‘I shall not be following on foot,’ said Tony with confidence. ‘I shall be on a horse. Most definitely.’
‘Then perhaps we should begin by establishing which country you will be hunting in.’
Tony thought the question absurd. ‘Why, here, of course, in England. As I’m a total novice at this I would hardly be venturing abroad.’
The sales assistant found it necessary to inspect a pincushion which resembled a wine coaster, having a base of turned mahogany and a green baize hillock in the centre liberally stuck with pins. ‘Have you any idea which county you will be hunting over, Sir,’ he enquired in a careful voice.
‘Suffolk. Around Framlingham, I imagine. The place I’m staying is in a village called Rushall St. Mary, and the Boxing Day meet is local.’
‘Foxhounds or Harriers then, Sir, I think we may safely assume. All the same, it would be advisable to consult Baily.’
‘Baily’s your resident hunting expert, is he?’
‘You could say that, Sir, yes, you could certainly say that.’ With some considerable difficulty, the aged assistant creaked across the sales floor and pulled out one of a row of uniform red volumes from a shelf above a restrained display consisting of a dun waistcoat, one spur and a bowler hat. ‘Baily’s Hunting Directory. Published annually since 1897, and a veritable mine of information. Our resident expert. So to speak.’ There followed a goodly interval during which the sales assistant shuffled back to his desk and began to leaf back and forth through many pages of dense print interrupted, but not very often, by black and white photographs of hounds, horses and hunt servants, until finally the required entry was located. ‘Now we have it, Sir. Yes, I think we may safely presume your country to be that of the Easton Harriers. If I may quote Baily on the subject:
‘The country covers an area of about 25 miles square in East Suffolk.
Centres: Framlingham, Wickham Market and Woodbridge.
Meet: Thursday, Saturday and some Mondays.
Hunt Uniform: Green.
Distinctive Collar: Fawn.’
He closed the book with some resignation and returned it to the shelf. ‘Not exactly the Quorn, Sir, one has to say. But we can certainly assist you with the selection of appropriate clothing for the conditions. Ditch country, as I am sure you appreciate. Dykes and ditches. No hedges. No upright fences and very little grass. Plough and clay. Rather exposed. An ever-prevailing wind. Not the most comfortable country in the British Isles in which to hunt, Sir, not by any means. Not like the shires. Oh no, nothing like the shires. Not at all.’
‘Did I hear you say the hunt uniform was green?’ The exceedingly pessimistic description of the Eastern Harriers country had, mercifully, been wasted on Tony. ‘Because I rather fancied a red jacket, actually, not a green one.’
‘Scarlet is the correct terminology, if I may say so, Sir,’ the assistant said in a deeply censorious tone. ‘And we would say coat in preference to jacket. A hunt coat. One might own a riding jacket, but for hunting one would wear a coat. Harriers, Sir, wear green coats by tradition.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Tony was disappointed. He had pictured himself mounted upon a gleaming hunter, resplendent in a top hat and scarlet coat (as opposed to a red jacket), totally unrecognised by his wife and children as he rode past them as part of the glorious pageantry of the hunt. He had visualised their utter amazement when he made himself known to them and their absolute astonishment and admiration of his prowess as he sailed, in impeccable style, over hedges and five-bar gates as if born to the saddle. Of course, Tony was gifted with a fine and creative imagination and this flight of fancy was totally divorced from the harsh reality of hunting in East Anglia, as he was yet to discover, but at this particular moment, the loss of the scarlet coat was a grievous blow. Another was soon to follow.
‘You may not be aware, Sir,’ the sales assistant said, ‘that the invitation to wear scarlet, green, or even blue, as the case may be, is still the prerogative of the Master. Tradition and etiquette are very strict where dress is concerned and I would not care to see you fall foul of it. The wearing of the hunt colours, or even the hunt button, is not an automatic right, not even to members who pay the full subscription.’
Tony looked at him in resignation. ‘Then you had better tell me what I can wear. I had no idea that it was going to be so complicated. What does Baily say about it?’
‘I am afraid that Baily will not be of much help to you in this matter, Sir. Baily does assume a certain degree of cognisance in its readership. It does not discuss matters of dress or etiquette.’ No doubt observing the depth of his client’s disappointment, the assistant added, in a benevolent tone, ‘Would you allow me to make a suggestion, Sir?’
‘I would,’ said Tony, with feeling. ‘I’m completely out of my depth with all this tradition and etiquette business. I haven’t a clue. Feel free to make any suggestion you like.’
‘You would be wanting the full hunt coat?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t be wanting half of one.’
‘Then I would suggest a good black melton, Sir, with perhaps a tattersall check lining and a waterproof skirt.’
‘And that would be allowed, would it? A good black melton wouldn’t offend the cognoscenti? Baily would approve of that, would he?’
‘Bailey would certainly approve the black melton, Sir. It would be entirely appropriate. Eminently suitable.’
‘I’ll settle for one of those then.’ Tony stood up at last, prepared to be measured. ‘How long will it take you to make it?’
‘Best to allow six months.’
‘Six months!’ Tony was appalled. ‘I can’t wait six months! I need it for Boxing Day!’
‘Boxing Day is out of the question, Sir, for a bespoke garment. The full hunt coat requires at least two fittings. We insist upon it. However,’ the assistant laid a hand, the back of which was speckled with grave spots, on Tony’s arm in a soothing manner. ‘If you could care to follow me, we could perhaps peruse our selection of ready-to-wear hunt coats and hope we may be able to adapt one to fit in time for Boxing Day.’
With a sigh, Tony allowed himself to be led (at the speed of an arthritic tortoise) to a rail of garments built into a recess and hidden by a curtain. After a certain amount of deliberation, the assistant selected a black hunt coat and held it up for Tony to try.
‘Good grief! It weighs a ton!’
‘The full hunt coat is a substantial garment, Sir. Highly suitable for the country, if I may say so. You will have cause to be grateful for the weight and the waterproof quality of the melton cloth, Sir, when hunting in East Anglia. You will appreciate the insulating properties of the woollen lining, as well as the moisture-proof skirt panels when you are following the Eastern Harriers. Oh yes, Sir, our melton full hunt coat can be worn with confidence in any country. It would earn you the unqualified approval of Baily, there is no doubt about it.’ After some prolonged fumbling with stout bone buttons and stiff buttonholes, he stood back and surveyed Tony’s upper half with pride. ‘Remarkable. A remarkably good fit, Sir. A most miraculous fit indeed, as I am sure you will agree. I can see no necessity for alterations whatsoever. None at all.’
Mollified, Tony stared at his reflection in a heavily carved mahogany cheval mirror. He was delighted with what he saw. The Melton Full Hunt Coat was magnificent in every way, with high cut lapels, a well-defined and elegant waist, the skirt below made important by its waterproof lining. Bespoke or not, the cut was superb; the quality most blatantly obvious. ‘I think this will do very well,’ he said decisively. ‘As a matter of interest, have we discussed the price?’
‘We have not, Sir.’ The sales assistant stooped again to the buttons, adding, without the least trace of embarrassment, ‘The price of the Melton Full Hunt Coat is nine hundred and seventy five pounds.’
Even Tony, who was not short of money by any means and accustomed to buying expensive clothes, winced. ‘And if I had one made to measure?’
‘You would be looking at a
price of up to one thousand five hundred pounds. And to be perfectly honest, Sir, to the layman, the fit would not have been appreciatively different.’
‘In that case, I’ve just saved myself over five hundred pounds.’ Having justified the purchase of the Melton Full Hunt Coat, Tony was ready to turn his attention to the next item. ‘Now for the boots,’ he said with relish.
‘I rather think the breeches first, Sir, the boots later.’ He pronounced them britches.
‘Britches it is then. White, I think. White britches would be appropriate, don’t you think?’
‘White britches would not be at all appropriate, Sir, unless you are thinking of show jumping at Wembley Stadium. For the Eastern Harriers, I would suggest a medium fawn, drab or stone colour. One would not wish to recommend anything too light in colour for hunting in East Anglia, due to the nature of the country. I’m thinking in particular of the plough, the mud and the clay. The going can be somewhat... deep.’
‘Only when it rains, surely.’ Tony was not easily deterred. ‘How about sorting me out a selection to try?’
Half an hour later, after struggling in and out of several pairs of drab, stone or fawn britches, Tony, pink and perspiring, leaned against the burgundy flock wallpaper in his king size changing room complete with its own wing-backed leather chair and carved mahogany cheval mirror, and mopped his brow. He had now been in the department for almost two hours and had so far only made one purchase. He put his head round the curtain in order to summon the assistant and saw that he appeared to have dropped off to sleep whilst standing up like an old horse. He awoke with a start to Tony’s explanation of how all the britches were both too tight and too long, ‘and all these little buttons are the very devil to do up, even with the hook thing. I couldn’t even sit down in most of them; I’d have no chance of getting up on a horse.’ Remembering Emily’s pony-mad stage, he added ‘I don’t suppose you have any stretch joddie things?’
‘Stretch joddie things we don’t do, Sir,’ the assistant said solemnly. ‘The traditional cavalry twill britches do need to be broken in, of course, and as to the length and width, you are a little short of leg, Sir, if you will forgive me for saying so, and a trifle thick around the calf. However, if you have no objection to a certain percentage of man-made fibre in the cloth, I think I can find you some britches in a blended material which is designed to allow a certain amount of two-way stretch, and the Velcro fastenings may be more convenient for you to manage.’
The two-way stretch britches with Velcro fastenings, albeit proffered with an air of reluctance which implied that they were not perhaps in the best of taste and might not pass the scrutiny of Baily, were nevertheless pronounced a good enough fit to try with a boot.
‘I don’t suppose you could make me a pair of boots?’ Tony wondered, worried now about being a little short of leg and a trifle thick around the calf.
The assistant shook his head. ‘Not in time for Boxing Day. Waxed calf twelve months. Box calf nine months.’
‘Then I shall have to settle for waxed calf ready-mades.’
‘Regretfully, ready-made boots come in box calf only, Sir.’
Another hour later, surrounded by abandoned boots; too narrow, too wide, too small, too large, too long and too short, a pair was finally deemed satisfactory although Tony walked around the sales floor like a toy soldier, quite unable to flex his ankles or his knees.
‘The length will drop slightly around the ankles in wear, Sir, have no fear,’ the assistant assured him. ‘You will find them extremely comfortable when you are mounted and they will give excellent protection against brambles, blackthorn and gateposts. Boots such as the Belvoir Supreme are not intended for walking.’
The selection of a handsome waistcoat in Tattersall check to match the lining of the Melton Full Hunt Coat was followed by a hunting shirt of a surprising length made out of soft, fine wool and without a collar in order to accommodate the stock. The stock, an unnerving item made of folded white linen and several feet in length, was catastrophic. Despite much patient tuition, Tony’s inept and impatient fingers were quite unable to master the intricate technique required to transform the length of linen into even a passable imitation of the elegant neckwear which graced the neck of those photographed for Baily’s Hunting Directory. In Tony’s hands, the stock resembled a bandage applied to some imaginary injury by a child in a nurse’s uniform, managing to be both tight and loose and lopsided into the bargain. At length, even the patience and perseverance of the aged assistant failed and he fell back, exhausted. Excusing himself for quite a few minutes, he returned with a stock of the ready tied variety, no doubt discreetly tucked out of sight in the stock room for such an emergency as this. It was, he informed Tony, something akin to wearing a made up bow tie for the opera, but in the circumstances...
Tony was now prepared to take a lively interest in what form the stock pin might take, but the one displayed for his inspection upon a small pad of maroon velvet was disappointingly plain, resembling nothing more than a giant safety pin in nine carat gold. ‘Pins with fox head or horseshoe decorations we do not stock sir. The decorated pin is definitely not to be recommended. They are not worn, even in East Anglia in the country of the Easton Harriers.’
String and felted woollen gloves were selected. Two pairs. One (apparently) to be tucked under the saddle flap to be exchanged when the first pair became wet with rain or sweat from the horse’s neck and began to slip on the reins. The gloves were followed by the most thrilling purchase of the day, which was the hunting whip. This exceedingly fine object, the leather covered shaft of which bore two solid silver mounts, had at one end a curved bone handle, and at the other a plaited thong several feet in length with a lash at the tip like the flickering red tongue of a serpent. Tony was enchanted. Luckily for the aged assistant, no tuition was called for as the whip came complete with a small manual of instructions designed to enable the novice to master the etiquette and technique of whipmanship in the privacy of his or her own home (or in Tony’s case, the office).
Spurs were offered and declined with regret and the final item of expenditure discussed at length. Tony was dismayed to hear that the top hat he had pictured himself wearing when part of the glorious pageantry of the hunt, was an absolute impossibility.
‘Not a silk hat, not with the black melton, Sir, oh, no, not correct at all, I’m afraid. As for the bowler hat, that is only permissible with ratcatcher which, as I am sure you are aware, consists of a tweed coat and brown boots, traditionally worn for cub hunting. The velvet cap is, of course, the prerogative of hunt servants and lady members, which leaves just the skull cap, Sir, with the harness attached, the whole made relatively bearable by the addition of a silk cover with a peak as worn by the Prince of Wales.’
There was little Tony could do other than agree. And so, with the mental picture of himself slightly adjusted to allow for the Melton Full Hunt Coat instead of the scarlet, and the elegance of the Top Hat replaced by the skull cap with a black silk cover as worn by the Prince of Wales, he finally handed over his debit card. He tried not to notice the astonishing total.
Some three hours and thirty minutes after his arrival, Tony bade an affectionate farewell to the aged assistant, who thanked him for his custom and wished him good hunting. ‘Best make the most of it while you can, Sir,’ he advised. ‘They’ll ban it, you know; the antis. Eventually they’ll get their way and they’ll put a stop to it and there’ll be no more hunting. We can’t even put hunting clothes in the window now without getting a brick thrown through it. There are more of them than there are of us, Sir, and that’s the long and short of it.’
‘Grief,’ said Tony, thinking of the cheque he had just signed. ‘Then what?’
‘You’ll be drag hunting, Sir. That’s what. You’ll be following bloodhounds. They’ll be following a smelly sausage along a pre-arranged route. A good gallop over some nicely maintained fences and home in time for tea. No skill attached to it. All the science and the knowledge, th
e long history and the wonderful unpredictability and the thrill of the chase lost forever. Baily will turn in his grave.’ The aged assistant turned back to his ledger.
Encumbered with many large carrier bags, Tony made his way carefully down the brass railed staircase and hailed a taxi. He had missed his planned lunch at the Institute of Directors and would have to head back to the office and send one of the girls out to Pret a Manger for a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich and a double shot latte. Whilst the taxi stalled in the inevitable snarl of traffic in Regent Street, and with absolutely no sense of having put the cart before the horse, Tony occupied his mind with his next objective; that of organising a crash course of riding lessons.
TWENTY ONE
Anna couldn’t stop thinking about Nicola. Could she have been mistaken? Was this just a relationship with the vet and nothing more? Was her imagination making two and two into five? She had to find out. On the morning the blacksmith was due she made two mugs of coffee, added a bowl of sugar and some biscuits, and made her way down to the stables.
The blacksmith’s van with its portable forge was parked in the yard. Anna listened for the sound of rasping or hammering but all was silent. She left the coffee in the tack room and walked over to the barn, approaching the window into the rickyard cautiously; silently; with all the stealth of an accomplished voyeur.
The first thing she noticed was that the blacksmith was not plump, like the vet; he was wiry and grey-haired and, considering his age, remarkably energetic. His arms and his hands, where he held onto the hay bale which supported Nicola, were knotted with veins, and even from where Anna stood she could see that his fingernails were black. As she watched, his scrawny buttocks abruptly ceased pumping. At first he fell forward and afterwards (unfortunately for Anna) rolled over and revealed, in a nest of wet, grey hair, intimate parts that should have remained private, and would henceforth feature (together with the Barclay’s eagle) in her worst nightmares.
The Last Baronet Page 16