Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  Laura stood absolutely still as Fitzroy came stalking out of cover. Although he was an older bird, one she had fed last year – or perhaps because he was an older bird, and knew the blood-red reason for being wary of human beings – he would run at the slightest disturbance. Keeping his distance, he looked down at the scattered food with what seemed like disdain, turning the grains over with a languid scrape of his claw; but then he found a peanut kernel, his favourite snack, and another, and soon he was feeding eagerly.

  Laura stood watching, a pleased smile on her face. And then the quiet was shattered by a rough, mocking voice coming from the far edge of the lawn.

  ‘Chucky-chucky-chucky!’

  Alarmed, the pheasants instantly scuttled for cover. Laura whirled round on a tall sixteen-year-old with cropped hair, dressed in dark green waterproofs and carrying a broken shotgun under his arm. She’d never seem him with a gun before. If he was trying the impress her, he hadn’t succeeded.

  ‘You creep, Darren Jermyn! Why did you have to frighten them?’

  ‘They’re gamebirds, that’s why. They belong out on the estate, you’ve no business feeding’em near the house. You want to feed birds, you get yourself some fowls. Chucky-chucky-chucky …’

  Laura often wondered how she could ever have loved him. He’d been different when he was at school, of course, They’d been a couple, an item, for the whole of his last term. Darren liked wildlife and was every bit as keen on conservation as she was, so they’d had a lot in common.

  He was her first serious boyfriend. She’d loved the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed, and the way his hair grew in loose dark curls round his ears, and their hugs and kisses, and the way he’d told her that he loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone else in his whole life.

  They’d both been desolate as the time approached for him to leave Breckham Market High School. Darren lived miles away, out in the country on the far side of town, and they didn’t know how they were going to be able to go on seeing each other. He was hoping for some kind of outdoor job, preferably with animals; but jobs of any kind were hard to find.

  Then, just before the end of term, he had come away from a visit to the careers office buzzing with excitement. He’d been told there was a Youth Training Scheme place available on – wait for it – the Chalcot estate!

  They couldn’t believe their luck. Laura had been every bit as excited as Darren, until she’d discovered that the job he was applying for was that of trainee gamekeeper.

  They’d had a fierce row about it. Laura was disgusted that he could even think of taking a job that involved killing. For his part, Darren couldn’t believe that their love, and the opportunity to see each other every day, wasn’t more important to her than a few dead birds.

  He was so sure she would come round that he’d applied for the job anyway, and had started at the end of July, just when the pheasant poults were bought in and penned in the woods. His job was to feed and protect the growing birds, and control vermin. The hours were long, the outdoor life he’d looked forward to meant walking miles carrying heavy loads of feedstuff, and he hated being constantly bawled out by the keeper, Len Alger, a sour old slave-driver. And although he was well fed by the granny he lodged with in the village, Mrs Alger’s sister-in-law, she niggled away at him worse than his mother did at home.

  None of that would have mattered to Darren if only Laura still loved him. It had taken him a long time to realise that she didn’t. He just couldn’t accept that he’d been dumped.

  How could she reject his love, when he’d done everything he could to please her? Losing her meant having a constant pain gnawing away inside him. He was lonely and depressed, and it tormented him to know that Laura was living so near. If he behaved badly when he saw her, it was only because he loved her so much.

  Laura had turned her back and begun walking away. Darren was determined not to be ignored; that was why he’d brought the gun with him. Mr Glaven, the Guv’nor, had given him some shooting lessons one weekend, lending him the 20-bore shotgun to use against crows, magpies and other predators.

  He cocked the gun and raised it to his shoulder. ‘There’s the ol’ pheasant!’ he shouted, aiming towards the shrubbery but watching Laura. She whirled round, wide-eyed, her hair flying like a waterfall, twisting his guts with longing.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she shrieked at him. ‘Don’t you dare –’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, jeering to hide his pain. He broke the gun and showed her that it was unloaded. ‘Anyway, I’m here to protect the birds, not shoot’em. You know that.’

  ‘You’re here to help other people shoot them, though! I don’t know how you can bear to rear them just to be killed. It’s wicked.’

  ‘Rubbish! Pheasants are a crop,’ Darren said, repeating something he’d heard from the keeper, ‘same as everything else on the estate. The Guv’nor grows barley so’s he can harvest it, and rears pheasants so’s he can shoot’em. Same as he breeds the cattle, so’s he can send’em to be slaughtered for nice juicy beef.’

  Laura turned away again. She couldn’t bear the thought of eating something that had once had a face, and feelings. ‘You’re disgusting,’ she said.

  ‘Still a vegetarian, are you?’ he mocked. Then he remembered that he’d offered to come up to the house on the pretext of saving the keeper’s wife the bother of telephoning Laura’s mother.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got a message. The Guv’nor rang Len Alger late last night. Seems he wants a driven shoot set up for this Saturday. And he said to tell your Mum there’ll be eight people for the shoot lunch.’

  ‘A driven shoot? As soon as this?’ Laura was appalled; frightened, too. She hadn’t expected Mr Glaven to hold his first big shoot for several weeks. With just two days to go, she’d have no chance at all to convert him before the slaughter started. ‘Oh no, he can’t…’

  ‘Course he can,’ said Darren impatiently. ‘He’s the boss, and if he wants to hold a shoot we’ve got to get on with it. He said he was sorry for not giving us more notice – it’s a special occasion or something. Soon as I’ve finished the morning feed, I’ve got to go down to the village and ask who’ll do the beating for us. Want to come on Saturday and help?’

  He was mocking her again. Laura was so high on fear and anger that she answered him off the top of her head.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be there!’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that. But I shan’t be helping the shooters – I shall be there to stop them.’

  Chapter Two

  A much-too-familiar vehicle drew up just before Laura reached the yard, adding annoyance to her anxiety. The Daihatsu turbo diesel Fourtrak, in metallic black and silver, was ornamented with an inconceivably needful bull bar and every possible extra in the way of wheel trims, roof rack, tow bar, fog lamps and spotlights. Laura thought it ridiculously over the top for an ancient driver who never chugged further than Breckham Market, and anyway she detested Reg Brunt. The fact that he was a butcher (now in prosperous semi-retirement) would have turned her against him even if he were a nice man, but he wasn’t.

  He rolled down from the driving seat, a squat person with a bald head, round baggy eyes, a wide slit of mouth and a shapeless body inside a bulky sludge-green winter jacket. It was said in the village that he could turn nasty if he was crossed, but Laura had only ever seen the smarmy, boastful side of him. She always thought of him as Mr Toad.

  ‘Hallo, girlie!’ he wheezed, smiling his large ingratiating smile. He produced a package wrapped in thick white paper. ‘Brought some lovely sausages for your brekkie – made ’em meself this morning – own secret recipe, finest in the county.’

  ‘I don’t eat sausages,’ said Laura through her teeth. He knew perfectly well she was a vegetarian; even her mother, who was always impatient with what she called Laura’s ‘fads and notions’, had tried to get it into his head. But he didn’t seem capable of understanding.

  ‘Oh-ho, you’ll love these when your Mum’s cooked’em! Best sausages y
ou’ll find anywhere, fried to perfection if I know your mother. Fine cook – fine woman.’

  Laura didn’t invite him in but he followed close on her heels, convinced of his welcome. “Morning, ‘morning,’ he cried, bustling into the kitchen. Laura’s mother gave him an unenthusiastic nod of greeting, and put a large frying pan on the Aga.

  ‘One egg or two?’ she asked in a resigned voice.

  Laura kicked off her wellies and ran upstairs to change into her school clothes. The relationship between her mother and Mr Toad was something she preferred not to speculate on. He was said to be a widower, and he lived alone in a bungalow next to his shop. He paid a woman to look after him, but that didn’t stop him from turning up at the back door of Chalcot House several times a week, when the Glavens were not in residence, offering meat in return for a meal.

  As far as Laura could tell, her mother didn’t like him. (How could she? How could she, after having been married to a wonderful man like Laura’s father?) But she didn’t discourage him, either. Laura made up for that by being deliberately rude to him, but his skin was as thick as a toad’s warty back.

  She usually made herself a piece of toast for breakfast and ate it on the way to school, but when he was in the kitchen she preferred just to snatch up her gear and go. This morning, though, her mind was on Saturday’s shooting party; she was determined to stop it somehow, but she supposed she had better deliver Mr Glaven’s message to her mother. No sense in getting herself into trouble in advance.

  The smell of frying sausages and bacon turned her stomach even before she entered the kitchen. Mr Toad, slurping a mug of tea as he goggled at her mother, already had his jacket off, his feet well under the table, knife and fork to hand and a napkin tucked under his chins.

  ‘Ah, girlie!’ He always addressed her as if she were four years old. ‘Coming to join me for brekkie?’

  ‘I’d sooner starve,’ snapped Laura, hunting for her school-books.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t think of starving yourself! No need for you to be dieting at all – taking after your mother, I can see that – fine slim figure of a woman.’

  Clearly unflattered, Laura’s mother slapped a laden, sizzling plate in front of him. ‘Do you want toast with it?’

  ‘Bread’ll do nicely, thanks.’ He blew on a forkful of fry, and filled his mouth. ‘Soon as I’ve eaten,’ he mumbled, spitting fragments, ‘I’ll drive this young lady to school.’

  ‘I’d rather walk,’ said Laura. ‘All the way to Breckham Market,’ she emphasised.

  ‘Keen on exercise, eh? Same for me when I was your age – won medals for athletics – running, jumping, best young athlete in the county.’ He shovelled in another greasy forkful.

  Her mother poured her a mug of tea. It would be nice, Laura thought, if they could exchange a private snigger over Mr Toad’s ridiculous claim. But they didn’t have that kind of relationship.

  ‘Darren Jermyn came over with a message while I was outside,’ she reported distantly. ‘Mr Glaven rang the keeper late last night, to say he wants a shooting party set up for Saturday. He said to tell you he wants a shoot lunch for eight.’

  ‘This Saturday? The day after tomorrow?’ Her mother was offended. ‘He might have given me more notice – it’s not just the shoot lunch, I shall have to feed all the beaters as well.’

  ‘Cert’nly should’ve given you more notice,’ Mr Toad blustered, indignant on her behalf. He mopped up his fried eggs with a hunk of bread. ‘Taking advantage – diabolical liberty!’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Laura’s mother went on crossly, ignoring him, ‘if only Mr Glaven had rung to tell me himself. It’s not like him to be so inconsiderate … Why’s he in such a hurry to hold a shoot, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Laura, exasperated. She took a banana and an apple from the fruit bowl and stowed them in her school-bag. ‘Darren said something about a special occasion.’

  ‘Private shoots – ha!’ Mr Toad passed his mug for a refill, just as there was a ring from the telephone on the wall beside the door. Laura’s mother went to answer it, and Laura had no intention of serving him, so he had to wait.

  ‘Gentry only!’ he wheezed on. ‘No chance of being invited to shoot if you’re in trade. I could show’em how to do it – still a crack shot – finest in the county when I was younger.’

  It wasn’t worth a comment. Laura gave him a contemptuous look, sloshed the remains of her tea down the sink, and stalked past her mother who was talking too eagerly to notice her.

  ‘Not at all, it’s perfectly all right, Mr Glaven! … No trouble, I’ll have everything done in time.… Oh, it’ll be so nice to see Major Will again! And one guest? No trouble at all, Mr Glaven …’

  Laura forgot her anxieties over the shoot. What she had just overheard made her so happy that she didn’t even feel irritated with her mother, who always behaved stupidly when she spoke to Mr Glaven. It was ridiculous for her to be like that at her age, all pink-cheeked and eager and over the top. Normally, Laura was desperately embarrassed by it.

  But today it didn’t matter, because the great news was that Will was coming! Darling, darling Will, who’d been so brilliant to her soon after she and her mother moved to Chalcot.

  She was only eight when her parents divorced, and she hadn’t known how to handle what was happening. She was sure she was the cause of all the rows, and when her lovely Daddy left home she knew it was her fault. What with the guilt, and missing him, her life had at first been a misery.

  But her father had written to her regularly to tell her how much he loved and missed her, and gradually she began to believe him. His letters from Saudi Arabia were decorated with fun sketches of palm trees and camels, and they always finished, ‘All my love, Daddy XXXXXX’. Laura had depended on the letters, and clung to the hope that one day he would send for her to live with him.

  Then, at Chalcot, a letter had come to tell her about a special friend he’d made. It finished, ‘All our love, Dad and Judy XX’.

  She’d blundered out of the house, flung herself face down on the back lawn, clutching the letter, and cried her eyes out. That was where Major Will had found her, on his way from the stables. Her mother wouldn’t have understood or cared how she felt, but Will did. He had sat on the grass beside her, listened, read the letter, and put comforting arms around her. Enveloped in his heady smell of good soap, sweat, horses and leather, Laura had fallen headlong into love.

  Ever since then, Will had given her a hug whenever they met and parted. He called her his girlfriend, and sometimes sent her picture postcards – ‘with lots of love’ – from foreign countries. Laura didn’t much like it when he brought one of his glamorous women home, but he always gave her a conspiratorial wink and whispered that she was still his favourite. And because he never brought the same woman twice, Laura felt secure in his affection.

  It was a long time since she’d seen him, but she never wavered in her love. Even though she’d had that silly relationship with Darren Jermyn, Will had always been the one she thought of last thing at night and first thing in the morning. He was so good-looking that just to day-dream of him made her feel shivery.

  And now she would soon be seeing him again! Elated, Laura wound her long scarf round her neck and ran out of the house, past the shrubbery, along the field path under the dripping November trees, and out into the village street just in time to catch the school bus.

  ‘Leave the pattern, for goodness’sake!’

  Ann Harbord snatched the empty plate out of her guest’s way while he was still trying to mop up the last globule of grease. She deplored Reg Brunt’s liking (so different from Lewis Glaven’s) for enormous fried breakfasts, but if he were determined to give himself a heart attack she saw no reason why she should try to prevent it.

  ‘First class …’ he sighed, sitting back satisfied. He pulled his napkin away from his chins, and belched politely into its folds. ‘You’re a fine cook, Ann.’

  ‘That’s what Mr Glaven pays me
for,’ she said tartly. ‘Don’t hang about, Reg. He’ll be home this evening to arrange his shoot, and I’ve got more than enough to do. Here’s the list of the meat I shall want tomorrow. Now be off with you.’

  ‘You’re a fine woman, Ann. The offer’s always open, you know that.’

  She pointed to the door and he shambled off, looking pleased with himself as usual. She had lost count of the number of times she’d rejected his repulsive offer of marriage, but it seemed to make no difference to him, he still came back for more. And Ann was glad of that, on the quiet, because when Lewis Glaven was away she was as lonely as Reg was. Repulsive he might be, but at least he enjoyed her cooking and her company. Which was more than she could say of her own daughter.

  Laura was impossible – faddy, moody, untidy, rude, no company at all. They had never been close. Laura had always made it clear that she loved her father best, despite the fact that Terry Harbord was totally unreliable. Even so, Ann had felt slapped in the face when the child had said she wanted to live with him after the divorce.

  Though Ann had won custody, she could never forgive Laura for that rejection. A thin-skinned woman, quick to feel slighted, she had spent her life in a semi-permanent state of resentment and anger. Laura had given her yet another grievance to feed on, and she had made a long meal of it.

  But at Chalcot House, Ann was as nearly happy as it was possible for her to be. For the first time in her life she felt that she was properly appreciated. Lewis Glaven never failed to tell her how well she took care of the house while he was away, and how excellently she cooked for him and his guests.