Part 18 (1/2)

169.

'What are you going to do with him?' Dancer asked Perdita.

'Give him to Ricky. He's got to learn to love something new.'

Getting home to find Little Chef, as he was now known, in situ, in situ, Ricky was absolutely furious. Ricky was absolutely furious.

'I do not not want another dog, and, if I did, it would be a whippet. That must be the ugliest dog I've ever seen.' want another dog, and, if I did, it would be a whippet. That must be the ugliest dog I've ever seen.'

'He's sweet,' protested Perdita. 'He's had a bad time' - like you have, she nearly added.

'A dog is a tie.'

'Not a very old school one in Little Chef's case,' admitted Perdita. 'But mongrels are much brighter than breed dogs and you need something to guard the yard. Frances is getting very long in the tooth.'

Little Chef hobbled towards Ricky. The whites of his supplicating, pleading eyes were like pieces of boiled egg. His tail, instead of hanging between his legs, was beginning to curl.

'I don't want a dog,' said Ricky sulkily. 'It broke Millicent's heart every time I went away. I'm not into the business of heart-breaking.'

'Could have fooled me,' drawled Dancer. 'I've gotta go. I've got a concert.'

'So have I. Dancer's got me a ticket,' said Perdita, scuttling out after him. 'See you tomorrow. Just give him a chance.'

Left alone with Ricky, Little Chef limped to the door and whined for a bit. When it was time to go to bed, Ricky got Millicent's basket down from the attic and put it in front of the Aga.

'Stay,' he said firmly.

Little Chef stayed.

Upstairs he had difficulty getting out of his clothes. Across the yard, he could see a light on in Frances's flat. She'd be across in a flash if he asked her. Since the operation he'd had terrible trouble sleeping. To get comfortable he had to lie on his back with his left hand hanging out of the bed.

His body ached with longing for Chessie. For a second he thought of Perdita, then slammed his mind shut like adungeon door. That could only lead to disaster. Frances's scrawny body was always on offer, but on the one night when despair had driven him to avail himself of it he hadn't even been able to get it up. That was why she was so bitter.

He turned out the light, breathing in the sweet soapy smell of hawthorn blossom. Through the open window the new moon was rising like a silver horn out of the jaws of the galloping fox weather-vane. Before he had time to wish, he jumped out of his skin as a rough tongue licked his hand. In the dim light he saw Little Chef gazing up at him beseechingly.

'Go away,' snapped Ricky. Then, as the dog slunk miserably away, 'Oh all right, just this once.'

But when he patted the bed, Little Chef couldn't make it, so Ricky reached down and helped him up. Immediately he snuggled against Ricky's body, giving a sigh of happiness. For the first time in years, both of them slept in until lunchtime.

18.

Within a week Little Chef was running the yard, bringing in the ponies from the fields, doing tricks for pony nuts, retrieving lost b.a.l.l.s from the undergrowth, then running on to the field and dropping them when there was a pause in play.

He also learnt not to scrabble Dancer's leather trousers and who was welcome in the yard, biting the ankles of visiting VAT men, growling at Philippa Mannering when, ever hopeful, she dropped in on Ricky, and lifting his leg on the probation officer's bicycle.

He adored Perdita, but Ricky was his great love, and gradually as the ugly little dog limped after him, barking encouragement during practice chukkas, and even hitching a lift on the back of a pony in order not to be separated, Ricky succ.u.mbed totally to his charms.

And when the vet came to take out Little Chef's st.i.tches, it was Ricky who held the wildly trembling dog in his arms. Any visiting player who was foolish enough to make eyes at Perdita, or disparaging cracks about Little Chef's appearance, got very short shrift.

By the beginning of August Ricky's arm was so much better that he was able gently to stick and ball. By the end of August so excessive had been the overtime paid the builders and excavators that Dancer and his gaudy retinue were able to move into Eldercombe Manor.

Miss Lodsworth had a busy summer. When she wasn't inveighing against cruelty to ponies and disgusting language at Ruts.h.i.+re Polo Club, and furiously ringing up Ricky to complain about Perdita thundering ponies five abreast down Eldercombe High Street, she was writing to Dancer, to grumble about cheeky builders, truculent security guards, and Alsatians chasing her cat, Smudge. Nor was she amused by helicopters with flas.h.i.+ng lights landing like fireflies at all hours, nor the deafening boom of all-night recording sessions.

Worst of all, some s.a.d.i.s.t of a landscape designer had slapped down Dancer's stick-and-ball field right next to her house, so she not only had fairies at the bottom of her garden, but also a microcosm of Ruts.h.i.+re Polo Club. As Commissioner for Ruts.h.i.+re, how could she hold dignified get-togethers with her guides when expletives and polo b.a.l.l.s kept flying over her hawthorn hedge?

Nor did any of the rest of the Parish Council come to her aid. The Vicar, who was a closet gay, and the local solicitor, who reckoned that such development would triple the price of his house, both thought Dancer was splendid.

Dancer, however, was warned well in advance that Miss Lodsworth would be holding an All-Ruts.h.i.+re Jamboree in her garden on the first Sat.u.r.day in September and had promised there would be no stick and balling that afternoon. A perfect day dawned. Rising early, Miss Lodsworth prayed that it would continue fine and her guides would find enjoyment as well as fulfilment in their Jamboree. Believing in economy, Miss Lodsworth had already baked rock and fairy cakes and spread hundreds of sandwiches with crusts still on with Marmite and plum jam which was cheaper than strawberry. Nor was Coca Cola or Seven-Up allowed. Her guides would have lemon squash because it was better for them and less expensive.

Creaking up from her knees, Miss Lodsworth snorted with indignation. Even on a Sat.u.r.day Dancer's bulldozers were still knocking down trees and flattening hillocks toextend one of the loveliest cricket grounds in England into a polo field. Just after lunch, as she was wriggling into her guide uniform, which had grown somewhat tight, Miss Lodsworth looked out of the window and saw a girl not wearing a hard hat clattering five ponies down the High Street.

It was that fiendish Perdita Macleod. Now she had pulled up outside the village shop and was yelling to them to bring her out an ice-cream. The Vicar's wife, who had parked on a yellow line while her gay husband went into the shop to get a treacle tart, got such a shock when Wayne stuck his big, hairy white face in through the window that she jumped out and ran away. A traffic warden, finding an empty car, gave the Vicar a parking ticket.

Clattering on, trying to hold five ponies and eat an ice-cream, Perdita was not amused to hear whoops and noisy hooting behind her. It was Seb and Dommie Carlisle packed into their Lotus, with two sumptuous brunettes, and a bull terrier spilling out of the luggage compartment.

Aware that she was hot and sweaty and her hair was escaping from its towelling band, Perdita greeted them sulkily.

'We're going to see over Dancer's palazzo,' palazzo,' yelled Seb, 'and swim in his pool, which is even bigger than Loch Lomond. Why don't you come over?' yelled Seb, 'and swim in his pool, which is even bigger than Loch Lomond. Why don't you come over?'

'I haven't got a bikini.'

'That's the last thing you'll need. See you later.'

When she got back to the yard, however, Ricky had other ideas.

'What the f.u.c.k were you doing taking out five ponies at once? I've just had Miss Lodsworth and and the Vicar's wife on the telephone. If you step out of line once more you're fired. And don't think you're going to turn them out and slope off. I want each pony washed down and the Vicar's wife on the telephone. If you step out of line once more you're fired. And don't think you're going to turn them out and slope off. I want each pony washed down and all all the sweat sc.r.a.ped off. I'm going out to look at a pony, and don't forget to double-lock Wayne's door.' the sweat sc.r.a.ped off. I'm going out to look at a pony, and don't forget to double-lock Wayne's door.'

The Jamboree was in full swing. Guides were marching, pow-wowing, flag-waving and singing stirring songs as Dancer showed the twins over a totally transformed Eldercombe Manor. As they progressed through the great hall, which was now a recording studio, and practice rooms and six master bedrooms, with bathrooms and jacuzzis en en suite, and an intercom service so Dancer's retinue could chatter to each other all night, the twins' whoops of laughter and excitement grew in volume. and an intercom service so Dancer's retinue could chatter to each other all night, the twins' whoops of laughter and excitement grew in volume.

'I want a mistress bedroom,' said Seb, bouncing on one of the huge double beds.

Outside they admired a pink brick yard for twenty ponies, which looked like three sides of a Battenburg cake, and an indoor school, completely walled with bulletproof mirrors.

'Bas said it looked like a tart's bedroom,' said Dancer cheerfully.

'He's seen enough of them,' said Dommie. 'How the h.e.l.l did you get planning permission?'

'Bas and I gave a little drinks party for all the local planning committee. An' greased their palms so liberally their gla.s.ses kept sliding out of their 'ands.'

'And there were German Shepherds abiding in the fields,' said Seb, keeping a close hold on Decorum, his bull terrier, as Twinkie the security guard prowled past with an Alsatian. 'But this is designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.'

'It will be when my ponies arrive next week,' said Dancer cosily.

Soon the twins and their brunettes and various glamorous hangers-on were all stripped off round the pool. Miss Lodsworth, exhorting her guides to greater endeavour in this modern world, was having great difficulty making herself heard over the din of Dancer's group, who were warming up in the recording studio.