One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [136]
Hugh was crouched down by his son’s head, talking to him, saying his name over and over, trying to reach him. Angus Harrison, on his feet now, looked gravely at the gun on the ground; didn’t touch it.
‘Why did it explode?’ someone asked quietly.
‘Must have got blocked,’ he muttered. ‘Mud, usually, is the classic.’
‘Mud where?’
‘In the end of the barrel. But he’d have had to have stuck it in the dirt – like this.’ He demonstrated with a jabbing motion downwards. ‘Madness.’
‘I did!’ sobbed Daisy suddenly, jerking her head up from Laura’s breast. ‘He handed it to me while he unwrapped some new cartridges. Didn’t even look at me, didn’t ask, just handed the gun back, arrogantly, and I was cross and jabbed the barrel in the ground. I didn’t know!’ She wailed in horror as it dawned.
Hugh looked like he’d been shot himself.
‘Oh, Daisy,’ breathed Laura, before she could stop herself.
‘Oh, Daisy!’ Her daughter screamed, wrenching herself away. ‘You see? Oh, Daisy – you’ve killed him!’ She turned and ran, arms and legs windmilling in all directions, out of the valley, away up the hill. Laura moved like I’ve never seen her move, like a missile, after her.
And then, bouncing over the horizon, tumbling down the hill, a green Land Rover careered towards us, stopping in a spray of mud. The back door flew open and finally, finally we could all cling to activity, as four or five men, under the monk-like GP’s instruction, carefully lifted the bleeding boy, only a boy, I thought with a lurch as his thin, frail arm, the withered one, dangled – someone held it up quickly – into the back of the Land Rover, to lay him on the bench along one side. And then they all got in, the men, to cushion Luca, support him from the bumps, one holding his head, all on their knees, all blood-splattered, the driver slammed the back door and ran round to leap in the front and take the wheel.
We watched as slowly, carefully, the Land Rover crawled up the hill, out of the valley, all of us holding our breath collectively, willing it not to jerk. But the driver, the gamekeeper, Dan, whom Maggie had taken a shine to earlier, knew the ground like his own body. He coaxed that vehicle around ruts and over the brow of the hill, to softer ground, a meadow, to a track where he could crawl along and meet the ambulance, which even now could be heard wailing towards us out of the distance. A wave of relief rippled palpably amongst us and I felt my shoulders relax slightly. I exhaled slowly.
I was aware of Hal beside me, which surprised me. Hugh, of course, had gone, Angus Harrison too, and some other men. I thought Hal had been amongst them. He’d been at Luca’s shoulder, lifting him.
‘Oh, I thought you’d gone.’
He looked at me. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
Don’t ask me why, but in that moment, as we made our way up the steep hill, I was transported back to the days when Hal waited for me outside lecture theatres, with cups of coffee: that same penetrating look on his face. Once, when I’d been to see a musical with some girlfriends – a silly show, it may even have been The Chippendales in the King’s Theatre – and we’d come out giggling, recounting bits, there he’d been, in his greatcoat, waiting, and my laugher had died as my friends had caught his expression and knowingly peeled off. My heart had sunk. Why, of all things, should that spring to mind, I thought angrily, guiltily even, as we, the straggling remains of the shooting party, made our way up the steep hill, out of the sunlit valley.
The children were in the kitchen with my parents when we got back. Mum had made them sweet tea and they were sitting in a shocked huddle around the table, cradling their mugs, white-faced.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Biba said immediately, as I came in.
‘I’m sure,’ I soothed automatically.
‘We don’t know,’ said Hal