The Hunters. Kat Gordon

first horse stumble and fall, the jockey rolling off his back right into the path of Wiley Scot. I heard Sylvie cry out just as Wiley Scot leaped gracefully, gathering up his legs to clear the figure in front of him, and then he was galloping past us in a cloud of red dust, his head bent down as if for a charge. I only realised I’d stopped breathing when he passed the finishing post and I found myself gasping for air.

      ‘You’re rich, young man,’ Freddie said, clapping me on the back as the grandstand erupted around us.

      The outside of the Muthaiga Club was pink pebbledash and white stone, turning red and gold in the setting sunlight. Freddie guided me up its colonnaded walkway and paused for a moment so I could lean against one of the ivy-covered pillars. After my win, and with Freddie’s encouragement, I’d had several more gins, and now the ground seemed dangerously unsteady beneath my feet. Any thought of getting home soon had long since vanished.

      ‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour,’ Freddie said.

      We pushed through the glass door into an airy lobby with a parquet floor and cool cream and green walls. Freddie continued towards the back; I tried to follow him without falling, Sylvie and Nicolas walking behind me.

      ‘Ballroom,’ he said, pointing through a set of double doors. ‘Bar – no tall stools allowed. Squash courts here, and golf course at the back.’ We stepped through a set of French doors onto a covered veranda, and I had an impression of a perfectly manicured lawn, sprinkled with banana plants, ferns, flowerbeds and avenues of eucalyptus trees. Several people were in the middle of a croquet game, and the thud of the mallet meeting the ball carried over to us as we hovered on the step leading down to the garden. I clutched my head and hoped it would stop reeling soon.

      ‘They call it the man’s paradise,’ Freddie said. ‘No Jews allowed, of course.’

      ‘Although they’ve had to let women in,’ Sylvie said. ‘The balls were a little lonely beforehand.’

      ‘I think I should sit down,’ I said.

      ‘You do that,’ Freddie said. He helped me back onto the veranda and into a deep wicker chair then called a waiter over.

      ‘We’ll have some coffee,’ he said. ‘And then some champagne.’

      I rested my elbows on the table, propping my head up in my hands and massaging my temples with my fingertips. From the ballroom came the sound of a band tuning up.

      Sylvie leaned against the pillar to my left and Nicolas came to stand beside her, one hand resting on the small of her back. Her amber smell seemed more powerful than before and my mind was fugged up with it.

      Freddie pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. ‘You’ll feel better soon,’ he said, grinning. ‘I remember the first time I got tight – even younger than you. I ended up passing out under my friend’s parents’ bed. No idea how I got there.’

      ‘I’m sure there was a female involved somewhere,’ Sylvie said, and Freddie laughed.

      The drinks arrived and I grabbed at the coffee, then swallowed it in four gulps.

      ‘That should do the trick,’ Freddie said. I looked up and he grinned. ‘What about a game? Played croquet before?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Come on then. The four of us versus the four of them.’

      I followed him onto the lawn. A waiter followed with our champagne in an ice bucket and placed it at the edge of the croquet court.

      There were two men and two women already in the game, and introductions were made, although I only remembered Hugh Cholmondeley – Lord Delamere – who had a large nose that overshadowed all his other features, and a high forehead covered in papery skin. He looked to be in his late fifties, frailer than my father, but still authoritative.

      ‘Mind if we join?’ Freddie said.

      ‘We’ll start again,’ Delamere said. ‘Only just got going, anyway.’

      He tossed a coin and Nicolas called correctly. Freddie handed me a mallet. ‘We’ll be blue and black,’ he said. ‘Association rules here. You know them?’

      The coffee was mixing uneasily with the contents of my stomach but at least it had cleared my head. ‘I think so.’

      ‘Good. You play first. Start with the south-west hoop.’

      The court was rectangular, with a peg driven into the grass at the centre, and three hoops on either side. Four of the hoops stood almost at the corners of the rectangle, with the two inner hoops on each side slightly closer to the peg. I vaguely remembered having to follow a pattern of the outer hoops first, then the inner hoops, then playing another circuit in semi-reverse before you could hit the peg. My hands felt hot and slippery with sweat. It was a long time to keep upright and sober.

      Freddie placed both our balls on the ground near the south-west hoop. I gripped my mallet and swung gently at the blue ball. There was a thunk as it made contact, and I felt a momentary wash of relief, but the ball rolled uselessly to the side of the first hoop.

      ‘Never mind,’ Freddie called out behind me.

      I turned around, face burning, and handed the mallet to Nicolas, then went to stand with the other players, a few yards away from the first hoop.

      Lord Delamere took the first turn for the other side and the red ball sailed through the hoop. ‘I hear Black Harries was at Kariokor today,’ he said, lining up for a continuation stroke.

      ‘I didn’t see him,’ Freddie said. ‘And I’m surprised – I thought he never left Larmudiac.’

      ‘He sounds like a pirate,’ Sylvie said, lighting a cigarette.

      ‘He looks like one too – he’s got one hell of a black beard. And he’s probably the strongest man in Africa.’

      ‘They say he killed a leopard with a single blow to the head,’ Lord Delamere said. The red ball continued its path towards the second hoop, but stopped just short. Nicolas took the next turn and hit the black ball so it stopped just before the first hoop, dead on; Freddie grinned at me and I tried to return it.

      ‘He loves horses,’ he said, ‘but he doesn’t tame them. He has acres and acres of land, and he lets them roam around, but he doesn’t geld them or break them in or feed them.’

      ‘What happens with the horses if there’s a drought?’ Sylvie asked.

      ‘They starve.’

      ‘He sounds cruel.’

      ‘But they’re free.’ Freddie caught my eye. ‘Don’t you think animals prefer to be free, Theo?’

      ‘But Harries isn’t an animal,’ Sylvie said. Her lips were white and pressed together. ‘He knows they’ll starve and it’s in his power to do something about it.’

      ‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ Lord Delamere said. He nodded at the ice bucket. ‘What if we distribute some of that champagne, eh?’

      The champagne was poured, candles were lit on the veranda and suddenly it was my turn again. I stood to the side of the first hoop and lined up the shot more carefully this time. I managed to get the ball halfway through the hoop but when I went to tap it again Delamere called out, ‘No continuation stroke – you haven’t run it through.’

      I handed the mallet over. ‘I’m not helping much.’

      ‘You’re helping us,’ one of the new women said kindly. She pointed at my glass. ‘Here – have a top-up.’

      We all moved to stand in a line along the west boundary now, watching Delamere’s play. The red ball was already through the second hoop, and he took it through the third and the fourth before his turn was up.

      ‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said.

      Sylvie had gone quiet since the argument about Black Harries,