by Stephen Fry
“They seem rather hot, Sheila.”
“Yes, Lady Anne. David has been exciting them.”
“Davey?”
“I was just reading to them, Mummy.”
“Oh. Funny boy. Never mind, at least they’ll sleep. Won’t you, my darlings? Night night, Edward. Night night, James.”
A quarter to two.
David stood up and pulled a pair of dark brown corduroy trousers over his pyjamas. He put on his games pullover from school, which was navy blue with a roll-over collar, and chose a woolly hat and black plimsolls, also from school.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t smear boot polish on his face. He decided not to. It would be simply disastrous if he couldn’t wash it off and everybody saw traces next morning.
Two o’clock.
He looked out of the window. Still dry. A clear night in fact, with just a hint of mist. That would mean a good hard frost and that would mean no footprints. God was on his side. God and Nature.
David returned to his bed, shook a pillow out of its slip, folded the slip neatly and pushed it up inside his jumper, securing it behind the waistband of his pyjamas and trousers.
He went to the door and tiptoed out into the corridor.
The door of the twins’ room opposite was open; a twenty-watt night-light threw a weak yellow glow into the passageway. David could hear the twins breathing in time with each other.
As he passed the door of Simon’s old room David edged himself closer to the wall, to avoid a loose board in the middle of the floor. Nanny was the only grown-up who slept near by, but she could wake up at the slightest sound, so he had to be most terribly careful.
David inched along the wall towards the pass door that led into the main part of the house. During the day you could bounce balls, slam cupboards and scream and shout in the nursery wing without ever being heard, but at night the smallest sound was magnified. His breathing alone seemed to make a dreadful amount of noise. The walls, the carpet, the roof, the radiator pipes, everything shifted, clicked and hummed like parts of a machine.
He opened the door. There came to him a faint scent of cigar smoke and the important ticking of a long-case clock. The north passage lay ahead and beyond it the stairs. David let the door swing silently behind him and stole forwards with the great Seven League Boots stride of the stealthy. He couldn’t remember exactly how many guests were staying; he thought at least twelve, with another ten or eleven coming the next day for the shooting. To be sure of things, he would have to go by the bedrooms as though each one were occupied by a very light sleeper.
He took the centre of the corridor now because he knew that there were cabinets and tables set along the walls with china and silver and glass on them which would make a lot of noise if he brushed against them.
He was about half-way down, with the marble gleam of the staircase now in view ahead of him, when a sudden sound brought him to a stop. A yellow line of light had appeared under the door of the room he was passing, the Hobhouse Room. Frozen mid-stride, David strained to listen, mouth open, blood hammering in his ears. He heard the silken rustle of a dressing-gown being drawn on.
With a bolt of fright he remembered that there was no bathroom in the Hobhouse Room. He leapt along the corridor in a panic, stopping by the long-case clock at the end where he flattened himself against the wall. He leaned back and panted as quietly as he could, trying to synchronise his breathing with the great gulping beats of the pendulum that swung inside the clock beside him.
He heard the door of the Hobhouse Room open and footsteps approach.
David couldn’t understand what was happening. He wanted to scream out “But the bathroom’s the other way!”
The footsteps came closer and closer. David held his breath and closed his eyes tight. The vibrations of the clock went through his body, each tick like an electric shock.
The footsteps stopped. “He’s looking at me,” thought David. “I can hear him breathe.”
Then came the sound of fingernails gently tapping on wood. There was a bedroom door the other side of the clock from David. The Leighton Room, where Aunt Rebecca always stayed. David heard her whispered voice.
“Max? Is that you?”
A man’s voice close by David answered, hoarse and cross.
“Let me in, it’s bloody freezing out here.”
The door opened and closed.
David waited. Laughter and other sounds came from inside the Leighton Room. He knew that Aunt Rebecca loved games of all kinds. He decided to gamble on the likelihood of her and the man, Max, staying in the room for some time. David took a deep breath, stepped forwards and headed for the staircase.
His route was meticulously planned and rather complicated. He had to go first to the library, then to the kitchen, then outside through the scullery into the stable yard, and finally back through the kitchen to the library again.
It was dark at the top of the stairs. David took off his plimsolls so that their rubber soles wouldn’t squeak on the marble. He went down slowly, feeling the corners of the picture-frames on the wall as he descended. His hand found the corner of the last painting, a huge Tiepolo every inch of which he knew, so now he could be sure he was on the last step. At the bottom, he turned left and went quickly across the open hall, the shortest route to the library.
Half-way across the hall he ran into something huge, something sharp and bristly that hugged him and stung his face. The shock was so great, the sense of being so completely in the grip of what he could only suppose to be a ghost or wild animal, that without meaning to he shouted out; a short howl of pain and fright.
At the very moment he cried out, David realised that what he had run into was only the Christmas tree. Disgusted with himself at such cowardice, he spat a needle from his mouth, stepped back from the tree and listened. There were no sounds of any movement upstairs: no shouts, no sleepy grumbles, no wails from the twins, only a gentle tinkle from the decorations as the tree recovered from the collision. David’s panicky yell had probably not been so very loud after all. In his head he replayed the sound and realised that really it had been no more than a husky gasp.
Circling the tree warily, David made for the library.
In the library the smell of cigar smoke was so strong it made the hairs at the back of his legs prickle. It was warm too; a faint orange glow in the fireplace showed that the fire had not yet died. David closed the door behind him and felt for the light switch.
Blinking at the sudden brightness, he looked about the room. He was glad to see that the shutters were closed. There would be no oblongs of light thrown on to the South Lawn, which would have been visible to anyone looking out of a window from one of the upstairs bedrooms.
On the fifth shelf, behind Lord Logan’s enormous desk, there was a neat line of twelve old books entitled Crabshawe’s History of the Countie of Norfolk. They were bound in sand-coloured leather and stamped with gold lettering.
David moved his finger along the line, like a browser in a bookshop, until he came to Volume VI, which he pulled out and laid on the desk. He inserted his hand in the gap on the shelf and felt for the lever. He pulled hard and was shocked by the great twang of the spring as it released the catch. By day the mechanism seemed as quiet as a whisper.
The whole section of shelving swung open and David went through the secret doorway and into the room beyond.
He couldn’t find a light switch in this room, so he had to work by the light spilling in from the library. He could see enough, however, and sense even more: the heads of fox and stag bearing down on him, the light aroma of gun-oil and the thudding of yet another big clock.
He made for a small bureau against the wall, between two gun cabinets. On the bureau was a large padded leather book from Smythson’s of Bond Street. “Game Book” it said. Simon had given it to Daddy two C
hristmases ago. David remembered excitedly asking to see it, expecting it to be a book perhaps like Hoyle’s, some sort of encyclopedia or dictionary of games and pastimes. He had not been pleased to find out that it was just blank pages, with ruled ledgers headed “Date,” “Breed,” “Guns,” “Number killed” and so on.
Behind the game book there was a small drawer. David pulled it open and stirred the contents with a finger until he found—amongst the rubber bands, fishing flies and squares of lint—a key, around which his fist closed with a relieved and determined clutch. Now it was time to go down to the kitchen.
He took the greatest care to avoid the Christmas tree as he crossed the hall. Once he knew it was there he could see it quite clearly, of course, standing guard over the staircase like a huge and shaggy bear.
David shivered at the sudden breath of warm air that met him when he opened the red baize door and went down the steps into the kitchen.
Moonlight came in through the high semi-circular windows; it gleamed on wickerwork hampers that had been laid out ready for the great breakfast. David edged round the central table, sat down on a chair at the end nearest the stove and put his plimsolls back on. His elbow touched a piece of grease-proof paper on the table. He lifted a corner of the paper up and could smell smoked ham. Immediately his throat began to contract and spasm. He turned away and breathed deeply, but had to bury his face in his forearm to muffle the sound of his dry retching. After a while he stood and wiped the tears from his eyes.
At the far end of the kitchen was a door which led to the sculleries and pantries. David went through and turned on the light.
The machinery in the cold-room hummed and down the end of the passage a large black cat came up to him, stretching its legs as it walked.
“Sh!” said David.
The cat twined itself around his legs and began to purr.
“Come on, then,” David said and the cat accompanied him to the larder door.
The second shelf of the larder, neatly ordered, contained sugar, flour, tins of baking powder, packets of yeast, sachets of gelatine, spices, cake decorations and cartons of candied peel, all in huge catering-size packs. There were children’s party napkins there too, boxes of meringue nests, bags of confetti, waxed paper jelly-bowls and tins of Playbox biscuits.
David took out the pillow-case from under his pullover and began to fill it. He dropped a piece of angelica on the floor for the cat, who sniffed, shook a paw and stalked out, disgusted.
When the pillow-case had been filled with the right things, David left the larder, switched off the light in the passageway and returned to the kitchen.
With his pillow-case over his shoulder like Father Christmas, he let himself out of the back door.
He walked through the night, clouds of vapour coming from his mouth and nostrils. He felt happy and charged with energy and vigour.
The outhouse he was heading for used once to be part of the laundry buildings and lay between the stable block and the gamekeeper’s cottage. Simon called it the “B and L” room now, for beaters and loaders.
The moon, high in the starlit sky, shone on the door and lit the iron padlock with a lick of silver. David took the key from his pocket and unfastened the lock.
Far away, in the spinneys and copses, the pheasants shifted in their roosts. Rabbits fled from barking vixens, owls swooped on scampering voles and, back in the yard, the black cat that unseen by David had slipped with him out of the kitchen, batted a dying mouse from paw to paw.
Sitting on a large box marked “Eley,” David straddled the machine. He pulled back the brass lever and hummed a little tune to himself as he engaged the treadle.
II
Simon jumped out of the Range Rover with Soda, his spaniel bitch, and looked amongst the crowd of beaters for a sign of his brother. Eventually he saw David standing apart from the others, stroking the head of one of the labradors. At a whistle from Henry the gamekeeper’s lad, the dog turned and sprinted towards the group of pickers-up who were making ready to leave. David, deprived of company, looked up in Simon’s direction. Simon immediately pretended to be scanning the sky and smelling the wind.
Ahead of him lay the drive, a long avenue of beech, oak and elm. Simon closed up his gun, brought it to his shoulder and sighted into the air above the trees.
“Blam!” he whispered. “Blam!”
A giant hand landed on his shoulder. “If a sportsman true you’d be, Listen carefully to me, Never, never let your gun . . .”
Simon joined in, “. . . Pointed be at anyone. When a hedge or fence you cross, Though of time it cause a loss, From your gun the cartridge take, For the greatest safety sake.”
Lord Logan nodded.
“Sorry, Dad,” said Simon, breaking the gun. “I was just . . . you know.”
His father shrugged with a smile. He looked over his shoulders like a conspirator and drew a silver hip-flask from his coat pocket. “Chivas Regal,” he said. “One nip only. Don’t tell your mother.”
The whisky stung Simon’s throat and tears started in his eyes.
“Whooh!” he said. “Thanks, Dad.”
Lord Logan screwed the lid back on and looked down at Simon’s dog. “Whisky and Soda,” he said and winked.
Simon laughed. Today he was the only gun with his own dog. Everybody else would have to rely on pickers-up to retrieve their dead game. Soda was Simon’s dog and she would bring his kills back to him personally.
“We’re numbering eight, we’re moving two!” called Henry.
Lord Logan looked in the direction of the drive, where the drawing of numbers was under way. “Have you drawn?” he asked.
Simon shook his head.
“Good,” said his father. “Best not. Let the older guns fight it out, eh? We’ll double-bank you behind Conrad.”
Simon’s face fell. “But I want to be at the front!”
“Conrad’s a dreadful shot. You’ll do well.” Lord Logan’s mouth wrinkled in the special distaste it reserved for whines and whinges.
Simon blushed. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Well, then. Let battle commence.”
Simon kept a few paces behind to watch the effect his father had on the others as he joined the main group of guns. Men and women stepped back, eyes sliding covertly in his direction. Everybody smiled. Simon knew that some were smiling because of the preposterously perfect condition of his father’s clothes, the shining Purdey guns, the gleaming new leather, the perfectly made hat from Lock’s, the hand-warmers, the cartridge belt, the tailored tweed coat and the tight narrow leggings that tapered down from his broad bulk—dark stockings over moleskins. Dad knew too and he didn’t care. He liked the best of everything and said so often enough. Mummy’s friends and family were in the tattiest old tweeds and muddiest boots and thought highly of themselves because of it. Dad let them smile. He knew they smiled for other reasons too.
David and the other beaters had gone off round to the wood behind the avenue. The guns and loaders, all men, were beginning to arrange themselves, two to a peg. Simon went up to one of the loaders.
“Just chuck us some boxes,” he said.
The grown-ups had a loader each and a pair of guns, so that they could keep shooting with one gun while the other was being loaded. Simon did have two twelve-bore guns, but one was an over-and-under, a present from Aunt Rebecca who, being a woman, had no idea that over-and-unders were not on; they were fit only for foreigners, armed robbers and weekend nobodies. The barrels on a proper shotgun, everybody knew, had to be side by side. To make matters worse, Aunt Rebecca’s gun had a box lock instead of a side lock, which put it completely beyond the pale. Therefore, beautiful as it may have been and ideal for a private and solitary rough shoot, Simon had left it behind. He prayed that Aunt Rebecca, who was milling about around the back with Uncle Ted and a group of women and spectators from th
e village, wouldn’t notice. Simon did have another shotgun, a four-ten which he had grown up on, potting at crows and rabbits, but after a long debate with himself he had decided that he should take just his one dependable old twelve-bore and do his own loading.
He filled the pockets of his Barbour with cartridge boxes. Soda danced around him displaying all the excitement and pleasure that Simon was trying hard to conceal.
He saw his seventeen-year-old cousin Conrad, drawn at number three, and took up a position behind him.
“Oh bloody hell,” said Conrad. “Don’t stand behind me. I don’t want to die.”
Simon blushed.
“I’m a good shot,” he muttered.
“Got a bloody dog with you, too, have you? Well, I’m not having any running-in.”
“She won’t run in,” said Simon indignantly.
“Well, she’d better not.”
“Sh!” Lord Draycott, an elderly man further along the line, scowled at Conrad from under a rather wide cloth cap.
Conrad snorted contemptuously. “It’s pheasant, for God’s sake! They’re virtually deaf.”
“These are wild birds, Conrad,” whispered the man next to Conrad, whom Simon recognised as Max Clifford, a friend of his father’s. “Sporting birds. They startle easily. They’re not hand-reared as they are in Hampshire.”
Somehow, in Max’s soft tones, the word “Hampshire” came out as a terrible insult. Conrad reddened and turned away. Simon settled himself. Soda sat neatly beside him, tongue out, panting gently. Quiet descended.
Simon continued to recite “A Father’s Advice” to himself, under his breath.
“Keep your place and silent be, Game can hear and game can see. Don’t be greedy, better spared, Is a pheasant than one shared.”
A cock pheasant rolled out of the wood and into the main drive towards them, clucking loudly. Someone laughed.
Simon felt inside his pocket and drew out two cartridges.
“If ’twixt you and neighbouring gun, Bird may fly and beast may run, Let this maxim e’er be thine, Follow not across the line.”
