At the end of the last drive of the morning, the dead pheasants were laid out neatly on the leaves, poor victims of the morning’s carnage.
They were perfectly in line, little dead soldiers still wearing their feathery battledress. Perfect was standing over them, as if he’d done something clever. He saw me, but this time didn’t stare me down. Now, in the presence of his master, he was perfectly proper, and just touched his cap to me. Then he went along the ranks, counting (aloud, the moron) and pulling every tenth bird forward a little, interrupting the perfect rank, for easy reckoning. Henry was standing at the end of them all – he hadn’t seen me yet; he was totally focused on Perfect, like a general waiting for his sergeant major’s report from the battlefield.
‘Fifty-two, my lord.’
Henry nodded. ‘And Mr Jadeja?’
‘Forty-eight.’
Perfect didn’t even bother to count the other guns’ birds. It was clear that there were only two dogs in the fight that morning.
Shafeen took the news pretty well, shrugging his shoulders and breaking his gun so both the cartridges jumped out, like little smoke bombs. The smoke had an acrid, not-unpleasant smell. ‘Plenty of the day left,’ he said, philosophically. Weirdly, Henry took the news that he was Top Gun of the morning less well. Clearly he didn’t like having competition at all. Maybe his mythical gun skills were not as unique as he thought. I wondered where Shafeen had learned to shoot, and remembered what he’d said the day before about shooting tigers. Tigers, I said to myself. Don’t be an idiot.
I went over to Henry, unable to wait any longer for him to notice me. The sight of me seemed to improve his temper. ‘Greer!’ he said, just as he’d done that first night at Longcross when he’d greeted me in the Boot Room. It was a way he had, like I was always a nice surprise, as if I’d just jumped out of a cake. It was the first time our eyes had met since The Kiss, and I could feel my cheeks heating up. I could feel Shafeen’s eyes on me too, looking from myself to Henry with an interested look, and that of course made me even redder.
‘Walk with me?’ said Henry, and even though it sounded like it had a question mark, it was an order, not a request. That was another way Henry had, of saying things with a built-in assumption that people would obey him, centuries of baked-in entitlement. This time, of course, I was only too happy to comply.
We walked through the wood together and out the other side. I couldn’t tell you what we talked about – little bits of nothing, because everyone else was walking around us, the Medievals, Shafeen walking by himself like a lone gunman and Lara the jailer, arm in arm with her captive Nel. We couldn’t say anything private, we certainly couldn’t talk about the night before and our rooftop hook-up, but as we walked through the undergrowth his knuckles grazed mine and it was like electricity jumping through me.
We came out of the trees on a little hill, with a beautiful stone building right on the top. ‘The folly,’ said Henry, pointing. The folly was octagonal, with pillars and curly stone decorations, and those kind of long windows that were actually doors opening out on to eight different views. I know the word ‘folly’ makes it sound like some tiny whimsical thing, like a tree house or one of those little temples you find in public parks. Only it wasn’t some tiny thing; it was bigger than my whole house in Arkwright Terrace.
Inside, the floor was stone, so no one had to worry about muddy boots, and there was the inevitable fire burning, so it was toasty and warm. No antlers here, but a pair of stuffed pheasants mounted on the mantelpiece over the bright flames. The table was a lovely sight, set, as ever, with a snowy-white tablecloth, and all the crystal and cutlery, but this time the silver salvers were piled high with nothing but oranges, in perfect pyramids. Their colour picked out the trees in the autumnal landscape, a palette of flame. It occurred to me that these were probably the very oranges I’d seen in the Orangery this morning, innocently hanging from their branches, looking pretty, not knowing this was their last morning on earth. Just like the pheasants – the poor dead pheasants. There was a lot of death around today.
Lara was placed opposite Henry, but there were people on either side of them, as if seven people had gatecrashed their romantic dinner. I was actually sitting next to Henry. I’d never sat so close to him before – I’d kind of moved up the table since Friday night and now at Sunday lunch I was in pole position.
As the soup was served, some kind of nice spicy wintery vegetable broth, Henry turned to me. ‘I hear you’ve been over the house.’
I smiled at him playfully. ‘Now, who could have told you that?’ I was kidding. There were servants in every fricking room of that place. I’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t heard about my grand tour.
He caught my tone. ‘My spies are everywhere,’ he said deliciously, blue eyes twinkling.
‘I bet they are.’
‘I would have liked to show you around myself.’
‘You still can,’ I said, taking a sip of water. ‘I probably saw about a hundredth of it.’
Henry tipped his soup plate, away from him of course. ‘What did you think of the hundredth that you saw?’
‘I loved it,’ I said simply.
‘I love it too.’ It wasn’t just one of those things you say to agree with the person you’re talking to. He really loved it. You could tell by his voice.
‘I know you do,’ I whispered. ‘You told me on the roof.’
‘I meant everything I told you on the roof,’ he said pointedly and a bit loudly, and I could feel myself going red again. I noticed Shafeen pause in his conversation and shoot him a look. Henry had given us away. But he was oblivious. ‘Where did you go? Around Longcross, I mean.’
As the courses went by – lobster vol-au-vents, chicken mayonnaise with boiled potatoes, pear crumble – I told Henry about his house. I told him about the icehouse, the Orangery, the stable block and the kennels. I told him about the room with the map all over one wall, the piano room, the armoury and the wine cellars.
Now and again he’d interrupt me, to tell me the name of something I didn’t know (‘The room with the map is the estate room’) or slip in a little factoid about his ancestry (‘That silver chain mail belonged to Conrad de Warlencourt. He was wearing it when he captured the True Cross’).
Then I told him about the library and he got a bit weird. He sat up, all alert, just as Lara had been. ‘The library?’
‘Yes. The library.’
‘What did you see?’ he asked, sharply.
‘Books,’ I said, but he didn’t laugh.
I attempted to change what I could see was, for some reason, a touchy subject. ‘I’ll tell you what I didn’t see,’ I said. ‘Any tech. Anywhere in the house. Not one computer, not one phone. No TVs. You’re really thorough with this Medieval thing, aren’t you?’
‘Sometimes the old ways are the best.’ He took a sip from his glass with a satisfied expression, and I couldn’t tell whether he was savouring the wine or his life. ‘Ever heard of the Luddites?’
‘Luddites?’
‘The Luddites were textile workers in the North, not very far from here. When the Industrial Revolution came along they felt challenged by the coming of machines.’ Henry spooned his dessert. ‘They thought that technology was “a threat to commonality”. In other words, they were afraid of it. They thought machines threatened the way they lived their lives. One chap by the name of Ned Ludd decided to do something about it. In 1779 he smashed two stocking frames in the factory where he worked and gave his name to a movement. The movement spread and pretty soon organised groups of workers were smashing machines.’
‘You don’t go around smashing machines,’ I said.
‘No.’ He smiled gently. ‘But we can choose not to use them. Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘we’re not cavemen. We have cars, we have electricity. We just choose to reject the aspects of technology that we think have damaged society and the natural order of things. Teenagers can become YouTube billionaires from their bedrooms without ever having had a decent education. A reality-TV star can become president of the United States without any experience of government.’
‘So you say no to some tech, not all of it.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Like the Internet.’
‘That’s one, yes.’
‘And smartphones.’
‘That’s another.’
‘And TV.’
‘That’s a third.’
‘But can you do that?’ I asked. ‘These things have been invented; they are with us, like it or not. Can you put the genie back in the bottle?’
‘I’d challenge your analogy there,’ he said. ‘The genie was a force for good, a benevolent spirit offering three wishes to fulfil your heart’s desire. I’d use a different analogy. You know the story of Pandora’s box?’
I did. ‘Pandora was given a box which contained all the evils of the world. She opened it from curiosity, let the evils loose, and was unable to close the box again. But that’s what I mean. Once this stuff is out there, it’s out there.’
Henry nodded slowly. ‘The Luddites found that too. They were fighting a losing battle. The machines rolled over them and crushed them, and within less than a century, technology had taken over the world. But are we any the better for it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘because not all of it is evil. And here’s why I like the genie analogy better than Pandora. The wishes can be good or bad; what we wish for is up to us. I think tech is like that. It’s not all bad. Some of it is good.’
‘What’s so good about it? Name me three things?’
I was having fun – this was combative but friendly. He knew much more about this stuff than I’d given him credit for, and it made me realise that Henry wasn’t ignorant about modern tech, he’d just chosen to reject it. He was very clever, and I enjoyed debating with him. Maybe this was what it would be like to be Henry’s girlfriend. I thought of The Kiss and our hands grazing in the wood. Maybe I already was.
I thought about his question. ‘Three good things about tech … OK: Skype. Skype brings people together. It telescopes the world. You can talk to your old granny in the outback in Australia. A surgeon in London can oversee keyhole surgery in Cowshitville in the middle of nowhere, if there’s no one there qualified to do it. And what about all those online campaigns, for democracy in Arab states, rights for women, finding missing people. They can change the world for the better.’
‘Skype and online campaigning,’ said Henry. ‘That’s two. What about a third?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Funny videos of cats.’
Henry nearly spat out his wine. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘In a way, all the funny stuff on the Internet, all the amazing tricks, all the memes, all the stupid photos, that’s all valid too. If it makes millions of people smile, or de-stress, or relax, isn’t that a force for good?’
‘All right,’ he said, smiling himself. ‘You’ve listed three – arguable – benefits. Your three genie wishes, if you will. Let me match that with the infinite evils of Pandora’s box. The Deep Web. The proliferation of paedophilia, hard-core porn, you name it. And then, in the shallow end of the pool, even social media has its evils. Look at trolling. Trolling is the new blood sport.’
He motioned to the world outside, and I followed his gesture to see the stunning view; the flame-coloured trees, the lush green hillside and, far in the distance, the heartbreakingly lovely house nestling in the valley.
‘Lots of people wouldn’t approve of what we are doing this weekend. But trolling is much more destructive than what we get up to here for a few days a year. The kind of hunting that trolls do is in every home, every day, threatening every young person’s mental health. No,’ he said, smoothing his napkin, ‘I think we’re better off without tech. It “threatens commonality”, just like the Luddites said.’
I didn’t necessarily disagree with him. I’d found that morning – this whole weekend – very seductive. The peace of it, the real-world pursuits. But I didn’t think we had the choice. ‘You said it though. This stuff is in every home. You’re fighting a losing battle with keyboard warriors.’
‘Maybe I am,’ said Henry with a sad smile. ‘But I’ll fight it as long as I can.’
‘How will you know if you’ve lost?’ I asked, interested.
‘If the day comes,’ he said, ‘I’ll know. But until then, I’m happy being a Luddite.’ He lifted his glass, and I lifted mine to chink his. I didn’t wholly agree with him, or wholly disagree, but the gesture said we’d park the argument amicably for now.
But Shafeen had other ideas. He cut across the friendliness.
‘You’re not a Luddite,’ he said to Henry scornfully. ‘It’s not the same thing at all.’
Suddenly everyone else was listening. Piers actually put down his glass and Cookson paused with (ironically) a silver spoon in his mouth. Lara rested her chin charmingly on her hand. Nel stopped pushing her pudding around her bowl, and Esme and Charlotte flipped their hair and turned their heads to listen too.
‘The Luddites were a working-class movement.’ Shafeen addressed the pyramid of oranges in front of him, looking neither right nor left. ‘They thought machines would replace them and take their wages. Not threaten some long-dead way of life filled with privilege and luxury and leisure. They wanted to work.’ He looked straight at Henry. ‘Have you ever worked?’
‘Have you?’ asked Henry smoothly.
Shafeen shifted a little. ‘I’m not claiming to be a Luddite. All I’m saying is, you’re not one either.’
Henry stretched, supremely confident. ‘Well, Shafeen, you’ve known me for … how many years?’
‘Ten,’ said Shafeen shortly.
‘You’ve known me for ten years. You’re as well qualified to judge as anyone. What would you say I am?’
We were all dead silent, waiting and listening.
Shafeen thought for a moment, studying Henry as if he’d never seen him before. ‘You’re King Sisyphus,’ he said, ‘trying to push a boulder up a hill. Sisyphus was a king from Greek myth who thought he was cleverer than everyone else, even the gods. He spent eternity pushing an immense boulder up a steep hill.' He shook his head. 'Trying to fight technology is like trying to fight gravity. Some day, when you and your kind aren't there to push it, that boulder's going to come rolling back down the hill again.' There was a dangerous silence.
I glanced at Henry nervously, but just as at the end of the tiger-mother story, he started to laugh. And said unexpectedly, ‘You’re absolutely right.’ Then he clapped his hands together. ‘Well, if everyone’s had their fill, it’s time to push a boulder up a hill.’ He shoved back his chair and stood up. ‘Shafeen and I have a score to settle.’ He glanced out of the windows.
The light was fading, and the sky was turning the same orange as the fruits on the table and the trees outside. ‘There’s time for one more drive before dark,’ announced Henry.
I’d almost forgotten the shoot, and the pheasant-slaughtering competition; for a moment it was almost as if the score to be settled was about the Luddites.
Henry raised his hand, and one of the servants sprang forward with one of the ever-present silver trays they seemed always to have to hand at Longcross.
On this tray was a large silver flask, with sort of a tan leather base reaching halfway up it. Around the flask in a neat circle were six little silver cups. Henry poured out some brown liquid into the cups (I never did find out what it was. Brandy? Whisky?) and the servants handed them around, missing out me, Lara and Nel.
‘What are we, chopped liver?’ I quipped to Lara, on the other side of the table to me. Again I felt sorry for her – Henry had spent the whole of lunch ignoring her. I didn’t really need a drink, but I did need something to say.
‘Only the guns get a shooting cup,’ she said in her bored, don’t-be-stupid voice, and I abruptly stopped feeling sorry for her. ‘There’s a number on the bottom, which will tell them where they are in this afternoon’s stand – their position in the line when they start the next drive.’
‘And does it matter?’ I asked.
‘Not really. It’s just a bit of fun,’ she said in the least fun-sounding voice ever.
Piers the booze hound was, of course, the first to finish his drink. He did it in the manner of that huge mountain guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark, the one who’s having a drinking competition with Marion Ravenwood. He drained it, held the little silver cup out in front of him at arm’s length and banged it down on the table. I could just about see from my end of the table that there was a little number engraved on the bottom of the cup. ‘Three!’ he shouted, and everyone cheered.
Cookson wasn’t far behind. ‘One!’ Everyone cheered again.
Esme. ‘Four!’ Cheer.
Charlotte. ‘Two!’ Cheer.
Then Henry. ‘Five!’
‘Woohoo!’ I said, trying to enter into the spirit.
Shafeen was last – zero suspense of course. Everyone knew he was six, but everyone still cheered politely when he said the number soberly.
I saw Piers and Cookson exchange a look, and felt a sudden little shiver of foreboding.