Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  He hadn’t hesitated to shoot the bird. It was his job to kill all predators and pests on the estate, and so far he’d thoroughly enjoyed doing it.

  He’d lost count of the rats, stoats, weasels and other vermin he’d trapped, and the rabbits he’d snared. But he kept his gun score on the back of the Game Laws leaflet that Mr Glaven had given him to study, and it was beginning to mount: rabbits 12, woodpigeon 17, grey squirrels 4, carrion crows 2, rooks 5, jackdaws 1. No magpies, but that was because Len Alger had already shot them off the estate.

  The jay was different, though. It made him stop and think. He knew it was stupidly sentimental to mind about killing a predator just because it happened to be uncommon and attractive, but he couldn’t feel easy about what he’d done.

  Laura had once said it was wrong to kill any living thing, but that was just idiotic. He’d pointed out to her that if rapid breeders like rabbits and rats weren’t kept down, the whole country would be overrun – no food crops would survive, and rats would spread disease throughout the land. She’d gone a bit quiet after that!

  But he couldn’t use the same argument against jays. There was no way they were ever going to take over from the songbirds. Their numbers were so small, in comparison with even the wild pheasants on the estate, that it wouldn’t make any difference to the game population if he never shot another jay as long as he worked there.

  After all, the only reason he’d taken the job was to be near Laura, and she’d already given him enough grief. She would be furious with him for killing anything as beautiful as the jay. It would probably ruin his chances of getting back with her.

  As he thought it through, he had spread out the dead bird’s undamaged wing. The blue wing-coverts he’d wanted were there for the taking. But across them was a trail of blood, each drop a separate bead of crimson against the glossy blue, and he knew he didn’t want the feathers any more.

  Now, unable to sleep, he relived those few moments when he’d held that shattered little corpse, and felt again the sense of shame that had made him hurl it as far as he could into the undergrowth, before wiping his hands on the wet grass and getting on with his work.

  On the day before the shoot he was up in what seemed like the middle of the night – not because that old misery Len Alger had threatened to have his guts for garters if he were late, but because he knew how much work there was to get through, and he didn’t see how else he’d have time to do it.

  He scrambled into his clothes, breakfasted one-handed on a cheese sandwich as he powered his mountain bike through the misty dark, and arrived at Keeper’s Cottage at daybreak. But that still didn’t stop Len Alger from bawling him out.

  ‘What sort of time d’you call this, you lazy young devil? You’ll never make a keeper, you’re too idle!’

  Rotten old bastard …

  Darren had developed a real hatred for Len Alger. He despised him, too, because of the man’s attitude to wildlife.

  Mr Glaven had emphasised to Darren how important it was to obey the Game Laws. ‘It’s a great responsibility, being a gamekeeper,’ the Guv’nor had said sternly. ‘This leaflet tells you what you’re legally entitled to kill on the estate at any time of the year. You’re allowed to do it because you’re my employee, and we preserve game here. But it’s illegal to shoot anything that isn’t listed, and I won’t turn a blind eye if you do. I won’t have anything killed here at Chalcot unless it’s been reared for the purpose, or is acknowledged to be a menace. Understand?’

  Darren understood, and privately agreed. He had no intention of killing anything that was harmless. But Len Alger classed everything on the estate (always excepting Mr Glaven’s pedigree cattle) as either game or vermin. As long as the Guv’nor wasn’t about, Len shot at anything that moved regardless of the law.

  And he was cruel with it. It had horrified Darren to see him shoot at a ginger cat that was mouse-watching at the bottom of a hedge. It was a long shot and the animal streaked off towards the village, apparently unhurt but quite possibly wounded. When Darren had protested that it was somebody’s pet, though, the keeper had laughed.

  ‘You bloody great softy,’ he’d jeered. ‘Anything that’s capable of killing young pheasants is fair game as far as I’m concerned. If you haven’t got the guts to do a thorough job, you’d better pack it in. Go on, tell the Guv’nor you’re leaving.’

  But that was Darren’s problem. If he went of his own accord, or swore back at the keeper and got the sack, it was Laura he would be leaving. And he loved her far too much to do that.

  Easier to put up with a pig like Len Alger. But one day – one day before very long – he intended to get even with him.

  The overnight mist had thinned, leaving everywhere soaking wet under a low grey ceiling of cloud. Glad of the waterproofs the Guv’nor had given him, Darren hurried off to begin the morning feed round.

  It was his regular job, twice a day, seven days a week, to feed Oak Wood and Belmont Plantation. That had been the first dirty trick Len Alger had played on him, sending him out to the woods that were farthest away and then grumbling because the job took him a long time.

  After he’d fed the birds at each pen, he had to fill a sling bag from the storage bins and carry it to the outlying feeding places. It was hard work, sweating along under the weight of the bag across ditches and fences, and pushing through bracken and brambles. His boots were soon clogged with mud, and he slipped about on slimy heaps of dead leaves. At one point he got bogged in a ditch, and struggled out with a bootful of cold muddy water.

  But he always enjoyed the actual feeding. Len Alger seemed to hate the pheasants, but Darren liked them. As he reached Belmont they were just beginning to wake up, on their roosts on the almost-leafless branches of the beech trees. Once awake, they launched off and came drifting down like free-fall parachutists to land lightly in the straw-strewn ride beside their old pen.

  For a few moments they just stood about, looking as dopey as he usually felt when he first woke up. But as soon as he whistled they seemed to gather their wits. The cocks stretched and flapped their wings, stirring the damp air with their cries of kurrr-kuk. Still whistling, Darren hurried down the ride throwing out handfuls of grain, and soon the birds came running eagerly to feed.

  They were even tamer then Laura’s pheasants because they belonged to the first batch of poults, bought in at the same time as he began work on the estate. They had always looked to him for food, even though they liked to eat insects in summer and wild fruits and beechmast in the autumn. Many of them were naturally wary and would scatter if they heard a blackbird’s warning cry, but they all knew they had nothing to fear from Darren. The boldest would happily feed at his feet, and he wished he had time to stand still and watch them.

  After he’d fed in and around Belmont, and checked his traps and snares, he hurried on to do the same at Oak Wood. When he got back to the keeper’s house he had the kennels to sweep and swill, and then the Landrover to hose down and clean out. Everywhere was wet and mucky. His hands felt raw, and a leak from the hose sprayed back on him and ran down his neck, soaking his T-shirt.

  The pleasure he’d felt in feeding the pheasants had evaporated. He was very glad of the mug of hot sweet coffee that Mrs Alger sneaked out to him while her husband was somewhere with Mr Glaven, but even that didn’t lift his spirits for long.

  He began to feel really depressed. It wasn’t only Laura’s rejection that weighed on him, or the dreary weather, or the discomforts of his job, or even Len Alger’s behaviour. He felt uneasy and anxious, and he didn’t know why.

  He slogged on with his work, clearing up the big shed where the beaters were going to have their midday break tomorrow and heaving in bales of straw for them to sit on. He was just about to sit down himself for ten minutes, and eat his sandwich lunch, when Len Alger came hurtling out of the house wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Come on, come on, you lazy young devil,’ the keeper bellowed, onion gravy on his breath. ‘Get that
Landrover loaded up! Mr Glaven’s going to meet us at Belmont to set things out for tomorrow.’

  Swearing to himself, Darren stuffed the sandwiches back in his pocket and loaded the various bundles of gear he’d helped prepare during the previous weeks. Len Alger had ordered him to do this and that, without telling him what anything was for, but by now he had a fairly good idea. As they bumped along in the Landrover he looked out at the pheasants that were wandering, unworried, in the open fields, and his stomach began to tighten. He told himself it was hunger, but he didn’t feel like eating any more.

  Mr Glaven’s Range Rover was already parked beside Belmont Plantation. He came to meet them with two black labradors pacing sedately at his heels, a pink-cheeked country gentleman with a greying moustache, dressed in a well-worn Barbour and a flat cap and carrying a thumbstick. He gave Darren his usual affable greeting and added in his posh voice, ‘No doubt the keeper’s explained what we’ve planned for tomorrow. You know what to do, eh?’

  Darren was going to tell the truth, but Len Alger had been listening intently and now he shoved in first:

  ‘Certainly I’ve explained, Mr Glaven! But I very much doubt he’s taken it in. I’m afraid he’ll never make a keeper, he’s too unreliable.’

  Darren felt the blood in his face rush up to boiling point. He made a great effort to keep his mouth shut, but the Guv’nor couldn’t fail to notice the indignation steaming out of his ears.

  ‘Can’t expect too much too soon,’ said Mr Glaven, giving the keeper a shrewd look. ‘The lad’s only been with us three months. From what I’ve seen he’s a hard worker. Now, set the pegs out, will you, Len? And you come along with me, young feller. I’ll tell you what’s what.’

  He strode off with his dogs along the stubble field that skirted the wood. ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘you know we’re shooting here in Belmont tomorrow?’

  Darren hadn’t known, and the news came like the twist of a stick in his guts. He ought to have realised what was going to happen, because he knew the Belmont pheasants were the oldest they’d reared and therefore the strongest fliers. But somehow, when he fed them this morning, he’d managed not to think consciously about their fate.

  No wonder he’d been feeling depressed, though.

  They reached the highest part of the estate, a rise on which the wood had been planted a hundred years before. Mr Glaven pointed out with his stick where the planned drives were to take place, three in the morning, coming towards Belmont across the outlying fields and copses where Darren had been feeding the birds, and two in the afternoon up here in the wood itself. He also pointed out where the shooting party – he called them the Guns – would stand for each drive.

  ‘You’ll be walking with the beaters,’ the Guv’nor said. ‘The keeper will be in charge, but they’re all regulars so you’ll soon see what to do. The Guns will be spread out in a row at the end of each drive, and you beaters will work your way in line towards them. The idea is to drive the pheasants ahead of you so that they’ll fly up over the Guns.’

  ‘Supposing they won’t fly?’ said Darren, clutching at a twig of hope.

  ‘That’s what you beaters are for, to flush’em out. They won’t want to fly, of course. They’re heavy birds and flying soon exhausts ’em. They’ve had no cause to be frightened of human beings, and they’ll try to tuck up in the undergrowth. So you’ll have to poke ’em out with your stick and keep them running ahead. Don’t panic them, just keep’em going. They’ll take off when they run out of cover and see the Guns. Never fails.’

  The grey air was still, disturbed only by near and far pheasant-calls. A small group of them, led by a fine russet cock with a parson’s collar round his neck, had come wandering out of the shrivelled bracken that edged the wood and were pecking unconcernedly on the corn stubble, no more than a dog’s rush away.

  But the Guv’nor’s labradors were professionals, and knew better than to make the pheasants fidgety. They stayed sitting at their master’s feet, watching the birds with nothing more than mild interest. Darren would have thought it an amazingly friendly scene, if he hadn’t known that the pheasants had been set up to be shot out of the sky tomorrow, and that the dogs would be there to retrieve them when they fell.

  He felt sick. ‘I’ve brought these birds up from poults,’ he protested. ‘I can’t force them out to risk their lives, not when they trust me.’

  ‘Hah! Can’t carry your job to its logical conclusion, eh?’ Mr Glaven looked fierce, but his voice wasn’t unsympathetic. ‘Young keepers often feel like that at their first shoot, but they get over it.’

  He turned and began to walk briskly back towards the Range Rover, his boots crunching the brittle grey stubble. ‘Think of it this way, lad,’ he advised as Darren caught up with him. ‘These pheasants are hatched to order. If we didn’t shoot game on this estate, not one of the birds you’ve reared would ever have lived. Besides, they’ve got a fifty per cent chance of surviving – and that’s more than you can say of my beef cattle, eh?’

  ‘’Spose so,’ said Darren reluctantly.

  ‘Well then.’ Mr Glaven sounded impatient, disinclined to waste any more of the short November afternoon. ‘You must make up your mind. In my opinion you’re doing well here, and there may be a permanent job for you if you want it. If you can’t face tomorrow, though, you’d better say so before nightfall. Now, have you pulled up your snares in this wood, and put the safety catches on the traps?’

  ‘No – I didn’t know I was supposed to.’

  The Guv’nor was not pleased. ‘Well then, do it right away. We can’t risk any of the beaters or dogs being hurt tomorrow. After that, give your birds their second feed. If you decide to leave the job, come up to the house afterwards and I’ll pay you off.’

  Dusk came very early under the beeches. By the time Darren went to feed the Belmont pen, the wood was rustling with pheasants making their usual lengthy going-to-bed preparations, peering up into the trees as if to select a desirable lodging for the night.

  At least, Darren thought, they don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. For himself, he felt like an assistant executioner – his stomach was tight, his mouth was dry, and when he pursed his lips he couldn’t whistle. But the pheasants came to him anyway, trusting him so completely as he threw out the grain for their last supper that their colours seemed to blur before his eyes.

  He hurried away, to do as much as he could of the rest of the feeding before the birds flew up to roost. When he passed Belmont on the way back, the dark wood was noisy with his pheasants’ goodnight chatter; but now he had stopped feeling sorry for them. He knew that he would be there at the shoot tomorrow, even though driving the birds over the guns would be a final betrayal of their trust.

  It was Laura he had to be there for. She mattered to him far more than a whole woodful of pheasants. If sacrificing the lot of them would win her back, he’d do it gladly.

  He had been so busy agonising over their relationship, and over the pheasants’fate, that he hadn’t given much thought to what Laura had said at the end of their last meeting. At the time, he’d been so longing to touch her that he hadn’t taken in her meaning.

  He remembered asking her – mockingly, so as to show how cool he was – if she wanted to come and help him with the beating. And she’d snapped back something about being there anyway, not to help the shooters but to stop them.

  He hadn’t taken it seriously. He’d thought it was just an off-the-top-of-her-head retort, because it was ridiculous of her to think that she could put a stop to the shoot. But Laura usually said what she meant, and when something was important to her, she’d go for it.

  He knew now why he’d felt so uneasy. Everything that had been happening at Chalcot was leading up to tomorrow, the killing day. And if Laura tried to interfere when shooting was taking place, it wouldn’t only be the pheasants that were in danger.

  That was why he was going to be there at the shoot. He was sick with love and fear for her. Laura was his, whethe
r she recognised it or not, and he would do whatever it took to prove it.

  Chapter Seven

  As he drove his BMW through the open gates that led to Chalcot House, with his new gun bag stowed in the boot and his new tweed cap tipped over his eyes, Martin Tait was in his element. Or at least in the element he considered rightfully his, though it had been extraordinarily difficult to establish that fact in the minds of those who mattered.

  If the classless society evolves anywhere, it won’t be in rural Suffolk. This may not be apparent to incomers who have flocked to live in those grossly expanded villages where the old pattern of country life has been destroyed. But in small villages like Chalcot, on the edge of a country estate that is in private ownership, most of the inhabitants recognise that a social structure still exists. Willingly or unwillingly, they know their own place in it.

  The standard is set by ‘the County’: established upper-middle-class families like the Glavens, who are instantly recognisable by the understated quality of their clothes and their self-assured voices. Many of them own land and provide employment, but not necessarily a lot of either.

  Membership of the county set has little to do with wealth and nothing at all to do with conspicuous consumption. It is based on ‘old money’ and cannot be bought, as some of the newly rich discovered during the booming Eighties, when they acquired country houses in the expectation of instant social success and found that they were ignored. They didn’t have the right background, or values, or voices or clothes. They didn’t belong, and being pushy got them nowhere.

  Though the upper classes are thin on the ground, their influence is considerable. By tradition, they devote much of their time to serving the community. Lewis Glaven’s grandfather and father had both served as chairmen of the local magistrates, and he hoped to be appointed to the bench as soon as his business commitments allowed. His late wife had been county president of the Women’s Institute and an indefatigable fund-raiser for charity. Lewis was a regional committee member of the Country Landowners’ Association, and a churchwarden at the parish church where he read the second lesson every Sunday.