It had got a bit quiet around 9.30pm, but B, with the skills that made him justifiably famous, had engineered a merger between the shootists in the back bar and the beaters and picker ups in the front, using that most polished tool of the investment bankers armoury (“Drinks on us, in the back bar!”). Since then the hooley had flourished and the Generous Host’s credit card was slowly melting under the strain. The landlord had changed the barrel at ten-thirty and he was beginning to consider another trip to the cellar.
There is nothing like the end of the season, and the knowledge you’ll be paying for your own booze until next September, for sharpening the thirst. And that last opportunity for the serious shredding of reputation and character that is so much an integral part of English shooting society must not be missed. So let’s join them for pints mild and bitter and conversation bitter and mild.
The Generous Host is telling a story about a Scotsman, the Pakistani Ambassador, and a Taxidermist – but we’ll leave that one to another time. B is leaning on the bar with his head very close to that of the Brigadier’s Wife. You might well suspect seduction, but B is a little rotund for her tastes, and in any case B is being wickedly indiscreet about Walter and his recent company flotation and who exactly was discovered to be on the payroll. Walter is talking to the Keeper, about three partridge days for next year and trying to explain why the company will be paying a high price for two, and that the correspondence should relate only to those two. The Keeper is new to high finance, especially as practised by low persons, but is starting to grasp the concept.
In the snug corner, dear old Weobley, top shot with a pair of Purdeys, is talking to dear old Roger, top beater with a pair of spaniels. Mr Weobley thinks Roger is very drunk; but he isn’t. Roger thinks old Weobley is very drunk; he is.
“Rum lot, this lot,” says Weobley “I did think they might show a bit more gratitude over the way my bank sorted out that loan for them before the election. Of course, one does it for the good of the party and of the country, of the country, yes. But it is customary, you know to...”
“Customary, Mr Weobley?”
“To...err, you know, to...um...mark their appreciation in some public way...”
“A vote of thanks, you mean, Mr Weobley?”
“Ha-ha-ha. No, no, Roger, my dear chap – two more please landlord – no, by, um, well... Well, these things don’t matter to me, of course, but Jane, she would have loved to be Lady Weobley, and nice for her, you know. Had to put up with a lot over the years whilst I served commerce and country and what not. Don’t care myself naturally, but to be Lady Weobley would have been nice for her, impress the butcher and so on”
Roger looks utterly blank as he considers why the government would want to honour that rather fierce lady; then he gets it:
“Ah, you mean you would be Sir Weobley. Aaaah.”
“Shush-shush-shush! Just between us dear chap. But yes, I would be Sir Frank Weobley. Does have a certain ring I must admit. Not my thing really, of course, doesn’t matter to me. Just for the lady-wife you know. Don’t tell this lot. Jealous you know. Worked hard for all this, they don’t realise that”
“Yes, of course. SIR Frank”
“Shush, shush, strictly private, just between us, no more need be said”
“Of course, Mr W”
As the sadly still Mr Weobley disappears to the gents, B wanders over wondering, with that City instinct for valuable information, what all that was about.
Roger tells him. “Not to be repeated Mr B.”
“Of course, Roger.”
Roger stops by the Brigadier’s Wife, and B pauses by the Generous Host. Who turns to.....and so it goes.
But now Mr Weobley is leaving:
“Goodnight Sir Frank!”
“’Onour to shoot with the h’aristocracy!”
“Sleep well mi Lord Weobley”
“See you soon Sir Frankie”
“Night night Knight!”
He shakes his head in modesty and embarrassment; but can’t help feeling, as he gets in the back of the Land Rover, a frisson of pleasure as to what should have been.
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