Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors) (9 page)

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THE HUNTSMAN

Name: Winston Bath
Location: Waddedson Manor, Aylesbury
Occupation: Master of Foxhounds
Threat level: 1
Article clearance: Silver
Case file: 09/0745/GBL

My regular readers will know that I have no views on fox-hunting, either for or against. It may be true that, in the words of Oscar Wilde, it is the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable or it may be that it is a necessary part of the countryside that we would be unwise to dispense with when all the usual bastions of society are falling around our ears. Whichever it may be, my visit to the kennels of the Tally Ho! Club was an eye-opener, as this interview will reveal.

Thank you for agreeing to meet me Mr. Bath.

By Jove, they’ve sent a bloody woman! Oh well, tally ho and all that, what? Can you hear me over the noise of these blasted foxhounds? Damned hounds.

Are you about to go on a hunt?

Yes, bad timing on your part I’m afraid, old girl. You can come with if you like, I’ll make an exception to the rules if it’s useful to your Ministry friends.

Well I can ride but –

No, no, say no more. My pleasure. Whip! Boy! Jodhpurs, hat, gloves, crop for the lady please.

There is quite a gathering of people by your tent, I notice, Mr Bath.

Yes, they are our guest riders from the city, come up for a day’s sport. They’re not regulars you see, but well, they pay their cap and they are all gentleman. A lovely day like this, a bit of English air, bloody lovely, what? The ladies, they won’t be coming, so I hope the Ministry realises I really am going against the grain letting you ride with us.

Well I don’t actually –

No, no, say no more old girl. It’s a brave new world, and a queer one at that. The ladies will be taking afternoon tea while the gents are away so you really are privileged.

How has business been for you since the war?

Blooming, old girl, blooming. You see, it’s a damned old state Blighty is in, isn’t it. People need to escape for a day, let off some steam, enjoy a good old ride and a day’s hunt before they go back to whatever misery awaits them. We’re never short of quarry for them either; would you like to meet their quarry today.

Meet? The fox? Are they tame, then?

Why not, what? Whip! Whip! Open the kennel door, boy. Our guest from the Ministry wants to meet our quarry.

At this point I should tell the readers that, inside a cramped and filthy shed, was a man, little more than a boy, really, who stood up and looked apprehensively at my host and me.

There you go, old boy, what was your name again?

‘Wilfrid, sir.’

Ah that’s the one; this man here is Wilfrid, good sport he is too. I hope you’ve eaten well, you’ll need your strength what?

‘Oh yes sir, I’ve eaten like a king, not too much I hope, perish the thought.’

That’s the spirit!

Wilfrid
is the quarry?

Oh yes, friendly enough fellow too. A volunteer, actually. You see, normally we’d pay the magistrates a sum for the villains, rogues and nancies they’d dealt with, but well, bit of a shortage of criminals at the moment I’m afraid, what with the courts not being what they used to be. Every now and then a bobby will bring us a blaggard off their own steam but well, volunteers are as good as any, and they’re not so mean spirited either!

Wilfrid, why have you volunteered for this? Do you know what’s going to happen?

Oh yes m’lady. The family are in a bad way at the moment, and what with father’s injury, we’re nigh on destitute. I got given this here pamphlet at the market, volunteers wanted; it pays handsome, it does. Anyone who escapes the hunt is paid very handsome indeed. I’d be able to keep my family fed for a year I reckon. It’s not ideal m’lady, but work is work isn’t it and I’m grateful for it. These gentlemen could spend their time with villains but they’ve given us honest folk a chance to benefit to. And I hear a good number of people escape the hunt don’t they Mr. Bath?

‘Well, yes, yes, of course. Wouldn’t be sport if we won every time would it?’

All I need to do is get away, and if I do, the next day I’ll be paid.

‘Well, we’re almost ready old boy, get yourself dressed and the boy will collect you in a few moments.’

After a few minutes, Wilfrid is led out in new clothes and he is given a moment to address the crowd. He seems overwhelmed to be given the honour and I found it hard not to rush the platform and carry him off. But, as we all know, the strength is always with the numbers and I daresay that it will surprise none of my regular readers when I say that I was in little doubt that they would have been as happy with two to chase as with one. After Wilfrid’s heartfelt hope that he would give them good sport, the platform was handed over to Winston Bath, a man who I hope rots in Hell [Legal – check that for me will you, like a darling?]

Ladies and gentleman, our guest of honour for the day, Wilfrid Seymour. A local fellow from the village, who has kindly volunteered to be our quarry for the day. He has signed all the necessary paperwork and is ready for a good day’s sport. Just remember ladies and gentleman, Wilfrid is an honest sort and is no villain, so Queensbury rules apply, that goes to you especially Sir Granston. However, sport is sport, and no quarter will be given should the foxhounds win the day.

Mr Bath, I … I would prefer not to ride, I don’t feel too well.

Oh blast, suit yourself. I suppose it’s good for the tradition of the thing, but do let the Ministry know I offered you to ride and they are always welcome here if they wish to join in the fun.   Ok chaps, all ready? Tally ho! 

It was a while before the horses returned and by then the small talk of the Club’s ladies had worn me almost to the point of screaming. In fact, screaming was very much in my mind when I saw the bloodied muzzles of the hounds and the tattered thing which had once been Wilfrid Seymour being dragged behind Bath’s horse. As a journalist, I should have asked more questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to the animal. This didn’t stop him filling us in on what happened. Apparently, according to the ladies, when there is no fee payable – in other words, every time – they have a whip-round for the family. Whip-round is not the word I would use. Whipping would be more appropriate.

And there we have it; poor fellow didn’t get too far once the hounds caught up with him. What an awfully good sport though. Ladies and gentleman, if you would like to retire and the evening’s entertainments will commence at seven o’ clock. Boy, bury Mr. Seymour will you, thank you. Now, Miss … er … the ladies will have some evening attire if you wish to join us for tonight’s pleasantries. I say, whatever happened to Miss … er?

But he was talking to my back – I needed to leave as I have never needed to leave anywhere before. In a final note to my readers, if ever I disappear, along with others already noted, please check the trophy room of the Tally Ho! Club – I noticed some of them eyeing my ponytail with some interest.

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