Polo (12 page)

    `I'm afraid there's nothing to honour the cheques, Mrs Macleod, and now you've sold the London house, no security.'

    `I'll talk to my husband this evening,' whimpered Daisy.

    In panic, detesting herself, Daisy went to Hamish's desk and went through his bank statement - Ł35,075 in the red. How on earth had the penny-pinching Hamish managed that?

    With frantically trembling hands, hating herself even more, Daisy went through Hamish's American Express forms, and nearly fainted. The restaurant and hotel bills were astronomical, and he must have spent more at Interflora in a year than she'd spent on Perdita's pony. She supposed leading ladies had to be kept sweet and suppressed the ignoble thought that Hamish had paid for all those freesias banked in Wendy's flat.

    There was also a Ł500 bill from Janet Reger for December, of which Daisy had never seen the fruits. Her heart cracking her ribs, she looked at the minicab bills. Hamish, terrified of losing his licence, never drove if he'd been drinking. Daisy went cold. The December account was for Ł450. Nearly every journey was to or from Wendy's flat.

    Hamish was always saying he had a bed in the office. Maybe he regarded Wendy's flat as his office. She mustn't over-react. But if she'd known how desperately they were in debt, she'd never have spent so much money at Christmas. She jumped guiltily as the telephone rang.

    It was an old friend, Fiona, who'd always bossed Daisy about at school.

    `Can I come and spend the weekend?'

    `Of course.' Daisy quailed at how irritated Hamish would be. `Did you have a good Christmas?'

    `Course not. You don't if your lover's married.' Wendy seemed to manage, thought Daisy.

    `Fiona, have you heard anything about Hamish?'

    `Well, one's heard he's keen on some PA. But let's face it, Hamish has always liked ladies. And no doubt in the end he'll get as bored sexually with her as he did with you. Sit tight, don't rock the boat. I'll see what I can suss out before the weekend.'

    Daisy sat down and cried, and Ethel, who'd been disembowelling one of Biddy's stuffed coathangers, leant against

    her and licked her face. Daisy wasn't raging with jealousy. Hamish had `stood by her' as the papers called it for fifteen years. She couldn't expect him to always lie on top of her as well. Then Hamish rang to tell her he didn't want any supper, and not to wait up.

    Next morning Daisy sat hunched over a cup of coffee, trying not to think about Wendy, listening to Hamish's bath running out. Gainsborough was chattering at the window, crossly watching robins, tits and sparrows feeding on the bird table. Then a predatory magpie swooped down and they all scattered. `One for sorrow,' said Daisy, crossing herself with a shiver. `Good morning Mr Magpie, how are your wife and children - and your mistress?' she added as an afterthought.

    Turning to the front page of the
Daily Mail,
she saw that Ricky France-Lynch had been sent down for manslaughter.

`Orgulloso Gets Two Years,'
said the headline.

    Bastard, thought Daisy, looking at the sensual yet implacable face of the judge.

`Sir Anthony Wedgwood QC, defending,'
read Daisy,
`said that his client had had extreme provocation. A wife he worshipped was taken off him by his patron, and he has been punished a million times by the death of a son he adored, and terrible injuries which have almost certainly put an end to his polo career.'

    If that hasn't, thought Daisy furiously, two years in jug certainly will.

    The judge sounded just like Biddy Macleod.

`The defendant,'
he had told the jury,
`is a member of the
jet set, the
jeunesse dorée,
who raised a thousand pounds a match playing for his patron. He may just have been left by his
wife,
but he was used to living in the fast lane, and already
had convictions of speeding and drunken driving. I feel,'
went on the judge,
`there should be some redress for his young wife,
who has sustained the terrible loss of a child. Nor do I believe there should be one law for the rich.'

    There were pictures of Ricky looking stony-faced and much, much thinner, arriving at court and, on the inside pages, of a bewitchingly glamorous Chessie and the adorable little boy, and also of Ricky's friends: Basil

    Baddingham, Rupert Campbell-Black, David Waterlane and the twins, all looking boot-faced after the verdict.

    Daisy's eyes filled with tears. Poor Ricky, he was far, far worse off than she was. Outside the sky was leaden grey and a bitter north wind ruffled the hair of the wood, but at least the hazel catkins hung sulphur-yellow like a Tiffany lamp. Ricky can't see any of that, thought Daisy, incarcerated in Rutminster prison.

    `Ricky France-Lynch got two years,' she told Hamish, as she handed him a cup of herbal tea.

    Hamish glanced at the paper. `He's already done six months' remand. If he behaves himself he'll be up before the parole board in a few months. He'll probably only do a year in the end.'

    `You are clever to know things like that.'

    Wife's bloody good-looking. I don't blame Bart Alder-ton,' said Hamish, helping himself to muesli.

    Daisy was so busy reading all the details of the trial, and that Rupert and Bas were going to appeal, and wondering whether to send Ricky a food parcel, that it was a few minutes before she noticed two suitcases in the hall.

    Oh God, Hamish must be off to recce some new film, and she'd been so preoccupied with penury and painting, she didn't know what it was. He was bound to have told her, and he'd be livid because she hadn't listened. She must be a better wife.

   Putting his muesli bowl in the sink, Hamish removed some bottles of whisky and gin, given him by hopeful theatrical agents for Christmas, from the larder and asked Daisy if she'd got a carrier bag.

    `Here's one from Liberty's, rather suitable if you're wanting your freedom,' Daisy giggled nervously. `Going anywhere exciting?'

    `Very,' said Hamish calmly. `I'm leaving you. I'm moving in with Wendy.'

    For once the colour really drained from Daisy's rosy cheeks.

    `For g-g-good?' she whispered.

    `For my good,' said Hamish. `I'm afraid I've come to the end of the road.'

    Like Harry Lauder, thought Daisy wildly, Hamish should be wearing his kilt.

    `I can't cope with your hopeless inefficiency any more,' he went on. `The house is a tip. You never diary anything or pick up my cleaning. The children, particularly Perdita, are quite out of control. Their rooms are like cesspits. I owe it to my career. I can never invite backers or programme controllers, or anyone that matters, to the house. You can't even cope with Mother for a few days. It isn't as though you even worked.'

    To justify leaving her, Hamish was deliberately pouring petrol on resentment that must have been smouldering for years.

    `I'm sorry,' mumbled Daisy, `I will try and be more efficient, I keep thinking about painting.'

    `One wouldn't mind,' said Hamish with chilling dismissiveness, `if you were any good. I married you fifteen years ago because I felt sorry for you. I feel I deserve some happiness.'

    He's enjoying this, thought Daisy numbly. She could see Biddy Macleod crouched on top of the fridge like an old Buddha applauding him. Picking up her coffee cup she found the washing-up machine already full and clean, and started unloading it.

    `Until I met Wendy, I didn't know what happiness was,' said Hamish sententiously. `She makes me feel so alive.'

    `Alive, alive oh-ho,' mumbled Daisy. `Cock-ups and muscles, alive, alive oh.' I'm going mad, she thought, I can't take this in.

    Wendy's so interested in everything I do.'

    Easy to be interested when you're in love, thought Daisy sadly. Trying to take ten mugs out of the machine, one finger through each handle, her hands were shaking so much, she dropped one on the stone floor.

    `See what I mean, you're so hopeless,' said Hamish smugly.

    Sweeping up the pieces, Daisy cut herself and wound a drying-up cloth round her hand.

    `And frankly,' glancing in the kitchen mirror Hamish extracted a piece of muesli from his teeth, `I can't put up with Perdita any more. I have forked out for that little tramp till I'm bankrupt.'

    `Perdita,' said Daisy, losing her temper, `would have been OK if you'd ever been nice to her.'

    `Mother thinks she's seriously disturbed. There must be some bad blood somewhere.'

    `That was definitely below the belt.' Daisy started throwing forks into the silver drawer.

`That
is family silver,' said Hamish.

    Not my family any more,' screamed Daisy, and picking up the drawer she emptied it into the Liberty's carrier bag beside the whisky and the gin. `Take the bloody stuff away. So you're leaving me because I'm lousy at housework, and don't help your career, and you can't stand Perdita, and Wendy makes you feel so alive. Why can't you tell the truth and just say you enjoy screwing Wendy.'

    `I knew you'd resort to cheap abuse.'

    `Nothing cheap about those bills. Minicabs must have found their way blindfold to Wendy's and you must have kept Interflora in business. It ought to be re-named "Inter-Wendy" - you certainly were.'

    `You've been snooping,' sighed Hamish. `I was trying to conduct this with dignity. I had hoped to avoid animosity for Eddie's and Violet's sake.'

    Daisy's eyes darted in terror. 'You're not going to take them away…?'

    `Only if you really can't cope,' said Hamish loftily. `We'll have them at weekends and for a good chunk of the holidays. You can certainly have custody of Perdita and that appalling dog.'

    `She's not appalling,' said Daisy, throwing Ethel a Bonio from the red box on top of the fridge. `What about the house? We've only just moved in, and until we pay Pickfords I don't think they'll move us again.'

    `You'll have to rent somewhere cheaper.'

    Watching Ethel slotting the Bonio between her paws and eating it like an ice-cream, Daisy wished Violet could see her. `What about the children?'

    `Wendy and I told Eddie and Violet last night. We drove over to see them.' -

    `How did they take it?' whispered Daisy. The blood was beginning to seep through the drying-up cloth.

    `Very calmly, as I expected. Once they realized they'd still see a great deal of me, they stopped worrying.' He peered into the machine and picked out the potato peeler. Wendy's doesn't work, so I'll take this one.' He dropped

    it into the carrier bag. `And how many times have I told you not to put bone-handled knives in - oh, what does it matter?'

    Fluttering on the bottom window pane, Daisy suddenly saw a peacock butterfly which had survived the winter. Trying not to bruise it with her shaking hands, she let it out of the window.

    It was Hamish's calmness that paralysed her. He might have been explaining to his leading lady that he was dropping her mid-film. Wendy would be so much better in the part.

    `But I don't know anything about money,' she said in terror.

    `You better learn. It's time you grew up.'

    `And we're dreadfully overdrawn.'

    `Whose fault is that?' said Hamish, gathering up his suitcases in the hall. `You didn't exactly pull in your horns over Christmas. I can't afford you, Daisy. You can contact me through my lawyers.'

    Daisy started to shake.

    `Why didn't you tell me you wanted a divorce, before we went through all this hassle of moving?'

    `I doubt if you'd have listened. You were so anxious to get here so Perdita could have her pony and you could paint, you couldn't think about anything else.' And he was gone.

    The drying-up cloth round her hand was soaked with blood now. Looking out of the window, she gave a scream as Gainsborough pounced on the peacock butterfly and gobbled it up. It was no more good at coping with the outside world than she was.

12

    Fifteen years of marriage to Hamish had made Daisy feel a total failure as a wife, but they had equipped her even less for a divorce. Hamish had never let her pay a bill, renew a car licence or an insurance policy or look at a tax document. The first crushing blow on visiting her solicitors was to discover that the Hollywood co-producers had decided to ground Hamish's movie project and his entire Ł200,000 investment had gone up in smoke. A visit to the bank

    manager confirmed that there was not only no money, but massive debts. Hamish was OK. The co-producer of the movie, feeling guilty about Hamish's losses, offered him work in LA for at least a year and had also taken on Wendy as a PA. This took Hamish outside the jurisdiction of the courts, so it would cost Daisy a fortune in lawyers' fees to get a penny out of him.

    Cruellest of all, now that Hamish had dumped Daisy, Biddy Macleod was quite prepared to subsidize him. For a start she was going to pay Violet's and Eddie's school fees and give them a fat allowance, but she refused to fork out anything for Perdita, which meant Perdita would have to leave her current boarding school - who were kindly allowing her to stay on until the end of term in late March.

    As the creditors moved in, Daisy's jewellery, the silver and pictures and the better pieces of furniture all had to be sold. The owner of Brock House, who lived abroad, said Daisy could stay until April, but he must have his rent. Investigating the possibility of a council house, Daisy was told she was at the bottom of the list.

    Locals tended to ignore her, not knowing what to say. A few London friends rang for grisly details and gave her more grisly details of the women, usually themselves, that Hamish had tried to get into bed. Then they shrugged their shoulders. Daisy was always losing things; why not her husband as well?

    `Do ring us if you need us,' they said.

    But Daisy didn't ring. However miserable she was inside, she projected an image of cheerfulness. Like her namesake already dotting the lawn outside, however much you mowed her down, she would pop up the next day.

    Just before half-term Fresco's owner, Tim Jeddings, came to re-possess her because she hadn't been paid for either. Daisy couldn't watch as the pony was loaded into the trailer. Merry-eyed, muddy, a little fat from no exercise, she had brought so much happiness.

    Daisy's plan had been to tell Perdita on the drive home, when no eye contact would make it easier. Then Perdita got a lift home with a schoolfriend, and instead of running into the house, headed straight for the stable, extracting a Granny Smith from her school skirt and joyfully screaming for Fresco.

    It was a glorious day. The sun was lighting up the crimson buds on the beech trees; snowdrops spread like the Milky Way across the lawn.

    `Fresco, Fresco,' Perdita's cries rang round the valley, bouncing off stone walls and trees. By now, greedy and loving, Fresco should have been belting up the field. A minute later, Perdita had burst into the kitchen, her breath coming in great gasps, shuddering and shaking from head to foot.

    `Fresco must have jumped out of her field. We must get her a friend. Ring the police at once.'

    `Darling, I'm afraid she's gone.'

    `What d'you mean, gone?'

    `Tim Jeddings took her back. The cheque bounced. We haven't got enough money to pay for her.'

    For a second Perdita stared at her, her face changing from alabaster to putty. `I don't believe you. There must be money from selling this house.'

    `It's only rented.'

    `You could have taken me away from school, I'd have got

    the money from somewhere. What about your jewels?' Daisy held out her ringless hands. `They've all gone.' Then Perdita screamed and screamed.

    `She's gone to a wonderful home up North,' babbled Daisy. `I didn't want to tell you while you were at school.'

    `But I never said goodbye,' screamed Perdita. `I don't believe Tim's sold her yet.'

    Rushing into the hall, she found the telephone book. She was shaking so badly, she mis-dialled three times. `Mr Jeddings, Mummy's lying. You haven't sold Fresco on yet.'

    There was a long pause. Perdita slumped against the wall.

    `You rotten bastard,' she screeched and crashed down the receiver.

    Hearing the din, Ethel came rushing in with a muddy nose and a dug-up dahlia root in her mouth, and threw herself delightedly on Perdita.

    `Go away,' yelled Perdita, shoving Ethel violently away. `Why haven't you sold her as well? Because she's darling Violet's dog, I suppose. Why the fuck can't you go out to work and earn some money like everyone else'smother, instead of producing crappy, awful paintings no-one wants?'

    For half an hour she was so hysterical that Daisy was about to ring the doctor. Then she went silent, and wouldn't talk to Daisy or the other children when they came home. Nor would she eat. After she'd taken all three children back to school on Tuesday night, Daisy went into Perdita's room. Every cutting of Ricky France-Lynch, every photograph of Fresco, was ripped into tiny pieces all over the floor.

    `Oh God, what have I done,' moaned Daisy, bursting into tears. She was interrupted half an hour later by the door bell. Imagining it was some creditor, she was just sidling downstairs intending to bolt the door when it opened and Basil Baddingham walked in. He looked so opulent with his patent leather hair and his even suntan and his wide, wolfish smile showing his perfect teeth, that he seemed to have come from another planet.

    `Please go away,' said Daisy, clapping her hands over her blubbered, swollen face. `It's not a good time.'

    `Always a good time for a drink,' said Bas. Brandishing a bottle of Dom Perignon, he set off purposefully towards the kitchen where lunch still lay on the table and Gainsborough was thoughtfully licking up Perdita's untouched shepherd's pie.

    `I'm really not up to it,' mumbled Daisy.

    `Get some glasses,' said Bas, removing the gold paper from the bottle. `I am your knight in shining armour.'

    `I had one of those,' said Daisy, `but he walked out because I didn't keep it shining enough.'

    `I know. You've had a rotten time. But you're well shot of him. I'd have been round sooner, but I've been in Palm Beach. Have you found somewhere to live?'

    `There's a flat on the Bledisloe Estate.'

    `Won't do, far too rough,' said Bas. `You and Perdita'd be sitting ducks for all the yobbos.'

    At the pop of the champagne cork, Gainsborough shot out of the room, sending the remains of the shepherd's pie crashing to the floor.

    `Let's go and sit somewhere slightly more comfortable,' said Bas, filling up their glasses. There was still a sofa in the drawing room, but it was bitterly cold.

    `Bailiffs do this?' asked Bas, then, as Daisy nodded: `You poor old thing.'

    Under his gentle questioning, Daisy told him about the selling of Fresco and Hamish's departure.

    `I know it seems like the end of the world,' said Bas, `but you're an extremely pretty lady, and scores of men are going to come running after you once you've got your confidence back, including me.'

    Daisy giggled, feeling slightly happier.

    `I've got a much better idea,' Bas went on. `You can't move into the Bledisloe Estate. One of Ricky's tenants finally kicked the bucket during the big freeze. He lived in a lovely little house, Snow Cottage, on the edge of Ricky's land. Been there for thirty years. Only paid ten pounds a week. Ricky was too soft to put up the rent. Now he wants me to sell the house to some rich weekenders. It's a bit tumbledown, but there are three bedrooms and an orchard, and the same stream that runs through Rupert's land, so you'll have condoms flowing past your door. The only problem is you'll also have Philippa and Lionel Mannering - I met you at their party - gazing down at you from their awful house. But come the summer they won't be able to see through the trees. Anyway, she'll be far too interested in Ricky when he comes out of prison to waste much time on you.'

    `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.
Itwas 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?