Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘Won’t Ricky mind us living there?’ asked Daisy, hardly daring to hope.

‘He’s not minding anything much at the moment, poor bastard, except Will dying and Chessie buggering off. I’m sure he’ll let you stay for a year while you sort yourself out. I see no reason to alter the rent.’

‘But I thought he was desperately short of cash. Oughtn’t you to sell it for him?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Bas, filling up her glass. ‘It’s insane to sell anything at the moment. Since the Prince of Wales moved into the area, property’s going to quadruple in Rutshire over the next few years. I’ll take you to see it tomorrow.’

‘It’s a heavenly cottage,’ said Daisy brightly as she drove a stony-faced Perdita home at the beginning of the school holidays. ‘I know we’re all going to be terribly happy there.’

‘You said the same thing about Brock House,’ snapped Perdita.

She looked pinched and miserable, her hair had lost all its sheen, her eyes their jetty sparkle.

‘How many bedrooms are there?’

‘Three, so someone will have to share; perhaps you and Violet.’

‘We will not!’

‘Well, there’s a room off the sitting room we can use,’ said Daisy placatingly, wistfully bidding goodbye to a possible studio, ‘and it’s surrounded by fields, so perhaps one day we’ll be able to afford a pony again.’

Perdita shot her mother a black stare of hatred.

‘Shut up about that,’ she hissed.

The holidays were a nightmare. Daisy was so broke that they were living virtually on bread and jam, and Perdita’s hatred corroded everything. Although she had grumbled in the past about her boarding schools, she bitterly resented being sent to a comprehensive and was absolutely mortified that Biddy was forking out for Violet and Eddie.

Daisy felt awful and wished she could raise two fingers to Biddy and send all the children to the local comprehensive, but to make ends meet she was due to start a job as a filing clerk at a nearby Christmas pudding factory at the beginning of May, and she thought Eddie and Violet were too young to come home to an empty house every evening.

Besides, the women’s magazines all advised one to leave children at their schools: ‘At the time of divorce, school is often the only continuity.’

The day before Violet went back, she and Perdita had a terrible row. Perdita had just endured a week at her new school, where her strange set face and uppity manners had done nothing to endear her to her classmates. One boy had called her Turdita, and when she screamed at him, the others had taken up the refrain. Getting home, Perdita took it out on Violet, who’d just had a letter from Hamish announcing that Wendy was pregnant.

‘Disgusting letch,’ screamed Perdita. ‘Wendy’s a whore. And now she’s got a bun in the microwave, Hamish’ll favour the new brat and lose interest in you.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Violet furiously. ‘At least we know who our father was.’

‘What d’you mean?’ snarled Perdita.

‘Nothing,’ said Violet, realizing she’d gone too far.

‘My father was killed in a car crash.’

‘Of course he was,’ mumbled Violet. ‘I must go and finish packing.’

Half an hour after her mother had gone to bed that night, Perdita began searching. It had grown much colder, the wind had risen and creepers rattling long fingers against the windows kept making her jump. Her heart was beating so hard she felt it must wake her mother. The blood was pounding in her ears, her whole body was throbbing, as she crept downstairs into the study.

At least we know who our father is? What had Violet meant? What poison had she been fed by Hamish? Bugger, the overhead bulb had gone and they’d been too poor to replace it. Perdita crept round the room groping like a blind man, tripping over a small stool, at last finding the side light by the desk which was too eaten by woodworm for the bailiffs to take.

Only yesterday she’d come in and found her mother crying over a letter which Daisy had quickly stuffed into one of the drawers. Everything was in a frightful mess, but Perdita could only find bills and business correspondence. Her hands moved around, pressing drawers and shelves, frantic to find the pulse point that opened the secret drawer. At last her fingers rubbed against a little switch on the inside right of the top shelf, and the centre of the desk swung round. In a small drawer at the back was a bundle of papers tied up with a green ribbon. Icy with sweat, Perdita collapsed on to the wooden wing chair to read them.

On top was a photograph of Daisy in her teens. Even allowing for changes in fashion, she was unbelievably pretty, with her dark hair longer than her mini skirt. There were also some photographs of herself as a baby, and then a snapshot of a man surrounded by a group of students. On the back, Daisy had written, ‘Jackie being admired’. Her father had been called Jackie. Was that him? Perdita examined the man’s face again. It was handsome, slightly weak. Her hands were trembling so much she nearly tore the cutting from the Guardian . It was a review of Jackie Cosgrave’s exhibition. The reviewer thought well of his work. ‘Bold, brave and starkly original.’ The review contained another photograph of Jackie. He was handsome. Was that her name, Perdita Cosgrave?

Next she found a marriage certificate between Daisy James and Hamish Macleod on 14 December 1966, at Ayrshire Register Office. That was only fifteen years and four months ago. They’d certainly lied about the length of their marriage. A picture of Daisy and Hamish on their wedding day showed Hamish, with a beard, in an awful kilt, looking surprisingly happy and proud. Daisy looked awful, very peaky and thin in a ghastly pale coat and skirt, her hair tucked into an unbecoming hat. And here was a birth certificate.

‘Perdita James, born 6 November 1966.’ Her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat now. ‘Mother, Daisy James, father unknown.’

Perdita gave a croak of misery. At the bottom of the pile was a yellowing, torn, tear-stained letter dated 13 December 1966, which was from Hamish.

‘Darling Little Daisy,’ so he was capable of tenderness, ‘Tomorrow we will be married. Please don’t worry, my family will come round when they realize how adorable you are, and how happy you’re going to make me. Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ The letter was shaking so much now she could hardly read. ‘It doesn’t matter, she’s the bonniest wee bairn in the world. I’ll be her father, and love her far more than whoever he is would ever have done. I will take care of you always, Hamish.’

The next minute, the outside drawer, which had been on her knee, crashed to the ground, scattering papers everywhere. There was a muffled bark from Daisy’s bedroom overhead.

Jumping up with the letter in her hand, Perdita thought she was going to black out. ‘Don’t torture yourself over Perdita’s parentage.’ Had her mother lied to Hamish about Jackie Cosgrave, had she been a prostitute or a nympho who’d bedded so many men she didn’t know who the father was? The next moment Perdita jumped out of her shuddering skin as a reluctant Ethel, shoved by a terrified Daisy, burst into the room.

‘We’ve got nothing for you to burgle,’ began Daisy, brandishing Eddie’s airgun – ‘Darling, what are you doing?’

‘What were you doing,’ hissed Perdita, ‘sixteen years ago? You told me Jackie had been killed in a car crash.’

‘He was,’ stammered Daisy, looking far more scared than by any burglar.

‘Don’t lie to me, or were you lying to Hamish to get him to marry you, poor sod? Who was my father?’ her voice rose to a shriek.

Daisy had gone deathly pale. Her teeth were chattering. ‘Shall we have a drink?’