by Guy Kennaway
She had been consumed by the ups and downs of caring for her string of stablemates, dealing with mysterious lameness, chronic skin problems, skittish personality defects, and the drama of colic. She hardly ever actually rode the beasts, being far too busy looking after them to waste time on that. Exhausted at the end of the day, she used to nod off in her own sitting room in a cloud of horse smell, with a tray on her knees. She had liked to watch period films on TV – as long as they were set in the era before cars – assessing carefully each horse, their tack, and the equestrian abilities of the actors. The human plots had meant little to her. She recognised the animals more readily than the actors, and was always spotting major continuity errors. In Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, Mr Willoughby drove up in his Brougham pulled implausibly by the same horse that Colonel Brandon had stabled at his stately home thirty miles away. The men were meant to be sworn enemies. It made a nonsense of the plot for Dora.
Sometimes Banger would put his head round the door on his way up to bed, and stare at Dora’s straight grey hair, bluntly styled with horse clippers, but she wouldn’t turn her head as he said goodnight, consumed instead by Russell Crow’s shaky seat in Robin Hood, and the cruel way Robin tugged at his mount’s mouth while professing to be a man of sensitivity. Banger would then set off along the gloomy corridors past the never-used guest bedrooms with their faint smell of sour laundry, to his own bedroom, where he would lay himself down to sleep, battling to ignore the gnawing emptiness.
Things were different with the female pheasants in Giles’s garden. They crowded round not for conversation or some ghastly thing called ‘support’, but for sex. Morning, noon and night they waved their delicious little bottoms under Banger’s nose. As a human, Banger had not been interested in sex; it had always been to him like loading a bicycle into the back of a car. And there had been so many more pressing things to do, like walking the woods, checking the pens, feeding the dogs or cleaning the guns. They had been rather more satisfying, too.
Another advantage pheasants had over humans, it seemed to Banger, was the non-appearance of offspring. A long, long time ago, pheasants had grown up in clutches of about four. They were the proud, free-ranging junglefowl of the millions of square miles of misty forests in Asia, places like the Neelum Valley in Azad Kashmir, an unimaginatively beautiful landscape where pine-clad slopes rose from the churning rivers to the azure sky over the Himalayan foothills. But the skills of nest building, protecting eggs, raising chicks and nurturing the young was ripped out of the pheasant culture by their exportation to Europe, and incarceration in the pens of the shooting industry. So when a hen laid an egg, she looked at it as if it were an alien object, and felt no maternal urge to sit on it or care for it. Banger was quick to notice this, because the removal of offspring from the equation suited him. He was no good with the young. Never knew what to say to them. He hadn’t done well by Victoria, he knew it, but with mothers as bad as these hen pheasants, who left their eggs to grow cold, the problem of not being able to relate to one of his own children wasn’t going to arise again.
Banger felt the sap rise in his bones, but there was an obstacle between him and a lot of fun. This was a wide-chested male pheasant with midnight-blue colouring who called himself the Duke’s Cock. The Duke’s Cock busied himself with two activities: shagging hens and threatening the males who went near them. He got so much sex he had to organise a rota of females, so each got their turn. Banger got fed up standing around watching this, so ducked through the hole in the hedge at the bottom of the garden and went to look for some females for himself.
He found three comely hens nestled in the wavy grass.
‘Ah, ladies, may I say how delightful you look?’ Banger started, and then remembered that these were pheasants he was talking to, and preliminaries were not important. ‘Right,’ he cried. ‘Who’s first? And no fighting. Form an orderly queue,’ he added, adjusting his undercarriage so it got the full advantage of the cooling breeze blowing across the dewy field.
‘But we’re the Duke’s Cock’s girls,’ one said.
Banger looked at the lovely wenches; they seemed so fluffy and inviting. He was gazing so fondly and intently at them that he failed to notice the large cock pheasant with deep glossy plumage, rich red comb and huge yellow claws, stepping up behind him.
‘I can’t see why that should be an impediment to our love,’ he gaily said. ‘Look, I’ll give you all a quick feathering, and it can be our little secret. No need to say anything to your grumpy old man! After all, I wouldn’t want him knowing that the only sexual satisfaction his wives have known was dispensed by me behind his back. Right, who’s first?’
None of them moved.
‘Come on, you little strumpets, which one of you is going to be the first to feel my member on your fanny? I know you’re hungry for it.’
‘You scoundrel,’ said a low, slow voice behind him. Banger turned to see the Duke’s Cock staring at him.
‘Look,’ gasped Banger. He grasped for an excuse, but remembered who he was: ‘This is absolutely what it looks like …’ he laughed.
‘Silence! You, sir,’ he approached Banger, ‘are a footling fanny filcher.’
‘I think I can explain,’ Banger said, but was cut short by the bird leaping into the air with scything claws. Banger took a slash to his head and before he had a chance to strike back was pinned wriggling under the Duke Cock’s claw. He went limp, closed his eyes and took his punishment. The Duke Cock finally booted him into the fence. Banger lay there, pretending to be dead, and then slowly raised his head to check that the beating had finished. The coast clear, Banger stood up, shook his feathers and wiped the blood off his leg.
He limped back to the garden and went to see Giles for solace.
The human was playing patience at the kitchen table, and let Banger in through the window, to sit and watch.
‘How am I doing?’ Giles asked Banger.
Banger studied the cards. ‘Seven on the six,’ Banger said.
‘Damn,’ said Giles, ‘stuck again. Oh well …’ He looked at his watch.
‘You’re not stuck, put the seven of hearts on the six.’
Giles gazed out the window.
Banger moved forwards on the bench, leant over the table and tapped the seven with his beak. Giles looked at him, and smiled.
‘Want to play cards, do you, fella?’ Giles said.
Banger got the seven in his beak and placed it on the six of hearts. ‘Now you can play the six of diamonds,’ he said.
Giles looked at the cards, and then stared at Banger.
‘Did you just … did you … did …?’
‘Come on,’ said Banger, reaching forward to place the six of diamonds on the five.
Giles blinked, and shook his head. ‘How did you do that?’ he whispered.
Banger looked at the cards. ‘The eight can move now,’ he said, tapping it.
Giles moved the card.
‘And now the nine,’ he tapped that. ‘Now it’s easy.’
But the cards in Giles’ hand slipped onto the floor. He shook his head again, picked them up and spread a few on the table.
‘Point to the ten, can you?’ he asked Banger.
Banger tapped the ten.
‘The three?’
He tapped the three of spades.
‘And the three of hearts?’
Banger tapped the three of hearts.
Giles stood up, knocking over the chair, and backed away, looking astounded and a little bit scared. Then he dashed into in the next room, rummaged in a cupboard, and reappeared with a worn box of Scrabble. He brushed the cards off the table and shook out the contents of the tile sock, arranging the letters in front of Banger.
‘A’ he said.
Banger touched the A.
‘B’ Giles said.
Banger found the B.
‘C’ he said.
Banger tapped the C.
‘D’ Giles said.
Banger stared at Giles. �
��I think we’ve established I can read letters,’ he said.
‘Right, right,’ said Giles, ‘spell … spell bird.’
Banger tapped the P.
Giles tutted.
Banger tapped the H
Giles sighed, visibly disappointed, and started tidying up the cards, chuckling to himself. ‘That was a weird one,’ he shook his head and reached for his tobacco.
Banger moved the H to the P, then the E and the A. He looked at Giles.
‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ Giles said, repeating, ‘Bird, B, I, R, D.’
Banger said, ‘Idiot,’ and pushed the S, A, N and T onto his letters.
Giles saw the word PHEASANT, emitted a strangled choking noise, closed his eyes and then opened them wide. He picked up a teaspoon and banged it hard on his own head, saying, ‘Ow.’ Then he stood up, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and dialled a number.
‘Tash? It’s Giles. You’ve got to come round … No, you have to come round right now to have a look at this. Just come. I’ve got a pheasant in the house and it can play cards and can spell …’ Giles looked at the phone and redialled. ‘Tash?’ he said. ‘No, it’s not, I’m deadly serious. Come round. Just come round.’
He put the phone back in his pocket.
‘I knew it,’ he whispered. ‘I knew it. I knew it,’ he laughed. ‘And they say you are stupid. You are cleverer than beagles, cleverer than whales. Probably more intelligent than frigging dolphins! I knew it! Stupid? They’re the stupid ones, aren’t they, little fella? Oh my God, this is the biggest thing, the biggest thing, the biggest thing ever! Ever!’
Tash arrived; she was about forty and so short and stout that the combination of her leggings and baggy jersey made her look like an egg in an egg cup.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Giles said. ‘Come on through, come on, look.’
He pointed at the tiles that spelt PHEASANT.
‘He did that,’ Giles said.
Tash looked at the word and then at Giles. She was not impressed.
‘Do it again,’ Giles said to Banger. ‘Go on. All right, spell Tash.’
Banger looked at the glow of excitement in Giles’s eyes. He remembered a long time ago how he had envisaged making contact with a human, how it would bring him to prominence and make him famous, maybe even do something for his breed. But now he wasn’t so sure he wanted that. He had more important business.
‘Go on,’ urged Giles.
Banger crossed his eyes and let his tongue flop out of the side of his beak.
Tash tutted. ‘They’re stupid, Giles, face it,’ she said.
‘He did it, he did it with his beak,’ Giles said to Tash. ‘Come on, little fella, do it again for Giles. Here,’ he reached for the bowl of supermarket organic bird-feed and sprinkled some on the table.
‘You are pathetic, Giles,’ said Tash. ‘You can’t put seed on the tiles, that’s cheating. You’re leading him.’
‘I’m not putting seed on the letters,’ he said.
‘You are, look, there.’
‘Come on, little fella, do what you did for me before.’
Banger liked Giles, but he couldn’t do it.
‘You’ve got too close to your clients,’ Tash said. ‘You’ve lost perspective.’
‘I haven’t lost perspective,’ Giles snapped. ‘That pheasant can understand me. Come on, do it again, little fella …’
Banger pooed on the cushion.
Tash picked up her keys and phone and walked to the door.
‘Wait, wait,’ Giles called, running behind her. Outside, Tash lowered herself into her Civic.
‘Giles,’ she said, ‘I can see what’s going on. You got me round here because you thought you could sleep with me. Or was it because you’re trying to sign me up to your stupid little People 4 Pheasants?’
‘No, of course not …’
‘We’ve done that, been there and we’re not going back, all right?’
‘It’s not that, I promise,’ he said. ‘That pheasant can understand me.’
‘Oh Giles …’ said Tash, turning the key in the ignition. ‘I knew you’d lost it when you left the group. Pheasants aren’t what you think they are. Forget them. You can still come back to PETA. No one will mind.’
‘What? After this? Never.’
Tash let off the handbrake and drove towards the main road.
Giles kicked a stone and sent it skimming across his front garden, then turned back and went into the house.
When he got back into the kitchen Banger was standing on the kitchen table. In front of him he had arranged some more letters.
‘What’s this now?’ Giles asked, getting closer.
TAKE ME TO WALES, he read.
‘To Wales?’
Banger nodded, then laid out more tiles: AND NO MORE FUNNY STUFF.
‘I can’t let you go,’ Giles said. ‘You are too special. Don’t you see? You are the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for. The breakthrough the world’s been waiting for.’
Banger started arranging more letters. YOU SAID BIRDS ARE BORN TO FLY.
‘I know,’ said Giles, ‘but don’t you see how special you are?’
WALES. PLEASE.
35
Provocatively Chubby
IT WAS FROM the mighty northern cities – Manchester, Liverpool, Bradford, Leeds, Sheffield and many others – that the doughty fell walkers and ramblers fanned out to enjoy the ancient footpaths and National Parks of Britain. The byways, bridleways and paths of northern Britain were not overgrown and undersigned like those in the south, but were living proof of the ancient right of citizens to roam their country. The particularly sublime beauty of the limestone landscape of North Wales had for centuries drawn people from miles around to enjoy its sheep-sprinkled hills, towering cliffs, plunging waterfalls and rushing rivers.
Pacing this landscape were the weather-beaten and wiry long-distance hikers doing the full length of the historic Offa’s Dyke footpath, which was one hundred and seventy-six miles from end to end. They were silent, composed and determined foot travellers, very hard to stop, and even if you did, their stringy ankles had little spare flesh to get your teeth into. The international tourists with bibs and compasses dangling from their necks and who chattered and marvelled at the views, presented tempting buttocks in tight khaki shorts, but were surprisingly aggressive if you tried to take a chunk out of them, and worked as a pack to fend you off. School parties, strung out over a quarter of a mile with the keen pupils and the lean schoolmaster out front and the pink-faced fatties and puffing schoolmistresses lagging along at the back, offered an easy target, but you had to be wary of the boys who threw stones with alarming accuracy. Perky middle-aged couples out for the afternoon in colour-coded outfits of bright nylon gaiters, anoraks and matching lace-up boots, exuding a middle-aged sexual smugness, were easy to spot in the distance, and looked like they deserved a nip or two from some sharp teeth, but were surprisingly agile, and often had ski poles with pointed tips which they jabbed at you. There were larking youths, smoking joints and leaping down the shale hills, but they were too much like hard work; solitary men with possessive dogs who protected them; and the wordless, earnest climbers, with their belts of clinking caribiner clips, who were uncomfortable on level ground among mere pedestrians and keen to leave the path and strike off upwards towards the cliffs. If you got between them and their climbing you could end up with your neck wrung.
The best for chasing and biting and having a little fun with were the overweight men and women who had decided to take some exercise in a usually futile attempt to lose weight. They often limped with a blister, and were always happy to stop and talk to strange dogs to catch their breath. When you got your teeth into them they made plenty of noise and couldn’t run very fast – the perfect combination for Spot.
Tosca put her paws on the stile for a better view down the well-worn path that emerged from the wood.
‘Here we go,’ she said. ‘We’ll go for the fe
male; look, she’s wearing flip-flops. Ready, Sunshine?’
‘I’ll just watch, thanks,’ said Sunshine, who wasn’t as quick as the other two and still had a nasty bruise where a German hiker had swiped her across the face with a book called Hidden Britain.
The woman in flip-flops had trouble with the stile, but finally got one leg over, a mottled slab of midriff flapping over her audibly straining jeans.
‘Hiya, ya cute little doggy!’ she greeted Spot, putting out a provocatively chubby hand to stroke him.
Spot sunk his little sharp terrier canines into the woman’s fingers. She screamed and slipped over.
‘Run!’ Tosca shouted.
But Spot stayed to relish the effect, jumping up and down in excitement as the woman slipped back over the stile and writhed on the ground.
‘Come on!’ shouted Tosca.
The man hauled the woman off the ground, and took a phone out of his pocket.
‘I want to report a dangerous dog,’ he said. ‘… Yes, there has been an incident. My wife was bitten. A tan-and-white Jack Russell terrier. Yes I can confirm it bit her. It looked like it might have rabies to me.’
Sunshine shouted ‘Hold on!’ to Tosca and Spot. When she caught up with them she said, ‘We better go in a different direction, or we might get Victoria in trouble.’
‘This way,’ said Tosca, tacking back through the undergrowth up the hill towards Llanrisant.
Taking the long way back round, they made it home an hour later, and piled into the Pemberley where Tom, who had just got back from school, was searching through the cupboards looking for food.
‘There’s not much there. Just some barley, I was going to boil it in stock,’ Victoria said.
‘Jesus,’ said Tom.
‘I haven’t got any money until tomorrow,’ Victoria said.
‘What’s happening tomorrow? You going on the game?’
‘Tom,’ Victoria scolded him. ‘I’ve sold the car and the man’s coming round with the money. I got five hundred for it. Perhaps you could clean it this evening.’
‘For five hundred quid he can clean it himself.’