‘Morning, Violet,’ said Deptford. ‘And how are we today? OK on the taxi front last night, I hope?’
‘Indeed yes, my lord. Debate kept going until ten-thirty-two, I’m pleased to say. What can I get you, my lord?’
‘My guest would like a gin and tonic, please.’ Deptford saw Amiss’ baffled expression. ‘Staff get taxis paid for after ten-thirty. If it’s a matter of a few minutes we try to spin the debate out long enough.’
‘Commendably humane.’
‘Yeah. But don’t tell the Public Accounts Committee. Some of them buggers would probably denounce it as a wicked waste of taxpayers’ money. Inflexible bastards.’ He took a substantial sip of his whisky and soda. ‘Oh, that’s better. I tell you, I didn’t ’alf feel in a right old state this morning. A fellow of my age shouldn’t be led astray like we were last night. Dangerous woman, Jack. Always was.’ He sniggered in a reminiscent sort of way.
‘You’ve known each other a long time?’
Lord Deptford grinned. ‘Twenty years or so. No more than that. But there was a time when we knew each other very, very well.’
Amiss preferred to ignore the implication. ‘I see. But as I was saying, I’m a bit baffled by some of what happened yesterday.’
‘Like what?’
‘For a start, I’m a great admirer of Jack’s, but how did she get such a turnout of peers yesterday. Someone told me the audience for her introduction was about three times the usual.’
‘Bertie Stormerod, of course. He’s always had a soft spot for our Jack. So he leaned on his mates to put on the best show possible. Throw in us prohunting lot and you’ve got a lot of people wanting to make a fuss of her. You see, if she’s going to play a major part in defeating this bill, even while she’s still wet behind the ears in Lords terms, she needs to be given all the backing she can. Adds to ’er stature, you might say. She’s going to be making her maiden speech about eleven months earlier than usual, so she ’as to be seen to be special so as to square the fuddy-duddies. Next?’
‘OK. I could understand the connection between, say, Lord Poulteney and Stormerod and hunting. But you?’
Deptford emitted a throaty chuckle. ‘Can’t see what a jumped-up member of the working classes is doing defending a gentleman’s pursuit, eh? That what you’re getting at?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘It’s quite simple. Wanted to be a jockey as a kid. Did three years as a stable boy after I left school at fourteen and fell in love with the local ’unt. You can’t imagine what that was like for a city boy. Glamour, excitement, danger. For a time I was like that description of Mr Jorrocks.’
Amiss raised an eyebrow. Deptford sighed. ‘I suppose no one reads them now—R.S. Surtees’ stories about a Victorian cockney tea merchant who became a Master of Foxhounds. I love ’em: try this.’ He declaimed emotionally: ‘“I am a sportsman all over, and to the backbone—’unting is all that’s worth living for—all time is lost what is not spent in ’unting—it is like the air we breathe—if we have it not we die—it’s the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, and only five and twenty per cent of its danger.” Ah, it’s wonderful stuff. Would you like to borrow some?’
‘I have one already. I spent an hour this morning collecting hunting books from the library—including Handley Cross.’
‘Well done, mate. You’ll enjoy it.’
The drinks were delivered. ‘Thanks, luv. So I lived for hunting for a while. Then the war came, and when I came out I couldn’t go back to it.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I got a job in a trade union and hunting became a guilty secret of my past. You don’t get to be a General Secretary by careering around the countryside on the back of an ’orse. You get there by being more lefties than the lefties—at least in those days you did.’
He took a thoughtful sip. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t want you to think I was a cynic. I believed a lot of that claptrap till I realized in the late seventies we was doing more ’arm to our members than the bosses were. That’s why I moved to the right almost as fast as I’d moved to the left post-war. Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Deptford produced tobacco and cigarette papers from his pocket and expertly constructed a roll-up. As he put it in his mouth, he caught Amiss’ eye and smiled. ‘Old habits die hard. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Moving right. What they called a turncoat. Especially when I took the peerage. Not that I bloody cared. The way I see it is that after nearly a lifetime of judging everything according to how it would go down with our members, I’ve ’ad fifteen blissful years to think for meself, which is why I moved from the Labour benches to the cross benches and why I now say that life should be about more people ’aving a good time rather than less people enjoying themselves.’
He sat up and an angry tone came into his voice. ‘I’m sick and tired of all these bloody lefty intellectuals trying to impose austerity on the working classes, disapproving of their drinking and their gambling and their chip butties and all the rest of the things that put a bit of sparkle into hard lives. Me’—he raised his glass—‘I’m in favour of cakes and ale and bugger the bigots. What was it Rosa Luxemburg said? “If I can’t dance, I don’t want the revolution.” Do you want to know ’oo really pisses me off? That cow Beatrice Parsons.’
‘You mean the author of Principled Socialism?’
‘And other sexy romps,’ said Deptford sourly. ‘She’s just the kind I hate most. Born into the fuckin’ upper middle classes, public school and Oxford, top job as a barrister, but spends her time slagging off everything the working class in this country like best, from the monarchy to the cops. Lives in a Georgian house in Islington high on the hog, takes a peerage when they’re looking for a few women to buy off the left and spends her time lecturing us ’ere about this class-ridden haunt of privilege from which all but the likes of ’er should be expelled when the bleedin’ revolution comes. Christ, she’d be first out, I can tell you, with my toe up her arse.’
‘Do I gather, Sid, that your leap right includes defending hereditary peers?’
‘Bloody certain it does. I mean, leaving out the ones I don’t know, who never turn up ’ere and who mind their own business down at the farm, most of them are OK. Me best mates from here are Bertie, the Marquess of Stowe, Reggie Poulteney…’ He saw Amiss’ expression. ‘Oh, fair enough. I know ’e’s a bore. But not if you’re interested in hunting. I go down to his place from time to time, just to watch. Oh, and of course, I’m great pals with Benny Porter, who used to be a boiler maker and sees eye to eye with me.
‘You don’t find most of the hereditary earls looking down at the likes of us. They’re only interested in people being good blokes. And what’s more, just because they’re selected at random, they’re a lot more bleedin’ representative of the general population than your MPs. Most of the life peers we get here don’t know how ordinary people think, particularly the bloody intellectuals and those retired ’ouse of Commons types who rant away like what they used to do down there and don’t understand how to behave like a gentleman. It’s pretty refreshing, I can tell you, to come here and meet some people who know they’re not that bright, ’ave a bit of modesty and courtesy.’ He stubbed out his cigarette viciously. ‘I mean, can you imagine how pleasant it is to speak in a place where you don’t get interrupted? In the other place they have to shout all the time to drown out heckling yobs.’
‘I know, Sid, but you’re not going to convince the reformers that the hereditary system is anything other than unfair.’
‘Oh bollocks. I’m sick of the word “fair”. Life ain’t fair. The bleedin’ human condition ain’t fair. All you can do is muddle on as best you can and try and make life as good for most people as is possible in this world. I don’t think we do too badly at that in Britain. What you don’t do is reduce it all to the lowest bloody common denominator, as prescribed by pain-in-the-arse blue stockings like Beatrice fuckin’ Parsons.’
‘Has she got a line on fox-hunting?’
‘What do you think?’ Deptford made a valiant, if unsuccessful, attempt to mimic an educated upper-class female: ‘It’s twisted, degenerate, sadistic, anachronistic, aristocratic—need I go on?’
‘Your kind of gal, clearly.’
‘Oh, yeah. Real fun-lover. Bloody woman probably has ’alf a glass of dry white wine every eighteenth Tuesday. Mind you, it’s a big disadvantage for the antis that she’s the government spokesman. That could win us over a lot of waverers.’
‘What’s the tally?’
‘Well, we’ve got to drag a lot of the backwoodsmen up here to vote, I guess. It’s all those townie life peers that are the problem. They don’t turn up much at the ’ouse but they will come in for what they consider a moral issue. Won’t listen to half the arguments, just vote blindly. It’s no skin off their nose.’
‘Have you an organized campaign?’
‘Well we ’ave and we ’aven’t. Tell you what. Bertie can tell you a bit about it. He’ll be joining us shortly for a drink and then we can all have lunch.’
***
‘Frankly, old boy, I’ve been a bit worried from time to time. Won’t deny the old nightmare that hunting will just be abolished by default. You see, the truth is that many of those who feel most passionately about it are perhaps rather less than articulate. I mean, look what happened with deer-hunting?’
‘What did happen? It was last year, wasn’t it? I didn’t really follow it.’
‘First place in the lottery for private members’ bills went to Gavin Chandler. Know who I mean?’
Amiss knitted his brows. ‘High-minded Liberal Democrat who goes on a lot about morality in international relations, isn’t he?’
‘Correct. Without knowing what he’s talking about, naturally. That always makes it easier to pronounce on morality…’
‘He’s a perpendicular-looking Puseyite pig-jobber,’ interjected Deptford. ‘Ooh, sorry, Robert. When I gets really excited I tends to quote Jorrocks.’
‘Who, as no doubt you will find out, Robert, was a dab hand at insults. Now, to continue. Chandler’s constituency is in the West Country, and he absolutely hates and despises all the Tories. So he took a particular delight in abolishing what he considered an important symbol of their depravity—deer-hunting. And since most MPs don’t know one end of a deer from another, it passed through the Commons virtually unchallenged. And no one in Lords put up any kind of decent defence. Just lay down under it. I can tell you, we’re lucky parts of the West Country haven’t seceded.’
‘And now the same thing’s ’appening with fox-huntin’. And barring a bleedin’ miracle…’
‘Or a spirited campaign…’
‘We’ll be right in the shit this time. Letting deer-huntin’ go is bad enough. But fox-huntin’…’
‘I tend to agree,’ said Stormerod. ‘Although I don’t hunt myself, I take a dim view of abolishing what Trollope called “our national sport”, even if it has a smaller following than it used to have. But we’ve been pretty well ambushed again. Still reeling from the deer-hunting debacle—can you believe it?—we’ve once more been caught napping.’ He sighed. ‘It’s all been a pretty sorry business. First thing that happened was an obscure backbencher called Coulter drew first place in the lottery for private members’ bills. He hadn’t any sort of form on hunting so it wasn’t until very late in the day we discovered he’d been nobbled by the antis and had agreed to sponsor their bill. It’s called the Wild Mammals (Protection) Bill and it’s not just about fox-hunting—it also has sensible provisions making it illegal to torture hedgehogs or squirrels.’
‘Stopping oiks usin’ hedgehogs as footballs, for instance.’
‘Precisely. Sid and I and most of us are happy about that, and about outlawing snares. But we’re deadly opposed to banning hunting hares, foxes, and mink.’
‘Mmm,’ said Amiss. ‘I’m probably with you on the last two, but you’re going to have to do a seriously proselytizing job to get me to agree on hare-coursing.’
‘Later. Anyway, the whole attention has been focused on fox-hunting, which is what’s stirred everyone’s imagination. Before we knew it, a huge campaign had started and every MP was getting a couple of thousand postcards saying, “Stop this cruelty now.” Now, we’re no good at mobilizing those sort of numbers and on top of that, we usually put up people on radio or television with plummy accents who get everyone’s backs up.
‘So with that big Labour majority in the Commons, insufficient time and our lot on the defensive, we didn’t stand a chance. Hunting’s a nice, easy issue unless you’re in a rural constituency—all the electoral advantage is in doing down the so-called gentry.’
Deptford interrupted. ‘Do you know that A.P. Herbert poem?
While the Commons must bray like an ass every day
To appease their electoral hordes
We don’t say a thing till we’ve something to say:
There’s a lot to be said for the Lords.
Amiss grinned. ‘Nice one.’
‘So,’ continued Stormerod. ‘It passed its second reading by three hundred and eighty to one hundred and ten and the government—seeing a popular source of votes—came onside and said it would provide time for a third reading. In the blink of an eye it was through Committee and up to here and this time—because they’re determined to get it through—it’s a government bill.’
‘Aren’t you more organized now?’
Stormerod raised an eyebrow at Deptford. ‘Better, but not good.’
‘But you’ve got numbers on your side, surely?’
‘Not as many as you’d think. It’s not like a century ago when most peers would hunt. Nowadays, even among the hereditary ones, you’ve got a hell of a cross-section of society—probably as many vegetarians as you’ve got hunters. And we don’t really know how half of them would jump. If you try pulling them in to vote, it might go the wrong way.
‘No, we’re concentrating on the working peers, maybe three or four hundred, who are probably evenly balanced. But Labour have a three-line whip on, while the Conservatives don’t, because they’re split too. So it’s tight enough and damn difficult to read.’
Deptford broke in. ‘That’s one of the reasons Bertie was so anxious to get Jack in ’ere fast. He thought—and I agreed—she’d put a bit of energy into standing up for us. We’re goin’ to need her when they try to reform us in all the wrong ways.’
‘So who is there who’s effective besides you two and Jack?’
Stormerod sighed again. ‘No one much. You see, we’re stuck with the enthusiasts, many of whom are frankly counterproductive. I mean, can you imagine the sort of speeches Poulteney makes? Listen to him for long enough and we’d have mass defections.’
At that very moment Poulteney entered the bar accompanied by a tall, weedy old man in pince-nez. ‘Ah, Bertie, Sid, and…oh, yes, Robert. Mind if we join you?’
Stormerod rose and began pushing extra seats into place. Poulteney’s companion rushed to help, caught his right hand between the backs of two chairs, yelped, grabbed another gamely and pushed it so that it hit the table and spilled some of Stormerod’s drink. Deptford interrupted his distracted apologies. ‘Meet Robert Amiss, Tommy. Robert, this is Tommy Beesley.’ Drinks were ordered.
‘I ran into Tommy in the library,’ said Poulteney, ‘and he’s worried.’
‘Very worried.’ His voice was high-pitched, reedy, and redolent with angst. ‘I was saying to Reggie that I wish I knew what was going on. I feel quite in despair. This terrible thing must be stopped, I tell you. It must be stopped.’
‘Calm down, Tommy. We’re doing the best we can.’
‘Your best is clearly not good enough, not good enough, I say. Look at what happened to my deer-hunting. We’ve got to take firm action, this time. Just not stand for it.’
‘That’s right,’ said Poulteney, ‘we’ve got to get them on the run, chase them into cover, and if they go to earth we dig ’em out.’
‘When I speak in the debate’—emotion drove Beesley’s voice so high it periodically went into a squeak—‘I shall tell them I shan’t stand for it. This is our birthright. We shall stand and fight. And this time we will not give way, whatever happens.’
‘This is a democracy.’ Stormerod sounded weary. ‘We have to win the argument and the vote and you don’t do that by threats but by persuasion. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a lunch engagement.’
‘See what we’re up against,’ he groaned to Amiss as the three of them walked down the corridor.
‘Are they typical?’
‘Yes and no. Most people like Tommy Beesley never come here. And indeed Reggie rarely comes. But we’re not overendowed with lucid exponents of the virtues of the chase, I can tell you that. And unfortunately, Reggie and Tommy will insist on speaking.’
They entered an L-shaped dining room decorated with the usual seas of mahogany panelling, this time along with sickly yellowy wallpaper and a patterned carpet dominated by sea-green squares on which sat uncomfortably the red gold-monogrammed upholstery.
‘Ah, Agnes. And how are we today?’
The waitress was unresponsive. ‘Table for three, my lord?’
‘Four. We’re hoping a lady will join us.’
Amiss looked at him enquiringly.
‘Your friend the baroness.’
‘That’s no lady; that’s Jack Troutbeck,’ offered Amiss as a whirlwind arrived, clapped him on the back, pulled a chair out noisily, plonked herself down and stuck her legs out in front of her. The legs of her directoire knickers came into view during mid-stretch. Amiss observed the waitress looking at them sidelong in disapproval. An elderly peer who tottered past at the crucial moment stopped momentarily, shook his head and staggered off towards a faraway table.
‘Busy morning?’ asked Deptford solicitously.
‘Not really. Up and down to Cambridge, council meeting for an hour, mopping up various bits of business, telling everyone what to do, then back here.’
‘Drink?’
‘I’ll have a Scotch while I think what I’ll have to eat. Now, how’ve you lot been getting on?’
‘I fear’—Stormerod looked over his shoulder—‘that our young friend can hardly be encouraged by having been exposed to Tommy Beesley as well as another dose of Reggie Poulteney, who seem set fair through their advocacy of fox-hunting in next week’s debate to bring about its demise.’
‘And you can’t stop them speaking?’
‘No.’
The baroness took a thoughtful swig of her drink. ‘This could go wrong, you know. Hunting could actually be abolished in a fit of national absent-mindedness. How’s the strategic planning going, Robert?’
He shot her a withering look. ‘I don’t even know yet if any lobbying’s been done.’
‘The Defend our Field Sports crowd have done what they can,’ said Stormerod, ‘but it’s not like lobbying MPs. People here don’t worry about votes. Really, all we can do is ensure the best people speak and speak well and then keep fighting to the end.’
‘So what’s the talent?’
‘Sid and me. Next most anxious to speak, God help us, are Tommy and Reggie and—possibly even worse—Admiral Lord Gordon.’
‘What’s the opposition like?’ asked Amiss.
‘Apart from the benighted Beatrice, who is in the lead, I don’t know yet.’
The baroness scratched her head. ‘It’s clear Robert and I had better have a recce. There’s an antihunting public meeting being held in Islington tonight. I know the wretched Parsons will be there, as well as someone called Lord Purseglove? Any idea who he is?’
‘He inherited the title a couple of years ago, but isn’t seen here much. He’s some sort of monk.’
‘OK. Robert will report back to you tomorrow. Now, let’s have some lunch. I’m starving.’
***
‘OK, we seem pretty clear about everything. Got all that, Robert. Robert! Concentrate.’
‘Yes, yes. Sorry. I’m a bit tired. I was falling asleep.’
The waitress came over with a face like thunder.
‘Did you want something, your ladyship? I thought I heard you call.’
Stormerod grinned. ‘Now, Agnes, I know Lady Troutbeck has a rather loud voice, but there’s no need to look so disapproving.’
Agnes sniffed. ‘I like things to be seemly.’
‘Seemly and I don’t mix,’ said the baroness cheerfully. ‘If I were you I’d get used to it.’ She stuck out her wine glass in Agnes’ direction. ‘But now that you’re here, you can give me some more wine.’
The waitress looked mutinous.
‘Come, come. We girls must stick together.’
With a bad grace, the waitress filled the baroness’ glass and withdrew tight-lipped.
Deptford shook his head. ‘Watch out, Jack. It’s one thing upsettin’ the peers. They don’t matter. But for cryin’ out loud, don’t upset the staff.’
‘They’ll get used to me,’ she said carelessly. ‘Everyone does.’ She pulled out her pipe and tobacco.
‘Sorry, you can’t smoke yet. It’s not ’alf past one.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Can’t smoke in the dining room till then.’
‘There are more rules in this place than in Alcatraz. That’s the trouble with men. They want to tie up all of life in a straitjacket.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be the chap who tries to do that to you.’ Stormerod laughed. ‘Now hold your soul in patience for a while and enjoy your lunch. The pipe will have to wait. You can’t flout all our conventions in the first twenty-four hours.’