I always enjoy Beef Wellington, and Suzanne can produce a pastry that doesn’t flake when cut and meat that’s so tender that once one has finished a first helping, Oliver Twist comes to mind. It certainly helped me to endure Hamilton’s pontificating. Barker managed to pass an appreciative comment to Henry on the quality of the Bordeaux between Hamilton’s opinions on the chances of Paddy Ashdown reviving the Liberal Party and the role of Arthur Scargill in the trade union movement, allowing no one the chance to reply.
“I don’t allow my staff to belong to any union,” Hamilton declared, gulping down his drink. “I run a closed shop.” He laughed once more at his own joke and held his empty glass high in the air as if it would be filled by magic. In fact it was filled by Henry with a discretion that shamed Hamilton— not that he noticed. In the brief pause that followed, my wife suggested that perhaps the trade union movement had been born out of a response to a genuine social need.
“Balderdash, madam,” said Hamilton. “With great respect, the trade unions have been the single most important factor in the decline of Britain as we know it. They’ve no interest in anybody but themselves. You only have to look at Ron Todd and the whole Ford fiasco to understand that.”
Suzanne began to clear the plates away, and I noticed she took the opportunity to nudge Henry, who quickly changed the subject.
Moments later a raspberry meringue glazed with a thick sauce appeared. It seemed a pity to cut such a creation, but Suzanne carefully divided six generous helpings like a nanny feeding her charges, while Henry uncorked a 1981 Sauternes. Barker literally licked his lips in anticipation.
“And another thing,” Hamilton was saying. “The prime minister has got far too many wets in her cabinet for my liking.”
“With whom would you replace them?” asked Barker innocently.
Herod would have had little trouble in convincing the list of gentlemen Hamilton proffered that the slaughter of the innocents was merely an extension of the child care program.
Once again I became more interested in Suzanne’s culinary efforts, especially since she had allowed me an indulgence: Cheddar was to be served as the final course. I knew the moment I tasted it that it had been purchased from the Alvis Brothers’ farm in Keynsham; we all have to be knowledgeable about something, and cheddar is my speciality.
To accompany the cheese, Henry supplied a port that was to be the highlight of the evening. “Sandeman 1970,” he said in an aside to Barker as he poured the first drops into the expert’s glass.
“Yes, of course,” said Barker, holding it to his nose. “I would have known it anywhere. Typical Sandeman warmth but with real body. I hope you’ve laid some down, Henry,” he added. “You’ll enjoy it even more in your old age.”
“‘Think you’re a bit of an authority on wines, do you?” said Hamilton, the first question he had asked all evening.
“Not exactly,” began Barker, “but I—”
“You’re all a bunch of humbugs, the lot of you,” interrupted Hamilton. “You sniff and you swirl, you taste and you spit, then you spout a whole lot of gobbledygook and expect us to swallow it. Body and warmth be damned. You can’t take me in that easily.”
“No one was trying to,” said Barker with feeling.
“You’ve been keen to put one over on us all evening,” replied Hamilton, “with your ‘Yes, of course, I’d have known it anywhere’ routine. Come on, admit it.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest—” added Barker.
“I’ll prove it, if you like,” said Hamilton.
The five of us stared at the ungracious guest and, for the first time that evening, I wondered what could possibly be coming next.
“I have heard it said,” continued Hamilton, “that Sefton Hall boasts one of the finest wine cellars in England. It was laid down by my father and his father before him, though I confess I haven’t found the time to continue the tradition.” Barker nodded in belief. “But my butler knows exactly what I like. I therefore invite you, sir, to join me for lunch on the Saturday after next, when I produce four wines of the finest vintage for your consideration. And I offer you a wager,” he added, looking straight at Barker. “Five hundred pounds to fifty a bottle—tempting odds, I’m sure you’ll agree—that you will be unable to name any one of them” He stared belligerently at the distinguished president of the Wine Society.
“The sum is so large that I could not consider—”
“Unwilling to take up the challenge, eh, Barker? Then you are, sir, a coward as well as a humbug.”
After the embarrassing pause that followed, Barker replied, “As you wish, sir. It appears I am left with no choice but to accept your challenge.”
A satisfied grin appeared on the other man’s face. “You must come along as a witness, Henry,” he said, turning to our host. “And why don’t you bring along that author johnny?” he added, pointing at me. “Then he’ll really have something to write about for a change.”
From Hamilton’s manner it was obvious that the feelings of our wives were not to be taken into consideration. Mary gave me a wry smile.
Henry looked anxiously toward me, but I was quite content to be an observer of this unfolding drama. I nodded my assent.
“Good,” said Hamilton, rising from his place, his napkin still tucked under his collar. “I look forward to seeing the three of you at Sefton Hall on Saturday week. Shall we say twelve-thirty?” He bowed to Suzanne.
“I won’t be able to join you, I’m afraid,” she said, clearing up any lingering doubt she might have been included in the invitation. “I always have lunch with my mother on Saturdays.”
Hamilton waved a hand to signify that it did not concern him one way or the other.
After the strange guest had left we sat in silence for some moments before Henry volunteered a statement. “I’m sorry about all that,” he began. “His mother and my aunt are old friends, and she’s asked me on several occasions to have him over to dinner. It seems no one else will.”
“Don’t worry,” said Barker eventually. “I’ll do my best not to let you down. And in return for such excellent hospitality perhaps both of you would be kind enough to leave Saturday evening free? There is,” he explained, “an inn near Sefton Hall I have wanted to visit for some time: the Hamilton Arms. The food, I’m assured, is more than adequate but the wine list is …” he hesitated, “considered by experts to be exceptional.”
Henry and I both checked our diaries and readily accepted his invitation.
I thought a great deal about Sefton Hamilton during the next ten days and awaited our lunch with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. On the Saturday morning Henry drove the three of us down to Sefton Park and we arrived a little after twelve thirty. Actually we passed through the massive wrought-iron gates at twelve thirty precisely, but did not reach the front door of the house until twelve thirty-seven.
The great oak door was opened before we had a chance to knock by a tall elegant man in a tail coat, wing collar and black tie. He informed us that he was Adams, the butler. He then escorted us to the morning room, where we were greeted by a large log fire. Above it hung a picture of a disapproving man who I presumed was Sefton Hamilton’s grandfather. On the other walls were a massive tapestry of the Battle of Waterloo and an enormous oil of the Crimean War. Antique furniture littered the room and the one sculpture on display was of a Greek figure throwing a discus. Looking around, I reflected that only the telephone belonged to the present century.
Sefton Hamilton entered the room as a gale might hit an unhappy seaside town. Immediately he stood with his back to the fire, blocking any heat we might have been appreciating.
“Whiskey!” he bellowed as Adams appeared once again. “Barker?”
“Not for me,” said Barker with a thin smile.
“Ah,” said Hamilton. “Want to keep your taste buds at their most sensitive, eh?”
Barker did not reply. Before we went into lunch we learned that the estate was seven thousand acres in
size and had some of the finest shooting outside of Scotland. The Hall had one hundred and twelve rooms, one or two of which Hamilton had not visited since he was a child. The roof itself, he assured us finally, was an acre and a half, a statistic that will long remain in my memory as it is the same size as my garden.
The longcase clock in the corner of the room struck one. “Time for the contest to begin,” declared Hamilton, and marched out of the room like a general who assumes his troops will follow him without question. We did, all the way down thirty yards of corridor to the dining room. The four of us then took our places around a seventeenth-century oak table that could comfortably have seated twenty.
Adorning the center of the table were two Georgian decanters and two unlabelled bottles. The first bottle was filled with a clear white wine, the first decanter with a red, the second bottle with a richer white, and the second decanter with a tawny red substance. In front of the four wines were four white cards. By each lay a slim bundle of fifty-pound notes.
Hamilton took his place in the large chair at the top of the table while Barker and I sat opposite each other in the center, facing the wine, leaving Henry to occupy the final place at the far end of the table.
The butler stood one pace behind his master’s chair. He nodded and four footmen appeared, bearing the first course. A fish-and-prawn terrine was placed in front of each of us. Adams received a nod from his master before he picked up the first bottle and began to fill Barker’s glass. Barker waited for the butler to go around the table and fill the other three glasses before he began his ritual.
First he swirled the wine around while at the same time studying it carefully. Then he sniffed it. He hesitated and a surprised look came over his face. He took a sip.
“Um,” he said eventually. “I confess, quite a challenge.” He sniffed it again just to be sure. Then he looked up and gave a smile of satisfaction. Hamilton stared at him, his mouth slightly open, although he remained unusually silent.
Barker took one more sip. “Montagny Tête de Cuvée 1985,” he declared with the confidence of an expert, “bottled by Louis Latour.” We all looked toward Hamilton, who, in contrast, displayed an unhappy frown.
“You’re right,” said Hamilton. “It was bottled by Latour. But that’s about as clever as telling us that Heinz bottles tomato ketchup. And, since my father died in 1984, I can assure you, sir, you are mistaken.” He looked round at his butler to confirm the statement. Adams’s face remained inscrutable. Barker turned over the card. It read: “Chevalier Montrachet les Demoiselles 1983.” He stared at the card, obviously unable to believe his eyes.
“One down and three to go,” Hamilton declared, oblivious to Barker’s reaction. The footmen reappeared and took away the fish plates, to replace them a few moments later with lightly cooked grouse. While its accompaniments were being served, Barker did not speak. He just stared at the other three decanters, not even hearing his host inform Henry who his guests were to be for the first shoot of the season the following week. I remember that the names corresponded roughly with the ones Hamilton had suggested for his ideal cabinet.
Barker nibbled at the grouse as he waited for Adams to fill a glass from the first decanter. He had not finished his terrine after the opening failure, only taking the occasional sip of water.
“Since Adams and I spent a considerable part of our morning selecting the wines for this little challenge, let us hope you can do better this time,” said Hamilton, unable to hide his satisfaction. Barker once again began to swirl the wine around. He seemed to take longer this time, sniffing it several times before putting his glass to his lips and finally sipping from it.
A smile of instant recognition appeared on his face and he did not hesitate. “Château la Louvière 1978.”
“This time you have the correct year, sir, but you have insulted the wine.”
Immediately Barker turned the card over and read it out incredulously: Château Lafite 1978. Even I knew that to be one of the finest Bordeaux one might ever hope to taste. Barker lapsed into a deep silence and continued to nibble at his food. Hamilton appeared to be enjoying the wine almost as much as the half-time score. “One hundred pounds to me, nothing to the president of the Wine Society,” he reminded us. Embarrassed, Henry and I tried to keep the conversation going until the third course had been served—a lemon-and-lime soufflé that could not compare in presentation or subtlety with any of Suzanne’s offerings.
“Shall we move on to my third challenge?” asked Hamilton crisply.
Once again Adams picked up a decanter and began to pour the wine. I was surprised to see that he spilled a little as he filled Barker’s glass.
“Clumsy oaf,” barked Hamilton.
“I do apologize, sir,” said Adams. He removed the spilled drop from the wooden table with a napkin. As he did so he stared at Barker with a desperate look that I felt sure had nothing to do with the spilling of the wine. However, he remained mute as he continued to circle the table.
Once again Barker went through his ritual, the swirling, the sniffing, and finally the tasting. This time he took even longer. Hamilton became impatient and drummed the great Jacobean table with his podgy fingers.
“It’s a Sauternes,” began Barker.
“Any halfwit could tell you that,” said Hamilton. “I want to know the year and the vintage.”
His guest hesitated.
“Château Guiraud 1976,” he said flatly.
“At least you are consistent,” said Hamilton. “You’re always wrong.”
Barker flicked over the card.
“Château d’Yquem 1980,” he said in disbelief. It was a vintage that I had only seen at the bottom of wine lists in expensive restaurants and had never had the privilege of tasting. It puzzled me greatly that Barker could have been wrong about the Mona Lisa of wines.
Barker quickly turned toward Hamilton to protest and must have seen Adams standing behind his master, all six feet three of the man trembling, at exactly the same time I did. I wanted Hamilton to leave the room so I could ask Adams what was making him so fearful, but the owner of Sefton Hall was now in full cry.
Meanwhile Barker gazed at the butler for a moment more and, sensing his discomfort, lowered his eyes and contributed nothing else to the conversation until the port was poured some twenty minutes later.
“Your last chance to avoid complete humiliation,” said Hamilton.
A cheese board, displaying several varieties, was brought round and each guest selected his choice—I stuck to a cheddar that I could have told Hamilton had not been made in Somerset. Meanwhile the port was poured by the butler, who was now as white as a sheet. I began to wonder if he was going to faint, but somehow he managed to fill all four glasses before returning to stand a pace behind his master’s chair. Hamilton noticed nothing untoward.
Barker drank the port, not bothering with any of his previous preliminaries.
“Taylor’s,” he began.
“Agreed,” said Hamilton. “But as there are only three decent suppliers of port in the world, the year can be all that matters—as you, in your exalted position, must be well aware, Mr. Barker.”
Freddie nodded his agreement. “Nineteen seventy-five,” he said firmly, then quickly flicked the card over.
“Taylor’s 1927,” I read upside-down.
Once again Barker turned sharply toward his host, who was rocking with laughter. The butler stared back at his master’s guest with haunted eyes. Barker hesitated only for a moment before removing a checkbook from his inside pocket. He filled in the name “Sefton Hamilton” and the figure of two hundred pounds. He signed it and wordlessly passed the check along the table to his host.
“That was only half the bargain,” said Hamilton, enjoying every moment of his triumph.
Barker rose, paused and said, “I am a humbug.”
“You are indeed, sir,” said Hamilton.
After spending three of the most unpleasant hours of my life, I managed to escape with Henry and Fr
eddie Barker a little after four o’clock. As Henry drove away from Sefton Hall neither of us uttered a word. Perhaps we both felt that Barker should be allowed the first comment.
“I fear, gentlemen,” he said eventually, “I shall not be good company for the next few hours, and so I will, with your permission, take a brisk walk and join you both for dinner at the Hamilton Arms around seven-thirty. I have booked a table for eight o’clock.” Without another word, Barker signaled that Henry should bring the car to a halt, and we watched as he climbed out and headed off down a country lane. Henry did not drive on until his friend was well out of sight.
My sympathies were entirely with Barker, although I remained puzzled by the whole affair. How could the president of the Wine Society make such basic mistakes? After all, I could read one page of Dickens and know it wasn’t Graham Greene.
Like Dr. Watson, I felt I required a fuller explanation.
Barker found us sitting round the fire in the private bar at the Hamilton Arms a little after seven-thirty that night. Following his exercise, he appeared in far better spirits. He chatted about nothing consequential and didn’t once mention what had taken place at lunchtime.
It must have been a few minutes later, when I turned to check the old clock above the door, that I saw Hamilton’s butler seated at the bar in earnest conversation with the innkeeper. I would have thought nothing of it had I not noticed the same terrified look that I had witnessed earlier in the afternoon as he pointed in our direction. The innkeeper appeared equally anxious, as if he had been found guilty of serving half measures by a customs and excise officer.
He picked up some menus and walked over to our table.
“We’ve no need for those,” said Barker. “Your reputation goes before you. We are in your hands. Whatever you suggest we will happily consume.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said and passed our host the wine list.
The Collected Short Stories Page 56
