Last Ditch

‘I promise to disclose all. I’m not even fully persuaded, by the way, that she and Syd Jones are lovers.’

‘I shall be the judge of that. Here comes Jasper and I’ll have to tell him I’ve seduced you. Goodbye.’

‘Which is no more than God’s truth,’ Ricky shouted fervently. He heard her laugh and hang up the receiver.

The next morning dawned brilliantly, and at half past nine Ricky, dressed in Jasper’s spare jodhpurs and boots and his own Ferrant sweater, proposed to take a photograph of the Pharamonds, including the two little girls produced for the purpose. They assembled in a group on the patio. The Pharamonds evidently adored being photographed, especially Louis, who looked almost embarrassingly smooth in breeches, boots, sharp hacking jacket and gloves.

‘Louis, darling,’ Julia said, surveying him, ‘très snob presque cad! You lack only the polo stick!’

‘I don’t understand how it is,’ Carlotta said, ‘but nothing Louis wears ever looks even a day old.’

Ricky thought that this assessment didn’t work if applied to Louis’s face. His very slight tan looked almost as if it had been laid on, imposing a spurious air of health over a rather dissipated foundation.

‘I bought this lot in Acapulco eight years ago,’ said Louis.

‘I remember. From a dethroned Prince who’d lost his all at the green baize tables,’ said Julia.

‘My recollection,’ Carlotta said, ‘is of a déclassé gangster but I may be wrong.’

Selina, who had been going through a short repertoire of exhibitionist antics, ignored by her seniors, suddenly flung herself at Louis and hung from his wrist, doubling up her legs and shrieking affectedly.

‘You little monster,’ he said, ‘you’ve nearly torn off a button,’ and examined his sleeve.

Selina walked away with a blank face.

Bruno said, ‘Do let’s get posed-up for Ricky and then take off for the stables.’

‘Let’s be ultra-mondains,’ Julia decided. She sank into a swinging chaise-longue, dangled an elegantly breeched leg and raised a drooping hand above her head.

Jasper raised it to his lips. ‘Madame is enchanting – nay, irresistible – ce matin,’ he said.

Selina stuck out her tongue.

Bruno, looking impatient, merely stood.

‘Thank you,’ said Ricky.

They piled into Louis’s car and drove to Leathers.

The avenue, a longish one, led to an ugly Victorian house, and continued round the back into the stable yard, and beyond this to a barn at some distance from the other buildings.

‘Hush!’ Julia said dramatically. ‘Listen! Louis, stop.’

‘Why?’ asked Louis, but stopped nevertheless.

Somewhere round the corner of the house a man was shouting.

‘My dears!’ said Julia. ‘Mr Harkness in a rage again. How too awkward.’

‘What should we do about it?’ Carlotta asked. ‘Slink away or what?’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ Jasper said. ‘He may be ticking off a horse or even Mr Jones for all we know.’

‘Ricky says Mr Jones is in London.’

‘Was,’ Ricky amended.

‘Anyway, I refuse to be done out of our riding treat,’ said Bruno. ‘Press on, Louis.’

‘Be quiet, Bruno. Listen.’

Louis wound down the window. A female voice could be clearly heard.

‘And if I want to bloody jump the bloody hedge, by God I’ll bloody jump it, I’ll jump it on Mungo, by God.’

‘Anathema! Blasphemy!’

‘Don’t you lay a hand on me: I’m pregnant,’ bellowed Miss Harkness.

‘Harlot!’

‘Shut up.’

‘Strumpet!’

‘Stuff it.’

‘Oh, do drive on, Louis,’ said Carlotta crossly. ‘They’ll stop when they see us. It’s so boring, all this.’

Louis said, ‘It would be nice if people made up their minds.’

‘We have. Press on.’

He drove into the stable yard.

The picture that presented itself was of a row of six loose-boxes, each with a horse’s bridled head looking out of the upper half, flanked at one end by a tack-room and at the other by an open coach-house containing a small car, coils of old wire discarded gear, tools, and empty sacks: all forming a background for a large red man with profuse whiskers towering over Miss Harkness, who faced him with a scowl of defiance.

‘Lay a hand on me and I’ll call the police,’ she threatened.

Mr Harkness, for undoubtedly it was he, had his back to the car. Arrested, no doubt, by a sudden glaze that overspread his niece’s face, he turned and was transfixed.

His recovery was almost instantaneous. He strode towards them, all smiles.

‘Morning, morning. All ready for you. Six of the best,’ shouted Mr Harkness. He opened car doors, offered a large freckled hand with ginger bristles, helped out the ladies and, laughing merrily, piloted them across the yard.

‘Dulcie’s got ’em lined up,’ he said.

Julia beamed upon Mr Harkness and, to his obvious bewilderment, gaily chided Miss Harkness for deserting them. He shouted: ‘Jones!’