But if Vanessa’s non-family-related conversation was boring, it was infinitely preferable to her other line of chat. A description of a simply disastrous wedding reception at which the best man had been drunk when he made his speech lulled Amiss into a sense of security, when he was jolted out of it by a hiss from his left directed across the table. The hapless Timothy—caught in the act of trying to rub gravy off his velvet—was summoned to his mother’s side, pronounced ‘a horrible spastic child’ and consigned to the butler for handing on to someone who could limit the damage to an outfit which had cost ‘an unimaginable amount of money in the sweetest little children’s shop in Knightsbridge, though for all the gratitude I got for buying it…you’ve no idea. “Actually,” I said to Timothy. “Actually, ‘thank you very much’ is what a normal boy would say to his mother.” But what can you do?’ And then, looking over at the silent James, she added: ‘After all, what example does he get?’
Release for Amiss came earlier than expected. As the company finished its cheese and the butler advanced with a decanter of port, Poulteney jerked his head and with a mulish look but without a sound, Vanessa got up and left the room.
‘What do you do when asked to leave gentlemen to their port?’ Amiss was to ask the baroness later. ‘No one’s dared to suggest that to me since about nineteen sixty,’ she answered comfortably. ‘And if they did, I’d pretend to be hard of hearing as I reached for the decanter.’
On this occasion, however, Amiss had no scruples in feeling delighted that this household was so illiberal and anachronistic that such deplorable segregation still prevailed. The simple absence of Vanessa was enough to make Poulteney’s revelations about the blocked culverts almost interesting, and if Bovington-Petty—who had moved into Vanessa’s place—was a less than sparkling conversationalist, listening to his account of how the wine business had been affected by the fall of the Berlin Wall had moments of interest and one or two of humour. Even James felt moved to intervene on a few occasions in a manner which was positively loquacious. Amiss was hoping they might sit over the port until Vanessa had given up and gone to bed when the butler came in and whispered in Poulteney’s ear. His face lit up.
‘We must go to the drawing room,’ he said. ‘Lady Flexingham has arrived for coffee and brandy.’
A sturdy brunette in her early forties, equipped with the English Rose attributes of peaches-and-cream skin, bright-blue eyes, and a slightly diffident manner, Miranda Flexingham turned out to be Master of Foxhounds in the hunt next door. That Poulteney was mad about her was obvious from the start. He gazed at her as if she were a favourite hound, huntsman, and game old fox all rolled into one. Straightaway, she engaged him, Beesley, and Bovington-Petty in a lively discussion about the rival merits of dog foods used by the two respective kennels. James and Timothy disappeared and Amiss found himself alone on a sofa with Vanessa. This time he went on the offensive.
‘Tell me about Lady Flexingham. She seems charming.’
‘To outsiders, possibly.’ Vanessa gave her harsh laugh. ‘At least to men. Daddy-in-law’s being such an idiot.’
‘He’s sweet on her?’ asked Amiss vulgarly.
‘Gooey-eyed. Look at him. Disgusting at his age, isn’t it?’
‘Is there a Lord Flexingham?’
‘She’s a widow.’
He piled on the coarseness. ‘Wedding bells coming up, eh?’
‘I can’t imagine Daddy-in-law would do such a cruel thing to Jamesie.’ Her voice belied her words. ‘I would never speak to him again.’
Amiss thought such an incentive would be sufficient to make him marry Lady Flexingham himself.
The telephone interrupted the merry dog-food chat.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Poulteney. ‘No change of plan. A few horsewhips wouldn’t go amiss. Just make sure every available man is in position by six o’clock.’ He put the phone down.
‘Sabs?’ Lady Flexingham looked resigned.
‘Yes. The tip-off is they’re concentrating on us tomorrow. Might be quite lively.’
‘Well, in that case the sooner we all go to bed and recharge our batteries the better. I am looking forward to a good day.’ She offered her cheek to Poulteney and Bovington-Petty, smiled at the rest of the gathering, first demurred and then accepted her host’s demand that he be allowed to see her to her car.
‘I’m off too,’ said Beesley.
‘Me too,’ said Amiss. ‘You can guide me to my bedroom.’ And with a few insincere expressions of gratitude, he left the married couple to their own company.
Chapter Eleven
The views were beyond criticism. Amiss, who had grown up looking through his bedroom window at a small suburban garden of relentless neatness, where the flowerbeds had hospital corners and no weed ever survived a day, felt retrospective envy for a background whose privileges included not only being able to watch miles and miles of the English countryside at its best from season to season, but knowing that your father owned it. But then he remembered that Lord Poulteney went along with that package and that as heir one might even be expected to marry someone like Vanessa in order to ensure that the connections were good, the pedigree up to scratch, and that she’d know how to behave as a consort: his beloved acerbic, iconoclastic Jewish diplomat would hardly fit their bill. It was the same sort of logic, he reflected, that had got poor old Prince Charles into the marital mess he was in. The feelings of envy disappeared rapidly.
Drawing the predictable blank on the hot bath-water front, he washed as much of himself as he could bear and dressed at maximum speed, although a wrestle with his stock added ten minutes to the proceedings. When he finally surveyed himself in the wardrobe mirror in his finery, he was unable to decide whether he looked like a pretentious prat or was cutting one hell of a dash. The effect was definitely spoiled by the Wellingtons, which also posed a serious etiquette problem. Surely one did not breakfast in wellies? But then what did one do with them? In the end he put on his town shoes and carried the boots, which—as he entered the breakfast room—the butler discreetly removed with the murmured reassurance that sir would find them adjacent to the front door.
Breakfast was a highly social occasion, for, in addition to Lady Flexingham, who was looking extremely attractive in top hat, black jacket, and jodhpurs, half a dozen or so of the local squirarchy were braying happily at each other over porridge laden with brown sugar, cream, and whisky, game pies, and baked ham. There was a general air of joviality. Even Vanessa, turned out like the rest of her family in full gear, seemed happy. She was having a positively animated reminiscence with a couple of locals about a memorable hour-long chase the previous November.
At 9.50, stopping to tell Amiss that he would have no trouble finding a lift from one of the neighbours, Poulteney led the way to the forecourt where the horses were waiting, and within ten minutes the mounted breakfasters had been joined by two or three dozen other riders and a motley collection of cars, among whose drivers and passengers Amiss mingled easily. The entire staff of Shapely Bottom Hall passed amongst the throng offering slices of game pie and a choice of sloe gin or vintage port. Not without misgivings, Amiss chose neat gin, but it tasted unexpectedly good and helped to make bracing the cold that had been intolerable in his bedroom, and the air of expectancy, excitement, and good humour was almost palpable.
India had made Amiss much more aware of smells—good and bad—than ever before, so now he took sensual enjoyment in identifying the variety of scents wafting about him, from boot polish to horse dung. He enjoyed too, watching in person so much that he had been reading about but had seen only in the occasional film. The noise of conversation was at a crescendo, when he heard a gnarled chap on a huge brown horse shouting to someone beside him. ‘City shits! If I get my hands on them they’ll be sorry they’re not the fox.’ And out of the hubbub, more angry words and phrases emerged, confirming that trouble was afoot. From behind him he heard, ‘I’m telling you, I hear they’ve got gas. Some say they are armed.’
&
nbsp; Selecting a weatherbeaten chap in late middle age whose workman-like clothes suggested long attendance at events like this, Amiss said, ‘Excuse me, I’m new here. Is something up?’
‘It’s those blasted sabs. The wild people who try to wreck our hunt. Word is they’re out in force today.’ He took a mighty draught of port.
‘Do you usually have trouble?’
‘Well, I don’t know I’d say usually, but we have had trouble, maybe half a dozen times in the last two years. They’ve got a lot of hunts to get round, do you see? We’re not so important they can afford the time very often to grace us with their presence.’
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘What’s the point? Thing to do is take things as they come,’ observed the man phlegmatically.
A dour young man chimed in, ‘Well, they’re after us now, Dad, in a big way, since his lordship’s known to be making a speech next week that’s to save us from the radicals.’
‘What are they likely to do?’ asked Amiss, unenthusiastic about another close encounter with wild-eyed activists.
‘They’ve been foiled so far, so I expect they’ll be trying to ambush us,’ said Phlegmatic Man.
‘Foiled how?’
‘Hawkins says some were found before daybreak with a sack of doped meat and were handed over to the police. And then he caught some others trying to lay a false scent and hounded them off the land and put lookouts around. But they’ll be back later, certain sure.’ He looked at Amiss. ‘You should have brought a stick. You might be needing it.’
His own stout piece of ash looked to have the potential to crack a skull. Amiss, who had forgotten to bring Pooley’s riding crop, determined to keep as close to him as possible. ‘Are you going by car?’
‘Yep. Me and Matthew here. Want a lift?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’
‘Come on then. I think his lordship’s ready to go.’
As the three of them clambered inside an aged Land Rover, the sound of a horn cut into the air, and with Lord Poulteney and his huntsman in the lead, following closely after the hounds, the mounted hunters began to move off at speed in the direction of some woodland on the far horizon.
‘I thought as much,’ said Phlegmatic Man. ‘There’s been a rumour all week about a fine vixen being seen there.’ He put his foot on the accelerator and headed down the drive ahead of the other cars. ‘We’ll catch them down at Tite Bottom, near Cooper’s Cope. Then, if the fox goes where I think she’ll go, we’ll have to continue on foot.’
They had covered perhaps five miles of a very circular pursuit when they caught sight of the hunt standing around aimlessly near a large wood. ‘Like I said,’ said Phlegmatic Man. ‘Now, listen.’
There was little sound for some time except of the cars drawing up behind them. Then there was suddenly an outbreak of activity on the part of the hounds, who had been running around in circles rather haphazardly. One hound emerged from the bulk of the pack and stood by itself, head up, sniffing.
‘That’s Rosie,’ said Phlegmatic Man. ‘You can always rely on her. Haven’t had a hound in her class since Rankin died in…oh…’ He pursed his lips and bent his head. ‘What do you say, Matthew? Was it ’sixty-eight when Rankin went to his reward?’
‘That’s about right, Dad. I was only a kid.’
‘Rosie,’ explained Phlegmatic Man to Amiss, ‘must be his great-granddaughter.’
At this moment Rosie emitted a bloodcurdling yowl, instantly picked up by a chorus from her fellows, and they all streaked into the outskirts of the wood at high speed, emerging only seconds later in hot pursuit of a blur of red fur. With a triumphant blast of a horn, something that sounded very like, ‘Yoirouseimmelads!’ followed by shouts of, ‘Yoiks, tally-ho!’ Poulteney and his throng set off in pursuit, and the cars all disgorged their passengers. Following closely behind his mentor, Amiss was in the vanguard climbing a stile and stomping across a field whose terrain was sufficiently rough and hilly to make him extremely grateful that it was dry underfoot. The trick, he realized after a while, was to conserve energy by keeping up a steady pace and putting on a turn of speed only when it was necessary to see which way the cavalry were heading. For, as Phlegmatic Man explained, ‘That vixen is leading them a merry dance, and now she’s taking them nor’west they’re almost bound to do a circle and be up at Wreckett’s Brook no earlier than us.’
And there were, of course, for those in the know, short cuts through dense copses inaccessible to horses. Still, as Amiss saw in the distance the pink coats thundering across the fields and clearing some hedgerows, he felt an onrush of romantic regret that he would never be an equestrian hero. To have negotiated a slippery stile in wellies without falling over did not compare with how it must feel to persuade a horse to jump a five-barred gate successfully. But, as Phlegmatic Man had promised, there was still plenty of action, and as they neared Wreckett’s Brook, slightly to his shame, Amiss found himself screaming various sounds of the ‘Yoiks!’ variety when the fox, hounds, and riders suddenly appeared on their right and tore along in front of them. It was then, as they cleared a brook, that they met the promised ambush. As the fox and hounds disappeared across the countryside, the riders were surrounded by a melee of shouting, banner-waving, balaclavaed demonstrators.
‘Come on,’ said Phlegmatic Man, no longer phlegmatic. ‘Let’s go after them.’
Obediently, if unenthusiastically, Amiss kept close as father and son ran to the brook, but by then a van had arrived from which leaped two dozen police. Within moments the horsemen were off again and those demonstrators that weren’t being strong-armed into the van were on the run. It was Amiss’ bad luck that as he gingerly followed across the stepping stones in the deep part of the brook, a youth fleeing from a truncheon-waving policeman came hurtling through a gap in the hedge, swerved to avoid Phlegmatic Man and crashed straight into Amiss, who fell flat on his back into the icy-cold water; neither demonstrator nor policeman seemed to halt in their tracks. As Amiss, bruised and shaken, miserably began to try to stand up, Phlegmatic Man returned and with the help of his stout stick pulled him to his feet.
‘Be off home with you, now,’ he said, waving aside Amiss’ thanks.
‘I thought I should go on.’
‘Don’t be daft. There’ll be another hunt along next week. If you catch your death of cold this week, you won’t be there to see it.’
‘How do I get back to the Hall? I’ve lost my bearings.’
‘Diagonally across those two fields and then left through Cold Bottom Wood and over that hill. You can’t miss it.’
As Amiss stammered his gratitude, Phlegmatic Man touched his cap and took off again with surprising speed. Pausing only to empty water from his wellies and to take a long draught of whisky, Amiss set off for the most uncomfortable walk of his life, spurred on his way by shouts from the pursuers and pursued.
When he got to the top of the hill, he paused for another swig and gazed back at the scene behind. To the far west he could see the mounted huntsmen disappearing over the horizon. Grimly marching behind one field away were Amiss’ erstwhile companions, and out of the field where the fracas had occurred was driving a procession of three black vans. Teeth chattering, wet through, walking towards the Hall as fast as he could in his clammy footgear, Amiss wondered what he was going to have to do to get a hot bath.
***
As his hand went out to the antiquated bell pull, he heard the sound of a car racing up the drive. He turned round to see a small red sports car screeching to a halt. Out of it jumped a young woman who hailed him cheerily as she pulled a hold-all out of the back.
‘Who is this wet person, Hooper?’ she demanded as the butler opened the door. ‘And what has been done to him?’
‘Now, Lady Jennifer,’ said Hooper in an indulgent tone. ‘That’s not very polite. This gentleman is Mr Robert Amiss who is a guest of his lordship. This is Lady Jennifer Bovington-Petty, sir. Now let me take your bag, my lady.’
She tossed
the bag to him, shook hands with Amiss and raised an eyebrow enquiringly.
‘Aggro at the brook. I got run into by a sab.’
‘Well, we’d better look after you or you’ll be staying longer than you expected. Hooper, get someone to run a bath for Mr Amiss, take some hot whisky to his room and…have you something to change into?’
He nodded.
‘OK. That’s it, then. We’ll have some lunch in the library, Hooper. Say around one-fifteen.’
‘Lady Jennifer, you know you shouldn’t…’
‘Now don’t give me that, Hooper. The library’s the most comfortable. We only want wine and sandwiches. That OK with you? Or would you prefer beer?’
‘Wine would be perfect.’ Amiss was overwhelmed with a wave of gratitude for this ministering angel. ‘But please, Mr Hooper, could someone show me to my room? I still can’t find the way.’
Hooper summoned a hovering footman and gave him orders.
‘And Palgrave,’ called Jennifer. ‘If there’s no hot water in his bathroom, put him in mine.’
‘Really, Lady Jennifer!’
‘Stop being suburban, Hooper. Now, let’s see if there’s a nice big fire in the library.’
Chapter Twelve
Warm, dry, and soothed by a powerful hot whisky, Amiss joined Jennifer shortly after one. She was sitting in an armchair by the fire, intently reading a large leatherbound book.
He wandered over to look. ‘What is it?’
She laughed. ‘That’s almost a first in this house. Mostly they say, “You’re not still reading, are you? Get out in the fresh air. Don’t you know it’s bad for your eyes?” And of course, they may be right. I’m the only one in the family who wears glasses.’
‘I infer you’re the family intellectual.’
Ten Lords A-Leaping Page 8