If you think you’re
going to have another winter of fun with your toady employers, killing
defenceless birds, think again.
We’re onto you mate,
so watch out, it’s not going to be as easy this season.
You and your bloated
tweed clad cronies are going to pay.
How you can call what
you lot get up to a sport is beyond us, give it up now before we make you!
The Animal Defenders.
At one time he would have dismissed it as the work
of some socially inept crank, but in the current climate it looked far more
sinister and as he was now the only keeper left on the shoot after the estate
had ‘downsized’ its sporting enterprises, it worried him greatly. The current
land agent of the Brockleston Estate was not a countryman and any bit of
confrontation no matter how small might lead to him closing down the shoot
altogether. The end of an era going back to Victor’s grandfather’s day and more
pressingly the end of his job and occupancy of his tied cottage. Since the
death of his father, Hugo, the current Lord Brockleston, had placed his total
trust in Richard Mowbray his agent; any decisions Mowbray made regarding the
estate were normally ‘rubber stamped’ without question. Hugo saw the estate as
a business enterprise, its sole purpose to fund his lifestyle, which was
centred on his luxury yacht and the social circle that he kept in the Bahamas
Victor arrived back at his cottage in the village.
As he pulled into the short driveway past the collapsed wooden gates, which lay
like two old battered dogs at the entrance, the rain seemed to come down even
harder. The storm reached its zenith as the tyres crunched to a halt on the
sodden chippings. Victor jumped out, ran to the back, grabbed the old Lab that
was now lying comfortably on his coat and got himself and the dog in through
the cottage door as quickly as he could manage. The whole process was so
uncomfortable and hurried that it worked out just fine for the occupants of a
small blue hatchback vehicle that just happened to be passing as he turned into
his drive. The driver and passenger paid an unhealthy interest in the
dilapidated dwelling as the vehicle slowly passed its entrance before speeding
off out of the village in the general direction of the motorway and Limcester.
There were no lights on in the house when Victor entered, nor was there a
welcoming fire in the hearth or a smell of food coming from the oven of the
ancient solid fuel cooker. Victor had lived alone for the last five years,
apart from old Storm who rarely left his side. His late wife Susan had been
taken from him at the whim of a ‘boy racer’ (as the hard-nosed traffic cop that
dealt with the accident had described him). This happened one Saturday
afternoon in a particularly hot June, as they were returning home from a trip
to view some new pheasant poults in the next county. He threw a few small logs
into the cooker to spark it up and get some heat going then turned to feeding
old Storm. The Labrador was doing his usual
manic dance around the kitchen at just the suggestion of food. Just as he was
starting to consider food for himself, the telephone began to ring; he cursed
and went to answer it. It was Mowbray; he cursed again under his breath. “Ah Drew, how’s things, everything ready for
Saturday’s show?” He hated these
conversations with Mowbray at the best of times; they were never easy, but this
time it was far worse, despite the fact he knew all was as it should be for
that weekend’s shoot. He had worked hard at all the little details his late
father had taught him. The nagging fear and doubt that the letter had caused
taunted him as he spoke to the agent. He knew he should really inform Mowbray
about the threats, but doing so would play into his hands and strengthen his
arguments against the continuation of sporting activities at Brockleston. So
his silence regarding the matter was maintained as he assured Mowbray that all
was ready and that good sport was guaranteed. “Good man, see you at the shoot
shed at 10am on Saturday then. I’ve a few matters to go over with you regarding
the day’s drives. Take care Drew.” Mowbray rang off, the cottage was again
silent, apart from the sound of an empty dog bowl scraping across the kitchen
tiles as the old dog tried to extract the last microscopic fragments of his
meal from inside it.
Victor prepared his own simple meal then sat
silently in the old armchair next to the fire; he stared into the flames, his
mind wandering, unable to relax. He had turned the television set on before he
sat down; he did it out of habit but he rarely paid much attention to it, the
room just seemed slightly less empty with it on. As he sat in the half-light of
the room his thoughts turned to past times as they all too often did since the
loss of Susan. The previous mention of the shoot shed triggered thoughts of an
evening in June several years ago when she had still been with him. They had
argued about something, it was hard to recall exactly what; no doubt some
trivial matter or other that often causes tired couples to flare up with each
other at the end of a hard day. He could remember being in a real rage almost
to the point of hitting her. It hurt him to recall how angry he had been; it
made the sense of her loss even sharper. He had walked out of the cottage, not
thinking of where he was going or why; he just wanted to get away from her. He
left so suddenly that not even Storm was able to follow. He walked a short
distance up the lane out of the village and climbed over a stile onto an
ancient footpath that crossed a pasture field; this had recently been cleared
for silage. For once he was wearing what he would call `town` shoes and `going
out` clothes, as they had intended to go out for the evening prior to the
argument taking place. He had already got himself ready. He was not dressed for
cross country travel. As he climbed over a fence and into an adjoining field he
stepped down into long grass that had been left for hay. It was already damp
with the condensation of approaching night and the moisture caused the fallen
grass seeds to cling to his shoes and gather in the eyelets. He noticed this as
he strode out across the field but paid little heed to it, such was his mood.
In the corner of the hay field he came to a group of three old oak trees,
huddled like old men in hiding from the 21st century, their little
corner of the world having changed little in the few hundred years they had
stood there through all weathers and wars. The grass under the trees was short,
dead and dry; it had the pale creamy pink colour that low lying grass in these
shaded and sheltered places always had at that time of year. Victor sat down
with his back resting against the trunk of the central oak; it was like sitting
with old friends, and they neither questioned nor judged, they were just simply
there. The place was silent apart from the lonely ghostly calls of a pair of buzzards
that circled high up above the three trees. He sat back and watched the birds,
feeling small, insignificant and sad, his anger gone, replaced with a feeling
of emptiness and solitude. After a few minutes the sound of a tractor
approaching from the far end of the field disturbed his thoughts; the field was
being mown in preparation for the hay. Victor immediately took to the cover of
the hedge, realising how ridiculous the sight of the gamekeeper sitting
`dressed up` under an oak tree in the middle of nowhere would look. As
depressed as he felt, he wasn’t prepared to trade that for embarrassment. He
slipped away through the hedge with the practised ease of a wild creature, even
though he was dressed for a civilised night out. As he emerged on the other
side another resident sat looking at him in total surprise and bemusement.
Charlie fox had been on his haunches waiting for rabbits to leave the hedgerow;
he fixed Victor’s gaze for a few seconds before cantering off across the field.
Despite his mood Victor smiled to himself at Reynard’s surprise, feeling some
respect and affection towards his constant bane around the pheasant pens.
Victor walked on, now keeping in the lee of the hedgerows to hide his presence
from others, as he always did when his thoughts were not clouded by the flames
of bad temper. He found himself walking toward the Brockleston Home Farm, a
collection of old farm buildings with the addition of a few modern livestock sheds
which one of the tenants used to house pigs and cattle. The Home Farm had been
one of the late Lord Brockleston’s passions and he had taken great interest in
the running of it in conjunction with his trusted farm bailiff Reg Jones. Now
both men lay in the soil of Brockleston churchyard, no doubt spinning in their
respective tombs at the thought of how untidy and uncared for the old place
looked. The original farmyard was cobbled and it was surrounded by traditional
red brick buildings which had slate roofs. To one side of the yard closest to
the road lay what once had been a stable for the working horses. This was now
what was referred to as the shoot shed and had been used as this ever since
Victor could recall. Victor reached up to a little ledge by the door where the
key was kept; he unlocked the door and went inside, no doubt the first person
to enter since the last day of the previous season, the keeper’s day on the
first of February. The late evening light pierced through the dirty windows to
one side of the shed. It shone across the trestle tables which were along three
sides of the room where only mice had played for the last five months, no doubt
eating what remained of discarded food crumbs left from countless midday and
tea time gatherings of guns and beaters. Amongst the dust and mouse droppings a
few tokens of last season still remained. An empty whisky glass, an old shoot
card and a tweed cap lay on one of the tables, a beater’s stick had been left
by the two rows of nails where the bag of birds was always hung at the end of
the day’s shooting. Victor sat at the centre of the table that faced the
windows, in the seat where the shoot captain always sat. Behind him on the
whitewashed wall in scribbled pencil were dozens of dates and names, mainly records
of who had won `the sweepstake` for the number of birds shot on a particular
day. All written in a drunken relaxed hand at the end of another day spent with
friends in the glory of the countryside. Some of the names would never be
written again, there were some close friends that had shared a drink in the
shed for a final time; his father being amongst them. He thought how strange it
was to be in the place in such silence, almost like a surreal nightmare, a
place that normally rang with good humour and friendship, sitting still and
brooding like a forgotten tomb. He had
never set foot in the place outside the shooting season before and had vowed
never to do so again if unaccompanied; the thoughts were too strange to bear.
He left the shed, locking the door and its strange feelings behind him, and
made off across the fields towards home as darkness started to fall. There had
followed a couple of days of only ‘half’ speaking to each other after the
episode. But as usually happened they both got fed up with this and life then
resumed as normal, rows between them were rare but when they did happen they
were proper ones he thought as he smiled to himself, before getting up to stoke
the fire and pour himself a whisky.
* * *
About twenty-three miles and a whole culture away from Brockleston the
small blue hatchback left the motorway and took the turning for the nearby town
of Limcester Brandley Park Hampton Hampton
*
Just
over four thousand miles and a whole lifestyle away from Victor’s world, Hugo
Brockleston languished on the deck of the ‘Lucy B’, his luxury yacht. It was
just after 1pm in the Bahamas Nassau , just after Hugo
returned to the Bahamas from
England Cat Island
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