‘Actually, Maggie…’ I lowered my voice to confide, to divulge, for until we share our secrets with our friends they lack a certain dimension, when suddenly, she clutched my arm.
‘Look – isn’t that the girl we met in the village? With Seffy?’
My laughter dissipated, my excited gossip with it, as I turned. A few yards away, Cassie and Seffy were standing together, heads bowed, talking softly. They’d clearly just clambered off the back of a throbbing quad bike.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ repeated Maggie. ‘She’s gorgeous. Oh, don’t look like that, Hattie. You’re far too possessive. Let go, for heaven’s sake. Cut those apron strings. What’s her name again?’
‘Cassie. Cassie Forbes.’
She looked across at her name. Smiled shyly at me.
‘Cassie.’ I executed a tight smile. ‘I thought you couldn’t get out this weekend.’ It sounded awful. Accusing. I felt Seffy’s eyes on me.
‘Oh, well, sometimes we’re allowed out for the day if we’re not in a team, and I wasn’t so…’ She trailed off, a bit pink.
I rallied. ‘Oh – well, how lovely! Yes, how nice that you could join us. Is Mummy here?’
Mummy. So cheesy-sounding, in my effort to be chummy. And no, of course she wasn’t, she was sleeping off the mother of all hangovers, as I well knew. So Cassie blushed some more.
‘Um, no. She’s – a bit busy today.’
Seffy’s eyes were cold now, at what he perceived to be my cruelty to his friend. Friend, or girlfriend, I wondered, heart thumping.
‘Are you going to watch me, Hattie?’ called Biba, looking gorgeous in jeans and an old hacking jacket rolled up to the elbows. ‘Daddy’s let me loose with the twenty-bore.’
‘Under my strict supervision,’ warned Hugh, hustling her away. ‘Come on then, Biba, find your place and stop posing.’
People drifted away down the wide, sunlit valley to take up positions facing the sloping beech woods. My new friend Imogen materialized beside me.
‘Shall we stand with Hal? He’s an awfully good shot.’
She had a well-behaved black Labrador on a lead on either hand, and I wondered vaguely if it was the law. No, look, there was a yellow one over there.
‘Um, yes, why not?’ I mumbled distractedly.
Maggie had already beetled off up the hill with my stick. I couldn’t quite make out which tweedy back she was accompanying, but I didn’t really care. I was thinking about Seffy and Cassie. As we crunched through the frosty autumn leaves, Imogen prattled away beside me in a lovely familiar fashion, about her children, as women do: finding common ground. Hal took his place and we stood back a bit to watch. One was on her gap year, she told me, another at university; the eldest son in the City. It occurred to me she didn’t look old enough for such grown-up children but perhaps she’d married young. How young? As young as Seffy and Cassie? Don’t be silly, Hattie. But I could feel myself becoming a bit precarious. A bit unsteady. Perhaps Imogen was older than she looked? Early fifties, even? And perhaps a life of luxury was the answer; the way to keep one’s bloom. Is that how you got through the menopause?
‘Sorry?’ She looked startled, and it occurred to me I’d voiced the question out loud: ‘Is that how you got through the menopause?’ She flushed, staring at me.
I cleared my throat. ‘Through… the maze of paws. In the morning, when you come down. Two dogs is a lot.’ I faltered, endeavouring to look a bit unhinged, which wasn’t hard.
‘Oh. Yes,’ she agreed uncertainly. ‘But actually one belongs to our housekeeper,’ she added shortly.
‘Ah!’ I greeted this piece of information as if it were the key to life itself. The veritable Holy Grail. Nodded hard. ‘I see.’
After a bit, unsurprisingly, she moved away. Muttering something about a friend on the next stand, taking her dogs with her. Still feeling raw and unconnected, I sat numbly on a log. Watched as Hal, a few feet in front of me, scanned the sky keenly, gun poised. A pheasant flew over, low and slow, an easy target: he raised his barrel, and left it: it flew on. Then another, higher, faster this time – he fired and it spiralled down. The sound of gunfire rang out down the line, filling the air, and dogs scampered excitedly about, retrieving. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright: a bit tricky for the guns, I was told – too much glare – but lovely for us, the spectators. Enjoy, enjoy, I told myself furiously. Don’t think so much. Don’t spoil it.
The guns were spaced about thirty yards apart, so I could see Angus Harrison to my left, and then further up the valley Kit, and, surprisingly, no Maggie perched behind. That would disappoint her. She must have hustled off prematurely with my stick in the wrong direction. I felt a pang of relief, then checked myself. I mustn’t mind so much: must be more charitable. It was just… Laura and I had never been quite sure about Kit’s sexuality. We were pretty sure he wasn’t gay, but we weren’t entirely sure he embraced heterosexuality either. So what was the one in between… asexual, was it? The occasional girlfriend had been produced but we’re talking light years ago, and they’d been mousy, shy: nothing like Maggie. And I didn’t want him to get hurt, I decided, pursuing my feelings to their source. Maggie was so much more worldly. Sharp elbows, too. I wasn’t sure Kit stood a chance.
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 th
e 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 calmly, coming across to pick it up herself. I’d gazed in awe at my supermodel sister, striding off in her tight jeans, hands full of dead animals.
‘Practice,’ she’d grinned back at me. Adding, ‘Like so many difficult things in life.’
I knew at the time she’d meant Luca: practising liking him. Carla too, who, in those days, made her life a misery. I knew she meant you could get used to anything if you jolly well put your mind to it. Bucked up. Behaved. Persuaded yourself otherwise. I gazed at the bristling treetops knowing this was true. That you could persuade yourself to believe something you wanted, until it became the truth. That a tiny spot of self-deluding dissonance could spread like an ink stain to colour your entire life. And sometimes it was a good stain. But sometimes it was ugly.
I clenched my jaw, trying to lift myself out of my mood, which wasn’t good, I knew. I concentrated on Hal’s back, on the controlled swing of his body following his gun, whilst his feet remained constant. I wanted to chat, to raise my spirits, but that wasn’t done. The odd remark, yes, but not a constant stream of chatter whilst your man performed. Your man. My man. I felt better. Mum would be so pleased, I thought, hearing her chortle at the peg to my left. She was behind the rather good-looking, silver-haired Angus Harrison. I smiled, despite myself, as she clapped her suede-gloved hands prettily in appreciation. Mum was a terrific flirt, but that was all. She should have been French, really. She took that great Gallic delight in entrancing men, but only adored my father, who never turned a hair – indeed, rather enjoyed the attention his still very attractive wife engendered. Trust. Yes, that was it. Mutual trust, and love. And, most importantly, kindness. They had all that, my parents. I watched as Mr Harrison popped another. Mum cooed. He turned to smile, delighted, flicking back his silver hair. He could flick all he liked: in a few hours’ time Mum would be sailing away with Dad in their ropey old Datsun back to their house in London, without ever giving Mr Harrison another thought. She was like Laura, a one-man woman, but although Laura had got Mum’s looks in spades, she hadn’t the confidence to flirt. Was always right by Hugh’s side at a party. Not that she was shy, she just hadn’t mastered the art of harmlessly enjoying other men’s company – which was an art, I decided, watching Mum throw back her head and laugh at something Angus said. She saw me and waved.
‘All right, darling?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, thanks.’
A one-man woman. That’s what I’d be, I thought, staring at Hal’s broad shoulders. Had always wanted to be. Those wretched tears were stinging my eyes again. I’d just fallen in love with the wrong man. Fallen in love with his brother, the married one, and hadn’t stopped loving him, even when he’d died. Not for years. Years and years. I thought about my box, under my bed, full of cuttings: how I’d get them all out, on every anniversary of his death, pore over them, and on his birthday too, and any other spurious excuse you cared to mention. Had done so right up until quite recently. Up until… well, yes, I suppose it did coincide with me feeling much better about myself, meeting new people. I formed this thought carefully, voicing it carefully, even to myself: protecting myself. Self-preservation: that’s what it was all about, and if I was to protect myself now, to stop myself getting hurt, then I needed Hal beside me. I exhaled very slowly, with relief. Oh, how achingly happy I’d be, and how safe. In fact, so safe, and so secure, I wondered if I’d ever, ever talk to Seffy, properly. The thought rocked me: the possibility that I’d ever be brave enough. But with Hal beside me, with his quiet wisdom, maybe, just maybe, I’d find it within myself. Whatever else I’d thought, on that bright, sunny day, as I’d sat on my log behind Hal, hands clenched tightly in my lap, whatever else I’d pondered, or determined to do, was lost to posterity, as a shriek rang out in the valley. A man’s shriek. Ghastly, primeval, penetrating. The shriek of a man in pain.
Everything stopped. The shots, the flurry of dropping birds, the dull thudding, the beaters tapping tree trunks and thrashing through the undergrowth towards us. Hal and I swung round. Beside us, Mr Harrison was already running towards his next peg, towards his neighbour, Luca, who I could see was on the ground. He was on his back, covered in blood. Blood was pouring from his face, his neck, red and fresh, and he was lying motionless. Daisy stood over him, hands over her face, screaming. She screamed one, long, continuous shriek after another, a girl’s scream, different in tone and pitch to the one we’d just heard, but equally terrifying. Between them, the shotgun lay on the ground, still smoking.
26
I leaped to my feet and raced after Hal. Ahead of us, Angus Harrison was already falling to his knees beside Luca.
‘Is he dead? Is he dead?’ Daisy was backing away now, her face contorted with horror. Luca’s arms were flung out crucifix-style, his legs splayed. Angus’s head was sideways on Luca’s chest, listening for a heartbeat.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘He’s not dead. Someone call an ambulance – quick!’
I whipped out my phone and punched out numbers with trembling fingers. Hal, on his knees now at Luca’s head, had a handkerchief balled to stanch the flow of blood. A red stain instantly spread though the white cloth like blotting paper. The rest of the shooting party were running through the valley from all directions, converging on us now.
‘What happened?’ Hugh barked, flinging down his gun, white-faced, as I waited for an operator to answer.
‘It exploded!’ Daisy wailed, shaking her hands in the air as if they were wet. ‘The gun just exploded in his face!’
‘Ambulance,’ I breathed as a calm, female voice asked which service I required.
‘Both barrels have blown,’ said Hal, glancing at the gun, which was twisted and peeled back like a banana skin, a horrific sight.
‘There’s been an accident,’ I managed into my mobile, as more people clustered, gaped in horror, then backed away, hands to mouths. As I was asked for further details I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘A shooting accident. We’re on the Saxby Abbey estate, Little Crandon.’
‘Oh my God!’ Laura was on the scene now, falling breathless to her knees beside her stepson. I saw Maggie gasp; back away, like others who’d clustered, but hung back: looking, but not looking. One, a doctor he said quietly, authoritatively, elbowed his way through, an elderly man with snowy hair and a paunch, like a monk. He crouched down, issuing instructions, whipping his necktie off and using it to help Hal.
Laura was beside me now, seizing my arm, shaking it. ‘Have you got an ambulance?
‘No, the village is Little Crandon,’ I said, trying not to panic, shutting my eyes and holding my hand up to her, trying to concentrate, ‘but we’re on the Abbey estate, out in the countryside. I don’t know where exactly, and I don’t see how you can—’
‘Here.’ Hugh took the phone from me. I listened as he explained precisely how the ambulance could get to us, down a lane, then a track. ‘But it won’t get any further down the valley – hurry.’ He handed me back the phone. ‘We’ll have to get him to the top of the hill.’
‘Can we move him?’
We turned to the doctor.
‘We’ll have to,’ he replied, looking up at us soberly. ‘He’s losing too much blood to wait for paramedics to stretcher him out. Get a four-by-four down here – now.’
Someone fled away for an off-road vehicle. We were in a deep valley with steep sides, like a cutting; a
beautiful sun-dappled valley, miles from the road.
Daisy was sobbing now, in her mother’s arms, as Seffy and Biba arrived breathless, their young faces pale and horrified. Biba screamed, clutching her mouth, her eyes huge with horror. As I moved quickly to comfort her, I saw Seffy hold Cassie, who turned her face away; buried it in his neck.
‘Come on, come away.’ Someone, a familiar voice, had the sense to urge them – Dad, of course. ‘Nothing we can do here.’
He was assisted by Maggie who, catching my eye, eloquently let me know she’d usher them off too, look after them, also good in a crisis. I gave Biba to Mum, who wrapped her in her arms, and then the grandparents led the teenagers away, in a huddle up the hill. But not Daisy: she wouldn’t be parted from Laura when Mum tried to take her.
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.
One Day in May Page 31