Ten Lords A-Leaping

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘What’s he carrying?’ he whispered.

  ‘The Peers’ Patent.’

  Amiss was left no wiser.

  Next came Deptford, whose features Amiss had been finding teasingly familiar and whom he now suddenly identified as Sid Peerless, who as a transport union leader had been the terror of commuters in the 1970s. Jack Troutbeck processed several feet behind him, apparently concentrating hard on not tripping over or dropping anything. As she passed them, she took her eye off Deptford’s back, looked up and gave her friends an enormous wink. Bringing up the rear was Bedmorth, whose relaxed demeanour betrayed a man born to the purple and well used to negotiating his way round the place gravely and in full regalia.

  With a pause for another bow, the leaders proceeded until Jack was deposited beside the woolsack. She knelt, was handed her patent by Garter, and presented both documents to the Lord Chancellor, who passed them to a hovering chap in lawyer’s wig and gown. She got up successfully, though inelegantly enough to elicit a stifled giggle from Mary Lou, walked to the table in the middle of the chamber, and stared fixedly ahead as the chap with the parchments read out their contents sonorously, with splendid anachronistic phrases like ‘realms and territories…Oh ye, that we of our especial grace, certain knowledge and mere motion…’ reverberating around the chamber. When he got to ‘by these presents advance, create, and prefer our trusted and well-beloved Ida Troutbeck to the state, degree, style, dignity, title, and honour of Baroness Troutbeck of Troutbeck’, she beamed, then recollected herself and stood expressionless throughout the rest, even at the improbable moment when instructed solemnly that it was her duty at all costs to attend ‘our Parliament for arduous and urgent affairs concerning us, the state, and defence of our United Kingdom and the Church’. He then took her—phrase by phrase—through the affirmation of allegiance to the Queen, which she performed faultlessly, and indicated where she should sign her name on an ancient-looking document.

  As she picked up her cocked hat, Black Rod and Garter suddenly took over with a bit of processing and bowing, the sponsors took up position with Jack Troutbeck between them, Black Rod peeled off, and the trio were shepherded by Garter to the back row of the benches on Amiss’ left, which he recognized as the cross benches, reserved for independent peers.

  Mary Lou began to giggle again—with Amiss finding it impossible to keep his face entirely straight—as the trio sat down in the back row and gazed intently at the Garter King at Arms, who stood in the row beneath, gazing at them fixedly. At some prompt imperceptible to onlookers, they rose and doffed their hats with a courtly bow in the direction of the Lord Chancellor, who raised in acknowledgement the tricorn hat which perched on his full-bottomed wig. They repeated their manoeuvre; he responded. After the third exchange, the procession regrouped and the new girl was led down the right-hand side of the chamber, the three peers bowing once or twice as they went. When Jack drew level with the Lord Chancellor, she hesitated for a moment and then bowed again, shook his proffered hand and then, flanked by her startlingly dressed old men, she was led from the chamber to cries of, ‘Hear, hear!’ from the packed benches of the House. ‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Mary Lou, until Cavendish warned her she’d be kicked out. ‘It’d take a lifetime to learn the rules in this place,’ she grumbled.

  ‘That’s what’s so much fun about it,’ said Cavendish.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Amiss.

  ‘That’s it. The peers have indicated she’s acceptable, so she’s now one of them. She’ll be off disrobing.’

  ‘What a shame. That gear really suited her.’

  ‘Yes, but she’d be liable to break her neck if she tried to carry on in her usual way wearing floor-length clothes. Now, are you joining us in the bar for champagne?’

  ‘No, she told me to be back at seven-thirty tonight.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Presumably she thinks you need a rest. Wants you to sparkle tonight, I gather.’

  ‘Sparkle! I feel on the point of death. Mind you, it’s uncharacteristically thoughtful of her to think I might need a few hours’ kip. Will I see you two tonight?’

  ‘No. Tonight’s business, I gather. Where the House of Lords is concerned, we’re strictly pleasure.’ And Cavendish and Mary Lou laughed merrily.

  Chapter Three

  Amiss awoke from an exhausted sleep at 6.45, hurled himself into the shower, flung on his clothes, hailed a cab just outside his front door, and reached the Lords on the dot of 7.30 to find the entrance blocked by a struggling mass of police and screaming demonstrators. It was too dark to read the banners and the only words he could make out from the shouts and chants were ‘murderers’ and ‘sadists’. He watched idly for a few minutes as the police finally got the upper hand. A van drove up and a dozen or so noisy protestors were bundled inside, banners and all. The entrance was still blocked by the more peaceable but still obstinate protestors, so Amiss decided to cut his losses and enter via the House of Commons entrance.

  ‘I have an appointment with Lady Troutbeck,’ he explained to the policeman on the door, ‘but I couldn’t get through to the Lords entrance. What’s going on?’

  ‘H’animal h’activists,’ said the policeman heavily. ‘Bunch of no-good riffraff if you ask me.’

  ‘What are they complaining about? Export of calves to France?’

  ‘Fox-’unting, of course. ’Aven’t you been reading the papers?’

  ‘I’ve been away.’

  ‘Well, it’s coming up in the Lords soon. The Commons voted for abolition, their lordships look like throwing it out, so there’s merry hell.’

  ‘Thank you, officer.’ Amiss proceeded through security checks to the Commons lobby and turned right down the corridor, meditating rather enviously about people who had such certainties about issues where he was ambiguous.

  ‘Thank heaven,’ he said to himself, expelling hunting from his mind, ‘that I’m not going to have to take sides on this one.’

  ***

  And so, wrote Amiss to Rachel, of course the first thing she announced as I came into the Counsels’ Dining Room was that here was the back-room boy who would provide some intellectual clout to preserve the glorious chase. And naturally because of my misplaced notions of propriety, I didn’t think this was the moment to get into an explanation of my liberal dilemma on the matter. Not when I was being gazed at by Joe, Sid, and what turned out to be ten other members of the nobility, all of whom were welcoming me enthusiastically as one of their own. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’ I hissed at Jack when I got the opportunity. ‘Stop being such a fusspot,’ she replied helpfully.

  Piecing it together with a little help from Bertie, the excellent Duke of Stormerod, I learned that they’re the inner circle or hard core dedicated to defending hunting—particularly of foxes—against the House of Commons, the animal activists, and all comers. And needless to say, Jack has thrown herself enthusiastically into the cause for, as you might guess, the Troutbecks have ever been tremendous enthusiasts and participants in this noble sport. And because it was necessary to get cracking with the conspiracy, her celebratory dinner was limited to this group, for, as you will remember, when Jack throws herself into something, she doesn’t hang about.

  Well, I don’t know how productive animal activists’ planning meetings are, but I can’t say I was overimpressed with this one; I think in her exuberance Jack overdid the hospitality. Before we got through even the first two courses—quails’ eggs, wild salmon and plenty of champagne and Chablis—and were proceeding to get stuck into our noble roast, several of the gathering seemed decidedly squiffy. And although Jack has a head like a rock, she had had enough herself to be treating the evening as a rave-up rather than a sort-out.

  By now I was already even more ambivalent than I had started out. For while Bertie, on my left, was so charming and so very persuasive on the subject of the traditions of our way of life that need to be preserved in the interests of society, m’Lord Poulteney, on my right, had turned out to be a nightmare.

&nbs
p; I am, as you know, a connoisseur of bores and until last night I thought no experience could be worse than that man who trapped me on the plane the last time I went to Delhi and turned out to be a kind of talking motorway atlas, but Poulteney is a talking hunting diary. You know the sort of thing the Victorians wrote up: ‘Good start, early scent, ran him into small cover. Lamed gee and had to call a halt.’ Riveting.

  As insensitive as he is thick, old Poulteney required of me little more than attention and although he suffered a slight shock when he learned that I kept neither hounds nor horses, it never even crossed his mind that I didn’t hunt. So he bored on with his interminable and incomprehensible reminiscences of ‘View Halloa and into Braggs Wood’. Fortunately Bertie—one of those aristocrats who justifies the hereditary principle—recognized that I had fallen into a catatonic state and rescued me. It turned out that one of his ancestors had been a Viceroy of India, and he loves it well and we had a very jolly chat about all of that with lots of chummy anecdotes along the way. He was also full of amusing sidelights on the Lords, on the dotty customs of which he expounds affectionately and very amusingly. The reason he had not been one of Jack’s sponsors, it turned out, was that he outranked her. ‘Oh, no,’ he explained gravely. ‘You see I’m a hell of a feller, with four miniver bars to her two and a gold coronet with strawberry leaves for best, while Jack—poor old thing—’ll have to settle for something plebeian in silver gilt with a few silver balls. And rules say you can only be sponsored by two from your own grade. Pity. I’d have been proud.’

  Jack, meanwhile, was the life and soul of her side of the table, smacking her lips over the food, demanding that the glasses to the left of her and right of her and indeed in front of her be refilled, and generally celebrating her elevation like a good ’un. ‘I like being a baroness,’ I heard her announce when someone asked her how she was feeling.

  At about 9.30 or so, when we hit the port, a feeling of camaraderie was universal. Jack leapt to her feet with such energy she knocked over her chair as she called us all to order. ‘Friends!’ she shouted. ‘Before we get down to the serious business of the evening, I want you to drink a toast.’ Everyone staggered to their feet. ‘Her Majesty the Queen!’ she cried, somewhat conventionally, and then as an afterthought, ‘and confound her enemies…and ours.’

  As she sat down, Bertie got up and made a speech about our noble hostess. He reminisced fondly about their days together in the department, where apparently she endeared herself to him on the very first day they met by denouncing a colleague for talking a lot of bollocks.

  ‘Jack,’ he explained towards the end, ‘though perhaps short on diplomatic skills’—she looked surprised at this; it’s impossible to get it through to her that she is anything other than suave—‘is a trooper. Some amongst us have never quite adjusted to the arrival in this House of peeresses. First they feared women were not intellectually up to the position. And though this view has altered, there are now those who feel our lady members are worryingly puritanical.

  ‘I am pleased that is a criticism no one has ever made of our noble friend, Baroness Troutbeck, who thinks Roundheads exist to be target practice for Cavaliers. We now have an important challenge facing us as the forces of puritanism attempt to encircle us. We have lost the first hunting battle: it behoves us to ensure we don’t lose the second.

  ‘I am delighted to welcome, as part of our counterattack, such a doughty companion in arms. We require much of her. Sid’s beloved Surtees declared that among the qualities possessed by the ideal Master of Foxhounds should be’—he peered at his card—‘“the boldness of a lion, the cunning of a fox, the shrewdness of an exciseman, the calculation of a general, the decision of a judge and the liberality of a sailor”. My dear old friend Jack has all these and more qualities in abundance. She is a great addition to our struggle and we can rely on her.’

  ‘My friends, let us drink a toast.’ There was another scraping of chairs. ‘To Baroness Troutbeck.’ ‘Baroness Troutbeck!’ shouted us all. ‘Hoicktogether!’ shouted Poulteney, ‘Huickholler!’ or something similar shouted someone else, and a cheerful-looking cove beside Jack launched into ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, thus inspiring the more jovial elements of the gathering to embark on a sing-song in which, for most purposes, I was unable to participate, owing to being a bit short of experience on the hunting-song front. I could make a shot at:

  D’you ken John Peel, with his coat so grey

  D’you ken John Peel at the break of day

  but that was about it. Still, as the port went down, I quite enjoyed listening to ever louder and jollier verses like

  Hark forward, my boys, tally-ho is the cry,

  Tantara! Tantara! resounds the blithe horn

  I was vividly reminded of Wodehouse’s The Mating Seasons. Do you remember when Bertie Wooster got sloshed with Esmond Haddock and they ended up singing Bertie’s version of Esmond’s aunt’s hunting song:

  Halloa, halloa, halloa, halloa!

  A hunting we will go, my lads,

  A hunting we will go,

  Pull up our socks and chase the fox

  And lay the blighter low

  while Bertie stood on his chair waving the decanter like a baton and Esmond on the table using a banana as a hunting crop. We didn’t quite get to that pitch of excitement, probably because some rather serious-looking waiters shimmered in from time to time, but we came close. We roistered away, Jack to the fore, until midnight, when we were persuaded to leave.

  When we stood outside waiting for a taxi, I expected to be the last to be allowed to get one, being both the most junior and the only commoner, but to my surprise, Jack had one of those flashes of consideration that saves one from throttling her and shooed me into the first taxi ahead of all my elders, somewhat spoiling the effect by saying, ‘Breakfast, Park Lane Hotel, seven-thirty, and be on time.’ Before I could deliver a protest she had slammed the passenger door and was waving me off.

  Not wishing to get involved in an altercation in front of a group of her fans, and not knowing where she was staying, I had little choice but to obey orders. And yes, I know you are thinking, ‘How can you let this old bag push you around like this?’ The answer is, of course, that I am congenitally inclined to take the line of least resistance, except when I take a stand on principle. And do bear in mind that it was principle that got me where I am now, i.e., out of work…

  Chapter Four

  ‘Mmmmmmm. I was afraid they wouldn’t have any.’ The baroness heaped on to her already well-filled plate a pile of black pudding and looked at Amiss solicitously, spoon poised.

  He shuddered. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with you? You need building up.’

  ‘Sorry, Jack, but at this time in the morning, wimp that I am, I can’t face eating dried blood.’

  The baroness rolled her eyes heavenwards and shook her head incredulously. ‘I like black pudding.’

  ‘Good, good. I’m happy for you.’

  Together they carried their trays to the booth where they had left their coats and settled in, Amiss to breakfast modestly on bacon, egg and Cumberland sausage, the baroness to weigh into kidneys, bacon, tomato, mushroom and black and white puddings, while punctuating her eating with grunts of satisfaction.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ she enquired anxiously.

  ‘Very nice, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Kidneys a bit of a disappointment. I like them bloody.’

  ‘You would,’ said Amiss grumpily. ‘Now, why am I here?’

  ‘Plan of campaign, obviously. We didn’t get very far last night. I don’t know what you were thinking of.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you’re supposed to be coordinating all this.’ She took a mighty swig of coffee and chomped happily on some crispy bacon. ‘That’s what I’ve hired you for.’

  ‘First, you haven’t hired me and second, you omitted to tell me what I was supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Well, I’ve sort
of hired you. I’ll foot any bills you incur and give you a couple hundred quid a week. After all, I make a bit on expenses.’

  ‘Even with the price of London hotels?’

  ‘I don’t stay in hotels.’ She grinned happily. ‘Myles is based in London, I should remind you.’

  ‘So you’re still two-timing Mary Lou with him?’

  ‘Or vice versa.’ She laughed. ‘Not that two-timing is an appropriate accusation. We’re not all such prigs as you. Neither Myles nor Mary Lou is exactly sitting wistfully by the fireside waiting on my return. Anyway, stop being so nosey. What you’re supposed to be finding out about is how to sort out the killjoys.’

  ‘Dammit…’ Amiss put his cup down with such force that it slopped coffee into his saucer and on to the tablecloth. He swore and mopped it up.

  ‘Tsk, tsk. Can’t think what’s got into you. You’re becoming awfully ratty.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d regard jet-lag, lack of sleep, and a hangover as mitigating circumstances? Not to speak of having to get up at 6.30 in order to come in to watch you scoffing a fat breakfast.’

  She wasn’t listening. ‘Right, now for your instructions. What with having to fly up and down to Cambridge to do my mistressly duties, I can’t run things at the Lords. You’re going to have to help this crowd function. Marshal the arguments, the facts, and help them with the speeches. For although right is on our side, I have to say we’ve got some pretty weak vessels to make its case.’

  ‘Jack, I don’t even know whether I’m for or against fox-hunting. That is’—he raised his voice as she opened her mouth—‘I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it so I can hardly be said to be for it, but I’m not clear if I’m against it. Instinctively, I hate an activity that involves chasing a small animal over hill and dale. Yet I do dimly grasp the arguments about tradition, esprit de corps and all the rest of it.’