Country life
Having a ball
Leanda de Lisle
November is a beautiful month when it's cold and crisp like it is today. The lawns are streaked silver and gold where the shad- ows and the pale, clear sunlight are cast across the frosted lawns. The partridge we shot last weekend are in the freezer, waiting for the guests who are coming to stay for the hunt ball we are hosting this weekend. They are all from London or Sheffield and none of them rides, as far as I'm aware. I asked them for no better reason than that I like them, and it's been a bit tricky to per- suade some of them to wear white, or even black tie. I gave up pleading when one guest suggested that if I make too much fuss they'll dress up as hunt saboteurs.
Someone who works for one of the big estate agents told me recently that 55 per cent of the farms he's sold over the last 12 months have been bought by Londoners. These aren't small-holdings, but 1,000- acre estates situated all over the country. I won- der if these new absentee landowners muck in with the locals? I gather that the majori- ty of these estates are west of London, so perhaps they don't have any locals to throw hunt balls for. However, I trust the rest respect the values of the communities into which they have bought. A long dress might not look very right-on in some city bor- oughs, but dressing down for a celebration here looks as self-consciously snooty as wearing a tiara to an urban dinner party.
To be fair, those friends of mine who feel uncomfortable in formal dress swear they will look fabulous for me on Saturday. They had better be right. I suppose I trust them and in truth I'm quite worried about my own dress. It's a thin chiffon column that doesn't allow room for a great deal of underwear, and it's held up by only a few beads. One good tug and over 300 people will be seeing rather more of Mrs de Lisle than they had expected or wished. Oh God, I don't know what's more frightening, the thought of such a thing becoming a part of local history — like the story of Lady Cope lying under the horses at the hunt meet, saying, 'Take me, take me' — or my moth- er-in-law's fury if I have nothing to wear for the hunt ball she's hosting the following weekend.
Anyway, you can be certain that I shall tell you all about it. I feel I should tell you about the shooting as well, but there's not much to say, given that I've only been turn- ing up for the shooting lunches. However, it would be true to say that we are as unwelcoming to uninvited locals on our home turf as I hope we will be welcoming to those who are our guests. Driving to the shooting lodge last weekend, I saw a woman walking with two children. I drove past them thinking, 'Should I say any- thing?' The attitude of those who think that there is no such thing as private land outside the suburban garden has infected me and I didn't want to get all hoity-toity. But there was a shoot on. I stopped the car and reversed as far as the eldest child.
The girl explained politely that she was walking with her auntie. I asked whether they realised we were shooting today. They didn't, so I told her to tell her auntie because the small child with her might be frightened by the bangs. I then drove on, imagining how the aunt would react. It didn't make a pretty picture. I thought I should have reversed further and spoken to the aunt, but perhaps it's as well I didn't. I discovered at lunch that Peter had got quite a flea in his ear when he asked a man, who was walking in front of the guns, whether he had permission to be there. 'Don't tell me about shooting,' the man spat in what sounded like a Polish accent, `I shot eight Germans during the war.'
The marquee for the hunt ball is going up on the lawn tomorrow. I hope the weather stays this cold as the cars are to be parked in a field that could otherwise become a mud bath. We must arrange the hall so that the guests will file through, while I stand with the ball's organisers shaking hands. There will be quite a draught with the door open. I know my friends will think it very funny watching me covered in goose pim- ples trying to be gracious, and I have a hor- ror of being in the spotlight. I'd better avoid the champagne or I could turn out to be the hunt ball saboteur.
'We're gearing up production; Delia Smith has recommended your eggs.'
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