In the master bedroom at Green Lawns Freddie Jones lay beside his wife in the vast suede oval bed, covered with dials for quadraphonic stereo, radio, dimmer switches, razors and vibrators which Valerie used to massage her neck. They had to leave for Tony’s about nine. It was now only six forty-five, which left plenty of time for sex, thought Freddie hopefully. They had already drunk two cups of tea from the Teasmade. Reaching across, Freddie put his hand on Valerie’s bush, fingering her clitoris from time to time as a door-to-door salesman, not very hopeful of entrance, might press a doorbell.
Valerie sighed. She knew no wife should deny her husband his conjugal rights, but one of the joys of Freddie getting up early to go hunting every Saturday meant that she could pretend to be asleep as she did every weekday when he left for work at six-thirty.
Valerie did everything to avoid sex. She had already taken back to Jolly’s of Bath the absurdly sexy black lingerie an ever-hopeful Freddie had bought her for Christmas and replaced it with some peach satin sheets for the guest bedroom. She always wore woollen nightgowns buttoned up to the neck. If only she could sew up the bottom as well! The pressing finger was getting more insistent.
‘D’you want to come, Fred-Fred?’
‘Do you?’
‘Not really. I want to be fresh for Tony and Monica.’
‘Will you help me then?’
Valerie sighed again. Kneeling, she raised the red woollen nightgown, so Freddie could admire her candy pink nipples and her neatly clipped bush. She loathed watching him, but at least it stopped her getting messy.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ sighed Freddie. ‘You’ve got the body of a little girl.’
‘Here’s some tissues. Don’t waste a clean towel, Fred-Fred.’
He had barely finished his lonely act before Valerie had reached up to press another switch on the bedhead which instantly sent boiling water gushing out of the 22-carat-gold mixer taps into the vast onyx and sepia marble double bath next door. Then, remembering she didn’t want a flushed face, Valerie twiddled another knob to lower the temperature.
Snowdrops spread in a milk-white blur on either side of Tony Baddingham’s drive. The guns, in their dung- coloured clothes, gathered outside The Falconry, pulling on gumboots and bellowing at excited dogs that whisked about lifting their legs on Monica’s aconites.
At nine-thirty, just as it stopped raining, Freddie’s freshly cleaned red Jaguar roared up the drive.
‘Oh dear,’ said Freddie, leaning out of the window and roaring with laughter at the other guns’ filthy Landrovers, ‘I forgot to chuck a bucket of mud over my car before I came out. Amizing, those snowdrops,’ he said, clambering out. ‘Just like a big fall of snow.’
He was wearing a red jersey, a Barbour and no cap on his red-gold curls. Next minute Valerie emerged from her side in a ginger knickerbocker suit, with a matching ginger cloak flung round her shoulders, and a ginger deerstalker.
‘Christ,’ muttered Tony to Sarah Stratton.
‘It’s Sherlock Lovely Homes,’ said Sarah, making no attempt not to laugh. ‘All she needs is a curved pipe and a spy glass.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Valerie gaily.
‘We were admiring your — er — outfit,’ said Sarah quickly.
‘All from my Spring range,’ said Valerie, looking smug. ‘Better hurry, it’s selling like hot cakes.’
Tony oozed forward, exuding charm.
‘You both know Sarah and Paul Stratton of course, and my brother Bas,’ he said smoothly, and when he went on to introduce Valerie to the Lord-Lieutenant Henry Hampshire, two peers and a Duke from the next county, Valerie nearly had the orgasm Freddie had so longed to give her earlier. Fred-Fred must definitely join the Corinium Board, thought Valerie. It might be a Prince, or even a King, next time.
‘Hullo, Valerie,’ said Monica, who was wearing a green sou’wester over a headscarf. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Naughty,’ chided Valerie, waving a tan suede finger. ‘I said you must call me Mousie, No, I won’t have a coffee, thank you.’
She didn’t want to have to go to the toilet behind a hawthorn bush mid-morning in front of all the gentry.
They were about to set off when the phone rang loudly in Freddie’s car.
‘’Ullo, Mr Ho Chin, how are fings?’ said Freddie in delight. ‘Grite, grite. Fifty million, did you say? Yeah, that seems about right. Look, ’ave a word with Alfredo and see if ‘e wants to come in too, and phone me back. Yes, I’ll be on this number all day.’
The guns exchanged looks of absolute horror, as Freddie extracted the telephone from the car, all set to bring it with him.
Tony sidled up. ‘D’you mind awfully leaving that thing behind? Might put off the pheasants.’
‘’Course not,’ said Freddie, putting it back in the car. ‘If Chin can’t get me ’ere, he’ll ring my office.’
‘D’you take your telephone hunting too?’ asked an appalled Paul.
‘Always,’ said Freddie.
They started off up an incredibly steep hill behind the house. It was one of those mild January days that give the illusion winter is over. A few dirty suds of traveller’s joy still hung from the trees. No wind ruffled the catkins. It was hellishly hard going. Valerie, wishing she hadn’t worn her long johns, tried not to pant.
As it started to rain, she put up her ginger umbrella which kept catching in the branches. On the brow of the hill the guns took up their position, which they’d drawn out of a hat earlier. Except for Freddie’s distracting red-gold curls, the flat caps along the row were absolutely parallel with the gun barrels. Shooting in the middle of the line between Tony and the Duke, Freddie jumped from foot to foot swinging his gun through the line like Ian Botham hooking.
The Duke, who had three daughters and was hoping for a son so the title wouldn’t pass to a younger brother, was not the only gun looking at Freddie with extreme trepidation.
‘I’m ’ot,’ said Freddie, shedding his Barbour. Seeing the Duke’s and Tony’s looks of horror at Freddie’s red jersey and Bas laughing like a jackass, Valerie, who’d been yakking nonstop to Sarah Stratton about puff-ball skirts, sharply told Freddie to put it back on. For once Freddie ignored her.
Suddenly the patter of rain on the flat caps was joined by the relentless swish of the beaters’ flags.
‘Come on, little birdies,’ cooed Paul, caressing the trigger.
I hate him for being him and not Rupert, thought Sarah despairingly.
A lone pheasant came into view, high over Freddie’s head.
‘Bet he misses,’ said Paul.
The Duke and Tony raised their guns in case he did.
But a shot rang out and the pheasant somersaulted like a gaudy catherine wheel and thudded to the ground.
Next moment a great swarm appeared, some steeply rising, some whirring close to the ground. There was a deafening fusillade and the air was full of feathers as birds cartwheeled and crashed into the grass.
The whistle blew; the first drive was over. Dogs shot off to retrieve the plunder. It was plain from the number of brace being amassed by Freddie’s loader that he’d shot the plus twos off everyone else.
‘Freddie Jones seems a bloody good shot,’ said Bas.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ snapped Paul, who had easily shot the least.
For the next drive the guns formed a ring round a little yellow stone farmhouse with a turquoise door and a moulting Christmas tree in the back yard.
Once more the shots rang out, once more the sky rained pheasants. To left and right, Freddie, the Duke and the Lord-Lieutenant were bringing down everything that came over. Tony fared less well. Valerie was standing behind him with Monica and her endless chatter put him off.
At the end of the drive Tony’s loader, knowing the competitive nature of his boss, pinched a brace from Bas on one side and another from the Lord-Lieutenant who was gazing admiringly at Sarah.
‘Those are mine!’ said the Lord-Lieutenant sharply.
‘Sorry,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘My loader’s very jealous of my reputation.’
‘Jealous loader, indeed,’ muttered the Lord-Lieutenant.
