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Authors: Edward Hogan
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type of man who would understand.
The problem with Louisa’s image of David Bryant was David Bryant himself. At fifteen he was a loud, drunk, happy, popular, rugby-playing nightmare. Unlike Louisa, whose politics had been broadened by Roy Ogden, David had no notion of life outside his class. He was pleased to be an integral part of the world she hated.
A week before the Pony Club Ball in Nottingham, Louisa realised she would have to infiltrate this world in order to drag him out of it. Her mother, on her knees at the hem of the dress, looked down at Louisa’s wide, nicked feet spilling over the sharp edges of her small shoes, like rising white bread. ‘You know we can curl your hair if you like. Or straighten it. You can have more than one look,’ she said.
‘I doubt it,’ Louisa said.
Stepping backwards down the hall for a final appraisal, her mother fought the urge to wince. ‘You do have an excellent bust,’ she said.
Louisa looked down at her breasts and tutted.
She was so fired up by the time she reached the domed Council House that she feared a relapse into her childhood tantrums. She thought she might glass one of those groupie bitches who hung around the rugby team. The situation called for the same calm and responsive nature she had in the field. She had never really drunk, but thought it might help now. Sensibly, she by-passed the fruit punch, which was dangerously spiked, and walked over to where David stood with his friends, in his tuxedo. ‘Have you got any beer?’ she said.
‘Louisa, isn’t it? Our fathers know each other.’ He looked at her breasts; she thought of her mother. ‘Tommo has some vodka in his bag,’ he said.
‘I’m sure I can smell beer coming off you,’ Louisa said.
David sniffed his shirt. ‘It’s Davidoff,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’ll have a Davidoff then, please,’ she said, with genuine innocence.
He said what he always said to girls – that he loved hunting. Banging on about the ritual of the kill had always done the trick, but he did not know what he was getting himself into. ‘These people who eat meat but object to where it comes from,’ he said. ‘It’s so hypocritical.’
‘You eat fox, then, do you?’ she said. She had no objections to killing vermin, only to the deceit, pomp, and phoniness of the aristocrats her father longed to be with.
‘Oh, of course. You’re the falconer. Actually, my family are into shooting, rather than fox-hunting, but I suppose you disapprove of that, too,’ he said.
She was pleased to be ‘the falconer’.
‘I’m fine with shooting, actually. It preserves the grouse moors. Think of all that money the shooters pump into conservation, so they can have their pathetic little parties. It makes it possible for me to hunt with my falcons, which is a real art.’
‘Yes, but falconry is no better than a cock-fight, is it?’
‘A cock-fight? A cock-fight is fifteen toffs drinking rosé champagne in a field, talking about who has the biggest gun.’
David had never met with such provocation, and was intrigued. Louisa’s orchestration was perfect. By ten o’clock they had organised a play-off between the two sports; she would take him hawking, and he would take her shooting. Then they would see which was best.
Later, the crowd spilled out into Nottingham Market Square in their dresses and suits – an easy target, Louisa thought, for the locals, but David did not seem to care. Somebody poured green dye and detergent into the water fountain, and Louisa watched from the outskirts as David danced in the eerie rising foam with his mates, the bib of his shirt stained with swampy streaks. She smiled at him. ‘I hate you,’ she whispered to herself.
Louisa would soon learn that she was not the only one with access to the woods. David and his friends had climbed up there weeks before the ball, and looked down on the other side of the hill, at the girls’ sports field, where Louisa made heavy, asthmatic work of the
The problem with Louisa’s image of David Bryant was David Bryant himself. At fifteen he was a loud, drunk, happy, popular, rugby-playing nightmare. Unlike Louisa, whose politics had been broadened by Roy Ogden, David had no notion of life outside his class. He was pleased to be an integral part of the world she hated.
A week before the Pony Club Ball in Nottingham, Louisa realised she would have to infiltrate this world in order to drag him out of it. Her mother, on her knees at the hem of the dress, looked down at Louisa’s wide, nicked feet spilling over the sharp edges of her small shoes, like rising white bread. ‘You know we can curl your hair if you like. Or straighten it. You can have more than one look,’ she said.
‘I doubt it,’ Louisa said.
Stepping backwards down the hall for a final appraisal, her mother fought the urge to wince. ‘You do have an excellent bust,’ she said.
Louisa looked down at her breasts and tutted.
She was so fired up by the time she reached the domed Council House that she feared a relapse into her childhood tantrums. She thought she might glass one of those groupie bitches who hung around the rugby team. The situation called for the same calm and responsive nature she had in the field. She had never really drunk, but thought it might help now. Sensibly, she by-passed the fruit punch, which was dangerously spiked, and walked over to where David stood with his friends, in his tuxedo. ‘Have you got any beer?’ she said.
‘Louisa, isn’t it? Our fathers know each other.’ He looked at her breasts; she thought of her mother. ‘Tommo has some vodka in his bag,’ he said.
‘I’m sure I can smell beer coming off you,’ Louisa said.
David sniffed his shirt. ‘It’s Davidoff,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’ll have a Davidoff then, please,’ she said, with genuine innocence.
He said what he always said to girls – that he loved hunting. Banging on about the ritual of the kill had always done the trick, but he did not know what he was getting himself into. ‘These people who eat meat but object to where it comes from,’ he said. ‘It’s so hypocritical.’
‘You eat fox, then, do you?’ she said. She had no objections to killing vermin, only to the deceit, pomp, and phoniness of the aristocrats her father longed to be with.
‘Oh, of course. You’re the falconer. Actually, my family are into shooting, rather than fox-hunting, but I suppose you disapprove of that, too,’ he said.
She was pleased to be ‘the falconer’.
‘I’m fine with shooting, actually. It preserves the grouse moors. Think of all that money the shooters pump into conservation, so they can have their pathetic little parties. It makes it possible for me to hunt with my falcons, which is a real art.’
‘Yes, but falconry is no better than a cock-fight, is it?’
‘A cock-fight? A cock-fight is fifteen toffs drinking rosé champagne in a field, talking about who has the biggest gun.’
David had never met with such provocation, and was intrigued. Louisa’s orchestration was perfect. By ten o’clock they had organised a play-off between the two sports; she would take him hawking, and he would take her shooting. Then they would see which was best.
Later, the crowd spilled out into Nottingham Market Square in their dresses and suits – an easy target, Louisa thought, for the locals, but David did not seem to care. Somebody poured green dye and detergent into the water fountain, and Louisa watched from the outskirts as David danced in the eerie rising foam with his mates, the bib of his shirt stained with swampy streaks. She smiled at him. ‘I hate you,’ she whispered to herself.
Louisa would soon learn that she was not the only one with access to the woods. David and his friends had climbed up there weeks before the ball, and looked down on the other side of the hill, at the girls’ sports field, where Louisa made heavy, asthmatic work of the
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