felt hot, trickles of sweat rolling down my back. Elgie had been playing Vivaldi the night before, and the fast violin notes flashed in my memory as I galloped.
We approached the stag, seeing for the first time that it was an old animal. From his heavy movements and patchy fur I could tell his best days were behind him. It was an imposing creature nevertheless, with a wide body and the most majestic antlers that would be caught that day. It was a clean shot too, and Uncle Maurice was close enough to witness it.
‘Beginners’ luck!’ he cried, pulling the reins and rushing in search of the next target. He was indeed more experienced than me, and without much effort he managed to beat us all: five stags of various sizes. None of them, however, was as spectacular as my first kill, though my subsequent two were also rather good.
I was feeling almost giddy, but soon realized I’d been overshadowed by my father. The old Mr Frey, despite complaining bitterly about his gout, backaches and chapped groin, had managed to shoot four very decent specimens, and very quickly at that. He was the first one to retire, as he’d found the stump of an ancient oak in the centre of a sunny clearing, which became the perfect spot on which to sit back and enjoy his drink. When we found him, he was proudly looking at his trophies, piled at his feet by one of the keepers.
Elgie was the clear loser, managing to shoot only one stag, and it had been the most measly and sad-looking of all. I could picture the creature, half-dead already, dragging itself terribly slowly until Elgie managed to put it out of its misery.
It was early afternoon when we made our way back to the manor, marching proudly in an almost military cavalcade, as a new wave of snowflakes started to fall around us. A small crowd of maids and house servants received us at the gates, cheering as if we’d returned from battle, as the delicious smells coming from the kitchens reminded me how hungry I was.
Our dinner had been roasting in the ovens since the night before, and my mouth watered when I thought of the tender pork falling off the bones, for Christmas was the day when my uncle carved the best joints his estate could provide.
My stepmother, Catherine, did not share the general glee. We found her waiting for us in the gentlemen’s drawing room, standing straight and stiff, with the reproving stare of a school headmistress.
‘You are finally back!’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy your killing?’
Uncle Maurice, who has never needed to keep her happy, was about to mock her as he always does, but then Catherine saw the state my father was in.
‘Oh, William, you look ghastly! I told you not to over-exert yourself. Did Maurice force you to –?’
‘
Force him!
’ uncle cried, grinning. ‘Nobody can force old William Frey!’
‘Look how red you are!’ Catherine went on, pulling my father’s scarf. She offered him a hot beverage, which she had ready on a little table, but my father pushed it away.
‘For goodness sake, woman, I am not an invalid – not yet, at least! Maurice, bring us some brandy!’
We all cheered – even Elgie, who is usually dominated by his mother – and Catherine had to admit defeat.
‘Very well, drink yourselves to oblivion. I shall leave you to your Hall of Death,’ she said, casting a condemning stare at the antler heads and stuffed pheasants hanging on the walls, before clipping off away down the corridor.
Once the drinks were poured and the cigars lit, we all sat by the fire and spent the following hour discussing the hunt. The chatter was only interrupted for a quick change of clothes.
‘Where is father?’ I asked, walking back into the drawing room, wearing my newest jacket.
Elgie was already there, ‘Mama forced him to have a bath. She said he stank like the beasts he just shot.’
‘A bath on Christmas Day!’ Uncle Maurice gasped with a theatrical shudder. ‘What a horrendous prospect …’
As we were lounging back on
We approached the stag, seeing for the first time that it was an old animal. From his heavy movements and patchy fur I could tell his best days were behind him. It was an imposing creature nevertheless, with a wide body and the most majestic antlers that would be caught that day. It was a clean shot too, and Uncle Maurice was close enough to witness it.
‘Beginners’ luck!’ he cried, pulling the reins and rushing in search of the next target. He was indeed more experienced than me, and without much effort he managed to beat us all: five stags of various sizes. None of them, however, was as spectacular as my first kill, though my subsequent two were also rather good.
I was feeling almost giddy, but soon realized I’d been overshadowed by my father. The old Mr Frey, despite complaining bitterly about his gout, backaches and chapped groin, had managed to shoot four very decent specimens, and very quickly at that. He was the first one to retire, as he’d found the stump of an ancient oak in the centre of a sunny clearing, which became the perfect spot on which to sit back and enjoy his drink. When we found him, he was proudly looking at his trophies, piled at his feet by one of the keepers.
Elgie was the clear loser, managing to shoot only one stag, and it had been the most measly and sad-looking of all. I could picture the creature, half-dead already, dragging itself terribly slowly until Elgie managed to put it out of its misery.
It was early afternoon when we made our way back to the manor, marching proudly in an almost military cavalcade, as a new wave of snowflakes started to fall around us. A small crowd of maids and house servants received us at the gates, cheering as if we’d returned from battle, as the delicious smells coming from the kitchens reminded me how hungry I was.
Our dinner had been roasting in the ovens since the night before, and my mouth watered when I thought of the tender pork falling off the bones, for Christmas was the day when my uncle carved the best joints his estate could provide.
My stepmother, Catherine, did not share the general glee. We found her waiting for us in the gentlemen’s drawing room, standing straight and stiff, with the reproving stare of a school headmistress.
‘You are finally back!’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy your killing?’
Uncle Maurice, who has never needed to keep her happy, was about to mock her as he always does, but then Catherine saw the state my father was in.
‘Oh, William, you look ghastly! I told you not to over-exert yourself. Did Maurice force you to –?’
‘
Force him!
’ uncle cried, grinning. ‘Nobody can force old William Frey!’
‘Look how red you are!’ Catherine went on, pulling my father’s scarf. She offered him a hot beverage, which she had ready on a little table, but my father pushed it away.
‘For goodness sake, woman, I am not an invalid – not yet, at least! Maurice, bring us some brandy!’
We all cheered – even Elgie, who is usually dominated by his mother – and Catherine had to admit defeat.
‘Very well, drink yourselves to oblivion. I shall leave you to your Hall of Death,’ she said, casting a condemning stare at the antler heads and stuffed pheasants hanging on the walls, before clipping off away down the corridor.
Once the drinks were poured and the cigars lit, we all sat by the fire and spent the following hour discussing the hunt. The chatter was only interrupted for a quick change of clothes.
‘Where is father?’ I asked, walking back into the drawing room, wearing my newest jacket.
Elgie was already there, ‘Mama forced him to have a bath. She said he stank like the beasts he just shot.’
‘A bath on Christmas Day!’ Uncle Maurice gasped with a theatrical shudder. ‘What a horrendous prospect …’
As we were lounging back on
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