The first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning was the stag’s head staring down at me from above the fireplace.
Of course I was used to these kinds of trophies on the walls of STAGS, but even so, a disembodied head seemed an odd thing to have in a bedroom. It’s quite creepy, really, if you think about it. Now it was daylight outside I could see the stubby lashes above the glass eyes, and the moth-eaten fur, but that didn’t make it any better. I sat up in the four-poster bed, and the eyes followed me. It unsettled me a little bit, so I decided to give the stag a name – a real doofus name that couldn’t scare anyone. ‘Hello, Jeffrey,’ I said. The stag stared at me, but he already seemed a little bit less scary. He seemed like he was listening. ‘So, Jeffrey,’ I said, ‘what do you suppose today will bring?’ Glassy stare. ‘No. I’m really asking. I’m really wondering.’
And I was. After the dinner last night, and the roasting of Chanel, and Shafeen’s crazy Jungle Book bullshit story to put an end to it, the girls had all gone to bed pretty early. We were all aware that we’d need to be up at the crack of sparrows today for the stag hunt. I pointed two fingers at Jeffrey’s head, cocked my thumb and pulled the trigger. ‘Bang, bang,’ I said.
I got out of the bed and went to the window. The stag head watched me. I opened the heavy curtains and blinked at the view. Practically as far as I could see there were grounds and parklands, including walled rose gardens and a sort of vegetably kitchen garden. Beyond that was a formal woodland area, dotted with statues, temples, lakes and fountains, where the hedges were cut into shapes like peacocks. Further still there was a kind of fenced paddock with, of course, horses in it. And far in the distance was a little frill of forest, and, rising up beyond the trees, the purple hills of the Lake District. It was stunning, and about as far from our terraced house in Arkwright Road, Manchester, as you could possibly get. ‘We’re not in Kansas any more, Jeffrey,’ I said.
I shivered a bit – the fire was out and it was pretty cold, but that wasn’t what was making me shiver. The drive was a whole bunch of activity already. Land Rovers and jeeps were already pulling up, and there was a horse there too. Not loads, like you see on those films with hunt scenes in them, like A Handful of Dust, but just one, saddled up and skittering about on the drive. I swallowed. Surely I wasn’t going to be expected to ride?
There was also a bunch of hounds, smart-looking black-and-tan ones, swarming around the horse’s legs, yipping and tail-wagging. Then I saw something that really made my stomach turn over. Loads of these guys in flat caps – including man-mountain and chatterbox Perfect – were loading guns into the back of the jeeps. The guns had smooth pewter-grey barrels and glossy stocks of caramel-coloured wood. They were being packed into these sort of racks, rows and rows of them. They looked harmless and dangerous all at once. I suddenly felt a bit sick. ‘Well, Jeffrey,’ I said, trying to style it out, ‘shit just got real.’
Perfect finished his scary packing and suddenly turned and looked up at my window, as if he knew I was watching him. Our eyes met for a long, long minute before I sidestepped behind the curtains as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.
Just at that moment someone knocked at the door, and then opened it without waiting for a reply. It was Betty, with an enormous tray – silver, of course. It had loads of stuff on it – glasses and cups and a kind of silver dome, and a little crystal vase with a flower in it.
I went to help her, but she said coldly, ‘That’s all right, miss,’ and placed it on the bed. She stood back, clasped her hands and pursed her lips. She obviously hadn’t forgiven me for that crack about her freaky husband. Looking at the floor the whole time, she said, ‘There are fresh towels in the bathroom, miss; if you’d like to take your bath after breakfast, I’ll get the fire lit and lay out your clothes.’
She just stood there. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure that I could eat anything, but once she’d gone and I clambered back into bed I found that I was ravenous. There was toast wrapped in a crisp white napkin, orange juice, coffee in a little silver pot, a basket of pastries and, under the silver dome, a full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages and black pudding. It was the best breakfast I’d ever tasted, and I was willing to bet that was because every animal on the plate had very recently been walking around the Longcross estate. I even ate the black pudding, which I don’t usually do because I’m always a bit freaked out that it’s made from blood. Today it was delicious; perhaps because it was just the right thing to eat on a huntin’ day. Blood for breakfast, I thought.
Full up, I went to have a bath (no showers at Longcross – I guessed they were Savage) and when I came out, all wrapped in this big white dressing gown, the bed was made and the fire had magically been lit; Jeffrey’s eyes were shining again and his fur was all orange under his chin. You know that bit in the Disney Cinderella when she’s chopping all the vegetables in the kitchen, and the fairy godmother comes, and when she looks back all the vegetables are chopped and the fires lit and the pots and pans are sparkling? That. On the bed was a neat array of clothes, beautifully laid out. Esme had been right; I hadn’t needed to bring any more than underwear. There was a shirt with a discreet green check, a sludge-coloured cashmere jumper, a kind of silk scarf (I wasn’t sure where to wear that – on my head like the Queen?) and a waxed jacket. For my bottom half there were khaki trousers made of this kind of tough material and the inevitable green wellies. There was a hat too – a brown, brimmed Indiana Jones thing. As ever, nothing looked brand new. All the clothes had really good labels from the really posh outfitters that the Medievals favoured, names like Turnbull and Asser and Harvie and Hudson. They were great quality, but a little … second hand. I wondered who had worn them before.
I looked in the mirror. I looked like one of them. I took the hat off again and threw it, Indy style, on the bed. It felt like a step too far.
Then I just kind of sat about, getting more and more nervous. I kept going to the window and watching the increased activity on the drive. Now I could see Henry and Piers and Cookson, all in tweed jackets and flat caps, laughing and smoking by the Land Rovers, completely at their ease. I wasn’t sure what to do, but soon there was another knock at the door. ‘His lordship’s compliments, miss,’ said my grumpy fairy godmother, ‘and would you join him and the other guests downstairs on the drive?’