Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘Oh dear,’ said Daisy, ‘I thought you were Perdita.’

‘It’s her I’ve come to talk about,’ said Ricky bleakly.

‘Join the queue,’ said Daisy helplessly, as the washing-up machine, changing direction, gave a great dragon’s roar. ‘What’s she done now?’

Stammering, Ricky told her about riding Pilgrim and jumping the sheep trap. ‘She could have killed herself and £10,000 worth of pony.’

‘I didn’t know she’d been riding them,’ said Daisy appalled. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘She’s also been taking them to the pony club all summer.’

‘Oh my God,’ gasped Daisy. ‘She’s not here at the moment, but I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘I’ll t-t-take her to court if she doesn’t stop.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, do sit down.’

As she moved forward the washing-up machine stopped.

‘You have to lean against it,’ she explained. Then, her eyes falling on the breakfast and last night’s supper washing-up in the sink: ‘I’m afraid it’s an awful tip. Look, do have a drink, I’ve got some vodka, and I know Perdita’s got the remains of a bottle of Malibu. She certainly owes it you.’

Ricky shook his head. Just for a second he looked slightly less grim. ‘D’you always go around with knives through your head?’

‘I expect Perdita wishes I did.’ Crimson with embarrassment, Daisy tore the knife off. ‘I was sorting out the children’s toy cupboard. Oh hell, poor panda,’ she pointed helplessly at black-and-white fur and blue foam rubber littering the hall.

‘We’ve got so little space,’ she went on, ‘and you know how hopeless children are at allowing anything to be thrown away.’

‘Yes,’ said Ricky.

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Daisy, mortified as she remembered about Will. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Mind if I look round?’

Quailing, Daisy nodded. The only thing she’d done to the house was to put rose-printed paper up in Violet’s room, and the damp had come straight through.

‘We love it so much here.’ Her voice trailed off as she thought of the dreadful mess he’d find in the children’s bedrooms. Mindlessly, she drew in some whiskers on Gainsborough’s face and thickened his tail. It was no good, she’d have to have a drink. As she was tugging the ice tray out of the hopelessly frozen ice box, Ricky came downstairs looking grimmer than ever. ‘This place is an absolute disgrace.’

‘It is,’ agreed Daisy humbly. ‘Anarchy somehow broke out after my husband walked out.’

‘No, the state of it,’ said Ricky. ‘There’s damp in every room. That sink’s coming away from the wall. You need bookshelves and cupboards fitted in all the rooms. I’ve got builders starting in the yard tomorrow. I’ll send a couple down here to sort things out. They can probably mend the washing-up machine.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Daisy had great difficulty not bursting into tears again. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’

Ricky shook his head. ‘I don’t – not since Will . . .’

‘Oh, how stupid of me,’ said Daisy, appalled. ‘How could I be so crass?’ And how awful too, she thought, for Ricky to be reminded of Will’s death by that scar every time he looked in the mirror.

She was amazed when he sat down at the kitchen table and started stroking Ethel’s lovely speckled head.

‘Why’s Perdita so screwed up?’

And he listened without interrupting while she told him about the failed O levels and having to sell Fresco, the first thing Perdita had really loved, and about Hamish never loving her and spoiling the other two.

‘He wasn’t Perdita’s father,’ Daisy blurted out.

‘Who was?’ asked Ricky.

‘Some other man,’ said Daisy, going scarlet. ‘But because aunts and grandmothers and teachers and family friends all prefer Violet and Eddie, I sort of over-compensate to make it up to her. You give in because it’s easier than facing one of her tantrums.’

Getting up, she put two pieces of melting ice into her glass of vodka, then, going to a yellow tin on the shelf, took out a tea bag and put it on top of the ice, then, unseeingly gazing out into the darkening garden, she switched on the kettle.

Taking the glass from her, Ricky removed the tea bag, switched off the kettle and, looking in the fridge and not finding any tonic, added orange juice to the vodka before handing it back.

Here’s someone in an even worse state than I am, he thought. To his amazement, he found himself saying, ‘Bas has already spoken to me about Perdita. He thinks she’s got fantastic potential. If she promises not to bunk out of school any more, and tries to get her O levels, I’ll give her a weekend job working in the yard. If she takes that seriously, and passes her O levels, I’ll teach her to play polo.’

For a second Daisy’s face quivered; then she blew her nose noisily on a piece of kitchen roll.

‘Are you sure it won’t be a bore?’

Ricky shook his head. ‘The probation officer’s keeping tabs on me, I can’t drive or leave the country for a year. Give me something to do.’

‘That is the nicest thing that’s ever happened,’ said Daisy slowly. Like a golden retriever searching for a sock to give a returning master, she looked frantically round the room. Then, ripping the drawing of Gainsborough from her sketching pad, she thrust it into his hand.

Perdita came in ten minutes after Ricky had left. She looked pale, truculent and dangerous.

‘Something wonderful’s happened,’ said Daisy.

‘You’ve found a lover,’ spat Perdita. ‘So what else is new?’

Daisy winced. ‘Ricky France-Lynch came round.’

‘So?’ For a second, Perdita looked terrified, then resumed her normal expression: furious dark eyes in a white, cold stony face.

‘You’re to go and see him at eleven on Saturday.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘He’s going to offer you a part-time job. And if you work hard and get your O levels, he’ll take you on full time.’

‘After the way he swore at me this afternoon I’m not sure I want it,’ said Perdita coldly.

Daisy resisted a desire to shake her. Instead, she asked what she wanted for supper.

‘I’m not hungry,’ snapped Perdita. Stepping over the toys Daisy had turned out, she flounced into her bedroom and slammed the door. Waltzing deliriously round the room, she pulled out the only photograph of Ricky she hadn’t ripped up and, whispering, ‘At last, at last,’ started covering it with kisses.

At a quarter to eleven next morning Perdita sauntered downstairs, reeking of the remnants of Daisy’s last bottle of Je Reviens. Her deliberately dishevelled, newly washed hair fell halfway down her back. Her normally alabaster skin was smothered in bronze base to hide two spots which had sprung up overnight on her nose and chin out of nerves. An excess of royal-blue eyeliner and mascara ringed her angry eyes. She wore no bra. Her breasts, as rounded as scoops of ice-cream, were emphasized by the tightest royal-blue T-shirt. No pants line marred the impossibly stretched navy-blue jodhpurs. Flicking her whip against gleaming brown boots, she posed in front of Daisy.

‘Dressed to kill,’ she said sarcastically.

Certain to kill any passion in Ricky, thought Daisy. Perdita was much too beautiful to smother herself in that muck, and the twelve pounds missing from the house-keeping must have paid for that T-shirt.

‘If I look like a whore,’ said Perdita, reading her mother’s thoughts, ‘I’m only taking after you. I’ve no idea when I’ll be back, if ever.’

Outside it was still hot. The sun had dried the dew, but the fields were still strewn with cobwebs. Forget-me-nots and jade-green watercress choked the stream. At the top of the ride Ricky’s house skulked like a grey battleship in its ocean of turning beech trees.