A New World Begins

Biting the bullet

It was still dark when me and dad scraped the frost from the windshield on Saturday morning and jumped into the car to go shooting. It was dad’s last weekend at home before returning to the US, and my last weekend of holiday before school started again. I guess it was also the weekend when the guys over in the US would be travelling back to Allegheny College for the start of their new semester. Mom was probably the sensible one, tucked up in a nice warm bed with the breakfast me and dad had made for her. Well, I made it whilst dad was still in the shower, but dad took the tray up to her and claimed the glory. Mom knows that of course, but she lets dad think she doesn’t…

Today was going to be a special shoot. My first. Dad is in a small syndicate that shoots pheasant and other game over some ground near Tarrant Rushton. I’ve been beating for them since I was eleven. ‘Beating’ means walking across the ground making noise and waving a flag to drive the pheasants towards the gun line. I’ve always enjoyed it, being out in the country air and being part of the shooting scene, and it was a way to earn a fiver for a few hours’ work. At the end of every shooting season the roles are reversed: the shoot holds a ‘Beaters’ Day’. That means that the beaters get a chance to form the gun line and the shooters act as beaters, driving the last remaining game of the season towards them. Obviously, there aren’t many birds left at the end of the season, but it’s traditional and a way of thanking the beaters for the effort they have put in all season.

A lot of the beaters are kids, usually the sons and daughters of the shooters, and it’s kind of a rite of passage when the Shoot Captain decides one of us is old enough, or more importantly, sensible enough, to be allowed to join in as a shooter on Beaters’ Day. Because the beaters are walking towards the shooters, and the shooters are standing close together, it’s important that the shooter can be trusted to make sure they don’t accidentally shoot a person and not the pheasant. Potentially, it’s easily done. If you concentrate on a pheasant and swing your gun round to follow it, it’s easy to forget there are people nearby that could also be in your line of fire. Well, you can guess how the conversation went all the way to the shooting ground.

“Remember, Craig, always think ‘safety’ first and foremost. Never shoot until you have only sky and the bird in your sights. Always be aware of where people are. You don’t get a second chance. If you shoot someone, they stay shot, even dead, they don’t regenerate and get a second life.”

“I know, dad.”

“And respect the quarry too. I know you are pretty good at the long clays when we go clay shooting, but this is different. Clays don’t feel pain. Birds do. Only ever shoot if you are sure of clean kill. Never run the risk of just wounding a bird. We don’t want to have them fly away wounded and spend hours dying in pain somewhere. If you can’t kill it instantly, don’t pull the trigger.”

“I know, dad.”

* * *

“Morning, Craig, how are you? Where’s your dad?”

“Morning, Mr Cartwright. I’m good thanks. Dad’s over there, chatting to the shoot Captain and drawing a peg number for me.”

“Well, that’s his loss. Too busy chatting to be at the front of the queue for breakfast. Help yourself to a bacon sandwich and a drink. Tea is in that black Norgie and coffee in the green one. This is your first time as a shooter isn’t it?”

“Yes, my first time on a game shoot. I shoot clays though, so I know what I’m doing. Just need to make sure I shoot safely though. That’s the important thing. Dad’s been hammering it into me forever.”

“Good to hear it, Craig. I gather you were over in America for a few months with your dad. How did that go?”

“Oh, I enjoyed it. I was at school there, so it wasn’t just a holiday. I wish I could have stayed longer. I made some good friends.”

“What gun are you using today? Your dad’s Beretta?”

“Yes, but dad says if I do well he will consider buying me a gun of my own. I’m getting pretty good at clay shooting but dad says I’m limited by having to use his gun rather than having one of my own. We’ve already applied to the police for a shotgun certificate for me, I have an interview next week with the licensing officer.”

“Well, that should go smoothly enough. Now you’re eighteen and can show you’ve been shooting for a few years, clays and game, the police shouldn’t have a problem granting you a shotgun licence. Presumably you have the required referees to attest you’re a safe and sensible shot?”

“Yes, I have referees, Mr Cartwright, that’s not the issue, but I’m only fifteen. Everybody assumes I’m older. Age could be a problem.”

“Fifteen? I would have sworn you were older. Actually, I guess that’s a good thing. You seem very mature for a fifteen-year-old. You can still have a shotgun licence at fifteen if the police think you are trustworthy. It’s unusual, but not out of the question.”

“Good morning, Frank, how are you?”

“Good morning, Colonel. You’re late for the bacon sandwiches. I’ve just been chatting to your son, I didn’t realise he was only fifteen. I always assumed he was older – he certainly looks it.”

“He sometimes behaves like it too, Frank. Don’t you, Craig?”

“I try, dad.”

“What peg number did you draw? Hopefully not the back gun…” said Mr Cartwright.

“Sorry, Craig, exactly that. You’re going to be the back gun.”

The back gun is the shooter who stands about twenty-five yards behind the shooting line. The back stop. As the beaters flush the game towards the shooting line, the shooters in the line get first crack at the quarry. If they miss, or only wound a bird, the back gun gets a chance to shoot it too. Assuming they have a clear, safe shot and the bird is within range. By the time it passes the back gun, the bird may be too high, or too far away for an ethical shot.

I smiled at dad. “No problem, dad, you couldn’t know what number you drew.”

“Well, best of luck Craig. Enjoy your first shoot. I’d best get over to join the beating line. Try not to shoot me.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr Cartwright. Duck if you see my barrels pointed at you though.”

* * *

After the bacon sarnies had all been scoffed and the guns and beaters had taken position at opposite ends of the copse, the Shoot Captain blew his whistle and the beaters began to walk forwards, waving their arms and flags to drive any birds towards us. At first not much happened as the birds, assuming any were actually in the copse, scurried for cover on the ground, seeking refuge in any clumps of briar or nettles that were available. However, as the beaters advanced and the dogs, mainly spaniels, began to push through towards the very edge of the copse one or two birds began to be flushed.

The first bird that was anywhere near me burst into the air from the edge of the trees, keeping low and fast. I closed my gun in readiness and raised the muzzles skyward but didn’t bring it to my shoulder: the shooter about 25 yards ahead of me already had it covered. He followed its flight and then, when it was clearly safe to shoot, shouldered his gun and expertly shot it as it started to climb to fly over him. There was a puff of feathers and the bird folded its wings, tumbling to the ground just ahead of him.

I kept my gun held in front of me, its muzzle pointed skyward. If there were any birds left they would be emerging soon in one fast rush as the beating line and dogs forced them from the woods.

“Here they come, Craig,” said dad, standing just behind me. “Be ready in case any leak through the gun line. Mark where everyone is standing.”

“Got it, dad.”

With a rattle of wings, three birds suddenly erupted from the scrub almost directly in front of the guns ahead of me. One cock and two hens. The cock flew high, the two hens dropped low. All were fast. The gun ahead of me raised his gun and began to track the cock pheasant as it climbed skywards. I tried to keep an eye on it and the two hens. He only had one shot left, not having had time to reload after his first shot. The two hens were diverging. One left and one right, taking them closer to other guns in the line. Maybe I’ll get a shot at one of these birds if someone misses.

“BANG!”

The cock pheasant was hit. A clean kill. It plummeted earthwards a good twenty yards ahead of me. The shooter directly in front of me had now emptied his gun. If anything comes down that bearing in the next ten seconds or so as he reloads, it’s mine. The guns ahead and to either side of me are now tracking the two hens.

“BANG!” “BANG!” “BANG!”

The first of the hens, the one to my left, folded its wings and tumbled to the ground. The second, heading right, keeping low, flew on, the shot aimed at it having missed. It’s passed the gun line. It’s my shot now.

“Yours, Craig,” snapped dad, dropping low to his knees to widen my arc. “Track it, safety catch. Mind your safety zone.”

I let the bird carry on. I shouldn’t shoot as it comes towards me, it’s too low and there are several shooters ahead of me. I need to let it pass them, let it at least draw level with me. I kept my gun’s muzzles pointed skywards, held it vertical, turned with the pheasant, marking its progress, making sure I knew where everyone one was. Especially where dad was. When it began to pass me, about thirty yards away and still only about thirty feet up, I mounted my gun and began to sweep the barrels along its flight path, through it, just ahead of it – check: where is everyone? Do I have a clear, safe shot? Yes. Breathe out. Only sky and the bird in my sightline. Dad’s smartly stepped behind me. Squeeze the trigger.

“BANG!”

Bloody hell! I’ve hit it! A perfect shot. The bird’s just lost a few feathers, folded its wings and nose dived into the ground. Stone dead.

“CRAIG! Target front.”

I dropped the gun from my shoulder, held it vertically, swung around. Well spotted dad! There’s another bird coming right at me, a high one. Straight over the gun to my front. He’s reloaded and is raising his gun but he’s too late. It’s over him. He hasn’t got a good track on it.

“Yours, back gun.”

I checked around. Nobody else is tracking it. Nobody is in my way. I’ve still got a cartridge loaded. The bird, a cock, is soaring high. That’s okay, my second barrel is full choke. I slipped my finger to the trigger as I began to track the bird. Is it too high? I don’t want to wound it.  I mounted the gun, drew the barrels across the bird’s path, moved to lead it by about four feet, squeezed the trigger.

“BANG!”

A flurry of feathers. The bird’s tumbling. It’s down. Wow. I’ve just dropped my first two birds ever, with two consecutive shots, in less than ten seconds.

Dad’s smiling. The whistle is blowing to mark the end of the drive as the beaters and dogs emerge from the wood line. Dad’s striding off to pick up the two pheasants I’ve just shot. I need to make my gun safe. Break it, eject the spent cartridges. Pick them up so I don’t leave any litter. Put the open gun under my arm.

“Nice shot, Craig, I thought that second one might be too high and fast for you. I hesitated a second too long thinking about it. Let it get by me.”

“It nearly was, Mr Allardyce, I wouldn’t have tried for it if dad hadn’t made do lots of high clay practice. It paid off though.”

Dad’s smiling like a Cheshire cat as he brings the two pheasants I’ve just shot over to me.

“Nicely done, Craig. No sign of a rush when that second bird appeared. Two perfect, safe, clean shots. I don’t think the pheasants appreciated them anywhere near so much though.”

Dad tucked the necks of the two pheasants through the carry loops attached to his belt and stepped right up to me, put his arm round my shoulder. Everyone is gathering together in a group, picking up the downed birds, re-living the drive and the shots. Somebody’s patted me on the back. Told dad how good my shot was. He’s proud of me.

* * *

The next two drives didn’t produce much in the way of birds, just a slack handful on each. Well, it’s the end of the season so only to be expected. Most of them have either flown away to somewhere safer or been shot. Mr Warburton, the gamekeeper, said that of the thousand birds he rears and releases each year, only about a third actually get shot. About a third fly away to live somewhere else and the remaining third succumb to natural predators. We’ve just got the final drive left now, a small wood at the head of the valley. Any birds that flew away from the noise of the earlier drives might be in there.

“Craig, do you want to take the Land Rover up to Starley Wood? The guns are going to cut across the neck of the valley to line up for the shoot, but we need the Rover up there too. You’ll have to go the long way round, take the track across Lower Beck and then by Upton Farm. It’s all on private roads. Your dad can go with you.”

Mr Cartwright’s dangling the keys of the Rover in front of me. He’s smiling. He knows I’ll take the Rover. It’s the only time I get to drive over here. I still need to wait two years to do my test and get a licence. This is on private ground though.

“Thanks, Mr Cartwright. Jump in dad. No, the other side, numbskull, I’m driving…”

* * *

I love Land Rovers. They are cold, noisy, smell of diesel and drink fuel like it’s going out of fashion. The gears whine and the brakes need a week’s notice if you want to use them to stop rather than just letting the brick-like aerodynamics drag you to a halt. We bumped along the track, at a sensible speed, and I didn’t try and avoid the puddles. Dad didn’t complain, just grinned as we splashed along. He knows I can drive a Rover. He taught me.

We arrived at Starley Wood a few minutes ahead of the shooters, all of whom came to congregate around the Rover to hear the Shoot Captain’s final briefing of the day as we waited for the beaters to move to the far end of the wood and get ready to drive any birds towards us. As the Shoot Captain finished talking and the guns began to drift away to their assigned pegs, Mr Allardyce came over to me and dad as dad uncased his Beretta shotgun and handed it to me.

“How would you like to try my second gun, Craig? You shot very well with your dad’s Beretta on the first drive, perhaps you’d like to have a go with one of these instead for the final drive?”

Mr Allardyce placed his antique leather motor case on the bonnet of the Land Rover and unbuckled the straps before raising the lid. Inside the green baize lined case was a matched pair of side by side, Damascus steel barrelled, hammer guns. At least a hundred years old, probably more. There was an old maker’s label in the lid. “Westley Richards, New Bond Street. As good a gun as can be made.”

“Wow!” It was the only thing I could think of to say. The guns were amazing. Two identical ‘Best’ quality vintage shotguns. The oil finished wood stocks were gleaming with more figure in the grain than I had ever seen before. Exhibition Grade at least, maybe even Regal. The barrels were browned Damascus steel, an amazingly intricate twist patterning revealed in the etching. The locks were hand engraved; a tight scroll design. Dolphin hammers too - clearly a special order.

“They’ve been in my family for four generations, Craig. Made to order, they cost my great grandfather 473 guineas. That was a tidy sum back then. Good value though, we’ve had over a century of use from them and they’ll long outlast me.”

Dad’s grinning at me. “If you don’t say ‘Yes’, and pretty quickly, Craig, I’ll relegate you to the beater line and shoot them myself. It’s not every day you get to shoot a gun of this quality.”

I know that. These are bloody good guns. The sort dukes and earls would use back in the Victorian era. They make even the modern Italian over and under guns that I used at Nathan’s seem third rate. These would have been hand made to fit the original shooter, no expense spared for the quality of wood, the engraving, the balance. They are just about as perfect a shotgun as anyone could dream of owning. And, of course, most people can only dream of owning a gun like this, let alone a matched pair of London Best guns. I know people rave about Purdey, or Holland and Holland guns, but for sheer quality you can’t beat Boss & Co or Westley Richards. They aren’t so well known, but those who know, choose them. It’s like a Rolls-Royce: if you can afford one, but have taste, you buy a Bentley instead.

“Yes, please, Mr Allardyce! I’d love to have a go with one of these.” I passed the Beretta back to dad as Mr Allardyce lifted a pair of barrels from the case, mated them to one of the locks and clipped the forend into place before passing it to me.

It felt light, and way more agile than the big over and under Beretta. I turned away so I was facing in a safe direction and then raised the gun to my shoulder. It seemed to rise up and point instinctively. I know over and under barrelled guns have replaced side by sides for clay pigeon shooting, and are making big inroads into game shooting too, with lots of theoretical advantages on paper, but there’s something just so right and natural about a top-quality English side by side for game shooting.

“Like it, Craig? It’s probably the last pair of hammer guns Westley Richards made before they went over fully to Anson & Deeley internal lockworks.”

“I love it.”

Mr Allardyce smiled and handed me a half dozen cartridges. “Use these, Craig. I run a light load in these guns with respect to their age and the Damascus steel barrels. They’ll still drop any bird you get a good bead on within 60 yards.”

I slipped my hand in my pocket, took out the cartridges I’d been using earlier, passed them to dad, then placed the new cartridges in my pocket. They were two- and a half inches, one-ounce loads. Dad and me usually use a two- and three-quarter inch cartridge loaded with an ounce and quarter of shot. A bit faster, a bit heavier. Good for the longer-range shots. Mr Allardyce is right though, a lighter load will still be perfect for any shot at a sensible range.

As Mr Allardyce took the second set of barrels from the case and assembled his gun, dad and I walked back a couple of dozen yards and took up our position behind the main firing line. We’d just done so when the whistle blew in the distance to signal the start of the final drive and a few seconds later we began to hear the calls of the beaters moving through the woods, thrashing the brambles and undergrowth with sticks and encouraging any remaining birds to flee ahead of them and towards the gun line.

A couple of birds, both hens, burst out of the woods and swung left away from us, almost avoiding the end of the gun line. Almost. The last gun in the line was on his toes and clearly knew what he was doing: two shots fired, two birds down. A moment later and another bird hurtled out of the edge of the tree line directly ahead of where we were standing. It started to climb as it saw the line of guns ahead of it but not fast enough, it wasn’t going to be up high and out of range before it crossed the line. It jinked a little in flight, heading for the gap between Mr Allardyce and the gun to his right-hand side. It would now be within range of both of them. Neither raised their guns, both turning to look at me. It was a perfect shot for either of them.

“Yours, Craig.”

I snapped the Westley Richards shut, began to shoulder it, mentally marking the position of the nearest guns to me, checking they wouldn’t be in my line of shot.  Dad stepped behind me, making dure he was well out of my way. The bird was lining up to be a perfect shot, flying in a near-straight line, not too high, still getting closer to me. My thumb stretched up to the hammer, cocked just the right barrel, my finger slid over the trigger, slowly caressed it, took up the pressure, squeezed gently.

“BANG!”

A few feathers flew off the bird and it curled up, stretched its wings again, started to glide, flapped its wings one last time then nose dived into the furrows just ten yards ahead of me. It was stone dead before it hit the ground.

“Good shot!”

I lowered the gun, broke it open, flicked out the spent case and smiled at dad as I popped a new cartridge into the used barrel. “This gun made it easy, dad. It just comes up on target perfectly.”

Mr Allardyce and the other gun could both have taken that bird. It was a straightforward, even easy shot for either of them. They left it for me deliberately. Gave me a perfect shot. Plenty of time to judge it, to track it, calculate the lead needed, then take an unhurried shot. Shooting isn’t like football where everybody is out to prove how good they are, to take every half chance they get to score, to look good. It’s team sport. Everybody doing their bit. The beaters and keepers, the dogs flushing the birds, all the shooters behaving like gentlemen, no-one hogging every opportunity.

I turned back round to face the wood. The guns were all looking forwards, waiting as the beaters continued flushing. This wood always provides plenty of birds, even at the end of the season. It’s their last refuge. There will be a few more to come before the whistle goes.

I was right. Almost as I was thinking it, a hen broke cover a few guns to my left, screeched towards the gun line, low and fast. I closed my gun, held it vertically in front of me, ready to mount and take the shot if the bird managed to get past the line. It didn’t. Most of the guns today are beaters, but they can generally shoot well enough when given the opportunity. Mrs Collins normally beats while her husband shoots but today the roles are reversed: Mr Collins is beating the woods and Mrs Collins is shooting. Shooting pretty well too! That hen was moving at a fair lick but she brought it down with a single shot.

Two hens have just broken cover over to the left now, a third, a cock, is whirring up ahead of us. The dogs are getting to the edge of the woods now, pushing out the last of the birds. These will probably be the last ones we get a crack at before the whistle goes. The hens are going straight at the gun line, a little too far away for me to take a shot if they leak through the line. Mr Allardyce is tracking one of them, the gun further along to the left is tracking the other.  The cock is going to come right over us. It’s going high though, its definitely got some power in its wings.

“BANG!”

“BANG!”

That’s the two hens down. Mr Allardyce has killed his outright. The other one is flapping about a bit on the ground. Not dead yet. The gun who shot it is heading over to deal with it.

“Mark your target, Craig.” Dad’s behind me, watching as the big cock pheasant approaches, still gaining height. It’s directly above Mr Allardyce but he’s not going to have time to mount properly and take a shot after taking that hen a few seconds ago.

I shouldered my gun, swept the muzzle along the bird’s track, started to lead it. Cocked the hammer. The bird is still climbing, way higher than the last one. This is definitely one of the bigger birds we’ve seen today, it’s got the muscle mass across its breast to really drive those wings fast. My finger is on the trigger as I start to turn with it, tracking, leading. Dad’s keeping quiet, moving round behind me, keeping out of my way. He knows I’ve got a clear shot. I’ve taken higher clays than this. It’s now or never: the bird’s getting to the point of closest approach, minimum range. The best point to take the shot.

I slipped my thumb back up to the hammer. De-cocked it. Lowered the gun and broke it, made it safe. The pheasant continued flying away. Somewhere in the woods the whistle blew. The shoot’s over. The season’s over.,

Dad’s looking at me. Mr Allardyce is looking at me. The guns to either side of Mr Allardyce are looking at me.

“I could probably have taken it. I would have fired if it was a clay. I just wasn’t totally sure that a light load would have been enough at that height for a clean kill. Besides, it was a magnificent bird. Biggest of the day. I think it deserved a chance to live until next season.”

They’re nodding. Dad’s patted me on the shoulder. Mr Allardyce is walking over, hand outstretched. Not to grab the gun back, to shake my hand. Well, obviously, he wants the gun back too, he’s not going to let that get away as well, but it’s not the foremost thing on his mind right now.

“Very sporting, Craig. It was a good call. There’s always next season.”

* * *

The guns collected in all the birds they had shot and brought them over to the Land Rover, where I loaded them into the back alongside those from the three previous drives. The guns set off walking back to where their cars were parked at the far end of the valley and dad and me jumped into the Rover to take the long way round on the track to meet them there.  Dad didn’t even attempt to get to the driver’s seat this time.

“You did well, Craig, three birds on your first shoot, all of them good shots. The fourth was the important one though. It’s good you let it go.”

We bounced along back to the car park and were soon handing out birds to those who had shot them. Not everyone gets back the exact same bird they shot of course, and not everyone claims their birds, so it’s traditional to hand over the excess to any of the beaters that want them, and also to give a few to the owners of the land we have permission to shoot over. I got my exact birds back though: I’d made sure I put them separate from the rest! While dad was talking to some of the other guns – I think my three shots get a little more impressive every time dad repeats the story – I wandered over to the hedgerow, took out my pocket knife and gutted my three birds. Leaving the innards at the hedgerow provides some food for the scavengers and stops mum whining. She doesn’t like me and dad taking the birds home ungutted because she says it makes the dustbin smell when we dump the innards there. I did suggest leaving the guts on the lawns instead for the local cats and foxes to scavenge but I think you can guess how well that suggestion went down.

* * *

We always end the day with a late lunch at The Drover’s Arms. Somebody always phones ahead from the car park to let them know we’re inbound and by the time we get there, there is huge plate of hot beef sandwiches and several bowls of crispy, thick cut chips waiting for us, all paid for from the shoot funds. We have to buy our own drinks though. We always just have a soft drink because dad insists that we don’t touch alcohol until the gun is back home, cleaned and locked inside its safe. It’s a fair point.

“Afternoon, Colonel, can we have a quick word?” It’s the Shoot Captain, with the Club Secretary in tow. Dad shuffled around the table to make space for them to sit down as I stood up and offered my chair, then started to wander off.  “No, no need for you to leave us Craig, this concerns you too.”

“I won’t keep you long, Colonel, I can see everyone wants to get back home and spend the rest of Saturday afternoon doing other things. It’s just that with you being over in America for most of this season you haven’t shot with us very much. Craig’s been here most shoots though, beating enthusiastically.”

Dad’s smiling politely. We all know that when the Shoot Captain says he’ll be quick and to the point, he usually isn’t.

“What we’ve been thinking is, that assuming you’ll be retaining your membership next season, we could do a deal for you. Can’t we, Mr Secretary.”

“Aye, that we can,” said the Secretary.

“What we’re proposing is that next season, for the same price of your usual full subscription, we’ll also offer a Junior Subscription for Craig at half the usual cost for Juniors. That’ll reflect that you’ve had to miss most of this season. And Craig’s certainly earned a place as a shot.”

“Aye, that he has.”

“Been beating for us for a few years know, haven’t you Craig? And we’re satisfied that now you’re older, and more importantly, a good and safe shot, you’re very welcome to join us as a shooter. What do you say? Are you interested in becoming a Shooting member?”

”Aye, that I am.” Dad smiled as I mimicked the Club Secretary’s standard response to everything.

Dad’s smiling. “Yes, I’ll be remaining a member next season. I should be back here in the UK then and so able to shoot more regularly but, even if not, I’m sure I’ll manage to make it to one or two shoots in the season. It’s the quality and camaraderie that counts more than the absolute number of shoots I attend.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“Not only that,” grinned dad, “But now Craig has a part time job, he might even pay my subscriptions instead of me paying for everything for him.”

“Whoa, hold on dad!” I spluttered, almost spilling my lemonade, “I’m still just a schoolkid, remember?”

* * *

Mom was out shopping when we arrived back home at about three o’clock so dad and I quickly wrapped the three pheasants in some muslin to stop the flies getting at them and then hung them up in the shed where they could season for a few days. Mum will probably make a game pie with them later in the week. I might even try my hand at cooking them. The St James Hotel up in London where I stayed with Shane and his family last week had pan fried pheasant breasts with a red wine sauce on the menu. That sounds easy enough to make. Can’t be much different to frying bacon can it? Mum’s bound to have a recipe in her cookbook.

Once the pheasants were sorted, dad and I grabbed the shotgun and went to his study to watch the rugby on tv as I cleaned the gun. The study is actually the fourth, and smallest bedroom. Mum and dad have the largest bedroom, the second biggest is the guest room for when we have visitors, and I get the third bedroom. Dad claimed the fourth as his study. It’s hardly big enough to use as a bedroom. Once you’d put a bed and wardrobe in there it would be full. Dad has a nice antique desk, two armchairs and a bookcase in it, plus a flat screen tv mounted on the wall. I’m allowed to use it for my games console when dad isn’t home. Maybe I should try and see if I can cast my phone to the screen through wi-fi or something next time I talk to the guys over in Allegheny instead of just propping my phone up in my bedroom.

It only took me a couple of minutes to clean the Beretta and get dad to inspect it, then lock it away in his safe. He vanished to go and hide the safe keys – no-one except him is allowed to know where they are kept, not even mum – and then he came back with a bowl of crisps for us. As I moved the two armchairs round to face the tv, dad poured himself a small glass of whisky and then, when he saw me do my begging face, he poured a second glass for me.

“I think you deserved this,” he said, passing me the glass. “I was really impressed with you today. Not only that, but everyone else was too. It’s quite an achievement to be accepted as a Shooting Member of the club before you turn eighteen and even then it’s not guaranteed you’ll get in: there’s generally a waiting list. Some people have been on it for years…”

Dad’s right. The Club is pretty exclusive. If I’m getting half price membership for my first year I’ll just about be able to afford it from what I earn at the garage if I save everything up, but then I won’t have any money for anything else.

“Dad, about the membership fee…”

Dad tried his serious face but didn’t manage it and then smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Craig, I’ll pay it for you. At least for your first year, when it’s half price.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Something else too. Assuming you get your shotgun licence granted by the police after your interview next week, we’ll need to get you a gun of your own. You shoot well enough with mine, but we won’t both be able to use it at once will we?  I think once you have your licence, it’s time to start looking around to see what you can get for your first gun. I’ve talked it over with your mom and we think it’s fair to set a budget for you of about a thousand pounds. America and all that went with it was a tough time for you but you’ve come through it pretty well and we’re both very proud of you. You’re doing well back at school and I’m hearing good reports of how well you work at the garage too. That was a nice thing to do too, spending your first ever wages on taking your mom out to dinner by the way. So, unless you object, we’d like to treat you…”

“Object? No bloody way, dad. That’s awesome. I’ll get a second-hand gun, that way the budget will stretch to something really nice. Better value for money. Let somebody else take the depreciation hit. The racks at the gun shop are full of nearly new guns that get traded in with hardly any use on them. I might even look at an old-fashioned side by side like the one Mr Allardyce let me use.”

“I don’t think you’d get one like that for under ten thousand pounds, even second hand.”

“I know dad, just joking. But a less well-known brand of old gun would probably just about scrape under that budget, and it would be way better quality than a modern gun.”

“That’s a plan then. Make sure you do well at your interview and then when you have your licence, start browsing through the racks in the gunshop. Check online too, see what’s available elsewhere. Then, when I come home at Easter, we can go and look at a few, check it’s the right fit you, and buy one.”

“It’s a deal, dad. And thanks. Remind me to thank mom too.”

Dad smiled. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll need reminding.”

I took a sip of my whisky and sat back in the chair alongside dad. I like it when he’s at home. Especially days like this. It makes me realise how much I miss him when he’s not here.

“Dad,”

“Yes, Craig?”

“About America.”

“Yes?”

“You know when you asked me about Nathan? About how I really felt about him? About whether I might just be infatuated with him?”

“Yes, I remember. You said you weren’t sure. Ultimately, that’s why we decided it would be best for you to come back home. Get things straight in your own mind. Remember?”

“Yes, I know dad. I’ve been thinking about it. Since I got back. All the time. Even more when Shane came over for New Year and I got to see him again. And today. I really enjoyed today. Being with you again. Out on the shoot. I really love all that. But one thing keeps coming back to me. I keep wishing Nathan was here, sharing it with me. I know I can tell him about it. Chat to him online. Hear what he’s been up to. But it’s not the same dad. I just want to be with him. See him. Swim with him. Tell him how rubbish a driver he is just tootling along at 50 miles an hour in his Mustang instead of racing it. Sharing a sandwich with him in The Drover’s Arms. Teaching him how to gut a pheasant…”

Dad burst out laughing. “That’s romantic! Teaching him how to gut a pheasant? Definitely different from the traditional candlelit meal and bottle of wine…”

Dad said nothing for a moment until I stopped laughing too, then leaned over and poured a tiny drop more whisky in my glass. “I guess you are serious about him. And I believe him when he says he’s serious about you…”

* * *