One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [133]
Beyond Kit stood Luca, looking tall and handsome in his well-cut Italian shooting gear: a softer, lighter tweed, in a different league to the English cloth. I marvelled at how well he handled a gun, his bad arm not at all evident, aiming now at a high bird, dispatching it economically. Another swirl of feathers came crashing to the ground nearby with a thump. All eaten, I told myself firmly as it twitched convulsively before lying motionless. All eaten, and what a fantastic life they’d had, out here in the wild. Think of battery hens, cooped up in ghastly conditions, dark and overcrowded, pecking at each other, and which we bought without blinking in the supermarket. These birds enjoyed a far superior existence, and apart from anything else, stood a chance of getting away, I thought, as Luca missed a high one. It soared away into the stratosphere.
Daisy was behind Luca, instructed by Hugh to pick up for him. Not a particularly apposite choice, but her father had been busy at the time, distracted by organizing his day. I’d witnessed Daisy open her mouth to protest, and Hugh say, ‘Just go, Daisy,’ annoyed that she wasn’t delighted to accompany her stepbrother: forgetting, perhaps.
I watched Daisy trudge off sullenly now, hands in pockets, to retrieve a woodcock he’d brought down. It had been an excellent shot – woodcock are tiny – and it had been flying high. He turned to Daisy with an involuntary grin of boyish pleasure. She scowled back, and instantly his face reverted to a mask. He swung back again to take aim at the sky.
Beyond Luca, right on the brow of the hill, I could just make out Ralph de Granville, looking dark and dashing. Quite a few admirers were clustered behind him, perched on shooting sticks. I couldn’t make out who, exactly, but he always attracted a crowd. Seffy, I knew, at number seven gun, would be just over the brow of the hill, out of sight, with Dad. Dear, dependable – trusting – Dad. Tears, ridiculously, pricked my eyelids. Why so emotional, Hattie? I blinked them back. Made myself concentrate on Ralph, silhouetted against the hazy golden light, like an old shooting print that had been retouched. The barrel swung round as he took aim, and a cock pheasant dropped, in a flurry of red and brown, to the ground. He seemed to be shooting well. Hugh would be pleased. He wanted his guests to have a good day, and I tried to take pleasure in that, in everyone else’s enjoyment. Why, then, were there nail marks in the palm of my hand? Quite deep? I unclenched my fists. Breathed slowly, in and out; the scent of autumn sharp in my nostrils.
‘D’you want me to pick up?’ I called with forced jollity to Hal.
He knew me well. Turned. Raised quizzical eyebrows.
‘Do you want to pick up?’
‘Not really,’ I muttered gratefully.
He laughed. Then turned back to execute an impressive right and left, before and behind, bagging a hen, then a cock, over the bare treetops, which formed a bristling line, their dark branches standing to attention like witches’ broomsticks. I had picked up once, years ago, on my first shoot here: running eagerly to help Laura, who was standing with Hugh. I’d seen her scoop a brace expertly from the ground, two fingers crooking round their colorful necks, and had hastened to follow suit. But then shrieked and promptly dropped mine. Laura had turned.
‘It’s still warm!’ I gasped in horror.
‘Of course it’s still warm. It was alive two seconds ago.’
‘And – oh, yuk – I think it moved. I can’t, Laura.’ I felt sick.
‘Then don’t,’ she said