Country life
Scarlet and gold
Leanda de Lisle
One hunt ball down, one to go. The white marquee on the lawn outside our bedroom window was so big that I thought it had snowed when I opened the shutters on Saturday morning. I asked the people who were setting up the bar if they were sure it was going to have enough heating. Rather ominously they replied that there'd be plenty of body heat, but as it turned out they weren't wrong. By 9 o'clock that night, the marquee was filled with energetic party-goers dressed in scarlet tails or gold- en sequins.
My house guests sat down at our table and looked about. At least half of them had never been to a hunt ball before, but, having threatened to dress up as hunt sabo- teurs, they had, in fact, got out the family jewels and stiff collars. I imagine they expected the ball to be rather stuffy, but the atmosphere was gay and relaxed in a way London balls rarely are. Nevertheless, a Sheffield-based girlfriend had obviously been listening to a lot of silly people back home and appeared to have decided it must be full of millionaires. 'What about the miners?' she muttered during a speech mentioning that the British beef on the menu was chosen as a gesture of support for our farmers.
The Atherstone hunt has always been supported by the local miners — or ex-min- ers as they are now — and they certainly have the sympathy of other sections of the rural community. During the strikes of the Seventies, my father-in-law organised pro- jects on the estate for miners who needed work. The chap who gave the speech at the hunt ball is a GP who knows only too well how they fare now. As for the rich, as my girlfriend is a consultant and she was stay- ing in my big house, we would have fallen into that category more than most. But I can see it's difficult for her to see it that way since she remembers us being young and poor together and living off porridge and fried cabbage.
The food at the ball was ritzier than oats and cabbage, but it wasn't exactly Marco Pierre White. The beef was well done, per- haps because the caterers live in terror of the health police. However, we were cheered up by the waitresses. 'Chocolate or lemon?' they demanded, when they came round with pudding. 'Chocolate, please,' I squeaked, before it was plonked down in front of me. Within minutes of dinner end- ing, the dance floor was jam-packed, and we stayed up until 2.30 dancing and playing roulette. At ES for 2,500 chips, my friend from the City was dealing in smaller sums than he's used to, but, like the rest of us, he took his gambling very seriously indeed. Peter told me he had lost a fortune. 'How much is "a fortune"?' I asked nervously. `Six pounds,' he told me solemnly.
My dress, which I had feared might drop off if anyone tugged it, survived the evening, although only narrowly. One friend had, I think, been mixing his drink with some strong anti-flu medicine, and was so unstable that it was only a matter of time before we had an accident with the red wine. When it came, the wine flew in my direction, but miraculously missed me. I can't say I was cross. I was actually impressed that someone so smashed could remain as charming and polite as he did. `Do you want to retire?' Peter asked him when he was within seconds of passing out. `Delighted, old chap,' our friend replied, before being helped to his room.
The next morning we were rather less solicitous. At noon, someone went to check whether our unconscious guest was 'still alive'. 'If there's a problem, just come and tell me,' I told the Good Samaritan, who was the only woman staying who wasn't medically trained. 'I'm responsible for the ill and the dead.' Ten minutes later I noticed she was reading the paper in front of me. 'I assume everything's all right?' I asked sleepily. It was. We had truly all had a ball. Let's hope things go as well at the Quorn's tercentenary next week.
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