The Beater's Tale

The Generous Host presented his backside to the dying embers of the fire.  Closing time was two hours ago; even the most grateful landlord hopes the punters might go home some time before dawn breaks. But in the back bar there was no sign of cessation.

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.
    

And a Spaniel in a Stubble Field

You might well recognise the cast; it is indeed the usual suspects, gathered in a beautiful corner of .... did we give this away before, as the torrential rain tore down the village street?  I think we did; if we didn't, and for anybody who worries about these things, it is Wiltshire.

Last year’s partridge day on the Wiltshire Downs consisted of a large breakfast and a slow drive back to Chelsea enlivened only by the frantic dance of windscreen wipers.  But here we are again, fifteen months later.  Here again, led fearlessly by the Generous Host whose rain dance seems to have worked this time.  It is a crispingly clear sunny January late afternoon, not a cloud in the sky, a reddening glow on the western horizon, a certainty of frost tonight. The GH has procured a late pheasant day to replace last year’s washed out partridge day. 

And what a day it has been.  The wily January pheasants have finally learnt that if you see a well spaced line of tweedy chaps it is not a good idea to head directly for them.  They rocket steeply upwards away from the beaters and dogs, curving and swerving, escaping sideways and backwards and to stratospheric heights, knowing that if they can just win through the next two minutes they will get to enjoy spring and all the joys thereof.

Not a lot of birds are left, but oh, what amazing birds survive, what worthy opponents they have become.  The tweedy chaps may, by virtue of gunpowder and lead, think they have the upper hand, but the birds are educated now.  They are quicker, higher, and faster than the earthbound shootists far below, and they know the subtle arts of undermining confidence.  A gun who misses a high curling bird will never get on them again; he’ll shoot below and in front and above; each time he’ll curse and pull the trigger further below or in front or above.  The pheasants snigger, gliding at full power and watching the sweating grumbling line below.  In this they are in unconscious league with the beaters and pickers- up, who watch disbelievingly, tutting, groaning, knowing how much better they could do this.  Occasionally a fusillade of eight shots will ring out, a bird does not make it, and five different guns make a mental note to add that to their personal bag. It is strange indeed how in January the individual totals always add up at least twice the actual bag on the game cart.

The shooters swing and groan and stretch:  “I was right on that one, saw him shake, he’ll be dead behind that wood.”  The picker-up smothers a giggle and in pretence of looking, goes  behind the hedge for a quick fag.  And the pheasant glides to an elegant landing in the aforesaid wood, serenely strutting away among the rusty bracken and wizened blackberries. 

Finally, the keeper blows the horn, two pheasants flap elegantly and slowly over the line, the mad spaniels are unleashed, the sun sinks below the languid curves of the chalk horizon. The guns look hopefully towards those birds that must have come down a long way back.  The pickers-up try to look as though they are looking.  The Generous Host tells a last funny story.  The guns guffaw and then fall silent. The spaniels run around in great circles pointlessly swishing the stubble. The labradors gaze reflectively over the field of dreams.

That eerie winter silence falls upon the land.  The light fades, the frost creeps out of the wood and down the hill.  A distant pheasant lets out a cackle of triumph as it sweeps up to roost.  The guns are sheathed.  A beady fox grins from the hedge as the little army departs.

It is the end of the day; and for most present, the end of the season. The log fire in the King’s Arms beckons, the beer in the cellar is at peak perfection, stories are been mentally polished.  The half empty game cart trundles away. 

Night descends upon the downs.

Left and Right

You may not be aware, but it’s been a wonderful year for grouse.  Extraordinary.  Never seen a season like it. Five invitations I’ve had, and each one of them to a well stocked moor, and each moor with a jolly nice shoot hut and ample liquid supplies.  None that one indulges of course.

“Can’t, driving, old boy”

“Really? You should get a driver old son, I don’t know how I’d get by without mine”

Pah.  Bloody estate agents.  What have we come to, with estate agents paddling across grouse moors; and having drivers, for goodness sake. Rum lot, probably spend the day lotting the moor up into suitable parcels for development.  But I have to admit this one could shoot.

He had arrived in a white gold lined Range Rover Sport at 9.25am, just in time for the instructions, his chap handing him all the kit out of the back.  All new and shiny of course, and a triumph of cheque book over taste.  Orange socks as well.  Dash it all.  What is matter with blue or red, I ask you, orange! The final twist was from the host and moor owner, one of those tenth generation old colonel types who breed so well in the north, who looked at the socks and the white Rangy and the tweedy man unzipping the Purdeys and through the upper lip caterpillar snorted “Bloody bankers”. 

I pointed out that he was not a cutting edge professional such as yours truly, but it was obvious that such distinctions of class were lost on our host, who said “It’ll be traffic wardens next” and marched off to the beaters, a finer class of chap altogther.

The estate agent was not phased by any of these matters and proudly told us he was about to pull off the property deal of the year and brandished two mobile phones at us.

“Better not let the Colonel see that” one of our team said, seared by the Colonel’s reaction to his i-phone going off in mid-drive the previous year; “Lead shot direct to the bottom would be less painful”.

“Nah, this is the big one, I’m not losing the deal or the day.  Move with the times mate, this is business.  In’it?”

We went to our pegs and business commenced. It really was a superb day, lots of the little g-birds and very challenging. I did notice our Two Phoned new friend had his head at funny angles at various times between drives and there was a lot of maneuverings between pockets, but also that the grouse near him were coming down; he certainly had a good eye.  But so, I noticed, did the Colonel, who was waving the old eyebrows in his direction at frequent intervals.

On the 3^rd drive Two Phones and I were not in butts, but in grassy tussocks in a shallow valley.  The whistle sounded to warn us to pay attention to the start of proceedings, but now Two Phones was in serious action, Nokia’s fully deployed, one in each hand, gun tucked under his arm.  And I could see what he could not, which was a fully primed British Army ex-Colonel advancing at fast march from the rear.

“You! You! What the devil are you doing?  Damn it sir, the drive is underway.”

Not easy to deal with this sort of rear attack when fully conversational on two mobiles, but the shrug and the toss of the head was not the best calculated response. 

The Colonel stepped it up “Mobile telephones are forbidden on this shoot.  Forbidden, not allowed, I have never…”

What he had never we shall never either, because his attention had been distracted by a brace of grouse approaching from the left.  I think we all saw them at once, I began to raise my gun, but old Two Phones in one swift manoeuvre dropped both phones, applied Purdey to upper hip, fired both barrels, ignored two grouse crashing to the ground, and retrieved both phones: “Sorry mate, bit of action on the other line.”

The Colonel swerved at this point and went rather pale.  As he passed I said, unable to think of any words that exactly fitted the situation “Lovely drive, Colonel”

He paused, with the look of a man who is contemplating an immediate sale of the ancestral lands, snorting so hard the upper lip fungus blew around like a palm tree in a hurricane. 

“I should send him home; but the [military term deleted] bugger is too good for that.”

And so it did prove.  By lunch our hero was sitting next to the Colonel and the body language strongly suggested the Colonel was about to invest in real estate in a big way. And that there was a gold Sports Rangy on order to replace the white one.

   

The Interview

“B; my dear chap....”

Andrew’s massive hand reached out and casually crushed mine. 

“So good of you to come.  Let me introduce the rest of us – no, no; first let me give you a snifter”.

A large tumbler of golden life was pushed across the table in front of me.  I eyed it, hoping my hand might recover consciousness enough to lift it in the next few minutes.  The introductions were made.  To the casual observer, here were eight City types meeting in one of those old fashioned City restaurants that in truth survive more from the tourist business than the bowler hat business.  But beneath the pinstriped uniforms lurked the terrible truth – this was Andrew McTavish’s Scottish shooting syndicate; and your nervous and trembling correspondent, surreptitiously shaking his hand behind his back in the hope of restoring some circulation, was here in hope of chumming in to said syndicate and thus some fine shooting in dearest Albion.

“We should go to the table.  Drink up B.  Not like you to hold back from finest Talisker"

It was obvious that the rest of the syndicate, Andrew’s old lags, had been here a brace of doubles earlier than me, presumably to dissect my character and parse my reputation.  But as I downed the Isle of Skye’s finest product, it was also obvious that my brace of doubles was all in the same glass.  I had a momentary sensation of being hit by a tank and my hand came suddenly back to full functionality.

The little procession proceeded across the dining room with some impressed looking tourist types gawking at us.  No doubt, next week they would be telling the folks back in Hicksville, Wisconsin, (population: 1,926) that they had dined in the presence of the Governor and Court of the Bank of England.  Andrew directed us to our places with him in the middle, and me next to him.

“Now, B, we know your taste for all things Italian...” - much guffawing from those present who had obviously received a full briefing on various complications arising on a business trip to Milan a few years before, complications at the expense of yours truly but instigated by Andrew whose recommended Milan nightspot had turned out to be even more dubious than the quality of bonds he flogged to widows and orphans to earn the crust.

“...For all things Italian, so I ordered a rather jolly Barolo for tonight.”  Indeed he had.  There was a uncorked bottle at each place, together with a massive balloon glass.

“But first we traditionally wash down the salmon with a further soupcon of Talisker”.  A tray of overfilled golden tumblers appeared and were distributed amongst those present.  “Sláinte!”  He drained the glass at one flourish.

More training should have made for this event.  I operated the glass and had an odd sensation of the tank backing up over me.

What the loyal reader will be expecting now is an insight into Scottish shooting, tales of glens full of whirring pheasants and vast moors trembling with eager grouse, the craic at the lodge in the evening, the exuberance of the ghillies and their bonnie lasses at post shooting balls.

But, I am sorry to say, all this has passed unremarked into the highland mist of memory.  I do recall another pair of bottles of the Barolo appearing and Andrew’s vast hand knocking one over so that it poured over Gregor sitting opposite.  “Christ!” exclaimed Andrew, “That’s a calamity, it’s drinking so well”.

And I recall Philip rising incredibly slowly to his feet and announcing:  “I am going outside, and may be some time”, before turning, and with great dignity, one tartan brace hanging to the floor, disappearing out of the room.

“He nicked that line from somewhere” said the alarmingly red faced broker opposite me, “was it Robert Louis Stephenson?”

But we resume the narrative with my Blackberry ringing in my ear; with me finding it in my jacket breast pocket which I was surprised to find under my head; and most unexpectedly of all, with my slow dawning awareness that I was in the guest room bed, fully dressed , down to and including my brogues.  An uneasy feeling began to grow that Mrs B was (a) probably aware of this; and (b) probably not totally happy about it.

The noise of the phone continued and by a process of thoughtful reasoning it occurred to me to answer it:

“Hullo?” (groan)

“Morning B!”

“Oh lawks.  Morning Andrew.  What time is it?”

“6.49 old boy; just going to the Savoy for breakfast, then off home to bed. Care to join us for haggis and egg?”

I thought not.

“Having fun elsewhere, old boy?  What a hound dog you are, B.  Anyway, thought I would let you know you are in the syndicate, you’re just the sort of eighth man we are looking for. Though you been kind enough to pick up last night’s bill did help.  Much appreciated by us all.  See you at Cally Lodge in October”

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.

Frozen Assets

Aaaah. Spring at last.  Daffodils and green shoots and lambs and all that stuff.   More importantly invitations for the autumn, early booking of sporting hotels, shooting syndicate reunion dinners, bargain sales of sporting goods (no madam, not tennis rackets),  quiet contemplation of the diary working out how to get from Devon-on-Thursday-to-Northumberland-on-Friday-to-Buckinghamshire-on-Saturday.

And who the guests might be on Thursday and Friday so that these can be put down as corporate days, and the hotel accommodation upgraded so that the bank, and of course, its representative, can be shown as serious and heavyweight players worthy of doing business with.  Could one, B ponders, put down a Devonshire farmer as a possible purchaser of complex derivatives? Maybe he would like to hedge his milk production in case the Exmoor lanes get blocked with snow?

Blocked with snow; my lord!  Supposing they get blocked with snow that vital Thursday shoot day!  Would the boss be willing to pay for helicopter hire?  Surely yes, for seizing such important corporate marketing leads.   Such are the thoughts that bother the modern countrysportsman as he juggles a busy business career with his corporate marketing obligations.  And dozes gently in his garden chair on a Bank Holiday Monday.

Which in light spring kissed dreams brought a remembrance of one of Stuffer’s stories. Therefore, without doubt, true in every single respect and of the utmost verisimilitude.  This was set not in Devon, but far west Cornwall. .Somewhere on that snow blasted side of Bodmin Moor, where the woodcock for some reason like to spent their winters and the snipe jink across the bogs, soaring up into the low cloud at the slightest sign of tweedy gents and guns  

Four sporty chaps and Stuffer (why he was there we shall never know) were out in the sedgy reed bogs for a day’s sport.  The snow was lying long and the bogs were a week frozen, ideal conditions for wild flighty birds. Not so good for wild sporty chaps though. It was cold. Bitterly cold.  The brass monkey jokes had been abandoned as too proximate to the truth.  Mental notes had been made to upgrade long johns (or in two cases, to wear them next time).  Military fleeces and winter coats were been worn together.  And still the chill crept through into the aching bones and the fingers and toes slowly froze into immobility.

Without being too biological, a doctor would advise that a bottle of claret per chap in the evening and three cups of coffee over breakfast to mitigate the effects thereof are not best advised when said chaps are intending to spend their mornings standing in exposed places in virulently low temperatures.  Especially where there is a distinct lack of those nice little cubicles sited on London streets where a chap might retreat for a quick...erm.. perusal of the rugger pages, in fact, a distinct lack of walls, hedges, trees, old sheds, and any other form of cover for the performance of nature’s call, or even shielding from the western blasts.

Tom had stood it as long as he could, but finally as the Land Rover emptied for yet another sweep of a hopeful frozen expanse, he made his excuses and hung back as the others began their cautious sweep across the sedge and reed. Shielded from them by the Landy he fumbled with layers of coats and trouserings and long johns and even lower layers that we will not dwell on, and finally was able to excavate the required equipment and turned to begin that blessed relief which we must all from time to time seek.

Turned to find that he was facing directly two orange clad blue hatted lady walkers who somehow had walked up the track whilst all the fumbling was going on and by a mischance of timing were now forming a fascinated audience.

A fascinated but not very impressed audience “My goodness, it must be a cold day” said number one.  “Yes indeed, although you never know do you” replied number two. They raised their eyes back to the horizon and walked on.  Their giggling was borne downwind for a good hundred yards as Tom found his biological need no longer so pressing.