by Hazel Prior
I ran. I caught it in my arms. Everything spun in slow motion. Me and pheasant, pheasant and me. Feathers, beak, tail, wings, legs, claws, anorak, arms, head, boots, prickling grass, panting breaths—all of them mixed up together. Then the air split again, like a roar, like an earthquake. I felt a sharp pain ripping through me. Something shrieked—it may have been me. The world turned upside down.
Gray figures were shouting and running toward me. I was sprawled on the ground, trying to keep hold of whatever it was I was trying to keep hold of. A warm patch of red was seeping through my clothes.
| 14 |
Ellie
“Shall you get it or shall I?” asks Clive.
I’m busy washing up last night’s dirty dishes and he’s crouching at my feet repairing the door of the cupboard under the sink. I’ve been on at him to do it for ages. Annoying that he’s chosen to do it just now, when I’m trying to use the sink, but it’s good of him to do it at all. He’s had a stressful week at work. He hasn’t told me in so many words, but Supertramp is on extra loud and I know that’s one of his methods of winding down.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him, drying my hands. “I’m expecting a call from Vic. She was going to take Mum to the dentist’s this morning. That’s probably her, reporting back.”
I cross the kitchen and pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
I can hear it’s a man talking down the line, but I can’t hear one word of what he’s saying. “Just a minute,” I yell and reach across to the volume switch. Supertramp pipes down, continuing to scold “Dreamer” in more hushed tones.
“Sorry about that,” I say down the phone. “I couldn’t hear you. Hello.”
“Good afternoon,” replies a cultured voice. “Is that by any chance an Ellie Jacobs, a . . . er . . . housewife of Exmoor?”
My heart stands still for a moment. Only Dan would call me that, yet clearly this is not Dan.
“I’m Ellie Jacobs, yes.”
“Ah, good. My name’s Lawrence Burbage. Hope you don’t mind my ringing you like this. It’s just that there’s been a spot of trouble.”
“Trouble?” I echo faintly.
“Yes. I’ve a young chap with me who says he knows you and you might be able to help. I found your number through directory assistance.”
“Oh . . . ?”
“Dan Hollis. You know him, I take it?”
“Yes. Yes, I—I do.” Clive is still crouching at the cupboard but has turned to view me across the room, curiosity spread all over his face.
I can hear a strange, strangulated sound coming over the phone, then the voice continues. “I’m just dropping him off at the hospital now, but I do have to get back to the shoot. All rather awkward, actually. I think he should have somebody with him, which is why I’m calling. He seems rather . . . well, shall we say . . . lost.”
“What’s happened?” My chest feels tight.
“Well,” he answers, “nothing to panic over, let me assure you, but to be honest the man’s been rather a damned fool. Ran out in front of a gun and got himself shot. Pretty nasty, actually. Bleeding all over the place . . .”
“Bleeding?”
“Yes. Great trails of blood everywhere. Thought I’d better get him to the emergency room quickly. Got him to the hospital in Taunton all right, but I think the whole episode must have turned his head. Right state he was in, rocking and blubbing and not making any sense. I’d not mind so much taking him in the car, even though blood is a darned nuisance to get out of leather seats. You do your duty toward your fellow men, even if they do display extraordinarily stupid behavior. But having to transport the damned bird too . . .”
“The . . . the what?”
“The pheasant. Your young chap insisted on taking the bird with him. Simply wouldn’t let go of it. Brought it all the way tucked under his arm. In my Range Rover, I’ll have you know. Anyway, I thought I’d better let a responsible person know what had happened. He came up with your name. I presume you are responsible for him?”
I glance rapidly at Clive. He is opening and shutting the cupboard door with one hand, a screwdriver in the other, but he still looks interested.
“Yes, I am,” I say.
“Oh, good.” Lawrence Burbage sounds relieved. “I do feel I’ve gone beyond the call of duty on this one. I’m just dropping him off at the waiting room in the ER now. I can’t hang about all day, though. I’ll get back to my chaps now if you don’t mind, and leave it to you.”
Anger flares up inside me, along with a desperation for more details, but without telling Clive the whole story there isn’t much I can do. “Oh yes, that’s fine,” I bluster. “Thank you. I’ll see to it that everything’s all right.”
I put down the receiver, my mind flipping feverishly around.
Clive stands up and stretches. “What was all that about?”
“It’s somebody from the hospital in Taunton,” I answer quickly. “It’s about Christina. She’s had a little accident. She’s all right, but she needs a friend. I must go and see her.”
“An accident? What sort of accident?”
“An accident with a can opener,” I improvise. “It sliced into her hand. Really quite nasty, and she can’t drive. I’d better take off straightaway, hon. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Get yourself lunch. There’s a quiche in the fridge. If it’s going to be a really long time I’ll ring you.”
He starts moaning about how Christina’s timing is impeccable (not) and doesn’t she realize that most people have things to do on a Saturday morning, but I’m not listening.
I rush from the house, giving thanks to all the gods that it wasn’t Clive who’d answered the phone. I feel so stupid. I should have told him long ago all about my harp playing and my visits to the Harp Barn. But now isn’t the time. I just need to make sure Dan is all right.
My head’s a mess on the drive to Taunton. A blur of horrible possibilities, images full of blood and gore. I curse when I get stuck behind a slow tractor and recklessly overtake it on a bend.
The hospital car park has me driving round in circles for ages before I find a space. I launch myself into the nearest building and rush up and down passageways searching wildly for the ER. There are a multitude of signs and arrows around, but not the one I’m looking for. Everyone I meet looks too ill to ask.
At last the department appears, right there in front of me. The receptionist is a plump, middle-aged woman with platinum blond hair and a supersized smirk. The smirk grows even bigger when I say I am here to see Dan Hollis.
“Ah, the pheasant man.” She grins. “Down to the end of the corridor and the last door on your right. Just follow the trail of disaster.”
I speed down the corridor, noticing no particular signs of disaster as I go, just a rather strong smell of bleach. I knock and put my head round the door of the room. The first thing I see is Dan, sitting with his leg in bandages and his arms wrapped around a fat pheasant. His head is bent low over the bird. The pheasant also appears to be bandaged and is looking droopy and fed up. A young nurse with a clip file is seated beside Dan, gently remonstrating. Her small, round face betrays signs of frustration and helplessness.
“Dan! What on earth happened?” I cry. He looks up. He is deathly white.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he murmurs.
“Dan, it’s all right. It’s me, Ellie. Are you OK?”
“Not OK, not OK,” he tells me. “I’ve been shot.”
“So I gathered.” I step toward him. “Is it very painful?”
He doesn’t answer so I turn to the nurse. “How bad is it?”
“Not so very bad,” she reassures me. But behind the veneer of professional confidence I detect a note of panic in her voice. “He’s lucky the femoral artery wasn’t damaged. Although to be honest the shot sank in deeper than we would have liked. We’ve removed it, of course. The main thing is to keep th
e wound clean to avoid infection. That means changing the dressings regularly, which will be difficult for him as the wound is at the back of the thigh. Perhaps you could help with that?”
“Of course.”
“We’ve given him some pretty strong pain relief, which should have kicked in by now. I think it’s the shock more than anything that’s the problem. And . . . um, he won’t let go of the pheasant. He just won’t let go, no matter what we say. Which is why we’ve had to put him in this room on his own. We’re not allowed to have birds in here.”
“No, of course not,” I say sympathetically.
“We’ll have to persuade him to let go somehow, or else use force, I’m afraid. Are you his . . .”
“Friend,” I put in firmly. I turn to Dan. “Dan, you must let go of the pheasant.”
He strokes the bird protectively. “No.”
“Dan, you have to!”
“No.”
“Dan, please!”
He wraps both arms around it.
“Dan, you can’t hold it forever. Just let go.”
“No. I will hold him forever if need be.”
“But why?” pleads the nurse.
Dan is rocking slightly. He smooths the bird’s feathers. “He won’t know what to do in a hospital. He will flap.”
I can’t argue with this logic. I look at the nurse again and she shrugs. “Your friend has been so stubborn,” she hisses, loud enough for him to hear. “He insisted that we put a bandage on the poor bird before we were even allowed to touch his own wound. It has all been most awkward. Luckily Dr. Fribbs was prepared to bend the rules in the interests of stopping your man bleeding to death. But really, we do have to get rid of the pheasant now—one way or another.”
She looks at me meaningfully. Dan turns his eyes upon her. They are flaring. “Don’t kill him,” he cries. He clutches the pheasant a little tighter. It lets out a plaintive squawk.
“Two questions,” I say, beginning to take control of the situation. Clearly somebody has to. “Is Dan well enough to leave the hospital and is the pheasant . . . well enough to leave the hospital?”
The nurse consults her clip file and clears her throat. “Dan should be able to go home in a while, once the doctor’s been in again. He’ll have to keep his leg up as much as possible, and the dressing will have to be changed daily. As for the bird, I’m in no position to say. It was bleeding plenty too, but it’s been disinfected and bandaged. If I was to take a bet on it I’d say it’ll live.” She adds as an afterthought: “If, that is, it can still forage for food and get away from predators with its broken wing, and avoid getting shot again, which I doubt.”
Dan winces.
“Dan, I’ll take the pheasant.” I reach out my arms to receive it, not quite believing what I’m doing.
Dan is still reluctant. “Where will you put him?” he asks.
“Safe and sound in my car,” I answer. “He will be warm, he will be comfortable. We’ll return him to Exmoor just as soon as we can.”
At last Dan seems satisfied. He delivers the long-suffering, feathery bundle into my arms.
| 15 |
Dan
Phineas is extremely handsome. He has a rich green sheen on his head and a white ring round his neck like a vicar’s collar. His cheeks are a deep red, which makes him look permanently embarrassed. He has feathers of brown and russet and luminescent rose all over his rounded frame. His tail is long, beautifully tapered and elegantly striped. His eyes are round and bright, very. How could anyone want to shoot him?
He has been through a lot. He was terrified. We both were. I don’t think he enjoyed being threatened (neither did I) or manhandled (neither did I) and he did not like the car journey one bit (neither did I), he did not at all like the man with the gun (neither did I), he did not enjoy being inside the hospital (neither did I), he did not like being bandaged (neither did I) and above all he just wanted to escape back to the peace and quiet of Exmoor (so did I).
He was nestled in a tartan rug at the back of Ellie’s car when I next saw him. It was the same rug that I put her harp on top of when I first gave it to her. Phineas looked quite comfortable in the rug, but I took him onto my knee for the journey because he doesn’t like engine noises. That’s another thing we have in common. Ellie put the passenger seat right back for us both because my leg would only go straight out and there wasn’t much room for it. My leg and Phineas’s wing are going to cause us both some problems, I can see that.
There are always reasons for things. It’s a good thing I gave Ellie that harp, not only because it was on her before-forty list but also because if I hadn’t given her a harp then Phineas and I wouldn’t have had anyone to take us home after we got shot. My girlfriend Roe Deer or my sister Jo might have been prevailed upon to give me a lift back, but they wouldn’t have cared about Phineas, I know that. They would have said he is only a pheasant, why didn’t you just let him get shot and eaten like other pheasants? And Roe Deer would have left him behind in Taunton because she would never permit a pheasant to be anywhere near her. I know this because she once said birds were fine from a distance but up close she didn’t like them on account of their scratchiness. She has never actually been scratched by a bird, it is just some strange notion that she has. She has a lot of those.
On the other hand if I had asked my sister Jo to bring Phineas home to Exmoor she would have told me I made her scream and tear out her hair because Jo says that a lot about nearly everything I do or say. (She does not really tear her hair out, though, because if she tore out a single tuft of it every time she said that she would have none left. And just to be clear about this, Jo is not bald. Not at all.) I don’t know what Jo would have done with Phineas. I somehow don’t think she would have been sympathetic to his needs.
Ellie is different in that way. That is why it was Ellie’s name that I gave to Lawrence Burbage.
“Why do you call him Phineas?” Ellie asked me as we drove out of the hospital car park.
I told her I had to call him something and it seemed to suit him. He had the look of a Phineas. And besides, I was partial to alliteration.
“Phineas the Pheasant,” she said, emphasizing the ph’s. She glanced across at him. “Yes, you’re right. It does seem to suit him somehow.”
Phineas opened his beak and a sound midway between a sigh and a squawk came out.
“And what are you planning to do with him when we get back?” Ellie inquired.
I said I thought Phineas was likely to be hungry after his ordeal. I wasn’t sure Phineas would like sandwiches very much, but I had a seed and grain mixture that I sometimes put out for the garden birds. Perhaps Phineas would deign to partake of some of that.
“But will you release him back into the wild?” she asked. “With that bandage round his wing he’s a bit vulnerable, isn’t he?”
I answered that indeed Exmoor was a place fraught with dangers as far as Phineas was concerned. In his injured state he was unlikely to fly again, certainly for a while. Knowing the way that human beings often acted irresponsibly, one of them (to be more specific, a hooray henry) might try and shoot him again, and at present Phineas was poorly camouflaged. The white bandage would show up very plainly against the green grass—or the brown moorland—or the purple heather—or indeed any kind of background except for snow, and I didn’t think snow was forecast for some time yet. Bearing these things in mind, I said I would do my best to look after Phineas and keep him in the orchard, which has a stone wall around it and a high hedge at the back, so hooray henrys probably wouldn’t go in there; and also it has a woodshed where he can take shelter when it rains. I hoped he would be satisfied with these arrangements.
I stroked Phineas gently on the head and neck as I was outlining these ideas to Ellie, and he made quiet chuntering noises to express his approval.
When we arrived back home Ellie helped us both o
ut of the car. I couldn’t walk very well and progress was slow. The people from the hospital had lent me some crutches and the crutches helped, but I couldn’t manage them and carry Phineas at the same time so I entrusted him to Ellie. She was gentle with him and he seemed to know that he was all right with her. We went out the back first, into the orchard, and she placed him under the plum tree. He flapped off a bit but not very far. His eyes were upon us, beady and bright.
“I’d better go and get the birdseed,” I said, starting to hobble back to the barn.
“No, stay here, I’ll get it,” said Ellie and dashed off. She dashed back a moment later. “Where do you keep it?” she panted.
I told her it was in the kitchen cupboard next to the coffee jar. She now knows where the coffee jar is because these days she helps herself to coffee. (This is a good thing. The more coffee aromas around the barn, the happier I and my nose tend to be.) She raced off again to fetch the bird food.
Phineas trotted round while we were waiting. I told him to make himself at home. He put his head at different angles and stuck his beak into a lot of things and looked as though he was doing exactly that.
Ellie returned, brandishing the packet of seed. “Phineas!” she called and threw a little in his direction.
He looked at it sideways, then darted forward and pecked it. We watched him for a while.
“He’s quite a character, isn’t he?” said Ellie.
“Yes,” I said.
“And he’s not the only one,” she muttered. Then she said (slightly louder): “After everything he’s put you through, I do hope he’ll be safe tonight.”
I was hoping that too. I told her about another plan I had just been conceiving. My new plan was this: to make Phineas up a bed in the barn, on the ground floor, with the harps. I had decided this would be a good idea because, although we had established that hooray henrys probably wouldn’t be prowling around in the orchard, what might be prowling around the orchard was foxes, and they were also very likely to take advantage of his disability. Phineas would have to sleep in the barn for the time being, for his own safety. I hoped he wouldn’t mind being among harps. Harps are very peaceful and not unlike trees, so it probably wouldn’t be a problem for him. What might be a problem, though, was the feeling of restriction that being indoors would place on him. I was therefore also planning to install for him a pheasant flap with top hinges; a new design, bigger and better than a cat flap. This way he could come and go to his heart’s content. I probably wouldn’t manage to get it made by bedtime tonight, but I would do it as soon as I possibly could, for Phineas’s well-being and comfort.