Polo by Jilly Cooper Page B

off, she started reading the Daily Mail.
        `I believe it is possible,' a young American girl was quoted as saying, `to have a caring, supportive husband, cherishing children, and a high octane career.'
        I have none of these things, thought Daisy, I only want to paint.
        Later that evening she and Violet decorated the house. Violet organized a bucket of earth and red crępe paper for the tree, and Daisy was comforted by the rituals of hanging up the same plastic angel with both legs firmly stuck together and the tinsel with split ends and the coloured balls which had lost their hooks, and had to be tucked into the branches until they fell prey to Gainsborough.
        In the alcove by the front door they set up the crib, which had been in the Macleod family for generations. There had nearly been a divorce the year Daisy painted the plain wooden figures, putting Mary in powder blue and Joseph in a rather ritzy orange.
        `Did you enjoy Peter Pan?' asked Daisy, as she arranged straw from the stables in Baby Jesus's manger.
        `It was fun,' said Violet. `I'd forgotten Captain Hook went to Eton. Daddy loved it too.'
        `Daddy came with you?' said Daisy in amazement.
        `Wendy got an extra ticket,' explained Violet, standing on a chair to tie mistletoe to the hall light. `He gets on awfully well with Wendy. They're always laughing.'
        That's nice, thought Daisy wistfully. Hamish seldom laughed at home.
        `The lost boys reminded me of Perdita,' said Violet.
        Life would be so peaceful, thought Daisy, if it were just her and Violet. Now they were alone, she could tell Violet how wonderful her report was.
        Daisy also felt guilty that Perdita's new pony had cost Ł1,500. A beautiful bay mare called Fresco, she had arrived with a saddle and a pound note tucked into her bridle for luck, which Perdita had nailed to the tackroom wall.
        But that was only the beginning. Fresco's trousseau of rugs, so new they practically stood up by themselves, and headcollars and body brushes and curry combs, not to mention feed, had cost a fortune. At least Perdita was blissful. Having established an instant rapport with the pony, she was totally organized and reliable about looking after her. It was such a relief having her in a good mood and out of the house, hunting and exploring the countryside, particularly near Ricky France-Lynch's land, but Daisy still felt she ought to buy better presents for the other two children.
        Hamish had violently discouraged Daisy against taking any interest in money, on the grounds that she was too stupid to understand it. But she had felt mildly alarmed when he told her they were only going to rent Brock House, because he had invested almost the entire proceeds from the London house in a co-production with the Americans. The resulting movie, he assured her, would be such a sure-fire hit he'd recoup his original stake five times over and be able to buy Brock House or something far grander in a year or two. The spare cash left over gave Daisy the illusion that for once they were flush. She must find something more exciting for Violet than that Laura Ashley dress. Suddenly she had a brainwave.
        At least Bridget coming made her tidy up, thought Daisy the following day, as she plumped the cushions in the drawing room and used eight fire-lighters and all yesterday's Mail and Telegraph to light the logs Hamish had grudgingly chopped that morning. And at least they weren't going to Bridget's for Christmas. With a shiver, Daisy remembered the year when baby Eddie and Violet, and particularly Perdita, had trodden Lindt kittens into Bridget's carpet and sacked her ultra-tidy house more effectively than any Hun or Visigoth.
        Going into the garden to pick some pinched pink roses and winter jasmine for Bridget's bedroom, Daisy breathed in the sweet, just freezing air, the acrid smell of bonfires and leaves moulding into the