‘Mmmmmmm. I was afraid they wouldn’t have any.’ The baroness heaped on to her already well-filled plate a pile of black pudding and looked at Amiss solicitously, spoon poised.
He shuddered. ‘No thanks.’
‘Why not? What’s wrong with you? You need building up.’
‘Sorry, Jack, but at this time in the morning, wimp that I am, I can’t face eating dried blood.’
The baroness rolled her eyes heavenwards and shook her head incredulously. ‘I like black pudding.’
‘Good, good. I’m happy for you.’
Together they carried their trays to the booth where they had left their coats and settled in, Amiss to breakfast modestly on bacon, egg and Cumberland sausage, the baroness to weigh into kidneys, bacon, tomato, mushroom and black and white puddings, while punctuating her eating with grunts of satisfaction.
‘Enjoying it?’ she enquired anxiously.
‘Very nice, thank you. And you?’
‘Kidneys a bit of a disappointment. I like them bloody.’
‘You would,’ said Amiss grumpily. ‘Now, why am I here?’
‘Plan of campaign, obviously. We didn’t get very far last night. I don’t know what you were thinking of.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, you’re supposed to be coordinating all this.’ She took a mighty swig of coffee and chomped happily on some crispy bacon. ‘That’s what I’ve hired you for.’
‘First, you haven’t hired me and second, you omitted to tell me what I was supposed to be doing.’
‘Well, I’ve sort of hired you. I’ll foot any bills you incur and give you a couple hundred quid a week. After all, I make a bit on expenses.’
‘Even with the price of London hotels?’
‘I don’t stay in hotels.’ She grinned happily. ‘Myles is based in London, I should remind you.’
‘So you’re still two-timing Mary Lou with him?’
‘Or vice versa.’ She laughed. ‘Not that two-timing is an appropriate accusation. We’re not all such prigs as you. Neither Myles nor Mary Lou is exactly sitting wistfully by the fireside waiting on my return. Anyway, stop being so nosey. What you’re supposed to be finding out about is how to sort out the killjoys.’
‘Dammit…’ Amiss put his cup down with such force that it slopped coffee into his saucer and on to the tablecloth. He swore and mopped it up.
‘Tsk, tsk. Can’t think what’s got into you. You’re becoming awfully ratty.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d regard jet-lag, lack of sleep, and a hangover as mitigating circumstances? Not to speak of having to get up at 6.30 in order to come in to watch you scoffing a fat breakfast.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Right, now for your instructions. What with having to fly up and down to Cambridge to do my mistressly duties, I can’t run things at the Lords. You’re going to have to help this crowd function. Marshal the arguments, the facts, and help them with the speeches. For although right is on our side, I have to say we’ve got some pretty weak vessels to make its case.’
‘Jack, I don’t even know whether I’m for or against fox-hunting. That is’—he raised his voice as she opened her mouth—‘I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it so I can hardly be said to be for it, but I’m not clear if I’m against it. Instinctively, I hate an activity that involves chasing a small animal over hill and dale. Yet I do dimly grasp the arguments about tradition, esprit de corps and all the rest of it.’
She shook her head so vigorously that several hairpins were dislodged from her bun. ‘You disappoint me. I can see that I’m going to have to spell everything out. Right. Let’s start with cruelty.’
‘Yes, I know. Foxes are vermin that have to be kept down and gassing, trapping, and even shooting are far more cruel than hunting.’
‘Right. Now conservation.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that hunts are interested in preserving the traditional countryside.’
‘Yep, including planting woods to make coverts for foxes and keeping a varied landscape to increase the enjoyment of the huntsmen. You don’t get farmers who hunt clearing hedgerows and turning their farms into prairies. With me so far?’
‘More or less. Pass the coffee.’
‘Now, economics. What with hunt-staff and farriers, feed merchants and vets, saddlers and bootmakers and all the rest of them, you’re talking of more than thirty thousand jobs. Then there are the horses and hounds. I can tell you there would be a pretty sharp drop in the horse population if you abolished hunting, and most of them would be slaughtered to be fed to dogs. Although there would be a lot fewer dogs since the hounds would have to be put down too, so they’d have to flog the horse carcasses to the Frogs.’
‘Oh, I suppose it’s aesthetics.’ Amiss felt driven into a corner. ‘It seems faintly distasteful to have all this going on for the benefit of a few thousand nobs and City types prancing around in scarlet coats.’
‘Where’d you get that figure? What with those who follow by car and on foot, it’s closer to a quarter of a million, few of them nobs and the majority of them women. Mind you’—she paused to pull her pipe out of her pocket and ram into it a vast quantity of tobacco—‘you can see what we’re up against if, even you, the confidante of a baroness, are demonstrating class prejudice.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that.’
‘Well, I would. You know bloody well that that is one of the two motivating forces for the antihunt lobby. Why do you think the Great British Public regularly declares itself in favour of abolishing hunting while being perfectly happy with fishing? I’ll tell you why. It’s because there are four million anglers in this country, and most of them are plebs.’
‘You’re not saying that the huge majority against hunting consists of people actively participating in the class war?’
‘Not necessarily. But I am saying that they don’t know what they’re talking about. If you know sod-all about an issue like this, it’s very easy to get all sentimental about a fox. It’s good old sloppy thinking. That’s what happened over deer-hunting. The populace had a vision of brutal toffs pursuing Bambi and his mother over hill and dale with blood-curdling whoops. And bingo, in the blink of an eye and without giving the matter any serious thought, a collection of ignorant parliamentarians—opposed only by some ineffectual wimps—put an end to the Exmoor and all the other historic hunts of the West Country. That mustn’t happen this time.’ She took a mighty pull and enveloped the table in smoke, which she sniffed appreciatively. ‘Now, let’s turn from the ignorant to the nutters.’
‘Usually a pretty wide classification in your book, old girl.’
‘Well, on this occasion it’s pretty specific. I’m talking about fruitcakes like half those who were carrying on last night outside the House. Their object is to change human nature by legislation. When they’ve got rid of fox-hunting, they’ll move on to shooting and when they’ve had that abolished it’ll be angling. Then, before we know where we are, we’ll all be vegans, forbidden from eating or wearing any animal products. Result?’
‘Gradual extinction of farmyard animals, I suppose.’
‘Got it. Now, are you satisfied? Ready to fight the good fight?’
‘I just can’t warm to it, Jack. Look at Poulteney, for God’s sake.’
‘There’s more to hunting than Poulteney. Why not take me rather than him as a hunting role model?’
‘Do you hunt?’
‘Well, I haven’t had time for some years, but, if I may say so, I cut a pretty dashing figure with the Cottesmore until I was in my forties.’
‘Did you wear pink?’
‘Sometimes I wore pink, sometimes black.’
‘And jodhpurs and high boots?’
‘But with a skirt and side-saddle, of course. Only way to ride.’
‘For reasons of decorum, no doubt.’
‘No, though I admit to an element of vanity. Don’t look my best in trousers. But it was more that riding side-saddle allows you to control a horse much more powerful than your size or weight would normally allow.’
‘Where would one find a horse bigger than your size and weight would allow?’
The baroness chuckled; she always took insults as an obscure form of flattery. She looked at her watch—‘Zounds!’—and energetically signalled a waiter for the bill. ‘I’ve got to be off. Train to catch. College council meeting at ten. If I don’t see you later I’ll ring you tonight. In the meantime, get to work.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Immerse yourself in the literature. Read up on the facts. Drop by the Lords and get to know your fellow conspirators. See how you can help. Start thinking propaganda. Surely I don’t need to tell you. You’re a bloody ex-civil servant.’ She threw some money on the bill.
‘I can’t just march into the House of Lords and start flinging my weight about.’
She jumped up. ‘Of course you can. You’re working for me. I’ve arranged for you to have a research assistant’s pass. Get off to the Lords and sort out the details with Black Rod’s office. Now, come on, I’m late.’ She pulled on her coat and headed for the door. Amiss chased after her.
‘Who’s my best point of contact?’
She hailed a taxi. ‘King’s Cross!’ she shouted to the driver. ‘And go like the clappers.’ She jumped in. ‘Bertie’s the smartest, but Sid’s got more time. Tally-ho!’ she cried, as she slammed the door behind her.
Amiss stood irresolute on the pavement. After a couple of minutes he set off towards the London Library.