THE CURSE OF THE COCKERS
Gerald Hammond
© Gerald Hammond 1993
Gerald Hammond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1993 by Macmillan London Limited.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
I raised my glass. ‘Another ghastly year,’ I said, ‘drags to its dreary close.’
Beth, my wife, looked at me anxiously. ‘That isn’t really what you think, is it?’ she asked.
Isobel, my other partner, looked at me reprovingly through her spectacles and snorted. ‘He always says that. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Isobel knew me long before Beth came on the scene.
‘It’s only a saying,’ I added quickly. Sometimes Beth takes me too seriously. ‘All in all, it’s been a damn good year. I’m sorry to see it go.’
That was true. A breeding and training kennels for working spaniels can be a reasonable money-spinner or an easy way to get rid of superfluous cash, depending on management, reputation, and a fair degree of luck. After several sluggish years, during which the books had balanced as precariously as the scales of justice, the luck had turned. A succession of wins at field trials, some of them merited and some not, had brought us the reputation; and we had made some good guesses in deciding the ever vexed question of which puppies to keep for competition and breeding, which to dispose of as pups, and which to train on for sale as trained or half-trained dogs. As a result, our pups now commanded good prices; but there was more profit in bringing on our trained dogs, now very much in demand, and in training for the clients who were beginning to beat a path to our door.
We were happy, but busy. The arrival of a baby boy could have passed almost unnoticed among so much fecundity – even by Beth, who had been found teaching a group of novices the elements of retrieving on the lawn when young Sam was less than seventy hours old; but in fact his birth had set the seal on my contentment. Life, which I had thought to be over when a serious illness brought a premature end to my army career, looked good again.
‘I should think you would be,’ Henry said severely. Henry Kitts is Isobel’s husband. Although not formally a member of the partnership he had put up Isobel’s share of the capital and is a staunch source of aid and good advice. If Isobel is a mother figure in the business, Henry, who is older than Isobel and, although usually as fit as the proverbial flea, looks older still, could be its grandfather.
He leaned back and looked around the bar of the local inn. ‘Not very busy, considering the occasion,’ he said.
The occasion was Hogmanay, New Year’s Eve in Scotland. Even as recently as my boyhood, Christmas was hardly noticed in Scotland; and, when commercial pressure finally forced recognition of it, the Scots were in no hurry to give up their more traditional celebration. Thus the festive season tends to revive just when the stomach and the purse are looking for the end of it.
The long bar, which rambled through the old building, was far from empty but was doing little more than normal business. The local constable had wandered through earlier in the evening, not looking at anybody in particular but in uniform and carrying one of the new electronic breathalysers, and those who had been drawn from a distance by the inn’s excellent cuisine and ambience had taken the hint. The serious drinking was confined to those who, like ourselves, lived within walking distance.
‘I wonder what the new year will bring,’ Beth said quietly.
‘More of the same,’ I said. ‘That’s all I ask for.’
‘No ambition,’ Isobel said. ‘That’s your trouble. A young man should be looking for new worlds to conquer.’ She is always trying to spur me into activity. Beth was ready to protest, I could tell. One of her self-imposed duties is to protect me from any stress which she feels might set my recovery back. I tend to ignore them both when it suits me and go my own way.
Instead, Beth looked past my shoulder. ‘Angus Todd’s heading towards us,’ she said. ‘Shall I make faces at him until he goes away?’
I knew what she meant. I liked Angus, but there was no denying that he had a quick temper and, when annoyed, a rough edge to his tongue. He had been my sergeant during the Falklands conflict and now seemed to vacillate between a degree of residual respect and taking a perverse pleasure in slanging off his ex-officer. When it comes to repartee I can give as good as I get, so Angus and I had, on occasions, descended to slanging matches but without any real animosity behind them. After leaving the Army, he had worked as a gamekeeper but was now a game farmer in a small way, breeding a few thousand pheasants a year plus duck and some red-legged partridges. He also acted as a wildfowling guide in winter months.
‘It wouldn’t work,’ I said. ‘Angus rather fancies you. He’d think you were giving him a come-on.’
Beth looked surprised and abashed. She is that great rarity, a woman who is usually unaware of being fancied and is quite shocked when forced to notice it.
‘Maybe he wants to buy a pup,’ Isobel said.
‘Very unlikely,’ said Henry. ‘He already has a golden retriever, with a cocker to do the hunting.’
Angus arrived at our table, very spruce in a stiff-looking new tweed suit. He had brought the army habit of smartness and attention to equipment with him into civilian life, whereas I had opted for comfortable shabbiness. His tubby five-foot-six seemed to tower over us. He was quite sober but seemed to be in his more genial mood. ‘What are you drinking?’ he asked.
He had a modest half-pint in his hand, but a round of drinks would have set him back more than a hard-earned fiver. ‘We’re all right for the moment,’ I said, ‘but don’t ever stop asking us.’
He grinned, but I sensed that he was relieved. I suspected that money was tight. ‘Join you for a minute?’
I stretched and pulled a chair from another table and he sat down. ‘Yon daft kennel-maid of yours said you were here,’ he said. ‘She thought you’d be back any minute.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ said Henry.
‘So I jaloused. I was to meet somebody here so I came on down. You’re sure you’ll none of you have a drink?’
‘Quite sure,’ Isobel said. I saw Beth’s eyebrows going up. It was unlike Angus to be quite so forthcoming or Isobel to be so restrained.
He hummed to himself for a minute and took a sip from his glass. ‘It must be a problem to you,’ he said at last, ‘all those dogs to train and only a wee bit land of your own.’
‘Most of the farmers are helpful,’ I pointed out.
‘Oh aye. But that’s ninety-nine per cent rabbit and pigeon. You’re training for field trials.’
‘If the dogs are steady to rabbits and soft-mouthed with pigeon, they can cope with anything,’ Isobel said. ‘We do a lot of beating and picking-up.’ She spoke hesitantly. There was much in what Angus was saying.
‘You can’t pick-up outside the season,’ Angus said. ‘What you need is ready access to land with game birds on it, year in and year out.’ He leaned forward and looked at each of our faces in turn. ‘There’s a very good shoot on the market, not so far from here, at a bargain rental.’
‘You’re thinking of forming a syndicate?’ Beth asked.
He shook his head forcefully. ‘There’s room for another commercial estate around here. It’d make
sense for me to run it. I could supply the birds and do the keepering, and if visitors want more shooting than the ground can stand I could take them after the geese. Would you be interested?’
I was about to say not but Isobel spoke first. ‘Where exactly would we come in?’ she asked him.
‘I could no more do the whole thing by myself than fly in the air,’ Angus said frankly. He leaned forward, his round face with its fringe of beard taut with eagerness. ‘To begin wi’, there’s the money. The first year’s lease would need to be paid soon and I’d have to live until the end of October and feed my birds. Well, my bank manager’s daft, but he’s not that daft. Then, I’m not great on the managing side – advertising and bookings and accounts and VAT and the likes of that.’ (Isobel was nodding. We share the administration but she is the management expert.) ‘The visitors would need to be met and taken to their hotel and entertained to dinner.’ (Henry began to look interested. Although not officially a member of the firm, I could tell that he was seeing himself in that function.) ‘On shoot days, I could look after the beating line if there was somebody to place the guns and do the picking-up.’ He looked at me. ‘And there’s the vermin. That comes just when I’d be busiest with the rearing. If you were visiting the ground regularly to train your springers, you could keep an eye open for foxes and magpies and the like, maybe visit a few snares and feed a call-bird in a Larsen trap.’ He looked around our faces again. ‘What do you say?’
‘Where is this shoot?’ I asked him.
Angus shook his head and the visible part of his face took on a stubborn look that I remembered well.
‘We’re not going to rush in and gazump you,’ Isobel said. ‘We’d need you as much as you’d need us.’
‘Maybe. But things can be let slip. I’d want to know first if you’re interested. If you are, I’ll tell you soon enough. If not, you’ve no need to know.’
I opened my mouth to give him his answer, but again Isobel spoke first. ‘This is too sudden,’ she said. ‘We’ll need time to think it over.’
‘Aye, you will that. But don’t take long. The deal needs to be firmed up soon.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from an inner pocket. ‘I’ve put down a few figures. I’ll leave them with you. We’ll be in touch.’
He got to his feet and headed for the bar.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said.
‘A new world to conquer,’ Isobel said. ‘We’ll have a look at the figures.’
‘We’ve already bitten off as much as we can chew.’
‘It needn’t involve us in much that we don’t do already,’ she retorted. ‘It could turn a useful profit on its own. And there’s no doubt about it, access to ground that’s hopping with game birds would give us a flying start when the season opens.’
‘My round, I think,’ Henry said. ‘Same again?’
‘We should be going,’ Beth said quickly.
‘So should we,’ said Henry. ‘But we’ve no intention of doing so. The night is young and so are you.’
‘We’re not as young as we were,’ I said. ‘And Daffy will want to get down here for a drink with Rex before closing time.’
Daffy – given name Daffodil but always known as Daffy because the contraction was so very suitable – was our new kennelmaid. Beth had originally come to us in that position and had continued to do all the work, and more, after our marriage. But with the approach and arrival of Sam it had been obvious that help would be required and Daffy’s had been the only reply to our advertisement. To her other duties had been added occasional baby-sitting. Rex, Daffy’s totally unsuitable boyfriend, was propping up the bar and glaring at us. He had a studded leather jacket, a Mohican haircut, and a luminous green stripe in what was left of his hair, but was otherwise unremarkable.
‘I doubt if Daffy and Rex would give a damn whether the bar was open or not,’ Isobel said. She and Henry were sociable boozers when the mood took them. ‘Their only common interest is in fornication.’
‘She’s very good with the dogs,’ Beth said. ‘And with Sam. We’d better go.’
‘We’ll phone you after midnight,’ Isobel promised.
We exchanged premature good wishes for the New Year with such familiar faces as we passed on the way to the door and rooted among the coats for my sheepskin coat and Beth’s quilted waterproof.
The night welcomed us coldly. An early fall of snow had thawed before Christmas, to the regret of the nostalgic few. There was a stiff breeze and the temperature was hovering around freezing-point. A few degrees colder and the drier air would have had less power to sap away the body’s warmth. We walked briskly. When the lights of the village fell behind us, a glimmer from half a mile ahead drew us home.
Home was and is Three Oaks Kennels, a converted farmhouse in about five acres of land, set back from the first bend in the road. The comfort of the house was calling, but duty had the louder voice. We turned away and made a tour by torchlight of the neat groups of kennels and runs. The locks were secure and a variety of snores and dream-noises assured us that all was in order. Several of the younger dogs awoke and stood up against the wire for a quick exchange of greetings or reassurance.
In the hall, we were met by warmth and the familiar atmosphere of the old house. And by Daffodil.
Daffy was definitely an oddball. Au fond she was a nice-looking girl although she had a jaw which was firm to the point of being called, on anybody less pretty, obstinate. She came from a good home in Dundee but had walked out after a dispute with her mother over the unsuitable Rex. Her father, a well-heeled businessman whom I knew slightly, was secretly continuing her generous allowance, so that Daffy was not too concerned about the scale of her wages. All that she wanted was a respectable job – this was a condition set by her father on her allowance – and bed and board within reach of Rex. We converted our one uncommitted outbuilding into a bedroom for her and Beth made it clear that while Daffy might be within reach of Rex this particular bed was not.
The appointment had turned out surprisingly well. Daffy was a hard worker, loved dogs, and had fallen hard for Sam. Those characteristics, plus a willingness to do the sometimes unpleasant tasks of the kennelmaid for a minute salary, more than made up for a certain eccentricity of style. She was wearing brightly patterned tights and knee-length cycling shorts under a very short skirt. What if anything she was wearing above was concealed beneath a jacket of very hairy synthetic fur. Her fair hair had, as usual, a stripe to match that of Rex. Either they were in telepathic communication or they arranged by telephone to co-ordinate the day’s colour scheme. Her lips and eyelids were a similar green.
Sam, Daffy reported, had been fed and changed and was sound asleep. And she would see us in the morning. She bade us a happy New Year – when it came – and was out of the house while her last words were hanging in the air. We heard her pattering down the drive. I knew that she really would be at work in the morning. Daffy, for all her faults, never missed out on the job for lack of sleep or excess of sex, alcohol, or whatever else she might indulge in.
We shed our coats and I followed Beth into the large, bright kitchen. She put the kettle on. ‘What did you think Daffy looked like?’ she asked.
I gave it a little thought and surprised myself by saying, ‘I thought she looked rather good. She shocks the locals out of their wits, but if she went on television like that she’d stand out as a beauty.’
‘The locals are used to her by now. It’s not fair,’ Beth said cheerfully. ‘If I tarted myself up like that I’d look like somebody’s nightmare.’
‘You might not,’ I said. ‘You could try it and see. You look young enough to get away with it.’ Beth was a good ten years older than Daffy but could have passed for her niece.
‘Would you like that?’
‘No, I don’t think I would.’
Beth looked at me appraisingly. I thought that she was weighing my answer, but she said, ‘You’re tired.’
‘Not really,’ I said, and then spoiled it by yawning.
/>
‘Oh yes you are. Go on up to bed and I’ll bring us up a hot drink.’ Although I was recovering from the parasite that had finished my army career I was still not back to full strength and Beth was often more aware of it than I was.
‘We’ll just see the New Year in.’
‘We’ll see it in in bed,’ she said firmly. ‘Take the phone up with you. If we put the lights out, nobody’ll bother us.’
I liked the idea. At midnight on Hogmanay the visiting begins, the first foot over the threshold bringing good luck and receiving suitable hospitality in return. The previous year, we had been rash enough to be caught at home by neighbours and the party had gone on until dawn; but when the house seems dark and silent it is assumed that you are already out doing the rounds – ‘first-footing’. I unplugged the phone in the sitting room, carried it upstairs, and plugged it in in the bedroom.
Sam was in his cot, surrounded by all the paraphernalia of babyhood. At four months, he had lost the individuality of the newborn and looked to be just another chubby baby, but he was ours. He was deeply asleep. We had been lucky; after the first few weeks he had turned into a mighty sleeper.
Beth brought up a tray. In addition to the hot drinks were a plate of shortbread and two decorous glasses – a small sherry for herself and a larger, but watered, whisky.
We curled up sleepily together, enjoying a more or less platonic cuddle while listening to the radio playing very softly, and at midnight we sat up, ate the shortbread, and toasted each other solemnly.
The bell was switched off for Sam’s sake, but we heard the ringing from the phone in the kitchen and took the extension under the bedclothes with us. My brother in Dunoon wished us a happy New Year. We came up for a few breaths of air and then Beth phoned her mother in Aberfeldy.
‘One more,’ Beth said softly. ‘Henry and Isobel. Then we can go to sleep.’ Before we could begin to make the call, we heard the phone ringing downstairs and submerged again. It was my turn to take the phone. ‘Happy New Year,’ I said.
The Curse of the Cockers (Three Oaks Book 5) Page 1
