Deer Oh Dear

Several attractive ladies of various ages sat blushing in various alcoves, the pint of Black Sheep was settling on the counter-top, the hound was in his favourite place, and the familiar Stuffer cackle dominated the saloon bar.

The hand powered into the air in greeting: “B, you old bar-steward; what are you doing here? Nobody asked you grouse shooting – again?” He patted the empty stool next to him.

“I might ask the same of you” I said, trying to force a grin, “Shouldn’t you be away in the north parting rich Americans from hard earned dollars?”

“No, that’s your job B, ripping off the widows and orphans, that’s what you City lads are trained for – though in your case B, I should think it’s pretty instinctive.”

I worked harder on cranking up the unwilling grin.

“But,” he continued “As it happens, I have been with an American client and getting him an introduction to high society. And seeing you asked, he has rewarded me rather appropriately. Care for a Black Sheep?”

It appeared. I settled on the next stool, knowing that the oncoming anecdote was as inevitable as a high plains tornado and that one best be seated and watered for it.

“I don’t suppose you know the Duke of Clapham, B, Jonny Clapham? Nice chap, not a bad shot now, I gave him a few lessons and sorted him out. He lets me run the stalking in the park at Penge Abbey. Always impresses the Yanks – real live Duke, not utterly gaga, great mouldy house with lots of blotchy furniture, acres of woods and parkland and some easy shots at a stag or two. Not that I tell them they’re easy shots of course. And Jonny, for an extra five hundred pounds, will put them up in the east wing overnight, let them be eaten by blue blooded bed bugs, and in the evening even take bread with them. Great grandfather’s claret is extra. It’s from Majestic really of course, pull half the label off and throw dirty water over it.

Nearly went wrong this time though.

This yankee chap is in hard drives or hard oil or hard cheese or something in Des Moines, he arrived with his grandson, Dwayne or Dwight, nasty surly lad of 15 with his hat on backwards. But plenty of spare rooms so no problem at the Abbey, and Darren behaved pretty well whilst we were in the hide. Not a squeak, entire time on his iphone, never looked up. Could have been in Des Moines for all he cared.

Granpaps got a very nice stag, I took it behind a bush and gralloched it, and we posed for the hunter home from the hill pictures in front of the Abbey. Then dinner with the Duke at 8pm, some pretty repulsive sherry in the Great Hall but the Yank had never tasted it before, so could not tell that any gentleman would have rejected it even in the soup.

Into the dining room, the butler, forced out of retirement and into the black livery for this – Jonny gives value for five hundred quid you know – doing all the serving and pouring. Smoked salmon to kick off, the Dylan kid gave it a dirty look and nibbled very cautiously but soon got the hang of it and wolfed that down.

Rather a long pause and the visitors started to look impatient but just when I thought we might get a little talk on fast food and the wonders of the drive through diner, in came butler and cook – nice looking girl, the cook incidentally – with four vast plates with silver lids on. One in front of each of us and then lifted simultaneously – the cook did Jonny’s and I noticed they gave each other a very beady look. A partridge each and all the trimmings, very nice. Little exclamations of delight – except from Dwebble who was staring at the salver.

“It’s a boid” he hollered, “a dead boid!”

More intelligence there than I would have given him credit for. Granpappy looked daggers and was about to tell him to get munching when the kid delivered the coup de grace:

“Granmaw won’t like this, Granpaps, when I tells her I eaten parrot”

“Say Duke....” says Granpaps.

But Jonny was ahead of him.

“Parsons” (this was to the butler) “Do we have any choice for dinner tonight?”

From the shaking of family portraits as Parsons slammed the door I suspected his preferred choice was diced callow youth. I started to draw Jonny out with stories about great stags missed, as part of our guest self esteem management programme, but within about two minutes Parsons was back with another vast plate and silver lid, which he plonked rather firmly in front of Dwobble. White cloth over left arm, and the lid was raised to reveal – a hamburger and fries, with lettuce leaf on the side to satisfy the five a day requirement.

Jonny half raised an aristocratic eyebrow, though Granpaps and the kid seemed unmoved by this turn of fortune. Presumably they thought that ducal kitchens at all times housed a range of hot foods for every taste, like TGIFridays.

Later that night I happened to have to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, and was able to interview the cook (did I mention she was rather pretty?) on this remarkable substitution. “As soon as I saw Fat Boy in shorts and baseball cap in the Great Hall I knew he wouldn’t want the Partridge a la Mode, so I ran up a burger as well.”

“But why not send it up with the partridges?” I asked.

“Because then Jonny, I mean, his Grace, would have wanted one too, he hates game and all that fancy food, only eats it to impress the paying guests. Another cognac, Stuffer?”

The Deal Hunter

The holidays are over at last, and B is at work.  The pinstripe jacket is over the back of the chair, the bowler hat has been dusted and is resting nonchalantly on top of the filing cabinet, the pewter pheasant perched on top, the laptop is open on the corner of the desk, both screens of the PC are on, prices scrolling with elegant deliberation across the right hand one.  And in the high backed chair is B himself; hair shorn like a summer lawn, shoes polished to sergeant major standard, a suitable expression of frowning concentration keeping the double chin taut, his eyes focused on the left hand screen.

So let’s move round behind him and see if we can get a glimpse of the great financier at work, of an epoch making deal in final structuring before we read about it in gushing praise from the FT.

The right little finger presses a keyboard button and a tantalising glimpse of the screen seems to show black and gold and the words “Holland and...” before they are replaced by the sobriety of a rate sheet; maybe a very prestigious deal for the Kingdom of the Netherlands?  “Yes, dear boy?”

“Oh, nothing much B, do you think we could look at the second quarter results when you are not so busy?  We need to send them upstairs.”

“Of course, my old duck, maybe this afternoon?  Bring me a macchiato next time you happen to pass the machine could you?  And a Kitkat”

B picks up the phone as we move away and by walking very slowly perhaps we can pick up the theme of the deal:

“Hi, Harry, I’ve moved the diary around, and I could do that partridge day on the 21^st, very kind of you indeed.  And, look, we’re taking a day at Snizort on 14^th January, some very late well trained seriously high pheasanties.  Just your thing.  Would you come to that, be lovely if you could....”

The bank better check its deal targets for the year, because if B hasn’t done his share by now, there won’t be much else getting booked in the P&L this quarter under his name.  The season is started, the leaves are beginning to turn, the woodlands beckon; the bowler’s in the office and the flat cap is in the Rangie.

Oh yes, the holidays are over and the top sportsman is seriously at work.