Manservant

by Harwood, Michael

  CHAPTER 19

  I’m sure the popularity of shooting game birds for sport would come as quite a surprise to most city folk, but in the countryside it has never lost its appeal. Under any other circumstances I’d have been thrilled at the idea of a shooting party. The combination of blasting small animals out of the sky and drinking hard liquor before lunch is guaranteed to get people in a jolly mood, and if it’s a good shoot there’s always the chance the guests will tip generously at the end of it.

  The royal family’s shoots at Sandringham were an absolute hoot, and more often than not the staff wound up as drunk as the guests. Nobody ever seemed to question whether or not it was a good idea to drink four martinis in a row whilst carrying around a loaded 12 bore, but that’s the royals for you: good drinking legs, the lot of them.

  But my first shoot at Castle Beadale threatened to be a whole different story and not nearly as much fun.

  I arrived at the castle early, hoping to be able to get His Lordship’s gear ready before he was up, but when I got to the kitchen it was already buzzing with people.

  “Morning all,” I said.

  Jacques looked up from a huge pile of fruit he was chopping and just nodded in that way the French do when they really can’t be bothered to speak.

  “Oh, Anthony, dear, thank goodness you are here. He’s up and about already, barking orders left, right, and center,” Vera said with a shake of her head.

  “Bloody hell, he must have wet the bed to be up this early.” I laughed.

  Vera shot me a look that said “Enough of your cheek!” before thrusting a silver dish piled high with sausages and bacon at me.

  “Here, take this through to the dining room, would you? He’s waiting for it.”

  I took the dish through and placed it on the hotplate. Lord Shanderson was fully dressed and sitting in his usual seat, but there was no sign of Lady Elizabeth.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, pouring his tea. “Will you be having breakfast alone today?”

  He lowered the paper before he spoke.

  “All alone, Anthony,” he said with a tiny smile. “My wife will take breakfast in bed, but no doubt Malcolm will see to that.”

  It pained me to admit it, but he looked particularly handsome in his shooting gear, and even tweed plus fours looked strangely sexy on him. I tore myself away and began to tidy the breakfast buffet.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—is everything all right between us, Anthony?”

  I took a deep breath before turning around to face him.

  “Yes, sir, everything is absolutely fine,” I said calmly.

  “Jolly good, because I wouldn’t want any tension between us. That would be a total bore, don’t you think?”

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask him, starting off with “When were you going to tell me you were trying for a baby with your not so estranged wife?” Quickly followed by “Does she know you like it up the arse?” But it was clear he was in no mood to answer those kinds of questions.

  “A total bore,” I echoed, before leaving him to enjoy his breakfast in peace.

  Back in the kitchen Vera was packing a huge picnic basket with bottles of her homemade sloe gin, slabs of fruitcake, and Thermos flasks filled with beef consommé laced with vodka.

  “Are there any sausages left from breakfast?” she asked when I entered the room.

  “Yes. I was going to make myself a sandwich with them.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, young man. His Lordship likes to keep them for the gun dogs as a treat. Can’t you have some toast or something?”

  “Sure, toast it is then,” I said, taking a seat at the table next to Tom. “You got a day off?” I asked, noticing that he wasn’t wearing his usual chauffeur uniform.

  “Not likely! His Lordship has asked me to be one of the beaters.”

  I looked over at Vera, who said nothing, but was beaming with maternal pride. It was as if her only son had been asked to carry the Olympic torch or something.

  “Well done, Tom,” I said, genuinely pleased for him. “Does that mean you’ll be having lunch with the guns?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” he said. “Perhaps next year. I wouldn’t mind, but Mum’s made one of her famous beef stews for it.”

  “I guess I’ll see you after lunch, then,” I said, “but don’t worry, Tom. I’ll save you some beef stew.”

  “Don’t forget to save him a bit of apple and blackberry crumble as well, then,” Vera chipped in.

  Later I gave Tom a hand in packing all the shooting paraphernalia into the back of the Land Rover whilst Lord Shanderson went to freshen up after breakfast. There was a mountain of food and drink, the guns, extra boxes of cartridges, and extra coats and blankets. To be honest it looked more like a nineteenth-century polar exploration than a shoot, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Tom and I jumped in and drove the car around to the front of the castle. We waited with the engine running until His Lordship came out.

  “You should ask His Lordship if you can be one of the beaters next time,” Tom said, hopping from foot to foot and rubbing his gloved hands together.

  “Not really my scene, to be honest. I’ll stick to what I know and serve lunch.”

  The truth is, I couldn’t actually think of anything worse than traipsing through the undergrowth with a big stick, trying to lure pheasants to their certain death, but Tom seemed so thrilled at the prospect I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that. I’d be much happier helping Vera sort lunch out at the bothy.

  Usually, a bothy is no more than a basic stone hut built on large estates to temporarily house gardeners or migrant estate workers. They are common in the Scottish Highlands, where they are left permanently unlocked so that walkers can shelter for the night.

  But the Beadale bothy was something quite different. It was situated on the edge of the forest, near where the shoot was taking place. It was a long, single-story stone building hidden completely from view until you were practically on top of it. There was a patch of land in front big enough to park a dozen cars, and unlike a typical bothy it had a kitchen, a huge fireplace, and, most atypically of all, electricity. It was basic compared to the castle, but as far as bothies go it was the Palace of Versailles.

  I’d have never known the bothy was there had I not stumbled over it when I was out running one day. At first I had thought it must be someone’s house, but when I looked through the window I knew instantly what it was. It had long wooden refectory tables surrounded by old chapel chairs and a bare flagstone floor. On the walls were yellowing framed photographs of shooting parties of old: proud, if somewhat pissed-looking men in tweeds holding up braces of pheasants for the camera.

  “Anthony, give me a hand getting all this down to the bothy, would you, dear?” asked Vera, after I got back from waving Tom and Lord Shanderson off.

  “No probs. What car are we taking?” I said as she began to load me up with pots and pans.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with my old banger. The Bentley is low on fuel.”

  Out in the stable yard, Vera’s clapped-out old pickup was parked right by the back door with the boot open. It was already packed to the gunwales with food and booze, so it was a struggle to squeeze the pots and pans in.

  “Plenty of room in there still,” she said, forcefully shoving in a crate of wine and slamming shut the boot before anything had a chance to escape. “Right, jump in; I’m driving.”

  I had never been a passenger when Vera was driving before, and it was something of an experience to say the least. She steered her old car carefully at first out of the yard, and then rather than follow the unsealed road in the direction we needed to go, she headed straight over the fields in a dead straight line with her foot to the floor.

  “Jesus, Vera, we’re not on the Paris to Dakar rally, you know,” I said, holding onto my seat as pots and pans began to break loose in the back.

  “Don’t worry, dear; I’ll get us there in one piece—I have done this before, you
know,” she replied, swerving to avoid a tree stump.

  At one point the branches of a tree whipped the windscreen so violently it made me gasp, but Vera plowed on obliviously until we arrived at the clearing in the woods.

  The first time I’d seen the bothy, it had looked as if it hadn’t been used for months. I’d even go so far as to say it had looked a bit creepy. But today it looked anything but. Somebody had been in ahead of us and had lit the fire that was crackling furiously when we entered. The bare wooden tables had been laid with white linen cloths, and the chairs had cushions on them. The table was laid with old, mismatching china, and cheap wine glasses were set in place of His Lordship’s usual fine crystal.

  The final flourish was a row of old jam jars, tightly packed with wild foliage, placed carefully down the center of the table.

  “This looks lovely,” I said, taking the whole room in. “Who did all this?”

  “Tom, Kylie, and I came down here last night and gave the place a clean and laid the table, and one of the farm workers came in and laid the fire this morning,” Vera said with a note of pride in her voice. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s homely.” Vera and I set to work adding the final touches to the table, and then she put her stew on to warm and her pudding to steam. As I began to open the claret to breathe, the whole room began to fill with the smells of her cooking, and for the first time since Lady Elizabeth had showed up with her little surprise I began to relax.

  Maybe today won’t be such torture after all, I thought to myself as I headed into the tiny kitchen to see if I could be of any help to Vera.

  The shooting party was due to break for refreshments at 11 a.m., so there seemed no point in my going back up to the castle. Instead I hung around chatting to Vera about nothing in particular until we both heard the sound of cars pulling up outside.

  “That’ll be them,” she said, smoothing down her apron. “Crack open that Thermos and start pouring the bullshot, would you, dear?”

  Every shoot I’ve ever worked on has involved the tradition of drinking the world’s weirdest cocktail. It’s basically beef consommé laced with vodka and lemon juice and served hot. I wasn’t at all convinced when I first encountered it, but after just one sip I could totally see what all the fuss was about. I nicked a good shot of it when Vera’s back was turned, and by the time the bothy was filled with people and wet dogs, I was waiting by the door with a tray of pre-poured shots.

  “Jolly good,” one old guy said as he downed his in one before taking another from the tray. “Always hits the spot.”

  Vera emerged from the kitchen with a plate piled high with slices of fruitcake that were demolished even before she’d had a chance to set it down. The party consisted of about twenty-five men, ranging in age from around my age right up to one man old enough to be my grandfather. The atmosphere was lively and loud with everybody talking excitedly about how many birds they had bagged.

  “I say, Vera, what’s for lunch?” the oldest member of the group shouted over.

  “Beef stew and dumplings, Lord McCallum—your favorite!” Vera replied with a wink.

  “Loves my beef stew, does Lord McCallum,” Vera said to me in a low voice as she passed. I watched as she worked the room, topping up drinks whether they needed to be topped up or not. It was clear she was totally in her element. There was a flirtatious spring in her step that I’d never seen before, and it was a wonderful sight to see.

  One gentleman attempted to discreetly refuse a top up when Vera lunged toward him with the jug of bullshot, prompting another to shout “There’s no use putting your hand over the glass, Charles; she’ll pour it through your bloody fingers!” and sending the whole crowd into fits of raucous laughter.

  When a few of the guests left the bothy to have a cigarette, I noticed Lord Shanderson on the far side of the room, leaning on the fireplace. A younger man was talking to him, but it was clear His Lordship wasn’t listening. Instead his eyes were firmly fixed on me. At first I thought I was imagining it, but sure enough, as I moved around the room clearing away glasses and sweeping cake crumbs from the table, his eyes stayed locked onto my every move.

  “Anthony, be a sweetheart and fetch some more of this from the kitchen. We’re running low already,” Vera said, holding up the empty jug.

  “No problem,” I said before heading into the tiny kitchen. As I ladled the steaming liquor into a jug, I heard the door close behind me. I turned around expecting to see Vera and gasped when I saw Lord Shanderson.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” I asked.

  “You know we could just carry on where we left off once the baby is born,” he said in a low voice.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea if I’m honest.”

  “Well, I’m telling you it is a very good idea,” he said, sharply moving toward me so that his face was just a few inches away from mine and grabbing my wrist. As he spoke I got a whiff of whiskey fumes on his breath, and I noticed that in his other hand was a silver hip flask.

  “Drummond, let go of me and go back to your friends.”

  He lunged forward and tried to kiss me, but I jerked my head away and pulled my wrist free from his grip.

  “You’re drunk, Drum, so let’s pretend this never happened, shall we?”

  He was swaying slightly, but then he seemed to pull himself together before he spoke. “Anthony, I am unaccustomed to not getting what I want, so please think very carefully before denying me,” he said, before taking another swig from the hip flask. “I mean, what would you do without this job, eh? Not to mention Rose View. Be a shame to throw it all away just because you don’t know your place,” he said, before leaving without another word.

  “Fucking arsehole!” I muttered as I grabbed the jug and stomped out of the kitchen.

  The party only stayed for as long as it took them to knock back a few more drinks before heading off to shoot more birds, and as soon as the last Land Rover disappeared I felt like a huge weight had been lifted. For the time being anyway.

  There was plenty to do before they returned for lunch, but it was hard for me not to dwell on Drummond’s threats. He was basically telling me that if I didn’t do what he wanted, he’d turf me out of a job and out of a home. And I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that he meant every word of it.

  “Right, young man, I think we are ready to receive the hunter-gatherers for their feast,” Vera said, emerging from the kitchen with a huge, steaming pot of stew.

  No sooner had she placed the pot in the middle of the table than the noise of approaching cars signaled the guests’ arrival. They began to file in to take their seats. It was as if they had been lured by the smell of Vera’s cooking, and there were lots of loud and appreciative cries of “Yummy!” and “Top scoff, Vera!” as the men began to tuck in.

  I worked my way around the table with the red wine, quickly followed by dishes of mashed potatoes and carrots.

  But when I got to the head of the table, Lord Shanderson had hardly touched his food.

  “Get me a whiskey,” he barked when I held out the wine to fill his glass.

  “I’m afraid we only have the claret with lunch, sir,” I replied.

  “Well, I don’t want wine. I said I want a fucking whiskey.”

  A couple of the guests on either side of him fell silent and turned to see my reaction.

  “And I said, we haven’t fucking got any.” This time I made sure I spoke loud enough for everybody to hear.

  Every single one of the guests had stopped chatting now and was staring at Lord Shanderson and me.

  At first it was just his cheeks that were flushed with color, but in a matter of seconds his whole face began to turn a sort of purple, and he sprang from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor. He came at me with such force I didn’t have time to swerve around him before he pushed me hard in the chest, sending me flying backward, narrowly avoiding the open fire. When I hit the deck the impact completely winded me and the wine bottle I was holding shattered
on the flagstone floor.

  Vera came running from the kitchen to see what all the noise was and promptly dropped a dish of mashed potatoes onto the stone floor when she saw Lord Shanderson launch himself at me.

  “Lord Shanderson, what on earth are you doing?” she shrieked, moving in to pull him off me.

  There was a lot of noise and confusion as people moved in to break up the fracas, so I didn’t hear the sound of another vehicle pulling up outside. I was flat on my arse on the cold stone floor, backed into a corner, with Lord Shanderson trying desperately to take a swing at me.

  “You little fuck! How dare you speak to me like that!” he spat.

  But then the crowd seemed to suddenly part, and an unseen force literally lifted Lord Shanderson clean off his feet before hurling him into the table.

  “Taxi for Mr. Gowers?” Frank said, reaching down and hoisting me onto my feet.

  “Frank! What are you doing here? I don’t understand. . . .”

  “I say, who the hell are you?” Lord Shanderson yelled as two of his friends pulled him out of the wreckage of the lunch table and onto his feet. “You are trespassing on private property I’ll have you know!”

  Frank turned around to face His Lordship and took a deep breath before looking back at me.

  “Hang on a minute,” he said.

  He turned around again to face Lord Shanderson, and Frank pulled himself up to his full height so that he towered above him. Lord Shanderson began to protest again, but before any words came out of his mouth, Frank drew back his arm and punched Lord Shanderson hard in the face, knocking him clean off his feet.

  The crowd gasped loudly, and one of the younger guys even stepped forward to square up to Frank. But then the younger guy took a second look at his opponent and quickly thought better of it. Some of the guests were now hovering over Lord Shanderson as he muttered incoherently, but when Frank stepped over they sprang out of the way.