'Oh, where's Ricky?' moaned Perdita for the millionth time.

'Don't be too upset if he doesn't come,' said Drew in an undertone. 'I know he wants to, but all these children riding and such family solidarity may be too much for him.'

He's so sweet to her, thought Daisy gratefully, getting out her sketchbook as Drew took the team off to the pony lines to tack up.

Sukey firmly screwed the top on the vodka. 'You're driving. I expect you'd like coffee now instead of another drink.'

'Aren't you nervous?' said Trace Coley fondly, as Randy accepted a gla.s.s of brandy.

'Don't be ridiculous. Mike Waterlane's their only decent player, and he'll go to pieces as soon as his father turns up.'

David Waterlane drove his Rolls-Royce with the leaping silver polo pony on the front towards Cowdray. He had made the mistake of going via Salisbury because his bride of six months, who was twenty years younger than him, wanted to look at the cathedral. As they drove through rolling hills topped by Mohican clumps of trees and movedinto the leafy green tunnels of Petersfield, his bride, who'd been primed by Drew, put her hand on her husband's c.o.c.k and suggested that it would be more fun to stop and have their picnic in a field than join the crowds at Cowdray. It was only two o'clock, they'd seen the parade many times before, and Mike's match wouldn't start before 4.15.

Ponies tacked up in the pony lines yawned with boredom as their owners gave them a last polish. Mothers cleared up the remnants of picnics. Fathers looked up at the uniform ceiling of grey cloud and decided to put on tweed caps instead of panamas.

Mrs Sherwood, Randy's and Merlin's mother, divorced, with a Brazilian lover, and too glamorous for words in a peach suede suit, was talking to Kevin Coley, who looked like a pig with a thatched, blond tea-cosy on its head. Kevin, in turn, was being watched by his wife, Enid, who had gaoler's eyes, was more regal than the Queen, and in her spotted dress looked like a Sherman tank with measles. Daisy marvelled that she and Kevin could produce a daughter as pretty as Trace.

Cavalcades were riding quietly down to the ground, past trees indigo with recent rain, and cows and horses grazing alongside the faded grey ruins of the castle with its crenellated battlements and gaping windows. Of the fifty teams taking part in the parade, only eight were playing in the four finals, but there was still the prize for the best-turned-out team to be won.

The ground, a huge stretch of perfect emerald turf, was bordered to the north by fir trees and to the south by mothers having fearful squawking matches about the authenticity of various junior teams who weren't allowed to ride bona fide polo ponies.

'Tabitha Campbell-Black's pony played high goal at Cirencester!'

'No, it didn't!'

'Yes, it did!'

Brigadier Canford, Chairman of the Pony Club, and lover of pretty girls, was less amused to be stampeded by Valkyries.

'The Beaufort are cheating. They've back-dated membership of their Number Four. He's American and only been in the country two weeks.'

'The Bicester are cheating too. I've just caught them trying to ditch their weak link and import a brilliant boy from Rhinefield Lower who doesn't have a team.'

'Ladies, ladies,' said Enid Coley, joining the group of howling mothers. 'Polo is only a game.'

'And she'll have the South Suss.e.x team manager stoned to death at dawn with vegetarian Scotch eggs if they don't win,' murmured Bas Baddingham who'd just rolled up and was kissing Daisy.

At two forty-five the parade began. On they came: chestnut, bay, dark brown, dappled grey, palamino, the occasional extravagantly spotted Appaloosa, ears p.r.i.c.ked, tack gleaming, stirrups and bits glittering.

Daisy marvelled at the shifting kaleidoscope of coloured shirts, and the great, ever-moving millipede of ponies' legs in their coloured bandages. Many of the riders wore face-guards like visors in some medieval contest. Daisy wished she could paint it, but you'd need to be Lady Butler to capture that lot. Fatty Harris, Rutshire's club secretary, seconded for the day to do the commentary, had had rather too good a lunch in the Doggie Dins' Tent and was waxing lyrical over the ancient names.

'Here comes the Beaufort, the Bicester, the Cotswold, the Vale of the White Horse, the Craven, the Shouth Shushex Shecond Team.'

'Thought he'd have trouble with that one,' said Bas. 'And a big cheer for the Rutshire,' went on Fatty Harris, 'today's finalists in the Jack Gannon.'

On came the Rutshire in their Prussian-blue shirts, Prussian-blue bandages on their ponies' gleaming legs. Little Hermia, a changed pony after a fortnight's attention from Perdita, danced and s.n.a.t.c.hed at her bit in excitement.

'She should have ridden Felicia in the parade,' said Sukey disapprovingly. 'Hermia doesn't need hotting up.'

But Hermia's the nearest she can get to Ricky, thought Daisy, and she's still hoping he'll turn up.

Next to Perdita rode Mike Waterlane on Dopey, a deceptively sleepy-looking pony, who was faster than a Ferrari and nipped all the opposition ponies in the line-out. Beyond him rode the Lombard brothers grinning broadly and enjoying themselves.

'Oh, don't they look lovely?' Suddenly the tears spurted out of Daisy's eyes and she had to turn away and bury her face in Drew's Land-Rover. Next moment a large piece of kitchen roll had been shoved into her hand. A minute later, when she'd got control of herself, Drew was back with another gla.s.s of vodka and orange.

A great cheer rang out as Cowdray, the home team, came on in their orange shirts.

'And here we have the other finalists in the Jack Gannon, unbeaten for the last three years, the South Shushex.' Fatty Harris got it half right this time.

Randy, Merlin, Paul and Trace rode with a swagger and there was no doubt their ponies were the sleekest, fittest and most expensive of all.

'I'm sure you all know that Trace Coley, the daughter of Kevin Coley, Chairman of Doggie Dins and our sponsor, is South Suss.e.x's Number One in the final today,' announced Fatty Harris.

Kevin raised both clasped hands in a salute to acknowledge luke-warm cheers; Trace lifted her whip.

'She's left her hair loose, the little tart,' said Perdita contemptuously. 'That'll cost them the turn-out prize even if they win everything else. Oh, I wish Ricky was here.'

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Fatty Harris, 'I give you the Pony Club.'

At the sight of these serried, beautifully turned-out ranks, this huge army with their polo sticks on their collarbones like bayonets, a deafening cheer went up. Fathers rushed about with video cameras, mothers wiped their eyes. Randy and Merlin Sherwood's beautiful mother adjusted her mascara in the driving mirror and eyed Rupert Campbell-Black who'd just rolled up alone in a dark green Ferrari to watch his daughter, Tabitha, play in the first final for the under-fourteens. Rupert, who'd just been appointed Tory Minister for Sport, eyed Mrs Sherwood back.

Then, suddenly, out of the sky like a vast whirring hornet came a black helicopter. Perdita gave a gasp as it landed to the west of the pitch. The door flew open and, like a page from Nigel Dempster, out jumped the Carlisle twins, Seb carrying Decorum, their bull terrier, and Dommie helping out a redhead and a blonde whose skirts immediately blew above their heads to show off wonderful suntanned legs.

They were followed by Dancer in dark gla.s.ses and black leather, Twinkle and Paulie, each with an Alsatian, and finally - Perdita gave a scream of delight - by Ricky with Little Chef in his arms.

'Now, members of the Pony Club, will you please walk off the pitch,' exhorted Fatty Harris. 'We owe it to the Cowdray ground and to Lord Cowdray to walk off.'

In the past the temptation to gallop across the hallowed Cowdray turf, which so many of them were not going to have the chance to play on, had been too much for the teams. Dreadful stampedes had resulted, with the whole field being cut up before a ball had been hit, which had resulted in turn in threats of not being allowed back. The sight of Ricky, however, was too much for Perdita.

'I'm here,' she screamed, and digging her heels into Hermia, went straight into a gallop towards the helicopter, followed by 199 yelling Pony Club members, who fortunately veered off to the left, and didn't trample the new arrivals to death.

'Disgraceful,' spluttered Sukey. 'She should lose her scholarship for that.'

Drew shrugged. 'The sooner she's packed off to New Zealand away from Ricky the better.'

Seeing her master, Hermia ground to a halt and whinnied with pleasure. Little Chef leapt up and licked her nose.

Jumping off, Perdita threw herself into Dancer's arms, hugged the twins, and then turned more shyly to Ricky. Her heart was crashing around like Big Ben about to strike.

'Thank you so much. I never thought it'd make so much difference,' she gabbled.

Ricky put up a hand and touched her cheek.

'Hermia looks well,' he said, 'and much h-h-happier.' 'She shakes hands for a Polo now,' said Perdita.

'You'd better win. We've all got money on it,' said Dancer. 'Can you get that crate of Moet out?' he added to Twinkle.

The twins, who had only left the Pony Club two years ago, pushed off to see their old chums. Everyone else landed up beside Drew's Land-Rover. Soon the autograph hunters were swarming round Drew, Bas and Dancer. It broke Perdita's heart that Ricky, who'd only been out of top-cla.s.s polo for three years, was totally ignored.

'What a lovely shirt,' said Sukey to Bas. 'Where did you get it?'

'Marks and Spencer, I think,' said Bas.

'There, you see,' Sukey chided Drew. 'I'm always telling you there's no need to go to Harvie and Hudson.'

Seeing the flash of anger in Drew's eyes, Bas tactfully enquired after the baby. He'd forgotten what s.e.x it was.

'Oh, Jamie's at home,' said Sukey. 'I'm amazed how Drew dotes on him. Men love having a boy, don't they?' She turned to Ricky. 'It matters so much to a man having an heir.'

For a second, as Ricky's face went dead, Bas and Dancer exchanged horrified glances.

'Isn't that Tabitha Campbell-Black playing for the East Cotchester?' said Bas, as a tiny figure, jaw thrust out, white stick-like legs flailing, thundered down the boards. 'Come on, Tabitha.'

'Man, man, man,' screamed the tiny figure to the East Cotchester Number Three. 'Take the f.u.c.king man, for Christ's sake.'

The umpire blew his whistle. 'That'll be forty against you for swearing, young lady. Consider yourself lucky you haven't been sent off.'

Bellowed on by her father, Tabitha scored three goals and East Cotchester won the Handley Cross.

Leaning against the Land-Rover, Daisy drew Rupert. Goodness, he had a beautiful face. Then she drew Ricky with his sombre, slanting dark eyes and then Drew twice, trying not to make him too handsome. In pencil, she could never capture the blueness of his eyes. Having sketched Bas as a merry Restoration rake, she had a crack at Sukey. Not easy - Sukey's charm was all in her colouring. She had a long face and such a naked forehead, Daisy found herself turning her into a polo pony.

'I'd hide that if I were you.'

Looking up with a start, Daisy saw that Ricky was actually smiling.

'Oh my G.o.d.' Daisy ripped out the page.

'Very appropriate,' said Ricky, taking it from her. 'I'm sure Sukey turns on sixpence.'

'She has a turn if Drew spends sixpence,' said Bas, peering over Ricky's shoulder. 'b.l.o.o.d.y good, that's brilliant of Rupert. I'm much better looking than that.'

Giggling, Daisy stuffed the page into her pocket.

'I've done a couple of Hermia, in fact several,' she shoved the book at Ricky. He really was the most shy-making man.

Ricky flicked through, really looking. 'You've got her, even that little scar over her eye. They're marvellous.' 'Keep them,' said Daisy, blushing.

'I framed your cat. You must come and see it.'

'You must come and have supper sometime,' Daisy was staggered to hear herself saying. It must be the vodka. 'I'd like that,' said Ricky.

And he always says no to Philippa Mannering, thought Daisy. Perhaps if he fancied Perdita he saw her as a potential mother-in-law.

'h.e.l.lo, Ricky,' said a shrill voice. Grinning up at him, her two front teeth missing, was Tabitha Campbell-Black. 'h.e.l.lo, Tab. D'you know Mrs Macleod?'

'You played very well,' said Daisy.

'I know. None of the others did.' Tabitha, who had all the beauty and arrogance of her father, was now gouging out the centre of Sukey's home-made fruitcake with both hands.

'Have you had a good camp?' asked Ricky.

'Great. I haven't cleaned my teeth for a week.' 'They'll fall out.'

'No, they're used to it.'

'Where's your father?'

'Chatting up Randy Sherwood's mother. He's given Beattie Johnson the push, which is a shame. She never minded me getting into bed with her and Daddy.'

'Has he bought any new horses?'

'Yes, a stallion called Lord Thomas. He's so good, I hold the mares when he mates with them. Lord Thomas is the perfect gentleman, he always licks the mares afterwards.'

'Unlike his father,' murmured Ricky to Daisy, as Tabitha scampered off.

21.

The Rutshire and the South Suss.e.x were warming up their ponies for the Jack Gannon. The long wait had told on Perdita's nerves.

'Think positive,' she said through clattering teeth. Mike Waterlane was grey. 'I don't know what's happened to Daddy.'

'Hopefully, he's had a shunt,' said Patrick Lombard, tightening his girths.

The pale yellow flowers of the traveller's joy entwined in the hedgerows brought no happiness to David Waterlane stuck behind a convoy of cars on the Midhurst Road which was held up by a huge lorry with a sign saying 'Horses' on the back.

'Bound to be show-jumpers - b.l.o.o.d.y yobbos,' said David Waterlane apoplectically.

There was no way he was going to reach Cowdray nor his son's match for the throw-in. The new Lady Waterlane, having drunk three-quarters of a bottle of Bollinger and achieved two and a half o.r.g.a.s.ms, was well content.

'Go for the girl,' ordered Randy Sherwood, as South Suss.e.x rode on to the field. 'Mark her stupid, bash the h.e.l.l out of her. Once she loses her rag, they'll all go to pieces.'

'I want 5-0 on the scoreboard by half-time,' Drew told Rutshire, 'and don't let Randy get loose.'

'My son is one,' announced a large mother, whose red veins matched her dress.

'That's a lovely age. Is he crawling?' asked Seb Carlisle's girlfriend.

'She's talking about his handicap,' said Sukey in a low voice, and looked very disapproving when Daisy started to laugh.

To a whirring of cine-cameras and a gratifying clicking of Nikons, Enid Coley progressed graciously into the stands. No-one could see a thing round her big spotted hat. Kevin Coley was busy supervising four different video cameramen to capture Trace's every stroke of genius on the field. Seeing Dancer and Drew talking to Mrs Sherwood and Rupert and, being a terrible star f.u.c.ker, he barged into the group.