Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘We don’t want a repeat of last night. To absent friends,’ said Hamish raising his glass.

‘Indeed,’ said Biddy, ‘To my dear, dear Lochlan.’

Perdita refilled her glass with red wine.

‘To Ricky France-Lynch,’ she said and drained it.

Biddy’s mouth vanished and never came back.

‘I hope he gets ten years for merdering that poor wee bairn.’

‘He did not murder him,’ said Perdita ominously.

‘Perdita,’ murmured Daisy. Why, she wondered, was she frightened of everything, and Perdita of nothing – not bullfinches out hunting, nor Biddy Macleod.

‘Drunk driving to my mind is murder,’ went on Biddy. ‘No-one has any right to drive when they’re off their head with drink.’

‘He’d been celebrating,’ snapped Perdita. ‘He’d just won one of the biggest tournaments in the world.’

‘All polo players are the same to my mind,’ replied Biddy. ‘Spoilt, jet set, indulging airvery gratification.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Perdita furiously. ‘I bet if Grandpa Macleod had run off with some tart, taking Hamish with him when he was two, and you’d been to some Hogmanay piss-up, you’d have jumped into your Austin Seven and tried to get him back, and not given a stuff about drunk driving.’

Mouthing furiously, Biddy was too outraged to speak.

‘Go to your room,’ thundered Hamish, then turning to Daisy: ‘Will you control your child.’

‘She doesn’t have to,’ said Perdita, picking up her cigarettes. ‘I’m going. I’m not having anyone slagging off Ricky, that’s all. You shouldn’t judge people you don’t know.’

Pushing back her chair, she picked up the new black shoe which Biddy had kicked off because it was murdering her corns from under the table and threw it among the cracker remnants. The toe had been completely chewed off by Ethel. Biddy burst into tears and Ethel was shut howling in the utility room.

Daisy went out to the stable where she found Perdita mutinously cuddling Fresco.

‘Darling, how could you?’

‘How could I not? The bloody bitch, poor Ricky.’

‘She is Daddy’s mother.’

‘She’s your husband’s mother. Do you know what she said to Violet in the sitting room? “Isn’t it a funny thing, none of my grandchildren have fair hair like I did,” and Violet said: “But Perdita does”. And Bloody Macleod said smugly: “I mean my real grandchildren.”’

‘How horrible,’ said Daisy, totally unnerved by talk veering towards Perdita’s origins. ‘She’s never liked me, and secretly I think she’s jealous because you’re so much prettier than all her other grandchildren.’

Perdita waited until much later in the evening when Daisy and the children were watching The Magnificent Seven .

‘Mummy says Granny’s jealous because I’m so much better looking than you or Eddie.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Violet, who was red-eyed from Ethel’s banishment. ‘Mummy wouldn’t say a thing like that, would you, Mummy?’

‘Well,’ stammered Daisy. ‘Oh God, you’re a bitch sometimes, Perdita.’

On Boxing Day Hamish, reeking of Paco Rabanne, went off to the office. Another frost ruled out hunting. Instead Perdita, practising her swing on a tea chest on the lawn, hit a ball straight through the stained-glass window halfway up the stairs. Daisy forgot she’d put a chicken in the Aga for lunch, so it emerged as a charred wren and they had cold turkey and salad instead.

Swelling with turkey leftovers and righteous indignation, Biddy darned Hamish’s socks. If her beloved son was in financial straits, it was entirely due to Daisy’s mismanagement and extravagance.

The sky outside was turning yellow, the forecast said snow.

‘Wouldn’t it be lovely,’ said Violet, ‘if we got snowed up and you couldn’t go home, Granny?’

Daisy turned pale. Like an addict needing a fix, she thought she’d go mad if she didn’t paint. While Biddy had her sleep after lunch, she surreptitiously got out the sketch book Violet had given her for Christmas and drew Ethel and Gainsborough on their backs in front of the fire. Nor could she resist a quick sketch of Biddy Macleod, mouth open and snoring, chin doubled, two tweed spare tyres, legs apart showing three inches of doughy, white thigh between lisle stockings and wool knickers.

‘Christ, that’s good,’ said Perdita, creeping up. ‘Best thing you’ve done in years. You shouldn’t have flattered her so much.’

‘Hush,’ Daisy giggled, and, as Biddy was stirring, hid the drawing in the desk and went off to put the kettle on.

Away from the fire, she started shivering. She hoped she wasn’t getting ‘flu. She was just bringing in the tea things when she heard Perdita saying, ‘Do look at this really good drawing Mum’s done of you.’

‘It’s not you,’ squeaked Daisy, nearly dropping the tray. ‘It’s supposed to be an old girl who lives in the village.’

But Biddy Macleod had put on her spectacles.

‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘Now I know what you really feel about a defenceless old woman, Daisy. But I shall behave with dignity, I’m going to pack my suitcase.’

‘Oh, please,’ gabbled Daisy, utterly distraught. ‘It wasn’t meant to be a likeness. Look at Picasso; look at Francis Bacon.’

‘There’s no need to explain yourself, Daisy.’

‘At least have a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t want anything.’ Slowly Biddy went out of the room.

‘That was stirring it,’ Daisy shouted at Perdita.

‘I don’t care. With any luck, we’ve got shot of her.’

When Biddy came downstairs with her suitcases she insisted on waiting in the hall for Hamish as the wind whistled through the broken stained-glass window. She had a long wait. Hamish, desperately late, sucking extra strong mints, took in the situation at once, led his mother into the study and left the door ajar.

‘I feel so unwelcome,’ sobbed Biddy. ‘It’s not you or Violet or little Eddie, but Daisy and that wicked, wicked girl.’

Hamish persuaded her to stay on.

‘Now you see what I have to put up with, Mother,’ Daisy heard him saying. ‘Please don’t go. I need you.’

Hostilities had to be suspended the following night because they had been asked to a party in Eldercombe by a bearded psychiatrist called Lionel Mannering, and Philippa, his rapacious wife. Daisy dreaded parties. In the past Hamish had got so insanely jealous if she spoke to other men that she’d completely lost the art of chatting anyone up. She also had a raging sore throat, and was so cold and shivery that she put on a crimson and white striped dress (which she’d never worn because it was too low-cut) and put a crimson mohair polo neck over the top as a suck-up gesture because Biddy had once knitted it for her. Unable to wash her hair because Biddy and Hamish had hogged the hot water, she decided to put it up.

‘You look great, Mother,’ said Hamish, helping Biddy out of the icy wind into the front seat of the car.

Sepia clouds raced across a disdainful white moon. Sitting in the back, Daisy, who was beginning to feel really ill, felt sweat cascading down her sides and soaking her fringe.

It was a large, noisy party with all the women in taffetas, satins and beautiful silk shirts. There were also loads of good-looking men for Daisy to avoid. The moment Hamish entered the room, he was off, delighted to be with his peers, as he called them, telling everyone he was in television, dumping Biddy on the hostess’s mother, and chatting up all the Rutshire wives, who were delighted to have some new talent, and even more delighted when Hamish’s busty wife with the red, shiny face in the awful clothes was pointed out to them.

The lean, rapacious hostess whisked everyone round introducing them as if she were doing a grand chain in an eightsome reel. Daisy talked to a sweet girl who was giggling with nervous relief because she’d just got rid of her mother-in-law. ‘I’m going to get seriously drunk.’