The next drive was a long one, with the guns dotted like waistcoat buttons down the valley. Valerie was bored. Only the birds and the chuckling of a little stream interrupted the quiet. Monica, who found shooting as boring as Corinium Television, was plugged into the Sony Walkman Archie had given her for Christmas. Now she was transfixed by the love duet from
Sarah was equally uncommunicative. Weekends were the worst, she reflected, because, knowing Paul was at home, Rupert would never ring. She’d only come out today for something to do. Spring returns, she murmured, looking at the ruby and amethyst haze of the thickening buds, but not my Rupert. He had been so keen, but suddenly after Valerie’s dinner party he had lost interest. Was it Nathalie Perrault, or Cameron Cook, or even Maud O’Hara he was running after now? Perhaps he was just busy and would come back.
A diversion was provided by the arrival of Hermione Hampshire, the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife, who looked like a sheep, had a ringing voice and appeared to be on so many of the same committees as Monica that she even merited having the Walkman turned off.
‘Freddie’s been shooting wonderfully,’ said Monica kindly, and then started rabbiting on to Hermione Hampshire about shooting lunches.
Valerie listened to them. One could pick up lots of tips about pronunciation from the gentry. But it was confusing that Monica said ‘Eyether’ and Hermione said ‘Eether’.
In the next field she was somewhat unnerved by some black and white cows who cavorted skittishly around, startled by the gunfire. She edged closer to Monica and Hermione.
‘D’you know,’ Monica was saying, ‘I never spend less than forty minutes on a cock.’
Valerie was shocked to the core. She’d always imagined Monica was somehow above sex.
‘I agree,’ said Hermione Hampshire in her ringing voice. ‘I never spend less than thirty minutes on a hen.’
‘They’re talking about plucking,’ whispered Sarah with a giggle, ‘and I don’t think either of them have heard of rhyming slang.’
It was the last drive before lunch. Freddie, like a one-man Bofors, was bringing down pheasants with relentless accuracy.
‘Got my eye in now,’ he said, grinning at the Lord-Lieutenant.
He raised his gun as another pheasant flew towards him, then swore as it crashed prematurely to the ground.
‘Sorry,’ said Tony, who couldn’t bear being upstaged a moment longer. ‘Thought you were unloaded.’
This time it was carnage. The air was raining feathers. Dogs circled, loaders went round breaking the necks of the wounded.
Lucky things, thought Sarah. I wish someone would put me out of my misery.
‘I love your dog,’ she said to Henry Hampshire. ‘I saw a beautiful springer the other day with a long tail.’
‘Good God,’ said Henry Hampshire, appalled, and strode off leaving her in mid-sentence.
‘I thought you said you hadn’t shot before,’ said Tony as they walked back to the house.
‘Not pheasant,’ said Freddie, ‘but I was the top marksman at Bisley for two years.’
Entering the garden, they passed two yews cut in the shape of pheasants.
‘You couldn’t even hit those today, could you, Paul?’ said Tony nastily.
After so much open air and exercise, everyone fell on lunch. There was Spanish omelette cut up in small pieces on cocktail sticks, and a huge stew, with baked potatoes, and a winter salad, and plum cake steeped in brandy and Stilton, with masses of claret and sloe gin.
Freddie was in terrific form. His curls had tightened in the rain. Looking more like a naughty cherub than ever, he kept his end of the table in a roar with stories of his army career and his first catastrophic experiences out hunting.
Henry Hampshire, who had a lean face and turned-down eyes, shed his gentle paternalistic smile on everyone, even Sarah.
‘D’yer really think Springers look better with long tails?’ he asked her.
Sarah had a lot to drink at lunch. She looks like a Renoir, thought Tony, all blonde curls, huge blue eyes and languor.
‘Have you made up your mind about joining Corinium?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, I’d love to. I’ll come in and sign the contract tomorrow.’
‘Only a three months’ trial,’ said Tony, who never took chances, ‘but I think you’ll love it. This will be a very exciting year.’
Christ, I’d like to take her to bed, he thought. Cameron was being very uptight at the moment.
‘Not too worried about me getting you on the telecasting couch?’ he added, lowering his voice.
Sarah went crimson. ‘Cameron must have told you about that. I picked her brains, I didn’t realize you and she. . I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t give it a thought,’ said Tony, pouring her some more sloe gin.
‘No more Stilton, Fred-Fred,’ chided Valerie. ‘What a lovely meal, Monica.’
‘Taggie O’Hara did the whole thing,’ said Monica. ‘I can’t thank you enough for putting me on to her. She’s going to fill up the deep freeze before the children come home at half-term.’
Valerie, who was feeling a little out of things because everyone was laughing at Freddie’s jokes, turned to the Duke. After two glasses of claret she’d be calling him your grouse in a minute.
‘We have a lovely home,’ she said complacently. ‘Green Lawns. I hope we shall receive you there one day. The Hunt was supposed to gather there on New Year’s Day. Do you ride to hounds?’
‘Well, a bit,’ said the Duke, who had his own pack.
‘Freddie’s been asked to hunt with the Belvoir. That’s the smartest pack in the country,’ boasted Valerie.
Everyone except Valerie knew that Belvoir was not pronounced as it was spelt. Everyone except Tony was well-bred enough to keep their traps shut. Buy Tony was fed up with her stupid chatter.
‘If you were really smart, Valerie, you wouldn’t call it Belvoir. It’s pronounced Beaver.’
There was an embarrassed pause.
‘How long have you lived in Gloucestershire?’ asked the Duke, who was a kind man.
The women went off to various loos. Freddie went off to take a telephone call from Tokyo.
‘What a very amusing fellow Freddie Jones is,’ said the Lord-Lieutenant.
‘And very very bright,’ said Tony. ‘That’s why I need him on my Board. Cable and Satellite isn’t just about technology or delivery systems, you know; it’s about marketing programmes. Freddie’s a genius at marketing. Shame we couldn’t include his jumped-up bitch of a wife as part of the bag.’
‘Not on a cocks-only day,’ said Bas.
Everyone laughed.
The guns were waiting to start off for the last two drives of the day. Freddie was still on the telephone to Tokyo. Valerie was admiring the azaleas in Monica’s conservatory.
It was unfortunate that when Freddie came into the hall he found Sarah Stratton in Valerie’s deerstalker giggling frantically and brandishing Valerie’s tan mackintosh cape, at which Basil was pretending to charge like a bull.
‘Ole,’ said Tony, who was grinning in the doorway.
‘It’s selling laike hot gateaux,’ squealed Sarah. Then, seeing Freddie, she went very pink and asked him if he thought the deerstalker suited her.
At that moment Valerie came into the hall.
‘You look delaightful,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve got identical ones in stock. I’ll set one asaide for you.’
‘I really feel I’ve made a breakthrough with Sarah Stratton,’ Valerie kept telling Freddie as they drove home.
Having done her stuff in the morning and during lunch, Monica felt justified in staying behind in the afternoon and doing some gardening. Before she got stuck into pruning, she popped into the kitchen to thank Taggie, but found her looking absolutely miserable standing on one leg.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Monica, alarmed. ‘Everything was wonderful.’
Taggie hung her head. ‘I’m desperately sorry, Lady Baddingham, but I didn’t realize it was a shooting lunch. I
