A Brace of Skeet

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘What was the man like?’

  ‘It was a long way off. All he could say was that the man was wearing dark trousers, a white shirt and one of those greenish waistcoats that they mostly wear. And he had a blue cap on, sort of like a baseball cap.’

  ‘That’s what about ninety per cent of them wear,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t blame me if he’s one of the great majority,’ Paul said seriously. ‘He had a bit of a tummy on him, if that’s any help. His hands were dark. Either he was wearing gloves or he’d been groping in mud. Oh, and there was a dog stuck to his heal like glue. A black dog like yours.’

  I glanced down. I had quite forgotten that Sam was following at my heel, waiting for something interesting to happen. ‘Has he told the police?’

  ‘Yes, days ago. The boatman put them onto him. He told them about the man, not about the other people. But they seemed to know.’

  So the Sergeant had known a lot more than he had told me. Well, damn him!

  ‘Come and fetch your airgun,’ I said. ‘We can finish carting the clays around later. Somebody may even turn up to help.’

  I gave him some slowish, overhead clays from the tower. I heard his pellet connect with the fourth one although it didn’t break – modern clay pigeons are made stronger than the older ones, to withstand the stress of the higher-speed traps. The boy was going to be good, some day.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘you’ll get your lessons.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I have some free time,’ I said. ‘Keep in touch.’

  The Sergeant turned up a few minutes later with his police cadets. They helped us to distribute the rest of the clays. I thanked the lads warmly, but I was rather cold with the Sergeant.

  *

  The first shooters to arrive did so in a fawn Mercedes. They were the two stout men whom Mr Glencorse, the Club Secretary, had pointed out at the bar.

  ‘You’re members?’ I was duty bound to ask the question even though I thought that I knew the answer.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the younger of the two. ‘Are you?’

  It seemed a needlessly offensive question to ask of a steward. I was glad to retort that I was a life-member, although it had only been true for about eighteen hours.

  They produced their membership cards as though they were insulted to have been asked for them. Douglas Pender was the one in his forties, a tubby yet angular man with an arrogant glare. At some time his nose had been broken, giving him the look of a retired bruiser. Alistair Wyman was rather older but seemed to spark with nervous energy. Their cards gave the address for each as c/o Wyman and Pender, Jewellers, with an address in the Royal Mile, Edinburgh.

  They paid for a round of Skeet as well as for the afternoon’s Sporting competition, bought a box of cartridges and went off to shoot.

  Oliver Gray arrived alone. I had picked out a slightly used Fabarm Multichoke as being suited to both his build and his sport. He looked at it without any great enthusiasm. ‘I never liked over-unders much,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have a master-eye problem?’ I asked him. An over-under presents a broader picture to the non-aiming eye.

  ‘Not that I’ve ever noticed. If anything, my left eye’s the weaker.’

  ‘Give it a fair trial, then. You’ll find that the extra weight mops up the recoil.’ I showed him how to select and fit the five chokes. ‘The law says that you have to buy it or return it by tonight,’ I finished. ‘For today, it’s all yours.’

  I took him down to one of the stands at the tower to get some practice, with young Paul to press the buttons for him, and left them to get on with it.

  Cars were trickling in now and I was accosted by a group of aspiring shooters wanting to know what competition I had arranged for them and when it would start and how much was the entry – all of it information which they could have gleaned from the notice-board. Three tough-looking young men with beards and black leathers arrived on motorbikes with cased shotguns on the panniers. They turned out to be the politest and best-behaved of all the shooters present.

  Harry Noble turned up, looking as bright as a silver trophy although he must have been working or travelling half the night. I fetched his twenty-bore from the car. He looked startled at the sight of it.

  ‘Don’t howl ’til you’re hurt,’ I told him. ‘You were tilting your barrels to the left because your shoulder-pocket, which the butt’s supposed to settle into, isn’t up and down but runs from your neck to your armpit. So I’ve given you an adjustable butt-pad and twisted it anti-clockwise. That should find your shoulder-pocket every time without giving your right hand yet another job to do. And I’ve included a shim of lead to bring the balance further back.’

  ‘But it looks peculiar,’ he said.

  ‘Does that matter, if it works for you?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘Go and try it,’ I told him. ‘We can argue after we know what we’re arguing about.’

  The Sergeant, who, I was pleased to see, was either ignoring my coolness or had failed to notice it, was checking memberships, taking entries, distributing score-cards and selling cartridges as if born to it. I thanked him with a little more warmth. It was hardly his fault that he was a bad communicator.

  Members and visitors were gathering in penny numbers, changing shoes or jackets, unbagging guns, counting cartridges, sipping coffee or calling for last-minute snacks before going into battle. The carpark was still only half full. With the serious competitors and their close friends drawn away to more important and rewarding competitions, I was relieved to see that I knew most of the faces and that no dedicated cash-chasers were among them. Tradition dictated that half the entry fees were returned as prize money, and small numbers would mean modest prizes and less incentive for arguments.

  Outside the door, I had time for a few deep breaths. Mr Pender and Mr Wyman were coming back from the Skeet layouts, the black Labrador at heel. The men were squabbling about something.

  ‘. . . not my fault you can’t shoot Skeet,’ Mr Pender was saying.

  ‘It’s your fault I don’t have the right gun with me,’ Mr Wyman retorted. ‘This one’s all right for Sporting, but at Skeet it’s like trying to swat midges with a rolling pin.’

  He stumped angrily off towards his car. Douglas Pender watched him go and then, turning away, realised that I was standing nearby.

  ‘Not everybody can lose gracefully,’ he said. ‘You told us that you’re a life-member? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘It’s true, all the same,’ I told him. ‘You’re welcome to check with the Secretary.’

  He grunted but decided to take my word for it, for the moment. ‘I’m going to demand an extraordinary general meeting to discuss this offer from the Leisure Complex. How do you stand?’

  ‘I’m not in favour.’

  He produced his ready scowl and then wiped it away with a visible effort. I remembered Mr Glencorse’s suspicion that he and his partner had been sponsored by the unpleasant Mr McGruer. ‘It’s not to everybody’s taste,’ he said, ‘but there could be a substantial dividend for each member and enough left over to set up again elsewhere.’ His neutral accent was an almost perfect imitation of a professional man but it had the bluntness which usually comes from hard beginnings.

  ‘It’s not easy to get planning permission for a noisy activity,’ I said. ‘There are always too many objectors. Usually, if you get it at all, it’s on a year-by-year basis. That wouldn’t encourage the club to re-invest in good facilities.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘There could be something extra in it for yourself,’ he suggested.

  ‘Not interested,’ I said. ‘And you can tell your friend Mr McGruer.’

  ‘Never met the man. I’m looking on it as I would any other investment.’

  ‘Did you join the club as an investment?’ I asked him.

  He glared at me again and then produced a bark of laughter which was more akin to a snarl. ‘I joined because I heard that it was the best
value for money. But only a born fool passes up the chance of an easy profit. You think about that, my girl.’

  He turned away from me. His Labrador, sensing discord, rumbled deeply at Sam who looked away, disdaining to notice such behaviour. I was pleased to see a large plaster covering a lump on the back of Mr Pender’s neck. He put up a hand to it and then glanced round and met my eye. It seemed to embarrass him. ‘Getting a bit old for adolescent acne,’ he said. ‘But I can still shoot.’

  There was no profit in being at war with a member. ‘I’m sure you can,’ I said. ‘How did you do on the Skeet?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘That’s not bad,’ I said. He nodded and walked stiffly away without another word. Any more lip from him, I thought, and I would take hold of that lump and squeeze.

  Sir Peter Hay was climbing stiffly out of his Land-rover and groping in the back for his leather gun-case. I walked over to him.

  ‘Afternoon, my dear,’ he said. ‘Looks like a small turnout. Ah well, all the more chance for the duffers among us. Are you giving us some birds I might be able to catch up with?’

  ‘I’m giving you an easy start,’ I said. ‘It gets a bit more difficult later, but if you stay cool and keep your swing going you’ll be all right.’

  I was hesitating between thanking him again for my life-membership and repeating my conversation with Mr Pender, but I was distracted. Sir Peter had parked beside the fawn Mercedes and a movement behind the darkened glass caught my eye. Somebody – presumably Alistair Wyman – was sitting in the passenger seat and I had a nasty feeling that he might be readying himself for competition with a stiff drink. I was brought up in a household where the taking of drink was a matter of no account, except prior to driving or shooting. As far as I was concerned Mr Wyman could drink until his liver curled up and died – but not if he was going to use a gun in my vicinity.

  I stepped forward and jerked the door open.

  Mr Wyman looked up at me. He was holding a hypodermic syringe and he had rolled up a shirtsleeve. A neat case on the seat beside him held several rows of ampoules.

  ‘What the hell?’ I said. A drug addict would be worse than a drunk.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said angrily. ‘I happen to be diabetic. Three times a day or I collapse. Would it really bother you if I lived a little longer?’

  It seemed to be my day for making enemies among my fellow members. ‘I apologise,’ I said. ‘But I’m responsible for safety around here and if I see somebody “shooting up” – not in the gun sense – I have to look into it.’

  ‘And have you finished?’

  ‘Quite finished,’ I said. ‘Don’t be long. I’ll be starting the competition soon.’ I closed the door gently and stepped back.

  Sir Peter had remained in the background, but he had taken it all in. ‘I wish we hadn’t admitted those two,’ he said quietly. ‘They seemed all right. Best behaviour, I suppose. But I think they’re going to be trouble.’

  *

  Four men had opted to go and have a private battle at Down the Line. And I had decided not to shoot, having more than enough on my plate already. So our fifty-bird Sporting was down to a mere dozen entrants.

  Top-level competitions are usually conducted in comparative silence as the competitors study the birds and build up their concentration. Less formal shoots are more often occasions for chaff and banter. But for some reason that Saturday’s competition started off in an atmosphere of bickering which steadily worsened. Douglas Pender was largely to blame. He had his knife into me from the start, and he and his partner seemed to have developed a dislike of Oliver Gray and Rambo Torrance which was reciprocated. The banter still flew. It was meant to seem light but it had a cutting edge.

  The committee had left me a free hand in arranging the competition and, to avoid giving an extra advantage to the wealthier shooters, I had decreed that only one gun and one pair of chokes were to be used throughout – a rule more usual in FITASC than in English Sporting. The rule had been appended to the notice of the competition which I had pinned on the board, but Douglas Pender, still irritated by our earlier squabble, chose to believe that it was an act of discrimination against him personally. It took a sharp word from Sir Peter to quiet him.

  The score-cards were shuffled to decide the order of shooting and the first man stepped into the cage. I was starting them off with an easy pair of Driven Pheasants from the tower – birds approaching straight and slow overhead.

  Oliver Gray, who was drawn to shoot second, touched my arm and tapped the action of the Fabarm. I lifted one muff of my ear-protectors. ‘The recoil’s much less,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that. But the bottom line is how often you hit the bird. And I’m not doing well.’

  The Sergeant was scoring and young Paul had the trapper’s job with the release control, so I was free to pay attention. ‘I’ll watch and tell you what you’re doing wrong,’ I promised.

  Mr Gray took his place in the cage and missed both of his first pair. ‘You lifted your head,’ I said. ‘You’re still expecting a kick in the face. Keep your cheek down on the comb.’ I spoke loudly because of the protectors over his ears.

  He broke five of the remaining eight, not just chipping them but blowing them to dust. The other three he missed when he forgot and lifted his head again. Mr Pender objected strongly to an adversary being coached while shooting, although it must already have been obvious that Oliver Gray was not a serious contender.

  There was nothing to be gained by argument. ‘You’re quite right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. He’s never used that gun before. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Right.’ The firm of Wyman and Pender must have been making good money because he was nursing over his arm a Beretta with engraving which I recognised as being from the Bottega in Gardone, while his partner carried a very expensive Browning.

  Tempers subsided as the contest developed into a pattern. Harry Noble and Sir Peter were not disgracing themselves but were resigned to bringing up the rear. The middle ruck, including Oliver Gray and the flirtatious Mrs Cowan, were relieved of any fear of turning in the lowest score and were having a cheerful contest among themselves.

  Rambo Torrance, hitting a rare streak of form, was up with the leaders, fighting it out in grim determination with Alistair Wyman and a thin and sallow man from the Leisure Complex; but Douglas Pender, after a shaky start, controlled his temper and shot Bolting Rabbit and Springing Teal straight. He missed one pair on the Driven Grouse – a low, fast bird which flicked over the shooter’s head – but he had done enough to bring himself into the lead.

  The last stand was designed to separate the men from the boys – a settling bird from behind followed ‘on report’ by a fast, high crosser. As we reached the stand, I said to Oliver Gray, ‘Take your time and don’t hurry.’

  Mr Pender, walking in front of us, stopped dead and swung round. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he said.

  His closed gun was pointing at my feet. ‘Gun open and empty, please,’ I said.

  He was absolutely in the wrong and I was right to speak out and he knew it; but that only added to his fury. He dropped his barrels but I could see indignation building up inside him.

  One of the members, a civil servant from the Scottish Office, black as coal but always charming, had been shooting a middling score with a Spanish game gun. He said quickly, ‘I don’t think that there can be any objection to somebody advising a friend during the walk between stands.’

  Pender looked him up and down but decided against retorting with some racial slur.

  ‘I could do with a friend like that,’ one of the motorcyclists said.

  ‘I’m sure she’d do as much for anybody else,’ Oliver Gray said. He paused. ‘Even for you,’ he added grimly.

  Douglas Pender’s irregular nose flared brightly against the duller flush of his face. ‘And just what makes her think that she’s qualified to dish out advice?’ he enquired through gritted teeth.

  ‘She’s qualified,’ Harr
y Noble said, ‘believe me.’ One or two of the others murmured agreement.

  Mr Pender looked around the faces. I was glad to see his scowl shared around the others for a change. ‘You’re all on her side because she’s an attractive piece of skirt,’ he said.

  There was a moment of total silence. I saw Sergeant Fellowes move closer – perhaps to break it up if fists began to fly, or perhaps in the hopes of getting his own blow in.

  ‘I rather think,’ said the civil servant quietly, ‘that in the circumstances we would give any steward our support.’

  Douglas Pender hesitated again, unsure whether he could pick an insult out of the words.

  ‘Are we going to shoot the last stand or not?’ Sir Peter asked plaintively. ‘I wish to know what I’ve won.’ This remark, in Sir Peter’s distinctive voice, and uttered by somebody who was already a dozen birds behind the leaders, shattered the tension. There was a general chuckle and the shoot resumed.

  Oliver Gray broke eight out of ten. Douglas Pender, when his turn came, gave every appearance of having recovered his temper, but he was snatching hastily at the second bird of the doubles. He held second place but let the man from the timeshare flats through into a win. Harry Noble, gaining confidence in his altered gun, pulled away from Sir Peter and overtook Mrs Cowan.

  According to custom, half the entry money went to the club and half was distributed as prizes. I had three tenners ready in my pocket. I presented a brace to the timeshare man, to a polite round of applause. When I handed the other to Douglas Pender, in an absolute silence, he pulled off his shooting gloves and almost snatched it.

  ‘Perhaps you were well advised not to shoot,’ he said.

  I only nodded. ‘Probably,’ I said.

  Others were less inclined to pass off the remark. ‘Just what was that supposed to mean?’ Rambo Torrance demanded.

  Pender shrugged. ‘She’s ready enough with her mouth, but she doesn’t seem to fancy shooting against the men.’