Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand (30 page)

“Father, if you have a minute I want you to come and meet my boss, Norman Swithers,” said Roger, indicating a well-fed barrel of a man in rumpled shooting attire and promotional bank-logo socks who waved and managed to raise his pendulous jowls into a brief smile. Roger’s usual air of condescension seemed to have been replaced by an attitude of genuine respect and the Major felt a moment of triumph as he allowed himself to be led over to meet the man. The moment was swiftly curtailed as Roger added, “Why didn’t you tell me you were so friendly with Frank Ferguson?”

∗

A line had been established behind a waist-high hedge that ran along a narrow field to the east of the pond’s edge. Thick woods shaded the opposite side of the field. The field itself provided an open flightway for the ducks to the small dewpond, which was almost circular and fringed on the western side by a straggly copse of trees and some dense, untended undergrowth. Behind this showed the tops of the elm allee where the ducklings were bred. As they walked down to the hedge, the Major could see that both the pond and the copse were thick with ducks. Green ropes divided the stands and, in what the Major considered rather a departure from the usual rules, the pulling of pegs from a bag had been forgone and instead names had been drawn in marker on wooden stakes to show each man his position. A folding stool and a crate for dead game were provided and young men, drawn from local farms, stood ready to act as loaders. As etiquette demanded, conversation ceased as the men came toward their spots.

“Good luck,” whispered a nervous Roger, from his own spot near the pond. The Major continued down the line toward the more favoured end. He was both gratified and annoyed to find his own name on a prime spot next to Ferguson’s. He was not altogether pleased by the prospect of having Ferguson’s beady eyes fixed on his Churchills all morning. He feared the American might be so crass as to ask to borrow them. The Major nodded at his red-haired young loader and silently passed him one gun and a box of cartridges.

“Comfy there, are you, Pettigrew?” asked Lord Dagenham in a low voice, clapping him on the back as he went by. “Show our American friend how it’s done, will you?”

As the assembled guns waited quietly, the Major inhaled cold air and felt his spirits soar. The grass of the field had begun to steam in the strengthening sunlight and the adrenaline of the impending sport began to sing in his extremities. He thought of Mrs. Ali still tucked up in bed, dreaming behind her flowered curtains. She would awaken soon to the sound of the guns popping above the valley. He allowed himself to imagine striding into her shop at the end of the day, smelling of gunpowder and rain-misted leather, a magnificent rainbow-hued drake spilling from his game bag. It would be a primal offering of food from man to woman and a satisfyingly primitive declaration of intent. However, he mused, one could never be sure these days who would be offended by being handed a dead mallard bleeding from a breast full of tooth-breaking shot and sticky about the neck with dog saliva.

A loud rattling sound from behind the pond launched the ducks, almost vertically. It was Morris the keeper, thrashing the inside of an old oil barrel with a cricket bat – an alarm to which all the ducks had been trained to fly away. South behind the wood they disappeared, their cries, like old hinges, growing faint. The Major loaded cartridges in his gun. As he raised the gun to his shoulder, he felt as if the whole world were holding its breath. He took deliberate care to breathe out and in slowly, relaxing his shoulders and his fingers.

The sound of ducks began again in the distance and grew until a chorus of calls came in waves down the field, followed by the urgent flapping of wings. The whole squadron curved over the wood and began their descent along the field, heading for their home pond. The first gun barked and soon the entire line was popping at the blur of wings. The smell of powder hung over the line and small bundles began to thud into the rough grass. The Major lost his shot at a fat drake as Ferguson, having missed it, took an extra shot well out of his own line. The Major waited a fraction of a second for the next duck to come by. Sighting at the target he moved his gun smoothly into the lead, squeezed the trigger, absorbed the hard recoil into the shoulder as he followed through, and watched with satisfaction as the bird fell dead. Ferguson potted a second duck flying at the lowest limit of what any man would consider a sporting height. The Major swung his own gun high and squeezed off a difficult shot at a bird soaring up and slightly away. The bird fell on the far side of the field and the Major marked it before reaching back to hand his empty weapon to his loader and retrieve his second gun, Bertie’s gun. His third shot missed but the gun worked smoothly and felt perfectly balanced and solid in his hands. He thought of how much these guns had meant to his father. He thought of Bertie and how the two of them had perhaps been as separated as these two guns in the last, wasted years. He tracked another duck but did not fire; whether because the flock was thinning out or because he was overcome with strong emotion, he could not say. Ferguson shot a straggler, who was flapping in slowly at the end of the line as if resigned to his own death.

A great splashing on the pond indicated that many ducks had made it through the barrage and were quarrelling over their options like politicians. In a matter of a few minutes, Morris would bang the oil can again and send them all aloft to repeat their suicidal mission. Meanwhile the hired youths went out to comb the field, enthusiastically competing to collect the small green and blue bodies and toss them over the hedge to the right gun. The red-haired youth gave the Major a wink as he tossed Ferguson’s drake at the Major’s feet.

“I think this was actually your kill,” he said, picking it up by the neck and handing it to the American.

“Afraid I poached your airspace on that one,” said Ferguson, his face alight with cheer as he took the dead bundle and tossed it in a crate. “Couldn’t bear to let him get the better of me.”

“Not a problem. We keep things fairly informal down here,” said the Major, who wished to be polite while also delivering a clear rebuke.

“You’ll have to come shoot with me in Scotland and show them how to keep it loose,” said Ferguson. “I’ve had my own ghillie scream at me in front of my guests for shooting over the line.”

“My father is very knowledgeable about shooting,” said Roger, appearing out of nowhere and sticking out his hand. “Roger Petti-grew. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh my God, there are multiple generations of you,” said Ferguson, shaking hands. “How does anybody survive the onslaught of humour?”

“Oh, Roger claims he doesn’t have any,” said the Major, checking and reloading his gun. He wiped his hands on the special rag he kept in the pocket of his shooting jacket. “He thinks it detracts from a man’s sense of importance.”

“I’m with Chelsea Equity Partners,” said Roger. “We did an underwrite for you on the Thames effluent plant deal.”

“Oh, one of Crazy Norm’s boys,” said Ferguson. The Major could not imagine what Roger’s imposing and taciturn boss could possibly have done to be tagged with such an offensive nickname – unless, perhaps, he wore ridiculous socks every day. “Didn’t I meet you at the closing dinner?” continued Ferguson. “You had a broken arm from your diving accident on the Great Barrier Reef.” The Major watched with miserable fascination as his son’s face worked through several contortions that indicated he was inclined to accept Ferguson’s suggestion.

“No, I wasn’t actually at the dinner,” said Roger, honesty or fear of discovery winning out. “But I’m hoping we get to do another one soon.” The Major breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, I may have a deal for you sooner than you expect,” said Ferguson. He put an arm around Roger’s shoulders. “I think you’re just the man to negotiate my next acquisition for me.”

“I am? I mean, whatever you need,” said Roger, beaming.

“The seller’s pretty stubborn,” said Ferguson, grinning at the Major. “I don’t think it’s just gonna be about the price with this one.” Roger beamed as if he was being put in charge of buying a small country and the Major was irritated by the both of them.

“I think Mr. Ferguson is hoping you can persuade me to sell him my guns,” said the Major. “I can assure you, Mr. Ferguson, you’ll have Roger’s full cooperation on that score.”

“What – oh, of course.” Roger blushed. “You’re the American buyer.”

“I sure hope to be,” said Ferguson. “Bring me home that deal, son, and I’ll make sure Crazy Norm puts you in charge of his entire deal team.”

The cricket bat resounded in the barrel again and in the cacophony of fleeing ducks, men all along the line dropped their conversations abruptly.

“Of course, I would be delighted to help you with anything you need,” said Roger, hovering as Ferguson struggled to stuff cartridges into his gun.

“Roger, get to your position,” said the Major in a terse whisper. “Talk later.”

“Oh, right, must bag another couple of ducks,” said Roger. The Major felt sure by his tone that he had failed to hit anything so far.

“Don’t forget to get a lead on them,” said the Major and his son nodded, looking momentarily grateful for the advice as he hurried away.

“Eager youngster,” said Ferguson. “Is he any kind of shot?”

“Bagged a prime bird on his first ever outing,” said the Major, mentally asking pardon of the long-dead woodpecker.

“My first shoot, I shot the guide in the butt,” said Ferguson. “Cost my dad a fortune to shut the guy up and he took out every dime on my hide. My aim got much better real quick after that.”

“Here they come,” said the Major, privately wondering whether further spanking might have kept the American from potting other people’s birds.

As the guns were raised and the squawking cloud of ducks wheeled in over the far trees, the Major caught sight of movement at the lower edge of his vision. Refocusing he saw, with horror, that small figures were emerging all along the woods and beginning to run, in stumbling fashion, across the field.

“Hold your fire, hold your fire!” shouted the Major. “Children on the field!” Ferguson pulled his trigger and blasted a duck from the sky. One or two other shots rang out and there were screams from the field as uniformed children ducked and zigzagged. A separate group of people, some carrying signs that could not be read at such a distance, came marching, in a flanking action, from the direction of the copse. Alice Pierce, in all her orange and green glory, dropped her sign, broke from the group and began shouting and waving her hands as she ran toward the children.

“Hold your fire!” bellowed the Major, dropping his own gun and moving to push up Ferguson’s gun barrel.

“What the hell!” said Ferguson, removing a large orange earplug.

“Children on the field!” shouted the Major.

“Hold fire,” called Morris the gamekeeper. He sent his dogs racing along the hedge, which seemed to catch the attention of the shooting party better than the mass of crying and running children.

“What the devil is going on?” asked Dagenham, from his place in the line. “Morris, what on earth are they doing?” Morris gave a signal and the farmhands ran out and begun trying to corral the children like unruly sheep. The Major saw a beefy young man tackle a skinny boy to the ground in none too gentle a fashion. Alice Pierce gave a cry of rage and threw herself on the young man like a woolly boulder. There was a general cry of outrage from the adults on the field who began chasing the farm youths, jabbing about with their signs like pitchforks. The dogs barked and dodged, snapping at ankles until Morris’s piercing whistle called them away. The Major recognized the landlord from the pub, running closer to the hedge. He carried a sign that read ‘Don’t Destroy Us’. A woman the Major now recognised with horror as Grace, in a sensible coat and neat brown leather gloves, flapped at a young man with her sign, which read ‘Peace, Not Progress’. Hanging back by the pond, removed from the general mêlée, stood two figures who the Major was almost sure were the Vicar and Daisy. They did not carry signs and they seemed to be arguing with each other.

“Goddamnit, the protesters are rioting,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call the security people.” He fumbled in his pocket and stuck an earpiece in his ear.

“Morris, tell those people they’re trespassing,” cried Dagenham. “I want them all arrested.”

“Maybe we should just shoot them,” said a banker somewhere down the line. A chorus of approval followed and one or two men leveled their guns at the field.

“Steady there, gentlemen,” said Morris, walking the hedge.

“Too many idiots wanting to shut down our way of life these days!” shouted a loud voice. Someone fired both barrels of his shotgun into the air. There were screams from the field as farm workers and protesters ceased battling to throw themselves to the ground. The Major heard cheers and jeers from along the line of guns. The children continued to wander about, most of them crying. Thomas stood in the middle of the field. His continuous scream, like a siren, seemed to play havoc with the ducks’ central nervous systems and they flapped up and down the field in haphazard, spiky loops.

“Are you quite mad?” shouted the Major. He laid down his gun and began to cross the green ropes, waving his hands and grabbing by the arm men who had not uncocked their guns. “Put up your guns. Put up your guns.” He was dimly aware of Morris doing the same thing from the opposite side of the hedge.

“Watch who you’re shoving,” said Swithers. The Major understood that it was he who had fired into the air. He gave him a withering look of contempt and Swithers had the grace to look slightly ashamed and lower his gun.

“For God’s sake, man, there are women and children out there,” said the Major. “Stand down, everyone.”

“No one’s shooting at anybody,” said Roger with a faint derision designed to let everyone know he was not responsible for his father’s actions. “Only trying to put the wind up them a little bit. No need to be upset.”

“Morris, I want those trespassers arrested now,” said Dagenham, red in the face with anger and embarrassment. “Don’t just stand there waving, man, get it done.”