Fairfield Parlour.

Interestingly, a band name and not a song or album title like every other chapter heading prior to, and yet to come. Not that this has anything to do with the chapter, of course....

          It's curious as to how Hangover Hall got its name. There are two versions of this story: the official 'Heritage of England' book story, and the local legend.

          In a way both are true, as both interact.

          To fully grasp the first, official version, it is perhaps as well to take you on a brief guided tour of the Hall.

          The main building is Tudor, and during the early nineteenth century Sir George's great-great-grandfather added two new wings, one on each side. Not as obvious as it may sound, given the general erraticism of gentleman designers and homeowners during that period. But that's all you need to know of the house itself - I told you the tour would be brief, didn't I?

          The grounds surrounding the house are what really interest us at this point. To the front of the house, there is a long drive set over rolling gardens that lead, three miles hence, to the hamlet of Withering Halt, which sprung up around the gates of the house during the seventeenth century and stayed fairly stagnant after that time.

          The back of the house, however, is a totally different story. Remember that the house is set in the beautiful rolling downs of Sussex? What that doesn't tell you is that some downs are straight down: they don't roll so much as drop. Vertically, and in a manner that would make a mountaineer blanch.

          The house was built by Sir Gervase Palmer, who was faithful to Henry VIII and his successor Queen Elizabeth, being careful to bow the knee to Mary, Queen of Scots - just in case. He was loyal to his regent but given the general propensity for regents in those days to be somewhat fickle and change their minds on certain subjects from religion to the price of fish, added to which there was the general slowness of communication, Sir Gervase became somewhat paranoid. He would sit in the hall of the Hall and worry all night long. What if there was something he hadn't heard about and he made some dreadful ricket which ended with a cry for his head to be offed?

          Gervase was rather attached to his head and felt it would be for the best if he prepared for the direst emergency. Not that he was disloyal to his monarch - good grief, no, it was just that they were inclined to be erratic, and how was a chap to know where he stood when messenger boys relaying vital dictums from London got waylaid by robbers - or even worse, by local inns on the route, complete with busty serving wenches. Gervase knew from long experience of such things that a man may escape robber gangs, but busty serving wenches and tankards of foaming ale were just not the sort of things from which you wanted to escape.

          So, all things considered, he had a plan. It was quite simple but called for the villagers to put in rather a lot of work: Palmer Hall stood in the middle of grounds that stretched for three miles, the village being some one and a half miles away from the front of the Hall. At the back end of the grounds there was a sharp 100-foot drop as the rolling hills suddenly gave way to a virtual cliff. It was known to the locals as the Abyss, as many a man – and woman come to that – had fallen prey to it in the dark, never to be seen again. Mind, for many of their families, that was a blessing. There were even those who thought that the odd disappearing family member may have been lured to the Abyss on purpose. Such rumours are, of course, purely scurrilous. Anyway, what caused this geographical oddity no-one knows, but one thing was for sure: Gervase was going to take advantage of this.

          Over a period of a year, the Hall was slowly dismantled and put together again one and a half miles from its original position. During this time, Gervase lived in tents and encampments, surrounded by his baffled guard.

          The irony is that, on moving into the Hall, he caught pneumonia from all those long nights spent in the cold and draft of a tent. He was dead in three days. On the fourth, a messenger arrived with a decree from the Queen: for carrying out extensive building work without getting the proper permit he was to be executed.

          Some moves are just really bad calls.

          And so, for the next few generations, the descendants of Gervase lived in the Hall, which stood on the edge of a howling precipice, and they put up with having a wonderful rear view and no back garden.

          Then, as the Palmer line died out, George II appointed Gaymeadow Parlour the first Baron Hangover, and the family took possession of the Hall.

          Up until now, the Abyss at the rear of the house had taken on a new and symbolic meaning: the sharp downturn of the land into the yawning chasm below had seemed to be a metaphor for the Palmer family and their increasingly poor run of fortune. Building the house – which had been a labour on a par with the increasingly imminent denouement of this paragraph – had seemed to signal a downturn in their luck. And so, the house had come to be known by an unwieldy amalgam of both location and knowing wink: to the locals – and to the Palmers in more reflective moments – the house was now known as Downturn Abyss.

          That was about to change, at least for the moment.

          Now here's an interesting thing: unknown to Gervase, the new position of the Hall placed it squarely on the meeting of two ley lines. This was discovered by the young Fairfield Parlour, son of Gaymeadow, who had an interest in such arcane matters. He also had a stronger interest in matters of even stronger drink, and as a result could often be seen falling about the village or lying unconscious in the local taverns.

          Because of this, a local legend grew - originally a throw-away joke. Some travellers had asked the landlord of the local inn how the Hall had gained the unusual name of Hangover, which the first Baron had given it upon his arrival. The landlord had joked it was because 'me laddo here', with which he had slapped the apparently unconscious Fairfield on the shoulder, had got drunk one night and fallen over the parapets at the back of the Hall, arriving with a loud crash at the bottom of the hill. Upon awakening, he had cursed himself for having a hangover as big as that of his home.

          Such a witticism was, from then on, attributed to Fairfield, and grew to be local legend. Of course, anyone else falling down such a hill would probably kill themselves, but already the young man's propensity for magic was well known.

          The innkeeper should have borne that in mind before trying to be funny: shortly afterwards he disappeared and was never seen again. A warthog with an apron was, however, hunted and killed by local men about three months later. It was hanging around near the back of the inn, and frightened the inn keeper's wife when she was in the earth closet.

          Fairfield took possession of the Hall when his father died and spent the rest of his life trying to make communication with demons and spirits. The problem was that he was too fond of spirits that come out of bottles, with the result that any spells he tried were usually muddled. He could have the odd success: he was very good with warthogs and toads, for some reason. His wife suggested it was because he looked like them. She laughed long and loud, and shortly after vanished, never to be seen again. Generally, however, his results fell far short of his aspirations. He was convinced that he could achieve greatness, if only he could unlock the power held in the confluence of the leylines.

          But he needed help.

          To this end he sought a magician he had heard much of, an old man by the name of Grimoire, who lived in Lancashire. The journey and search took him three months, with another three for the return journey. The length of time was determined by the appalling stench of the old man, who reasoned that magicians didn't need to bathe. Even with brandy on tap, Fairfield still found it necessary to stop the coach seven times a day and have a break from the old wizard's odours.

          When they reached the Hall, much time was spent in preparation. The old man whispered incantations night and day and went gathering herbs and strange fungi from the woods. Together they ingested the fungi, and the old man saw Gods and men walk together. Fairfield, on the other hand, saw nothing but stars as he lay in a corner throwing up: which still didn't teach him not to mix brandy and mushrooms, but did make him wonder if the old man was a charlatan.

          All such worries went out of the window, or at least they would have done had not both men been in the cellars at the time, on the night of April 1st, 1826. An apposite night for such arcane events, as fate decided to play a trick on Fairfield Parlour.

          His search was for a power that he could harness to his own ends: fate decided to harness him to its own ends instead.

          The two men sat in the cellar, painted with woad and a stinking mud and herb mixture, in the middle of a pentagram. The old man chanted under his breath.

          'I hope this is going to work,' said Fairfield in a peevish tone, taking another belt on his ever-present flask of brandy.

          The old man paused only to scowl at him.

          'Please yourself,' shrugged the lord of the manor.

          The muttering continued for some time. There was a build-up of static in the air, followed by an increasingly bright light. Fairfield took another belt and crossed himself: although not a religious man by any means, he wasn't going to take any chances.

          'On the other hand, I hope this isn't going to work,' he uttered.

          The light became so intense that he had to shut his eyes. Still, it was brighter than day.

          'Oh bum,' he said softly as a massive explosion rent the room, throwing him against the wall almost hard enough to make him sober.

          When he opened his eyes, Grimoire was tugging at his sleeve, looking stupidly pleased with himself and nodding vigorously as he pointed across the room.

          Fairfield shook his head and blinked, unable to believe his eyes. There, standing in front of a glowing hole in the wall, stood a seven-foot warrior in yellow and green armour, which nicely off-set his magenta skin. He looked at Fairfield with mixed anger and confusion and said - in a high voice totally unsuited to his bulk:-

          'Stone me - one minute I'm about to get me 'ead chopped off, and the next thing I know I'm stuck in a cellar with two painted idiots. What the hell's going on?'