. Her face was caked with dust, her features set, her whole body trembling as she tugged Fantasma to a halt in front of him. Luke, who had a lump as big as a polo ball in his throat, couldn’t speak. Neither could she. They just gazed and gazed at each other. Fantasma, however, had no such reserve. Whickering with delight, she shot forward nudging and licking and nuzzling her old master all over, searching his pockets for Polos.

Still unable to get a word out, Luke put his arms round her lovely head, breathing in the smell of her sweat, fighting back the tears. ‘You didn’t ride all the way?’ he mumbled stupidly.

‘Only from the airfield.’

‘You didn’t steal her?’

‘No. I bought her.’

‘But Alejandro said she wasn’t for sale.’

‘Every Argie has his price. Rupert gave me some money,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘It seemed the only way of spending it.’