by Miles Hadley
Every so often, Archie glanced through the window to check on his father, who was by now chatting to Lt Colonel Theo Lycette-Blythe, a still dashing but retired cavalry officer and polo player. Standing next to him was the Honourable Hugh Galveston, heir to the Galveston estate in the Welsh Marches. Alongside them was Tarquin Lindsay-McDonald, current chairman of the British Landowning and Country Sports Society. Next to him stood Viscount Kirklynne, the heir to the Earldom of Sheckles and Schlock with lands in Scotland and Ireland.
Archie shook these familiar people by the hand as they entered the dining room of the lodge, eager to munch on bacon rolls and drink Irish coffee.
Charlie the gamekeeper clapped his hands for attention and cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘on behalf of the host, Mr Hodgkin-Smith, I would like to welcome you to the Risely shoot. Now, if you will turn to the sideboard over there, you will notice that there are eight shot glasses with nothing but the finest whiskey in them. I would ask you all to partake in a dram and enjoy the whiskey. Then, at the bottom of each glass, you will find a number – this, as you well know, represents your order in the first drive. After that, you will be rotated on each successive drive.’
Archie and the assemblage gave a chuckle before downing their shots. He was number three. Galveston was number one. Everybody cheered and patted him on the back. Though in his fifties, Galveston had only recently taken on the 8000-acre Galveston estate. Archie liked Galveston. He was a quietly spoken man with balding blonde hair and blue eyes. Despite being an ‘Honourable’, the other shoot members often joked that there was nothing honourable about his youth. This was said to have included a lot of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Like Archie’s father, he had since settled down, perhaps in preparation for his inheritance. The full title of Baron Galveston had not yet passed, for his father was still alive in the castle, but suffering from dementia.
‘How’s your father, Galvey?’ Archie heard his father ask Galveston as they left the lodge to meet their loaders.
‘Oh, you know, Hodgey. Hanging on... hanging on... It’s quite dreadful, really. He often forgets where he is... The wife is super with him... but I’m not sure he’s got much life left.’
Archie turned as Viscount Kirklynne, otherwise known as Johnny, patted him on the shoulder. ‘How are you, young man? Got a girlfriend?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Archie. ‘She’s coming today.’
‘Well, I look forward to meeting her at the dinner.’
Archie smiled politely before meeting his loader for the day, Alan Cardwell.
‘Hello, Sir,’ said Alan. ‘Absolute privilege to be your loader for today.’ He spoke with an accent that Archie often thought was derived from his earthy country roots – the roots of Risely and its rural environs.
Eventually, Archie saw the pheasants fly, thanks to the efforts of the beaters. The ‘Guns’ fired away. Their shots echoed down the valley as the pheasants dropped dead to the ground. Archie grinned as he bagged his first one with ease. Such sport, he thought to himself with a smug grin. God, he loved his shooting – if only Polly could see him now! He imagined that she would be shocked and, yet, awed at the same time.
It was soon breakfast time at the lodge and Archie relished the hot, freshly cooked food, which was so welcome on an otherwise cold day. The lodge, though crumbling, was extremely cosy and, whilst eating his breakfast, Archie thought once again of Polly. She would be arriving at the main house soon, where her luggage would be dealt with by ‘Switch’, the reliable and discrete porter.
Archie and the ‘Guns’ went out again. This time, they were driven to the next drive, which was some distance from the lodge. A makeshift canteen had been set up from the back of a Land Rover and, at eleven o’clock, Archie enjoyed the warmth of his hot stock soup along with flapjacks that were freshly baked by Fenny, the housekeeper. Once the food was eaten, Archie and the assemblage drank ‘slogasms’.
The guns fired again. More and more game was shot, until it was time for lunch at the lodge. Archie sat on one end of the table, while his father sat at the opposite end. He chatted to Theo Lycette-Blythe about his shooting technique.
Archie’s mother came in, keeping with tradition, and briefly said hello to everyone. This prompted raised glasses of claret from the men and a toast ‘To the good lady of the house’.
After finishing the somewhat boozy lunch, the ‘Guns’ went off again to shoot two more drives. They drank again before continuing with six more drives in the afternoon. Each couple of drives was broken up by refreshments as they all made their way around the estate.
Once the shooting was over, Archie discreetly passed Alan, his loader, a £75 tip. The ‘Guns’ were driven to the main house once dusk began to settle in. They got changed and prepared for the formal dinner, with assistance from Switch.
Finally, it was time to eat. Archie was attired in a dinner suit and met Polly’s eyes across the immaculate dining table. Centuries-old silverware and crystal glistened against the mahogany of the table. The candles flickered and the whole assemblage was overseen by the watchful gaze of the Hodgkin-Smith ancestors in their heavy, gilt frames amongst Titian Masters. Archie loved seeing Polly like this, in her Chanel dress. He was finally able to see how she fitted into Risely. He thought she fitted perfectly – would fit perfectly.
‘Hello,’ he mouthed to her. She smiled and mouthed the same before everyone sat down. Archie sat with the elderly Lady Octavia Beaumont on his left and Lady Charlotte Teak on his right. He chatted politely to each of them. All the while, he cast subtle glances to Polly, hoping that their eyes would meet. Invariably they did.
Once the dinner was over, the ladies retired to the drawing room. The men went to the library to smoke cigars and chat, by now their voices quite slurred by the day’s drinking. Archie longed to be with Polly that night, but she would be sleeping in one of the guest rooms in another wing, so they texted each other subtly.
How are you? Enjoy your day? Archie texted.
Yes thanks, Polly replied. Disappointed not to see any of the action. I think the most dramatic part was when Lady Octavia nearly spilt her tea!
Archie grinned. Lol x
Polly texted back. Don’t worry. I kept my feminism to myself.
How thoughtful of you Poll x
Lol xx
Archie thought for a moment before texting again. I wish I could be in your bed tonight x
Can’t you sneak in? Polly texted back.
You’ll be asleep by the time it’s over. We drink Port at 3am.
How perfectly sexist, segregated, chauvinist and medieval!
Poll!
I suppose I’ll say goodnight then.
Night darling Poll. So glad you could come xx.
Good night xx.
18
Gary woke up. He had not been dreaming. Bollard was still there and appeared to be reading to him.
‘...when the Earl of Buckingham and his army had rested and refreshed themselves at Malay le Vicomte... Ah, you’re awake again! I was just reading Froissart’s Chronicles to you... it’s a great source of medieval history.’
‘How long have I fucking been asleep?’
‘All day. I’ve been reading history books to you in the hope that you might subliminally absorb your nation’s history while you sleep. I’ve heard that it works... would you like a tuna sandwich? Fish is excellent for the brain cells.’
Gary tried to supress a smile, but a slight grin somehow broke out. ‘Okay. What the fuck are you reading again?’
‘Was that an “Okay, I would like a tuna sandwich, please”?’
‘Yeah... I’m fucking starving.’
‘Hang on. I’ll just go and make a few sandwiches with Christine. It’s Froissart’s Chronicles, by the way.’
‘What’s that about?’
‘Currently, we’re focusin
g on English kings battling it out in Scotland and France. A chronicle is a historical account of some kind written around the time. Froissart was quite the chronicler.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Most of it is actually quite factual, although there are exaggerations and embellishments along the way. I always think it’s rather important to get the real medieval voice.’
‘What’s medieval?’
‘Medieval is a period. Roughly from the fifth to late fifteenth centuries.’
‘I was dreaming of a battle,’ said Gary.
‘Very good, it must be working!’ said Bollard. ‘Christine! I think the young man’s absorbed the battle of Hastings!’ He paused, as if listening for an answer. ‘She says can you remember any of the details?’
‘Na... something about a hill.’
‘Senlac Hill! How fascinating... I’ll just go and help Christine with those sandwiches.’
Gary observed Bollard as he headed for the kitchen. ‘But there’s nobody fucking there,’ he muttered to himself.
Bollard returned to Gary’s side after a while with a tray, upon which was a Coalport porcelain cup, saucer and teapot. Gary had not seen such an ornate tea set before. It had gold rims and royal blue-coloured patterns. There was also a matching plate, upon which was a pile of triangular-cut sandwiches with their crusts neatly trimmed off.
‘Tea hasn’t steeped yet,’ Bollard said. ‘Sandwich good?’
‘S’all right.’
‘Of course,’ continued Bollard, ‘that hill was vital for the Duke of Normandy in his aim of becoming William I of England – the first Norman king. His army ran up the hill, upon which the last Anglo-Saxon king, Harold Godwinson, had positioned himself, and then...’
To Bollard’s amazement, Gary cut in. ‘They pretended they’d been beaten. Ran down the fucking hill. Let them chase ’em. Then they turned around once the geezer’s men were off the hill and fought. Then William’s men defeated them.’
‘Very good!’ said Bollard. ‘Christine! Oh, you won’t believe it! I think we have a young scholar and military strategist in the making! No, I think it’s a bit premature for a test, darling! He’s only just started! She’s asking if you can remember the year?’
‘Na.’
‘Well, the year was actually quite pivotal in English history. It was 1066. And the battle marked the transition and assimilation of Anglo-Saxon England to Norman England.’
‘I need the fucking bog. I’m dying for a piss.’
Gary attempted to get up from the couch, but still felt great pain and could not do so. Bollard attempted to help him up. But the pain for Gary was still too great.
‘Oh shit. I’m going to fucking wet myself!’
Bollard rushed back to the kitchen and told Gary to hold on as best he could. He found an old orange squash bottle and rushed back and handed it to Gary.
‘Sorry about this, but that’s all I have! Call me when you’re finished. I’ll be in the kitchen with Christine.’
‘I can’t fucking piss in that!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bollard. ‘But at this juncture you have no choice. I’ll be in the kitchen... call me when you’re done.’
Gary struggled with his clothes and the bottle. His arms hurt so much. They were very bruised and he winced at the pain as he positioned himself into the neck of the bottle. Eventually, there was a trickling noise and Gary let out a satisfied ‘Ah!!’
Once he had finished, Gary extricated himself from the neck of the bottle and pulled his boxers and tracksuit bottoms back up. ‘Finished!’ he yelled out.
Bollard came back in. Gary looked at him and broke into a smirk.
‘Here you are,’ he said, presenting the half-full bottle to Bollard. Bollard smirked back and they both began to burst into hysterics.
‘You are a fucking nut job!’ Gary laughed. Once their laughter had subsided, Bollard went back into the kitchen. Gary heard him talking to the imaginary Christine.
‘I don’t know what we’re going to do with the lad... Poor chap nearly wet himself! Okay, darling... yes, I’ll dispose of it.’
Bollard came back into the tiny lounge and looked at Gary. ‘Another sandwich, perhaps?’
Gary looked at him seriously. ‘You’re no fucking paedo, are you?’
Bollard replied. ‘What do you think, young man?’
‘I think you’re just a fucking nut job!’ Gary broke into hysterics again. Bollard could not help but laugh again, too.
‘Now, what did I say the great Byron said?’ Bollard laughed. ‘Christine!’ he yelled. ‘Christine! I think we have a comedian in the house! Young man, your cheek will be the end of you!’
Once the two had stopped laughing, Gary fell asleep again. He slept deeply and dreamt of armoured knights fighting for England’s glory. Sometimes winning, sometimes losing. He dreamt of Edward I conquering Wales, of Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn. He dreamt of Mortimer and Edward II. He dreamt of the Lion Heart away on the crusades. He dreamt of the Peasants’ revolt and John Ball and Wat Tyler.
All the while, Gary slept to the murmuring, well-spoken voice of Bollard, narrating their nation’s history. Sometimes, Gary’s arms and hands would twitch while he slept. The movements were perhaps his body signalling its slow road to recovery, or perhaps they were simply involuntary reactions to Bollard’s narrative.
When Gary awoke, it was dark in the little room, with just a lamp emitting some light next to where Bollard was still reading aloud. He was reading about how Sir William Stanley crucially switched sides at the battle of Bosworth and how it would spell defeat for King Richard III and his Plantagenet line, paving the way for the new Tudor dynasty and the final unity of the red and white rose. Gary shut his eyes again and pretended that he was still asleep. There was something else in him that had been awakened. He was not sure what it was, but he listened intently to Bollard and smiled slightly to himself, still pretending to sleep.
Gary opened his eyes at about the point where the newly crowned Henry VII was working away to ensure peace and financial stability in his realm with the aid of his advisors, Empson and Dudley. He looked at Bollard. Bollard turned a page and looked back at him.
‘Christine,’ he said, ‘the lad’s awake. Want us to put the kettle on again? Another cup of tea? It will be tea time soon.’
Gary attempted to shift his position, but it hurt. Bollard stood up and put the Tudor history book down. He went to the bathroom and came back with some pain relief tablets and a glass of water.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Christine thinks these might help.’
Gary gladly took one of the tablets and sipped from the glass of water.
‘Somehow, you’re going to have to get washed,’ said Bollard. ‘We can’t have you stinking in our house.’
‘How the fuck am I supposed to do that?’ Gary asked.
‘I’ll get a bowl of warm water with soap,’ replied Bollard. ‘We’ll put towels around you on the couch. Then you can try and wash yourself. Then you’ll have to wear one of my dressing gowns while I put your clothes in the wash.’
Gary reluctantly agreed to this. Once Bollard had prepared Gary’s wash things, he went away to the kitchen and held a conversation with Christine.
As Gary struggled to take his clothes off, he winced in pain. Nevertheless, he did the best he could and tried to wash himself, using a sponge and the bowl of warm, soapy water provided. He changed slowly into Bollard’s old brown Terry towel dressing gown and left his clothes in a pile on the floor.
‘Ready?’ Bollard called from the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ Gary replied and, once more, Bollard came through to the lounge.
‘Good lad. Christine and I will get you some tea. This time, we’re making some soup. Heinz tomato all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mug or bowl?’
‘
Can I have it in a mug?’
‘Of course you can, lad. Christine does rather like the magic word, though.’
Gary reluctantly responded, with great hesitation. ‘Please…’
‘Christine! There’s a young gentleman in the house! He’d like some soup.’ Bollard clapped his hands triumphantly and went into the kitchen.
Upon his return to the lounge, he found Gary dozing. Perhaps his earlier physical exertions had made him tired. However, Gary woke up when he realised that Bollard had returned. Bollard gave him his soup and some buttered bread, which Gary took gladly.
‘Quite a treat for pudding,’ said Bollard.
‘What is it?’
‘It, young man, is a Battenberg cake.’
Gary gladly ate the cake and Bollard asked him if he was feeling any better.
‘A bit,’ Gary said. ‘But it still hurts.’
‘They gave you quite a beating, lad. But you’ll survive. I think you’re just badly bruised. Thankfully, I don’t think you broke anything, or we’d definitely know about it. I nearly did call for an ambulance, but I’m glad I didn’t. Can’t stand the authorities these days. So Orwellian. So Orwellian.’
‘What’s Orwellian?’
‘The whole bloody country is,’ replied Bollard. ‘That’s what it is. Utterly Orwellian.’
‘No, but what the fuck is Orwellian?’ asked Gary.
‘I’ll explain later. We haven’t quite got to that point in our history yet. Here...’ Bollard reached for Gary’s empty plate. ‘Give me that and I’ll go and wash up with Christine.’
Once Bollard had left for the kitchen, Gary looked around him. He scrutinised everything. The room was neatly organised; even the history books seemed to be in chronological order on the bookshelves.
He spotted a black and white photograph of a young man and woman. The man was quite handsome and she was very beautiful. Her hair and eyes were dark. The wedding dress she wore was simply cut and without a veil. The groom wore a traditional tail coat and he had a side parting. Gary imagined that it must be Bollard when he was younger. The couple were standing in the opening of a very old church and they had broad grins on their faces. There were many other photographs of the woman, right up to middle age.
