A Time to Blossom

Monday afternoon: Difficult decisions

Craig and Nathan wandered across the riverside terrace in front of Lendal Tower, a fortification that overlooked Lendal Bridge, a major crossing over the River Ouse into York’s old town. Craig’s mum and dad were sat waiting for them on a bench close to the boarding point for the river cruise boats.

“Hi mom, we’re here at last,” said Craig. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Did you have a good time at the Jorvik Centre, boys? See all the Viking arms and armour? Or did you get to the train museum instead? Or the dungeons?” asked Craig’s dad.

“It looks like you have managed to buy a few things, Nathan,” said Craig’s mum, looking at the several bags he was carrying.

Nathan smiled. “I’m afraid not, Craig didn’t get to see much at all on his list. I distracted him a little. We had a walk along a small section of the city walls, which are pretty amazing, then we went to Shambles. I ended up buying some shoes, then a couple of shirts, and bag for Elizabeth, my sister, which she’ll love, then we went to the Minster but I side-tracked us again and ended up buying these cuff-links for my pop.”

Craig was clearly unhappy. “He’d have been better off going with you mom. We didn’t get to see anything, Nathan was so busy shopping. Dad and me could have gone to the museums and left you two to it.”

Craig’s dad gave a wry smile but said nothing.

“Craig, that’s most inconsiderate of you. Nathan’s our guest, if he wants to have a look around the shops that’s quite reasonable,” said Craig’s mum.

“Looking at one or two shops is fine, mom, but every bloody one is a bit much. He’s as bad as Mandy.”

“I thought you liked going shopping with Mandy,” countered Craig’s mum. “You go with her often enough.”

“I don’t have much choice, mom. We agree to go and do something, like go the cinema, or bowling, then she diverts to the shops.”

“I’d like to meet Mandy sometime, Craig,” said Nathan. “She seems like quite a girl. We spoke briefly online once, but seeing her for real would be nice.”

“You bloody well wouldn’t like to meet her,” said Craig. “She can be a real pain at times…”

“Craig!” scolded Craig’s mother. “Mandy is very nice. She’s been like a big sister to you for longer than you can probably remember.”

“Exactly, mom…”

Craig’s dad stood up and intervened. “Come on, everyone, they’re starting boarding for the lunch cruise. Your mum and I have already got tickets for us all, let’s get on board quickly and find a good table on the upper deck. It’s warm enough to sit outside and eat, and we’ll get better views that way.”

As Nathan and Craig’s mum led the way onto the cruise boat, Craig’s dad held back and spoke quietly to Craig. “I can understand you being a little disappointed, son, I know you wanted to see that new exhibition of Viking arms and armour, but try and think of it from Nathan’s viewpoint. This is all new to him, and I suspect he’s getting some freedom he’s not used to. Back home he’s in the public eye all the time, with expectations placed on him. Here he can relax and be himself. Give him some slack, Craig. Find out who he really is.”

* * *

Almost two hours later, as the cruise boat passed under Lendal Bridge once more on its return journey to the adjacent quay, Craig reached over and picked up the wine bottle from the table and held it out close to his mum’s glass.

“A drop more, mum?  There’s a little left.”

“Thank you, Craig, but only a half glass. You and Nathan can have the rest.”

Craig poured the white wine into his mum’s glass, half filling it, then swirled the last drops around in the bottle and studied it briefly before reaching over and emptying the last of it into Nathan’s glass.

“There you go, Nat. A half glass of white wine each for the ladies. Me and dad will have a beer later when we don’t need to drive or hunt stuff.”

“Why, thank you, kind Sir,” teased Nathan in a Southern Belle accent.

Craig grinned. “Shane always does that voice better than you, Nat.”

Nathan didn’t rise to the bait, instead turning to Craig’s parents and smiling. “Thank you for lunch, it was very good. I’ve loved this cruise and the commentary they do as we passed by all the old places. So much history.”

“Hey, gran and grandad are over there on the river bank, looks like they’re waiting for us,” interrupted Craig, pointing towards the gangplank that was at the boarding point. “I didn’t know they were coming into town today. Nobody told me they were coming. Why does nobody ever tell me stuff?”

Craig’s mom and dad exchanged a glance.

“Maybe somebody had his mind full of other things as usual and wasn’t actually listening?”

“Yes, Craig,” added his mother. “I’m heading off with your gran and grandad this afternoon, to do some shopping. Your dad’s going to go with you to the gunshop so you can look at the shotguns. Nathan would probably prefer to go with you two, though of course he’s welcome to come with us instead.”

Nathan laughed. “I’ll go with Craig and Mark if I may. I don’t think Craig counts gun shops as actually shopping.”

* * *

The gun shop was situated almost in the centre of a white painted Georgian terrace overlooking the waterfront a few hundred yards away from the Castle Museum. Craig pressed his face to the window to peer in as he waited for his dad and Nathan to catch up with him. “Come on, you two, don’t dawdle. Let’s get inside.”

As the door closed behind the three of them, Craig and Nathan looked around. The front of the shop was dedicated to country clothing and accessories: wax jackets, corduroy trousers and tweed breeks, sturdy boots, leather bags, gaudy socks and sundry trinkets. Craig’s eyes were on the archway leading to a room beyond, the gun room proper, lined with glass fronted cases containing shotguns and a few floor-standing racks of display guns.

Nathan wandered over to one of the racks of clothing and began looking through a collection of tweed jackets. Craig was about to tell Nat to leave the jackets and follow him through to the gun room but then glanced at his dad, had second thoughts and wandered through the archway without Nat. The gunroom was less cluttered, with two men, one in his mid-twenties and one probably in his fifties, standing behind a counter arranging a display case containing some hunting knives. From their build and facial similarity, Craig guessed they were father and son.

Both men nodded as he caught their eye and the younger of the two turned around fully to face Craig across the counter.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?  Looking for some air rifle pellets? Targets to shoot at? Maybe an air rifle? You are eighteen, aren’t you?”

Craig’s father, who had been about to follow Craig into the gun room, held back a moment, partially hidden behind a display of scarves and gloves.

“No,” said Craig politely, “I’m looking for a shotgun.” He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, then added, “I have my own licence.”  He reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, produced his licence and handed it over.

The sales assistant took the licence, looked at it carefully and then raised his eyebrows as he saw Craig’s birthdate and made a quick mental calculation.

“Fifteen, well, heading towards sixteen. That’s young for a licence holder, but this looks in order.” He turned and looked at the older man, as if seeking confirmation, then continued. “Of course, you can own a shotgun at fifteen, under the right circumstances, but we can’t sell you one. We can only sell it to your parent or guardian, and they have to have a licence too. They own it for you.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Craig’s father, appearing quietly behind him. “I’m his father, and I have a licence too.”

The assistant smiled and turned to face Craig’s father as Nathan wandered in to join them, a tweed jacket on a hanger in one hand and couple of silk ties decorated with a discreet pheasant motif in his other hand.  Nathan placed his captures on the counter and smiled at Craig as the assistant eyed the potential additional sales and then continued to look at Craig’s father.

“Oh, no problem at all then, Sir. Now, what type of gun is your son looking for? We usually recommend a .410 as a first gun, it doesn’t have much recoil, but…” he glanced at Craig, taking in his size and physique, “In this instance a 20 bore might be suitable.”

Craig’s father spoke quietly but authoritatively, his words, though polite, cutting straight to the assistant’s marrow. Even Sergeants-Major were known to quail when Colonel Wright used that tone of voice. As had Nathan on occasion.

“Perhaps you could ask my son, Craig. He’s the one making the purchase.”

Craig suppressed his desire to grin and looked coolly at the sales assistant, ‘Tom’ according to the name badge pinned to his shirt.

“I’m looking for a 12 bore, please, Tom. I think I can manage one.”

Nathan grinned. “He can more than manage a 12 gauge. Shoots my Perazzi like an expert, don’t you, Boots?”

The sales assistant looked a little flustered but strove to regain his composure as the elder man now joined in the conversation.

“Perhaps you’d like to show the young gentleman a selection of our guns, Tom, while I serve his American friend.”

Nathan stepped aside to allow Tom to move out from behind the counter and join Craig and his father, then spoke to the elder man. “Could you wrap these for me, please? I’ll just be over there with Craig when you’re ready for me to pay, Sir.”

“These are our most popular guns, especially for clay pigeon shooting,” said Tom, leading Craig to a display rack. “We have a wide variety of models with varying stock cast and length of pull, but I imagine a standard, full adult size would be fine for you. Let me unlock one for you to have a look at. Maybe this Beretta to start with, but we do have a Perazzi in stock too if you would like…”

Craig glared and interrupted, speaking quietly but firmly. “No, I don’t want a new gun, thank you. I’m looking for a side by side, not an over and under, and I’d like it to be an English gun. My grandad said you had a few traditional game guns in stock. Could I see those, please?”

The elder gentleman looked up from the counter where he was wrapping Nathan’s jacket between sheets of tissue paper prior to placing it in a large bag and smiled. “Tom, you take over here. I think I know precisely what this young gentleman may be looking for.” He stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to Craig, adjusting his waistcoat and smiling as he held out his hand.

“I’m George, Craig. It sounds like you have a very good idea of what you want, and I think we may have a few guns to interest you. They are over here in the second-hand selection. Most of them quite old, very old in fact, but beautifully made. Things were done to a standard back then, not a budget. Now, a game gun you said. I think we can help there.”

Craig was smiling. “Yes, mainly game, but some clays too. Not millions of clays, but enough to keep my eye in.”

George halted in front of a rack of about twenty or so guns almost at the back of the shop. “This is our traditional selection. Quite out of fashion these days, not an over and under amongst them, but some fine names. No Purdeys or Boss, anything like that we send straight to the auction houses in London of course, but you’ll find the likes of Richards, Manton, Pape, sometimes even a Grant. All good provincial makers. A mix of sidelocks and boxlocks, with lever and rotary actions.”

Nathan and Craig’s dad stood back, letting Craig receive George’s full attention. Craig was eyeing up the guns, looking amongst them, then his face lit up.

“Could I look at that one please, the one just there, and also the one right here? The ones with hammers.”

“Certainly,” said George, removing a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocking the steel cable that secured the guns to the rack. He took out the guns that Craig had identified and placed them on a battered oak table covered with a leather top, then turned and took a third gun from the rack. “You might like this one too.”

Craig turned and smiled at his dad, who smiled back but said nothing.

“They look pretty old, Craig,” said Nathan. “None of them have their barrels over and under like my Perazzi, and that one has hammers.”

“Most of them are about a hundred years old,” said George, but all of them in very good condition. And when they were new, they would have cost rather more, in equivalent terms, than any of the more modern guns over on the new racks. Now, have a look at this one first, Craig. It’s by Thomas Wilde, from about 1890, so probably one of the last guns he ever made. A side lock as you can see, with nicely figured walnut on the stock and Dolphin hammers.” He broke the gun open to show it clear and passed it to Craig who took it eagerly and began to look over it before raising it to his shoulder and swinging it around as if tracing the flight of a pheasant across the wall behind him. After a few moments he lowered the gun and turned back to George.

“It handles well! Come right up to my shoulder very cleanly and has just enough weight to make leading a target easy.”

“Yes, a fine piece indeed. The only downside to it is that it has been sleeved. Superbly done, you can’t see the join, but sleeved none-the-less. The original would have had Damascus barrels, but these are steel. They’ve been browned rather than blued, so they still look period, and they have plenty of life left in them, so in practical terms they are every bit as good as a modern gun. You could even shoot steel shot through them if you wanted to. But they aren’t original, hence the price tag. Seven hundred pounds.”

“What’s sleeving, Sir?” asked Nathan curiously.

“When a gun’s barrels were wearing out, getting thin from the constant abrasion of the shot scraping against them over the decades, or possibly damaged in an accident, people used to have them repaired,” said George. “These days we tend just to scrap them and buy a new gun, but back then, especially if the gun was a quality gun, the owner would either have the maker make them a new set of barrels – if money was no object – or have the existing barrels sleeved. Sleeving was less costly than a new set of barrels but still a highly skilled job. The gunsmith would cut off the old, worn or damaged barrels at the point where they met the chamber and then braze a new set of barrels in place. On the average sleeved gun, the join is just visible because even after striking up and polishing the joint would take on a slightly different colour where the braze metal reacts differently to the bluing process than the steel around it. This gun has been expertly done, possibly even by one of the London houses. It was certainly done in the 1930s, and doesn’t appear to have been heavily used after that. It’s good for many decades to come. The only way to tell it’s been sleeved is either to know that the original barrels would have been Damascus steel, and these aren’t, or to look at the proof marks. The Proof House adds an additional stamp to show the gun has been sleeved when they re-proof it after the repair is completed.”

Craig slipped the forend off the gun, removed the barrels from the stock and then turned the action over to inspect the proof marks. George took a pencil out of his pocket and used it to point out the proof marks to Craig. Nathan crowded in to look too.

“See, those are the original proof stamps, Craig. The pressure, wall thickness, chamber dimensions. All by the Birmingham Proof House. Then over there, two more stamps. A London Proof, 1933, and the ‘sleeved’ stamp. That’s how we know it was repaired around 1933 by sleeving.”

“I don’t recall seeing anything like those marks stamped on my Perazzi,” said Nathan, “And I have stripped it down and cleaned after every time I used it. What is proofing, anyway?”

Craig was about to speak but was beaten to it by George. “American guns aren’t required to be proofed, so most aren’t. Here in Europe, most countries make it a legal requirement. Has been for centuries. It’s a kind of quality control. Every gun ever made had to go to a Proof House and be tested. They would put a bigger charge of gunpowder in it than would normally be used and then fire it. If it didn’t blow up, it was proved safe to be used with its standard charge of gunpowder. The Proof House would stamp their mark into the barrel and the gun was then legal to be sold.”

“Makes sense,” said Nathan, “I can’t understand why we don’t have it in America.”

Craig’s dad smiled. “No need for it, Nathan. In America your lawyers do pretty much the same job. Any hint that a gun is less than perfect and they’ll sue the pants off the manufacturer if it ever goes wrong, so the makers over-engineer everything, engrave warnings all over them and do a product recall if someone so much as gets a splinter off the woodwork!”

As everyone laughed, George took the Thomas Wild shotgun from Craig and laid it on the table. “So, that’s the Wild. Excellent quality and with plenty of life left in it, and the lowest priced of the three. Now look at this one. It’s by Pape, a northern maker.” He passed Craig the second gun. “Straight away, you’ll see it has Damascus barrels. Nice figuring and colour to them. Rebounding hammers. A boxlock this one though, so one of his second-tier guns, not a ‘best’.”

Craig nodded and took the gun, checked it was safe and then shouldered it. The others watched silently as he swung it after an imaginary bird, lowered it, stripped it down, looked at the proof marks and then re-assembled it.  

“Nice!” he beamed, as they all eagerly awaited his verdict. “If anything, it handles even better than the Wild. And the Damascus barrels are awesome. Take a look, dad.”

George smiled. “Yes, Pape was regarded as an even better maker than Wild. It was Pape who invented choke, you know. Won a prize for it.”

Nathan was pushing forward again, eager to see the gun more clearly. “What’s ‘choke’? And why do the barrels have that squirly pattern on them?”

Craig grinned. “That’s Damascus steel, Nat. If you hadn’t been so busy shopping this morning you’d have seen the same pattern in the Viking swords at Jorvik. Only the best ones, mind. I’ll explain it later. And choke.”

“Now, a downside to this one too,” said George. “Well, not really a downside, but something you should be aware of. When we gauged the barrels, they both showed a few spots approaching 23 thousandths of an inch.  On average they were 25 thou or more in both barrels, but the right barrel in particular has a couple of spots near the muzzle that are getting to 23 thou. Not unexpected in a gun this old, and reflected in the price of course. If you are only firing light loads, say an ounce or less, it will last you for another thirty or forty years as a game gun, twenty for clays.”

Craig nodded sagely but could see that Nat was still curious. “On a side by side, Nat, the right-hand barrel is fired first. You only use the left, which has a tighter choke, if you miss with the first shot, so the left barrel gets used less and wears less.”

“That’s like my Perazzi, sort of,” said Nat. “The top barrel fires first, then the bottom one.”

“And for the same reason,” said George. “Now, a good gun will have a barrel wall thickness of at least 30 thou, but over time they gradually wear thinner. When they get to 25 thou, which can take many decades in a game gun, it’s time to think about using lighter loads, and at 20 thou you really should be looking at replacing or sleeving. This one has plenty of life left in it, if used with light loads, but we’ve priced it at just one thousand pounds. Something of a bargain to the connoisseur who understands it and treats it well.”

Craig took a last look at the gun and then placed in back on the table as George handed him the third and final gun from the selection. “Now this one is in a different realm entirely, but one you ought to consider if you’re looking for a fine game gun. It comes complete with the maker’s case, baize lined and even with a working lock, which is pretty rare in itself these days. But the gun will speak for itself.”

Craig broke the gun open and nodded “Clear” before inspecting it closely. “It’s a Westley Richards, dad,” he said in awe. ”Just like Mr Allardyce has. It’s engraved on the rib. ‘New Bond Street, London’ too. The Damascus pattern is awesome, no pitting anywhere.” Craig raised the gun to his shoulder, tracked an imaginary bird across the wall in front of him. Then a second. A third. Lowered the gun and shouldered it again. “It feels right, dad.”

“It does look a perfect fit for you,” said George. “Its length of pull is a good half inch longer than typical for its day, but that suits the more modern physique. We’re taller now than the average Victorian. Cast seems spot on too. Try dry firing it with these snap caps.”

Craig took the pair of brass snap caps that George passed him and dropped them into the chambers, closed the gun, cocked the hammers and mounted it. Swept it across the wall in pursuit of an imaginary pheasant, then pulled the two triggers in succession.

“Smooth as silk, dad,” said Craig, a smile across his face, as he opened the action and retrieved the two dummy cartridges.

“It’s one of the last hammer guns Westley Richards made, judging by the serial number,” said George. “By that time they had the Deeley patent for hammerless actions and that was the new fad in guns. Hammerless. Within ten years no-one wanted a hammer gun apart from a few dyed in the wool old school shooters who felt the balance, handling and reliability of a hammer gun still couldn’t be beaten.”

“It does handle like a dream,” said Craig. “Just perfect balance.”

“The barrels on this one gauge at 28 thou in both, so hardly used. You can see from the gun itself that it hasn’t had a hard life. The chequering on the wrist is still crisp rather than worn and rounded, there are even still traces of colour on the locks. It always saddens me to see a gun of this age, in this condition. I see too many of them.”

Craig looked at him, puzzled.

George lowered his voice a little. “It was made in the late 1890s or very early 1900s. The owner probably died in The Great War and the gun languished, pretty much forgotten in some country house for decades. Out of fashion, out of mind. Eventually they’re re-discovered by grandchildren and sold on to shops like ours for a fraction of what they cost their owner in real terms. This would have cost over a hundred guineas back then, say the equivalent of twenty to thirty thousand pounds now. These days though, the market doesn’t want them. Everybody shoots clays, not game, and they all want a Beretta. A few, with taste, and deeper pockets,” - he nodded in Nathan’s direction - ”Will go for a Perazzi. But not these, which is a great shame, for the workmanship is a whole league above and in the right hands they can perform just as well. Not as easy to learn to shoot well with as an over and under, but if you can master them…”

“I’ve shot a Westley Richards before,” said Craig. “Mr Allardyce, our shoot Captain, let me shoot one of his. He has a matched pair. Been in his family for four generations he said.”

George nodded. “I dare say if it was a matched pair, it would have been one of the their ‘Exhibition’ or ‘Regal’ grades. People who could afford a matched pair of guns didn’t go for anything else. This one is just a standard Westley Richards, but that would make it a ‘best’ by any other measure.”

Craig looked at the small paper ticket tied to the stock with a length of cotton. In neat handwriting, in ink, was the price. £2,500.

Craig looked crestfallen. “It’s a nice gun, but well out of my price range. I don’t have the budget for that. It’ll have to be one of the other two. They’re both good guns.”

“Well,” said George, “It much depends upon what your budget is. That gun has been sat in the rack for some time now with no prospect of a purchaser. In fact, if it doesn’t sell soon, I may send it to an auction and try my luck with it there. Most people go for Holland and Holland or Purdey as brands, but there may be someone at the auction who recognises the real value of a Westley Richards.”

“You’d need two people who recognise its value at auction to really get a good return on it,” said Nathan. “Both determined to out-bid the other. Fear of missing out. It’s what drives the auction market.”

“True,” said George, “And at auction, the auction house would take a tidy percentage of the selling price in fees. So, there may be some room for manoeuvre for a sale here.”

“What you need,” said Nathan, “Is a fair price to reflect what you paid for the gun, and the costs of holding it, and a contribution to what it costs to run this business, plus your salaries, and then a profit margin.”

George grinned, warming to the American. Craig looked at his dad, and both of them grinned a little as George looked at them, winked, and broadened his Yorkshire accent a little. “You’re reet of course. I hadn’t looked at it in quite those terms, but now tha come to mention it, maybe I should be thinking of raising the price. I suspect I’m already selling too cheap…”

Nathan wasn’t deterred. “On the other hand, you could consider it a liability. It hasn’t sold so far, its unfashionable, obsolete, takes up space and will cost you money in auction fees if you try to move it on through the trade…”

George was smiling too, enjoying the verbal sparring with Nathan. He turned to Craig and spoke straight to him. “It’s got a price tag on it of £2,500. I put that there myself nigh on two years ago, and believed it was worth every penny of that figure. I still do, but the buyers don’t or it would have sold by now. Let’s cut straight to a bottom price. I can let it go for £1,750, and that’s a big margin gone for me. I can’t go lower. It’s very fair price for an outstanding gun.”

Craig still looked disappointed. “It is a fair price for the workmanship and quality, but it’s still beyond my budget. It’s the one I like most, but my budget would only go so far as one of the other two guns. Both of those are good enough for what I want. I think I need to make my choice from those two.”

Craig’s dad nodded. “That’s a sensible decision, Craig. Perhaps what we should do is go and have a coffee over in the café just out by the riverfront there, discuss the merits of the other two guns and you can make your mind up. Both of the other guns are better choices than anything we’ve looked at elsewhere, so it will still be a good choice.”

As Craig nodded, Nathan turned to George and his son. “Can I leave my purchases here with you to finish packing them for me while we go and have a coffee. We shouldn’t be too long.”

“Take all the time you need, Craig,” said George. “Buying your first real gun is a moment to treasure.”

* * *

Craig, his dad and Nathan quickly grabbed a table at the riverside café and ordered two cups of tea, a coffee and a small selection of cakes before getting down to the business of analysing which gun would be the best buy.

“You’re right, dad,” said Craig. “The first two guns are in the budget you set for me, and both are better than anything else we’ve looked at for the same kind of money. It’s just that the third one really complicated matters. I guess it doesn’t though, it’s way over the budget, even if I do put all my savings into the pot as well. I’ve got nearly £400 saved up from my garage job but that’s still a lot too short. So it has to be one of the other guns.”

“Look at it analytically, son, just like you would one of your maths equations or a tactical problem. Think of the pluses and minuses of each. You might find the decision makes itself.”

Craig pondered for a moment.

“Well, the first gun, the Wilde, was the cheapest. It was actually quite a bit under the budget, it looks good and handles well. It’s future proof too now it’s got steel barrels – that was a brilliant sleeving job, I would never have known if George hadn’t told me and shown me the proof stamps.”

Craig’s dad nodded. “It’s always going to hold that value too, Craig. It’s probably going to outlast you and require nothing but a little gentle care and maintenance each season.”

Craig sighed wistfully and summed up the merits of the Pape. “It was a slightly better handling gun, still on budget, and the Damascus barrels look awesome, really classy. But the barrels are also its downside. I won’t be able to use steel shot in them in the future, and eventually they will wear out and the gun will need sleeving. That will cost far more than what it will cost to purchase it now. I like the gun, even more than the Wilde, but it’s probably not a sensible choice.”

“And the Westley Richards?” asked Craig’s dad.

“That doesn’t even come into the reckoning, dad. It’s a beautiful gun, just what I would love to have, but you set a limit of £1,000 and even if I throw in all my savings too it is still way beyond budget. It was a nice gun to see and handle, but it’s simply too expensive, even at the reduced price.”

Nathan strained to catch Craig’s dad’s eye and then, seeing no objection there, said quietly to Craig. “There might be another option, Boots. I know I said we wouldn’t talk about it this holiday, but that offer Will made is something that could help. If you accepted the idea of a straightforward payment of $5,000, you could afford the Westley Richards and still have some money left to put towards your driving lessons and a first car. It’s just a thought. I don’t want to push you into it, but I don’t want to see you miss out on that nice shotgun either. So, I’m just raising it as a consideration.”

Craig’s dad said nothing, his face remaining inscrutable as he waited for Craig to weigh the option.

“No, Nat. I’ve already thought about that offer, and talked it over with dad. Haven’t I, dad?”

“He has,” said Craig’s dad, his face still inscrutable.

“I think I’m going to take the risk of joining your company, the stock option I think you called it, and see how it turns out,” said Craig to Nathan. “Maybe I won’t get anything at all, but maybe I will. I think it’s worth a punt.”

“That’s the decision I would have made too,” said Nathan.

Craig turned to his dad. “I think I know which gun to get, dad. It’s the sensible choice. The Wilde. It’s a perfectly useable gun, it’ll last me forever, lots of people at the shoot will like it too and say how nice it is, plus it comes under your allocated budget. It is a good gun, dad.”

Craig’s dad smiled. “I said the decision would make itself if you thought it through analytically, didn’t I? Now, drink up, let’s go and buy it.”

* * *

The bell over the shop door jangled as Craig breezed in and bounced into the rear gunroom. All three of the shotguns were still laid out on the olde oak table awaiting him. A large, stout paper bag lay on the counter too containing Nathan’s new jacket and ties. George stepped out from behind the counter and smiled as Craig’s dad and Nathan caught up with him.

“I take it you’ve reached a decision, Craig,” said George.

“Yes, he has,” said Craig’s dad. “Come on Craig, don’t keep the gentleman in suspense. Tell him which gun you want to buy.”

“I’d like the Wilde, please,” said Craig. “It’s the sensible choice. It’s a really nice gun, and worth the £700, and won’t lose any value. The Pape looks even nicer but it isn’t a sensible choice. It’s only ever going to lose value and cost me more money long term.”

“A good assessment,” said George, picking up the Wilde and opening it before passing it to Craig for another look at.  As Craig carefully pointed the gun at the rear wall of the shop and practiced raising and swinging it, the smile returned to his face. “It feels good dad, really balanced. And like I said, it’s the sensible choice. Wilde was a good maker.”

“He certainly was,” said George. “You’ll not go wrong with that gun on any shoot. He can stand amongst the best of them. And the pheasant won’t know if you’ve shot it with a Wilde or a Boss.”

Craig laughed. “That’s true!” he said as placed the Wilde shotgun back down on the table, reached into his pocket and took out his licence again. “You’ll need this to start doing all the paperwork.”

“And mine too,” said Craig’s dad, handing over his licence. “You made a good decision, Craig. The Wilde is the sensible choice. Until you’re eighteen, Craig, the gun has to be co-registered on my licence too, so you don’t technically own it. I guess that as you’ll be willing to let me use it from time to time, it’s only fair that I have a say in things too.”

He turned to George and smiled. “Craig may have chosen the Wilde, but his heart wants the Westley Richards, and I’m in agreement. It’s a beautiful gun, at a very fair price. We’d like to take that, unless of course, Craig still insists on the Wilde.”

For a moment Craig looked stunned, unsure of what to say. Then he leapt forward, threw his arms around his dad and hugged him.

* * *

After dinner that evening, as Nathan sat at the piano in his new jacket and tie entertaining Craig’s mom and grandparents with some more playing, Craig’s dad wandered out onto the patio to where Craig was stood looking up at the moon as it climbed slowly over the darkening sky. Hearing the steps behind him, Craig turned around and smiled.

“Thanks, dad.”

“That’s got to be the hundredth time you’ve thanked me so far tonight, Craig.”

“I know dad, but I really mean it. That gun is so beautiful. I’m going to be the envy of everybody on the shoot. Well, those who know anything about real guns. Mr Allardyce will certainly like it. I would have been quite happy with the Wilde though. It was a good choice, and under budget too.”

“I know, Craig. It was the sensible choice. You’re good at making sensible choices. Perhaps too good. Sometimes it does no harm to listen to your heart.”

Craig nodded, sensing his dad had more to say as he stepped up alongside him and placed his arm around his shoulder.

“I’ve learned a lot about you this year, Craig. Seen you make some tough decisions, and usually the right ones, even when they hurt you. Having seen you and Nathan together this week, seen how well you get on together, spark off each other, even when you are disagreeing about something, I know now how much it must have hurt you to come home. But you did, because you made the sensible choice, and when you got back here you fitted in to your old life and got on with things. Best oil filter stacker in town, so I am told.”

Craig nodded but said nothing.

“And even then, you managed to keep in touch with Nathan, helped out your friends in America too when you could. And, so I hear, even started to hatch a plan to get back there…”

Craig’s head spun round, his mouth opening.

“Yes, Craig, Mandy did tell us what you were planning. And it was the right thing for her to do too. Don’t hold it against her.”

Craig’s dad paused to let the words sink in, then continued.

“Nathan was planning too. Fighting to get back to you. Eventually, prompted by your idea to try and bluff your way back to America, and Nathan’s constant scheming too, his dad and I decided that it would be worth taking the risk of inviting him over here for the Easter holidays. Give you some time together, see how things turned out. See if it is just a passing infatuation that will blow over in time.”

There was a moment’s silence, that turned into what seemed like an age as Craig and his dad just stood side by side, Craig’s dad’s arm around Craig’s shoulder, the two of them gazing out over the moonlit fields.

“It doesn’t hurt to make a decision with your heart, once in a while, Craig. Those can be some of the best decisions you ever make.”