Shire Hell by Rachel Johnson

Author:Rachel Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141915746
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2008-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

Mimi

‘Oh goodie,’ I say, as the roar of an approaching vehicle takes the shape of a quad bike with a trailer. ‘What ho, Clive.’

Maddocks is at the wheel of the top-of the-line quad. Without looking at anyone, or answering my merry greeting, he leaps down and removes a folded-up trestle table from the trailer, sets it up and then draws a folded linen tablecloth from one of his two matching, monogrammed LL Bean canvas bags, and then, within seconds, spreads the surface with Thermoses, sandwiches, fruitcake, a tea urn, napkins, glasses, tin mugs and two ruby bottles of homemade sloe gin.

‘Oooh – lunch!’ I announce, rubbing my hands and moving towards the table. Even though it’s been only an hour and a bit since our last meal, standing around in the fresh air always makes me hungry like the wolf.

The day started bright and early at Court Place.

Those who were staying were tucking into a large cooked breakfast in the main kitchen (as opposed to the staff kitchen and pantry). Homemade sausages, home-cured bacon, field mushrooms, toast, coffee, Cath’s own mulberry and pistachio granola, freshly squeezed blood-orange juice in jugs and newspapers were all being devoured amid plenty of bluff chat about high birds and bags.

Occasionally a gun and his wife make an entrance. As I haven’t been staying, it’s not clear at this stage who’s a house guest and who has come to shoot, although what is clear is that both categories are kitted out in the same plaid uniform: thick woolly stockings folded over just below the knee adorned with little woolly pennants and initials, trews or breeks, a tank-top over a Tattersall shirt, a knitted tie, a flat cap and, over the top, a shooting jacket with a big brass zip, multiple poppered pockets, all in palette of pale greens and soft browns. And that’s just the women.

It all makes me think that if Cordings or Holland & Holland made pants and bras of tweed, everyone would doubtless buy those too.

At least two guns are wearing the Bamford shooting jacket, with a checked and patched inner lining, and plenty of soft, buttery suede trimming. This is like wearing a great big fluorescent flashing sign on your back saying ‘New Money’. I’d thought about getting Ralph one for Christmas. Until I discovered it cost £1,495, that is, and that even if I’d bought it, he’d never have worn it. Ralph wouldn’t be seen dead in anything new, rather than handed down from father to son, and informed me that genuine nobs such as the Duke of Beaufort shoot in jeans and fleeces, partly in order to show those who turn up in the whole tweed kit and caboodle as noovs and try-hards.

But in the Court Place high-ceilinged kitchen, perfumed with frying bacon and Chanel No. 5, grinding coffee and mouldy Barbours, only the tiniest variations on the tweed theme – i.e. Serena’s Norfolk jacket, or Cath’s silk scarf knotted at the throat – seem to be allowed, as if everyone is secretly taking part in a sartorial Spot the Difference contest.

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