morning I noticed the cracks in the old Chinese vase, the results of our hasty glue-work after Daniel misjudged a slide down the banister. I’d hoped for some respite here at Boddington but there are just too many signs that remain.
‘Gentlemen?’
My father. He produces a leather pouch, and those of us shooting step up to draw our numbers. I draw between Charles and Mahmoud Iqbal, the Lebanese owner of a neighbouring estate, and ten minutes later, in a convoy of battered Land Rovers and four-wheel drives, we set out.
Ours isn’t the largest estate in Gloucestershire, or even the most profitable, but the roots of my family run deep here. There were Carltons on this land in Elizabethan times when the peerage first came to us, and now, driving up the valley, I look back to the house - Cotswold stone, eighteenth century - and beyond to the five acres of garden that roll down to the river. Daniel and I fished that river last May. We skirt the arable fields, finally stopping by a hedgerow where the gamekeeper waits. Walking to the first pegs, the frosted ground crunches beneath my boots, and I feel life - real life — returning.
‘Theresa did not come today?’ Mahmoud.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘She’s at her parents’. She’ll be down tomorrow.’ There’s a memorial service for my mother, it wouldn’t look right for Theresa to stay away.
Mahmoud, dressed in tweed, touches his moustache absentmindedly. ‘Good shot, Theresa.’
But when the gamekeeper signals us up to the first line I try to forget about my wife. I try to forget the bank and Daniel too. My father gave me an air- rifle when I was seven, a .22 when I was ten and a shotgun three years later; even as a boy I took my troubles out into the fields.
Now it begins. The beaters drive the pheasants from cover and we stand by our numbered pegs and fire; behind us there are compliments from family and friends. The gamekeeper blows his whistle — silence as the last shots fade — then the dogs race to gather the fallen birds. We switch to safety, unload, and exchange polite banter down the line. The last bird picked, we move to the next stand. So it goes on, our idleness structured into the semblance of purpose all morning. My head gradually clears, and by midday I’m shooting quite well. An hour later and I’ve bagged more than ten brace.
Walking across to the barn for lunch, Charles steps up beside me. ‘Plenty of birds,’ he says. There’d need to be, the way he shoots, but I keep this uncharitable thought to myself. Instead I explain that the new keeper put them down early. ‘Lyle gave quite a performance, I hear,’ he says. The Commons Committee. ‘Made things rather uncomfortable for your father.’
I remind him that I was there.
‘Quite,’ he says ruefully ‘Has to be dealt with.’ Then he pockets an unused cartridge. ‘We hoped you might have some thoughts, Raef.’
‘I don’t want Carltons involved.’
‘After Lyle’s little effort?’ A significant pause, then he touches my elbow. ‘We’ll talk this evening.’
A misty rain has begun to fall, I feel the world closing in. The clean, clear morning is over.
2
----
S ir John considers the whisky in his glass. ‘Vance is the obvious choice.’ Then he looks from my father to me. There are only four of us here by the drawing-room fire. Mary Needham left after dinner: business in London, she said, a tactfulness my mother would have appreciated. Sir John’s wife has retired upstairs. It is my job we’re discussing, a possible replacement: after Daniel’s death there will have to be a reshuffle at the bank.
‘Raef?’ my father prompts.
‘It has to be Vance,’ I agree. Then I face Sir John. ‘This isn’t a question until you fix a date.’ The date of his retirement, not a subject he broaches easily. He keeps his eyes lowered. My father does too: it was his move into politics, his early retirement from Carltons, that first raised Sir John into place. Sir John has
‘Gentlemen?’
My father. He produces a leather pouch, and those of us shooting step up to draw our numbers. I draw between Charles and Mahmoud Iqbal, the Lebanese owner of a neighbouring estate, and ten minutes later, in a convoy of battered Land Rovers and four-wheel drives, we set out.
Ours isn’t the largest estate in Gloucestershire, or even the most profitable, but the roots of my family run deep here. There were Carltons on this land in Elizabethan times when the peerage first came to us, and now, driving up the valley, I look back to the house - Cotswold stone, eighteenth century - and beyond to the five acres of garden that roll down to the river. Daniel and I fished that river last May. We skirt the arable fields, finally stopping by a hedgerow where the gamekeeper waits. Walking to the first pegs, the frosted ground crunches beneath my boots, and I feel life - real life — returning.
‘Theresa did not come today?’ Mahmoud.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘She’s at her parents’. She’ll be down tomorrow.’ There’s a memorial service for my mother, it wouldn’t look right for Theresa to stay away.
Mahmoud, dressed in tweed, touches his moustache absentmindedly. ‘Good shot, Theresa.’
But when the gamekeeper signals us up to the first line I try to forget about my wife. I try to forget the bank and Daniel too. My father gave me an air- rifle when I was seven, a .22 when I was ten and a shotgun three years later; even as a boy I took my troubles out into the fields.
Now it begins. The beaters drive the pheasants from cover and we stand by our numbered pegs and fire; behind us there are compliments from family and friends. The gamekeeper blows his whistle — silence as the last shots fade — then the dogs race to gather the fallen birds. We switch to safety, unload, and exchange polite banter down the line. The last bird picked, we move to the next stand. So it goes on, our idleness structured into the semblance of purpose all morning. My head gradually clears, and by midday I’m shooting quite well. An hour later and I’ve bagged more than ten brace.
Walking across to the barn for lunch, Charles steps up beside me. ‘Plenty of birds,’ he says. There’d need to be, the way he shoots, but I keep this uncharitable thought to myself. Instead I explain that the new keeper put them down early. ‘Lyle gave quite a performance, I hear,’ he says. The Commons Committee. ‘Made things rather uncomfortable for your father.’
I remind him that I was there.
‘Quite,’ he says ruefully ‘Has to be dealt with.’ Then he pockets an unused cartridge. ‘We hoped you might have some thoughts, Raef.’
‘I don’t want Carltons involved.’
‘After Lyle’s little effort?’ A significant pause, then he touches my elbow. ‘We’ll talk this evening.’
A misty rain has begun to fall, I feel the world closing in. The clean, clear morning is over.
2
----
S ir John considers the whisky in his glass. ‘Vance is the obvious choice.’ Then he looks from my father to me. There are only four of us here by the drawing-room fire. Mary Needham left after dinner: business in London, she said, a tactfulness my mother would have appreciated. Sir John’s wife has retired upstairs. It is my job we’re discussing, a possible replacement: after Daniel’s death there will have to be a reshuffle at the bank.
‘Raef?’ my father prompts.
‘It has to be Vance,’ I agree. Then I face Sir John. ‘This isn’t a question until you fix a date.’ The date of his retirement, not a subject he broaches easily. He keeps his eyes lowered. My father does too: it was his move into politics, his early retirement from Carltons, that first raised Sir John into place. Sir John has
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