between a single friendly outing and …
And whatever she had signed up on the Internet for.
“Mum?”
“Well, of course I’m going,” she said, wiping butter from her mouth. “And I’m having another espresso too.’
Eleven
He was excited. He went to bed with the sick feeling of excitement he had had as a small boy on Christmas Eve. He had woken with the same thump in his gut as he remembered what day it was.
The perfect weather went on and on. The huge moons. The misty dawns. Hot days. Chill set in after six.
They were out at the grounds on the Clandine estate, fifteen miles to the west of Lafferton. Always were for the last shoot of the season. The woodland setting, the hill behind, the drop to the lake, everything was perfect. The hospitality was second to none. The sponsors were generous. But it was more than that. Everything came together at the last shoot. For him, it was more than a day out, a good lunch. He set out to win. He always set out to win. He had set out to win from the first time he shot at clays.
*
He was there early. They were still setting up. It was an English sporting layout of eight ten-bird stands and a hundred-bird team flush off the newly installed high tower. The best you could hope for. The birds would simulate high pheasant, very high pheasant, crossing pigeon, flushing partridge and various others incoming and going. There was no challenge like it.
People working for the sponsors were stretching a banner between two posts. The catering marquee was up. Land Rovers full of girls and cutlery baskets drove across the field.
He went back to the car. Stood leaning on the bonnet, looking, looking, checking the atmosphere, the sight line, the backdrop, looking, looking. Getting his eye in.
A couple of members drew up beside him. He nodded. Went back to looking, looking. In a minute, he would walk from the tower, a hundred yards, out and back. Looking. He swung his arms. Turned his head from side to side. Keep loose. Keep flexible. Keep easy.
He used a 32-inch over-under. The same he had used for the past three years. The years he had won.
He began to walk away from the car. Pace evenly towards the tower, looking, looking. Swinging his arms.
But he was careful to go into the marquee afterwards, get a breakfast bap, hot bacon and mushrooms, from the smiling blonde girls, take it to a group table, talk, laugh, socialise. He didn’t want to be labelled a loner. Loners weren’t liked. Not trusted.
Not loners with guns.
He bit into the soft fresh bread and the salt bacon taste made the juices run inside his mouth.
“Champion again this year, then?” Roger Barratt said, clapping him on the shoulder.
He swallowed. Shook his head. “Someone else’s turn. I reckon I’ve had mine.”
They all laughed. He hadn’t taken anyone in.
They were looping back the sides of the marquee already. It was going to be hot. Clear. Blue sky. Shooting to the north-east. Perfect.
He walked out, easy, relaxed, calm. Confident.
Twelve
“Raffles!”
But the dog was at the door before him, quivering. Phil Russell laughed as he unhooked the lead and put his hand on the door handle. Paused. The retriever looked at him, frozen, knowing but hardly daring to admit that, yes, he was home, yes, they were going on a walk. Yes!
Phil opened the door.
During term, Phil took the dog with him on a two-mile run every morning. A neighbour came and walked him again after lunch. But it was this occasional late-afternoon outing man and dog enjoyed most of all, into the car and off into the country beyond Lafferton. It kept them both sane.
Now, he turned onto the main road and east towards Durnwell. The river ran this way. The bank was fringed with pollarded willows.
He had come here a couple of times a week for years, with Raffles and with his previous dog. Once he had grown used to life without Sheila, Phil had enjoyed his own company. In any case, he saw enough people during the working day. Nothing was
And whatever she had signed up on the Internet for.
“Mum?”
“Well, of course I’m going,” she said, wiping butter from her mouth. “And I’m having another espresso too.’
Eleven
He was excited. He went to bed with the sick feeling of excitement he had had as a small boy on Christmas Eve. He had woken with the same thump in his gut as he remembered what day it was.
The perfect weather went on and on. The huge moons. The misty dawns. Hot days. Chill set in after six.
They were out at the grounds on the Clandine estate, fifteen miles to the west of Lafferton. Always were for the last shoot of the season. The woodland setting, the hill behind, the drop to the lake, everything was perfect. The hospitality was second to none. The sponsors were generous. But it was more than that. Everything came together at the last shoot. For him, it was more than a day out, a good lunch. He set out to win. He always set out to win. He had set out to win from the first time he shot at clays.
*
He was there early. They were still setting up. It was an English sporting layout of eight ten-bird stands and a hundred-bird team flush off the newly installed high tower. The best you could hope for. The birds would simulate high pheasant, very high pheasant, crossing pigeon, flushing partridge and various others incoming and going. There was no challenge like it.
People working for the sponsors were stretching a banner between two posts. The catering marquee was up. Land Rovers full of girls and cutlery baskets drove across the field.
He went back to the car. Stood leaning on the bonnet, looking, looking, checking the atmosphere, the sight line, the backdrop, looking, looking. Getting his eye in.
A couple of members drew up beside him. He nodded. Went back to looking, looking. In a minute, he would walk from the tower, a hundred yards, out and back. Looking. He swung his arms. Turned his head from side to side. Keep loose. Keep flexible. Keep easy.
He used a 32-inch over-under. The same he had used for the past three years. The years he had won.
He began to walk away from the car. Pace evenly towards the tower, looking, looking. Swinging his arms.
But he was careful to go into the marquee afterwards, get a breakfast bap, hot bacon and mushrooms, from the smiling blonde girls, take it to a group table, talk, laugh, socialise. He didn’t want to be labelled a loner. Loners weren’t liked. Not trusted.
Not loners with guns.
He bit into the soft fresh bread and the salt bacon taste made the juices run inside his mouth.
“Champion again this year, then?” Roger Barratt said, clapping him on the shoulder.
He swallowed. Shook his head. “Someone else’s turn. I reckon I’ve had mine.”
They all laughed. He hadn’t taken anyone in.
They were looping back the sides of the marquee already. It was going to be hot. Clear. Blue sky. Shooting to the north-east. Perfect.
He walked out, easy, relaxed, calm. Confident.
Twelve
“Raffles!”
But the dog was at the door before him, quivering. Phil Russell laughed as he unhooked the lead and put his hand on the door handle. Paused. The retriever looked at him, frozen, knowing but hardly daring to admit that, yes, he was home, yes, they were going on a walk. Yes!
Phil opened the door.
During term, Phil took the dog with him on a two-mile run every morning. A neighbour came and walked him again after lunch. But it was this occasional late-afternoon outing man and dog enjoyed most of all, into the car and off into the country beyond Lafferton. It kept them both sane.
Now, he turned onto the main road and east towards Durnwell. The river ran this way. The bank was fringed with pollarded willows.
He had come here a couple of times a week for years, with Raffles and with his previous dog. Once he had grown used to life without Sheila, Phil had enjoyed his own company. In any case, he saw enough people during the working day. Nothing was
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