Mark Lee - The Canal House

I went upstairs to my room and took off my suit coat. When I hung it up in the armoire, I heard the Rivertons passing in the hallway.

“Panda-bear relief work,” George said. “That was somewhat witty.”

“I don’t know why Richard invited those two.”

“They’re witnesses. Proof that he actually went out and touched sick babies.”

The Rivertons continued down the hallway and I couldn’t hear them. I pulled off my shoes and was brushing my teeth when Daniel knocked on my door. He looked like he wanted to walk back to London.

“Having a good time, Nicky?”

“It’s better than the Ruskin Hotel.”

Daniel sat in one of chairs. “What were you and Julia talking about?”

“Culture shock. Coming home after you’ve been in Africa.”

“What do you think of Julia?”

“I like her.”

“And Richard?”

“Either he’s done too many TV commercials for that bank of his or I’ve seen too many of them. I can’t tell what’s underneath the surface. Maybe more surface.”

“Richard is a successful businessman. Everything looks good until you notice Billy Monroe standing behind him.”

I laughed. “I’m still thinking about that actor and the rental sheep out in the pasture.”

“So why is she with a man like Richard? How can she stand to hear him talk about digital cameras and the little moments of drama in a relief camp? People are starving to death and he makes it sound like a goddamn media event.”

“The food and the medicine at Kosana were real. He’s helping Julia save the world. Not everyone can do that.”

“So she stays with him because he sponsors Hand-to-Hand?”

“How would I know? You saw the pressures on her at Kosana. Those refugees were hungry and sick, and she’s the one in charge. It must be a relief to come back to England and have Richard take care of everything.”

“She’s a good person.” Daniel spoke slowly, as if he was considering the idea.

“Definitely.”

“I couldn’t stop looking at her.”

“This isn’t our world, Daniel.”

“I know that.” He got up from the chair and walked over to the door. “When the party’s over, we’re gone.”

I don’t knowif the ghost of the dead builder, Mr. Robinson, haunted the manor house, but all that night I kept hearing odd creaks and gasping sounds. Around three in the morning, I switched on a lamp and looked around the room. Nothing. “I don’t believe in you,” I said firmly, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

Someone tapped on my door around eight o’clock. When I looked out into the hallway I found a laundry basket filled with my kit for the shoot: gum boots, waterproof overalls, a Gore-Tex jacket, and a wool cap. The cap was essential. When I put it on and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, I felt vaguely British and ready to blast anything out of the sky.

I went downstairs looking for breakfast and Wallace guided me to the morning room. It was a smaller and more comfortable place than the dining room; there was a long mahogany table and sporting prints on the walls. The butler pointed out a serve-yourself meal of fried eggs and sausage on the sideboard, then disappeared through a swinging door. The castle was so large and there were so many rooms that it was difficult to figure out where people were coming from or going to.

I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when George Riverton walked in wearing an identical hunting costume. He didn’t look pleased to see me. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think you were going.”

“I guess I am.”

“This is a rather English activity,” he said. “It’s not like hunting in the States.”

“You shoot the birds. They hit the ground. I think I can handle it.”

George poured himself a cup of tea, took a muffin, and left the room. Any hesitation I might have felt concerning the shoot disappeared at that moment.

At quarter after nine I walked outside to the stone courtyard in front of the castle. The air was cold and a dark mass of rain clouds was forming on the western horizon. About a dozen men from the village were standing around, smoking and talking to each other. Four women wearing quilted vests and Wellington boots were loading their Labrador retrievers into the back of a Land Rover. They were in charge of picking up the fallen birds.

George and Malcolm were leaning against another Land Rover. They kept glancing at me and muttering to each other, but I ignored them. As I wandered across the courtyard, I saw Richard standing next to a tall man with a reddish beard. “Nicky! Over here! I want you to meet someone!”

I worked my way through the crowd and he introduced me to Mr. Quinn, the estate’s gamekeeper. Quinn quickly appraised me, as if I was a new hunting dog.

“Have you shot many times in England, sir?”

“No, I haven’t, but I hunted quite a bit in California.”

“Mr. Muldoon!” Quinn shouted and an old man emerged from behind a pickup truck. Muldoon had a bumpy face and stained teeth. His rubber boots were caked with mud and it looked as if he had spent the morning trudging through a bog.

Quinn made the introductions. “Mr. Muldoon will assist you today.”

“Just do what he tells you,” Richard said. “Muldoon has forgotten more than we’ll ever know.”

“Haven’t forgotten a thing,” snapped the old man. He jerked his head and I followed him over to the truck.

“Ever shot in England?”

“I grew up in the country. We used to hunt pheasant and quail at my uncle’s ranch. Sometimes we drove up to Sacramento and shot ducks.”

“This is double-gun shooting from a stand, not like in the States. We don’t creep around like a bunch of Injuns.” A flat leather gun case was lying in the back of the pickup. Muldoon snapped it open and displayed a pair of double-barreled shotguns. “You just aim and pull the trigger. I’ll load for you and keep you from killin’ anyone.”

About ten minutes later Quinn sent off the young men in two vehicles. Muldoon explained that they were going to work as beaters, driving the birds toward us. Richard, George, and Malcolm got into one of the Land Rovers, and Billy motioned for me to join them. When I slipped into the backseat, everyone stopped talking. Quinn climbed onto an all-terrain vehicle with fat tires. The convoy of trucks and Land Rovers followed him across the drawbridge and turned north onto a muddy road that curved around the hill.

“Well?” asked George. “Aren’t you going to ask him?”

“I already told you,” Richard said.

Billy glanced over his shoulder. “Nicky, the gentlemen want to know if you’re carrying a camera.”

“Of course not.”

Malcolm gave me a nervous smile. “I don’t want any pictures of me with a shotgun.”

“What’s the problem?”

“An American wouldn’t understand, but hunting is definitely not popular in our party. Most of our backbenchers want to get rid of every kind of hunting.”

“You could fall down drunk in front of the queen and still survive politically,” George explained. “But you’d be in trouble if you were photographed wearing a red jacket and holding a gun.”

Our little convoy passed strips of woodland surrounded by hawthorn and hedge maple. The dense patches of ground cover were designed to hide the pheasants from their natural predators, then produce them at the right moment during the shoot. A few miles from the castle, we stopped on a weedy pasture below a hill. Carrying the shotguns, Muldoon spoke briefly to Quinn, then led me over to a peg hammered into the ground. Richard, Malcolm, and George were taken to three other pegs. Quinn stood behind us with the women hired to pick up the birds.