Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘It really isn’t me,’ she protested.

‘It is. You need the whole look,’ insisted Sukey bossily. ‘Here’s a pair of tights. They’ve even got a darn; the Committee’ll like that and these shoes will be perfect. I love flatties, don’t you? But a little heel’s better for this dress. They do fit well. And the earrings don’t really go, or the scarf. Just let me brush your hair back and put on this Alice band. There! Don’t you look charming? Neat but not gaudy.’

Daisy gazed at herself in the mirror. Her forehead was unnaturally white where her fringe had been drawn back. She suppressed a terrible desire to fold her arms and break into a hornpipe.

‘It’s truly not me.’

‘It’ll certainly be the Committee,’ said Sukey firmly. ‘You want Perdita to get this scholarship, don’t you?’

There was a knock and a Filipino maid put a shiny dark head round the door.

‘It’s ready, is it, Conchita? We’ll be down in a sec. Can you tell Mr Benedict?’

Drew didn’t recognize Daisy when she crept in.

‘Where’s Daisy got to?’ he said, breaking off a grape.

‘Christ!’ said Perdita. ‘You’ve been Sloaned, Mum.’

‘Doesn’t she look nice?’ said Sukey.

‘She looks gross.’

Sukey’s lips tightened. Drew looked at Daisy incredulously, torn between rage and a desire to laugh. ‘But that’s your maternity dress,’ he added to Sukey.

‘And as my disgusting stepfather walked out two and a half years ago,’ pointed out Perdita, ‘the Committee are going to think it pretty odd that Mum’s got a bun in the oven.’

‘She doesn’t look at all pregnant,’ said Sukey.

‘She looks like Jolly Jack Tar,’ snapped Perdita. ‘Shiver your timbers, Mum.’

‘Shut up, Perdita.’ Fighting a fearful urge to burst into tears, Daisy giggled instead.

‘Daisy looked lovely before,’ said Sukey, plunging a knife into the yellow, red and green surface of the quiche, ‘but you know how stuffy Brigadier Canford and Major Ashton are.’

‘Charlie Canford’s such a DOM he’d have much preferred Daisy as she was,’ said Drew coldly.

No-one could have told from his face that he was absolutely livid with Sukey, but he didn’t want a row, which would upset Daisy and gee Perdita up before the interview.

Patting the chair beside him, he told Daisy, ‘If Perdita gets the scholarship, Sukey and I may well be going out to New Zealand at the same time to buy some ponies, so we can keep an eye on her.’

‘Not if you’re going to dress me in sailor suits,’ said Perdita, giving a bit of pastry to Drew’s slavering yellow Labrador.

‘I don’t think Perdita ought to have wine if she’s going to ride,’ said Sukey. ‘Would you like salad with or after, Daisy?’

Ignoring her, Drew filled up Perdita’s glass, then, seeing Daisy’s eyes had suddenly filled with tears, asked her if she’d like another vodka and orange.

‘Another thing to remember at the interview,’ said Sukey pointedly, ‘is to let Perdita do the talking. Some mothers answer all the time for the children, which makes the Committee think the child lacks initiative.’

‘What have you done to my Mum, Suke,’ sang Perdita.

‘Shut up, Perdita,’ said Drew and Daisy simultaneously.

‘And do try and appear really keen, Perdita,’ advised Sukey. ‘The Committee loves enthusiasm.’

The interview lasted half an hour. Very kindly, they asked Daisy about her financial circumstances. She stuck out her darned leg, hoping to give an impression of genteel poverty, smiled so much her face ached and, despite Sukey’s warnings, found herself talking too much to compensate for Perdita’s bored indifference.

Brigadier Canford, who was indeed a lover of pretty girls, looked at Perdita’s impassive, dead-pan face, and had a strange feeling he’d seen her before somewhere.

‘And what d’you want to get out of polo?’

‘I want to go to ten.’

‘Bit ambitious. Nearest a woman’s ever got is five.’

Out of the window Perdita could see children riding in pairs and dribbling balls in and out of soap boxes.

‘I know, but there was a piece in a polo magazine the other day saying many women were ten in beauty, but never could be ten in polo. Fucking patronizing.’

‘Perdita,’ murmured Daisy.

‘I hope you wouldn’t use language like that in New Zealand, young lady,’ said the Brigadier. ‘You’d be representing your country, you know.’

‘Still patronizing.’

Later they watched her playing a chukka with seven other contenders for the scholarship.

Brigadier Canford admired the lightning reflexes, the way she adjusted to a not-very-easy pony in seconds and showed up the others as she ruthlessly shoved them out of the way and cat-and-mouse-whipped the ball away just as they were about to hit it.

‘Wow,’ he said, turning to Drew. ‘I’m not sure she couldn’t go to ten, and she’d certainly be ten in looks if she smiled more often.’

Puzzled, he shook his pewter-grey head. ‘I can’t think where I’ve seen her before.’

Apart from Perdita, the Rutshire team for the Jack Gannon Cup consisted of Justin and Patrick Lombard, farmer’s sons who’d spent their lives in the saddle and who made up for lack of finesse with dogged determination, and David Waterlane’s son, Mike, now nearly twenty-one, who played like an angel when his father wasn’t on the sideline bellowing at him.

In an exhausting, exhilarating fortnight, they moved round the country triumphing gloriously at Cheshire, being demoralized at Cirencester, where they drew against a vastly inferior team, cockahoop at Kirtlington, and nearly coming unstuck at Windsor, where Perdita was sent off for swearing, so Rutshire had to play the last chukka with only three men, and only just won.

On the first Friday in August they finally reached Cowdray and won the semi-finals by the skins of their gumshields. The Quorn, opposing them, had rumbled Drew’s Exocet weapon, and spent the match giving Perdita so much hassle that she only hit the ball twice. The Lombard brothers and Mike Waterlane, however, scored a goal apiece to put Rutshire into Sunday’s final against the mighty South Sussex, who hadn’t been beaten for three years.

The entire Championships were being sponsored by petfood billionaire and fitness freak, Kevin Coley, Chairman of Doggie Dins, Moggie Meal and the newly launched Fido-Fibre. Kevin had formerly sponsored show-jumping, but five years ago had run off with Janey, the wife of Billy Lloyd-Foxe, one of his professionals and Rupert Campbell-Black’s best friend. After Janey went back to Billy, Kevin had patched up his differences with his wife, Enid, but one of the conditions had been that Kevin would sponsor polo instead of show-jumping to avoid bumping into Janey on the circuit, and because their daughter, Tracey, would meet a nicer class of young man in polo. Trace – as she liked to be called – at eighteen was playing in the crack South Sussex team against Rutshire in the final. If she wasn’t quite up to her other team-mates, her presence there vastly increased her father’s generosity. The whole South Sussex team had been driving round the country in a vast aluminium horse box, evidently the latest thing in America, and Kevin had provided each player with four top-class ponies.

The South Sussex team was also more than compensated by the rock solidarity of a boy called Paul Hedley at back, and the dazzling Sherwood brothers, Randolph and Merlin, who’d pulled out of high goal polo for a fortnight to piss it up with the Pony Club.

Randy Sherwood, who was known as the Cock of the South, had a handicap of two and was so glamorous with his long, long legs and curly hair that fell perfectly into shape, that girls clamoured to groom for him for nothing. Merlin, who was quieter, but just as lethal, had pulled a different groupie every night of the Championships. Randy, going amazingly steady for him, had spent the fortnight screwing Trace Coley, who was as pretty as she was spoilt, because he’d heard rumours that Kevin was thinking of including him in his team next year.