Tuesday 10 August
The Glorious Twelfth. The twelfth of August, 1999.
Before I decided to go on a working holiday grouse beating in
the Cairngorms I had not heard of the Glorious Twelfth, the date on which the
grouse shooting begins. My first job is on the 12th. I’m on the
coach writing this on my way to Edinburgh London
So yes, much to the horror of some of my friends and to the
indifference but secret envy of others I’m going to assist in the killing of Grouse.
£25 a day for walking God knows how many hours through the heather screaming
and clapping my hands. I’ve got to get a pair of wellies.
Fears that the Scots are austere even racist after I glimpsed
a site dedicated to it on the internet. Paranoid, every where’s racist and I’m
on holiday. Austere, well they are a bit dry; but if they can’t laugh then I’ll
find someone who can.
Take the bus or hitchhike. I’d like to hitch in order to
gauge the locals, if I don’t get a lift then they’re austere, racist and well
so horrible. I’ll have to come home…..No, no, press on…well come back in to Edinburgh
First stop Kilgarick, gotta buy Ord.surv. map southside of Aviemore. “If you arrive late you can sleep on the Estate grounds”.
Anyway, my mood will change with daylight and the sight of
the beautiful Scottish Highlands. O wilderness! The German guy next to me is
spreading himself out a bit. Bless, he’s young, so is nearly everyone on this
bus……..
August 11 Wednesday
Well, well, well….Arrived Aviemore 12.30pm after a really
nice chat with an engineer/musician on his way to a friend’s gig in Inverness . 19 years old, he thought I was 24,…long live
petty lies.
Aviemore, a bit like a Hollywood Perth
Kilgarick Estate, “Straight down, head left, an hours’ walk”.
After the A8 I turned in to a private drive. Dogs barked at a small house, a
young woman came out and introduced herself as Becky. I told Becky my business.
She said she would never beat grouse herself but I would find Alan McGreger a
mile down the path. After a short while I had left all traces of modern
civilisation behind and hit the most tranquil and stunning surroundings. A loch
to my right, a crescent of hills in front. Forest
to my left. Winds carrying scents of pine.
Alan McGreger, a burley-blue eyed Scot, was expecting me. I
was on for grouse beating on the 14th, but there would be
negotiations with a school master and his charge of ten prepubescent and
pubescent boys for further dates. I was introduced to Ed Hughes. Ex-military; a
Captain, congenial and straight to the point. “Tell me about yourself”, He
ordered, looking at me, straight between the eyes, I felt. I accordingly barked
back my CV. “Mark Burrows, Ex-musician
turned, Human Rights interpreter, just qualified. Institute of Linguists Amsterdam
After my tour of the house, Captain Ed Hughes gave me the
low-down on the big house, which I must under no circumstances even attempt to
glimpse. “We’re the low life. People who stay at the house pay a thousand
pounds a head for the shoot and considerably more to live like aristocracy for
a week or so”. Ten guns spread out. The McFarlens own the big house, Major
McFarlen and his wife, Frannie. According to the boys she is permanently stoned
though by their standards it could mean on barbiturates, and the Major and his
wife get the boys to do absurd tasks on their days off…and for no extra pay!
I needed to digest it all. I was dropped off in Aviemore
where I found my watering hole, the Red McGreger. I met a Mancunian gardener in
the pub. He introduced himself as Madhatter. Madhattter knew the estate well;
he used to be the gardener there. He had left three years ago to become a landscape
gardener; he was now working on a design for the largest hotel in Aviemore. He
had sometime gone on beats himself; I would be alright. He said if I had any
problems I should come to him. “This is my local. If I’m not here ask behind
the bar, there’ll know where to get me”. Anyway, three pints later Madhatter
said.
“Ten boys went up.
Ten boys went down.
One lost his faith,
One lost his trust.
Why sir? Because you must”.
I asked him what he meant, but just then the bar man, who had
been closely watching, interrupted. “It’s a long walk to the estate, I’d set
out now if I were you before it gets dark.”
He might as well have been telling me that I had had too much to drink
and that it was time I left. Well, it was seven o’ clock and dinner around a
table of public school boys and master pending; I staggered the hour walk doing
facial exercises to sober up. My sandwiches in my rucksack would do the trick.
If I could just get pass the school master, in case he looks into my glazed
eyes.
In the dorm the eldest boy came in while I was downing a
saveloy sandwich. He lay down and started chatting. He introduced himself as D
Deveer. He didn’t explain what the D stood for, and I didn’t ask. What in God’s
name am I doing in the equivalent of my old school centre Aberlleffenni. It
seems young blood was saving two bottles of wine for his ‘A’ level results, he
had left school and told me not to be alarmed by the rifle on the floor between
him and myself. It was an air rifle and he used it to shoot rabbits, the Estate
allowed him.
It’s the night before my first grouse beat and I’m surrounded
by sleeping boys. They’re an intelligent and pleasant bunch, full of
anticipation of the life ahead, girls, drink, drink, soft drugs, travel and
stories of people who did all of the above and survived. Before going up to bed
I had been invited to Captain Ed Hughes’ room for a whisky. I suspected he was
weighing me up at the same time as letting me know, in a half protective, half
territorial way, how well he knew each of his charges.
Scrum is a fair ginger boy is hoping to play rugby for England
Lee. Elvis mouth, button nose, dark rich blue eyes, blond
hair, stocky build. Midlands
accent. A bit of a wild card. Lee is not
really interested in long sentences, he visually switches off if he doesn’t
understand, which is often. Probably
best adapted for a good time, though he may drop out in an interesting way.
Another rugby fanatic. Their school boasts several rugby luminaries among its’
ex-pupils.
There’s Garth. He’s an artist. Very good, very talented.
Dyslexic. He’s been away from home since prep school. Nine years of age! He’s
tall, blond, normal weight, sensible, most of the time.
Alistair. A sensible lad who likes a laugh. He’s going to join the army as an officer when he leaves school.
There’s Owl whose father is a fashion photographer, one of
the best in the land. Owl wants to travel. He’s a nice shy yet solid character
who silently watches the antics of others and who, like Scrum, is the last to
join in.
D Deveer, eighteen, but looks younger, spotty, full of sexual
innuendoes anything shocking. Strange character. Exhausting at times. A bit immature. The
others are too young to completely understand him. That’s not entirely correct.
D Deveer is just strange. Strong ego. Ed Hughs described him as ‘clingy’. Seems
D Deveer’s father is a bit of a Mussolini, and D Deveer has gone over the top trying to win
his affections which, as Captain Hughes put it, ‘Just ain’t there’.
There’s Chris. Tall. Dark hair. Almost lanky build. Buck
teeth. He is in with the Scrum, Lee, Garth rugby set who spend most of their
time, after work, throwing a rugby ball to one another in the driveway or waste
high in the river.
There is Anthony.
Anthony is smallish, blond with a cheeky way of behaving. He could grow
up hard or soft. Hard to tell. The other is Harold. Harold wears braces on his
teeth. He is blond. He blushes when spoken about or to. They are inseparable.
Last, but not least, is Dan. Dan is the one who peers from
behind thick glasses and his first love seems to be food. He is the only boy to
have seconds and thirds and some times fourths.
He is big but not fat. He doesn’t say much except inappropriate things
between mouthfuls.
And those are the boys of Kilgarick. Anyway I’m knackered and, have to face my
first night in Scotland
12 August. The Glorious Twelfth
Back from the battlefield, or should I say killing fields. I
think about eighty brace were shot (a
brace being a pair) in four drives. The
landscape was stunning. The boys were unstoppable, unmanageable testosterone
teenagers. The words ‘poof ‘ ‘faggot’,
and ’takes it up the arse’ are passed from one to the other liberally as the
worst insult a man can direct at another. The boys are completely manic and
like all adolescents haven’t a clue about sharing and consideration. I asked
one boy, I think it was D Deveer, if his school in England
I saw a rainbow today. It arched from one set of hills over a
tarn to another. Unsuspecting of the ambush being mounted around them, the
grouse cooed. Boys sat in preparation wherever positioned. It was a while
before the keepers gave the signal to advance, allowing ample time to take in
the surroundings. Sometimes the wind howled about your ears then suddenly
ceased, accentuating the silence and isolation. Sometimes a light rain fell and
at others times you were treated to the rare sight of a herd of deer, two
hundred strong in the distance. In such
moments, I wanted to hold my breath so as not to disturb their course over the
breast of the hill, but my ears always ached with the silence.
The grouse are being ‘driven’ toward the distant guns in the
butts by us beaters franticly waving flags and shouting. Just before we come in
range of the guns horns sound which let the guns know they are only allowed to
shoot upwards or away in case they kill more than game. Buckshot is quite
painful apparently.
You gauge your position in the line by the person immediately
to your left and the person to your right. You have to stretch out your arms by
your sides and have the person to your left and to your right level with your
fingertips. If your arms are extended too far behind you, you’re too far
forward and again you need to realign yourself quickly before you became the
subject of general abuse. Sometimes you were the one who took the flack for
someone else’s mistakes as the rough nature of the terrain makes it hard to
sustain an even line. At these times it was hard not to feel like a
scapegoat. But by the end of the day,
however, every boy has been screamed at, by name, by all the other boys. As we
approach the guns, the shouting and flag waving gets more frantic, the last
grouse are flushed out. The guns turn
this way and that and everyone, the toff, the commoner, the dogs, the gamekeepers
and indeed the moors themselves, are all momentarily joined in the passion of
the kill. It’s the weirdest feeling, quite edifying: Something carnal about it.
Captain Ed Hughes, the schoolmaster, says it’s like the army, the same
“everyone joined for the same purpose”, feeling.
Grouse 140 individual, 80 brace dead. Most are sold to
restaurants and butchers shops. The ‘guns’ get a brace each. The gamekeepers
look impressive in their tweed, driving the ‘beaters, towards the gentry, who
the kids call ‘posh’ or ‘toffs’ and who have absolutely everything, uniform
wise, down to a tee. I don’t know the names of the clobber yet but suffice to
say, there’s more than one Sherlock Holmes out on those moors. I don’t know how
I feel about this Toffs ‘n’ Us thing. I’m
too long in the tooth to take it seriously. There may be a status quo I have to
adhere to while I’m staying here, but respect is respect and reverence is
reverence and as my late friend Alfie would say, “Everyone’s shit stinks”. The
guns have been pleasant enough and there is a common goal. Without the beaters
there is no shoot, and without the ‘guns’…
At the end of the day the ‘guns’ get their money’s worth’ and
are happy. The boys, simply regroup, pile into the back of the land rovers and,
forgetting the abuse they have received from each other, turn their minds to
picking on each other, pay and who will be first in for the shower.
Back in the dorm. “Tea in five minutes”. The boys are
jostling for the shower. Talk of saving money is big. They earn £20 a head
after £5 has been deducted for food and board, and the earning potential by the
end of the month has caused suspicions that the precious booty will be nicked.
Tonight we watched Acid House from the director of Shallow
Grave and Trainspotting. It was demented, even by my standards. The boys
squirmed as though it were a horror film. They seemed to over react when male
nudity appeared on the screen, jolting away in disgust?!
Dunlowlach Friday 13th August.
It’s morning and four of us out of the ten are preparing to
go out on a ‘drive’.
Scree: butts: two new words. When giving instructions the
gamekeepers points out aspects of the landscape through which the beater should
walk, describing screes and light and dark patches of heather. Reminded me of
the training astronauts have to go through in order to describe aspects of the
moon’s surface.
That morning the line of Land- and Range Rovers had headed
off before us. The “Guns” were being
taken within short walking distance of the gun butts. These are one or two-man
dug-outs made with a mixture of stone and peat and a wooden buttress fortifying
the interior. A person can stand chest-high and rest the gun at ground level.
The guns aim out from the crest of a hill down on to a valley up from which the
driven birds fly. Alternatively, the butts can be at the lowest point, in the
valley’s dip, along it’s fold, so to speak. In this way, the grouse are being
‘driven’ towards the guns by simply approaching down along the line of both
ridges. While the convoy of outdoor vehicles makes it’s way along in the
distance we are lead at a sturdy pace out to the first starting point of the
morning. At the beginning these walks had been killingly tough on my city
lungs; I was dying from an excess of fresh air, not to mention my leg muscles.
I’m amazed at how healthy the gamekeepers are after years of traipsing these
hills. Those in their fifties and sixties are no less robust than those in
their twenties, in the fact they seemed to have more staying power than their
under gamekeepers. You are simply led off at breakneck pace and you have no
time to think about each footfall. You kind of fall forward, knowing all the
time that if you twisted an ankle or anything you would not only jeopardise the
whole days hunt, but you might even be left behind all together.
As you strive to keep up you have little or no time to take
in the surroundings. You are only aware of a stream because you are splashing
through it, frantically looking for stepping stones. You know there is marsh
land because your feet squelch with its’ copper brown water as you sink
forward. You are aware of wide crevices in the land because you are forever
leaping over them and you are aware of the heather because it scratches and
claws at your gaiters as you run ahead. When eventually the group does come to
rest and you catch your breath all the effort is suddenly rewarded. Everywhere
shafts of sunlight break through the clouds dappling the landscape and
highlighting the purples and yellows of the heather. The view is heaven itself. When it is time to
head off again it is with renewed enthusiasm to glimpse yet another dimension
of this paradise.
By the time we get to our destination, the guns are as tiny
as ants in the distance. To think that
in less than an hour, give or take the time it takes to position everyone, we
will be face to face with them. They will say “Hard work you chaps do,” And you
respond by asking how many this or that ‘gun’ had shot. It’s rare for a ‘gun’ to blame the
beaters for poor numbers .In my short experience this only happened once; the
comment was completely ignored “Prat,” Said Alan McGreger, the Head keeper,
passing me with a knowing wink.
The dogs, black Labradors
and Springer Spaniels zigzag and dart here and there in the heather in search
of fallen grouse. Keepers and ‘guns’ scream and yell out over the killing field
to dogs who, having the kill between their soft mouths, career off in the wrong
direction. I saw Frannie, the owner of the Kilgarick Estate yelling at one of
her dogs, stubbornly refusing to obey her. She looked like a caricature of the
aristocracy. Like something only the cartoonist, Gerald Scarf could have
created for Pink Floyd. Frannie was apoplectic with rage, her long frame and
beaky profile, making her look like an irate vulture.
There is a rumour that hunt saboteurs were going to disrupt
the grouse season at Kilgarick this year, but I think that is all it is,
rumour. I personally can’t imagine myself grappling with someone I have more
than likely shared a joint with at a festival. Anyway, my commitment to game
sports, if tested, is not strong enough to make me want to attempt to
outmanoeuvre an environmental army. I run with the hare and hunt with the
hounds. Well until I find out what the score is. The animal rights protesters
would probably simply run amok scaring the grouse away from the guns. If
repeated, drive after drive, they could seriously ruin the point of the day.
Before I left for Scotland Scotland became the playground of the English
since Queen Victoria popularised it out the
love of her husband Prince Albert who thought it
resembled parts of his homeland, southern Germany Sandringham and Balmoral as a royal retreat. Now I sensed
resentment towards the English who, having established a way of life for
thousands of Scottish folk who relied on field sports for their income and tied
houses, were bowing under pressure of urban ignorance and so called
environmental groups, and prepared to jeopardise their livelihoods. In protest
of this interference by the town people into countryside affairs, thousands of
country folk from all corners of the United
Kingdom recently marched through London
to Hyde Park .
The Animal Rights League were arguing that the Town versus
Country argument, as well as the upper classes versus the rest, were simply
examples of divide and rule. Where in fact many country people were against the
hunt in their neighbourhoods and many farmers were up in arms about the damage
the hunt caused to their lands. As for hunting being exclusively a minority
interest of the upper classes, giving way to class envy, this, according to
those pro hunt, was exactly what it was, class envy. According to those
against, this was yet another attempt to simplify the argument by creating two
clearly defined camps and pitting them against one another. Many a blue blood
professed to being appalled by blood sports.
For the politicians it was obviously and still is, a thorny
issue; so many of New Labours candidate’s constituencies lay in areas pro blood
sports and while recognising the need to placate the urban voter they were not
going to lose the countryside vote, which comprised not only the wealthy
landowners and their power to lobby
parliament, but also those who play a vital part in the country’s agriculture,
the farming community having already been pushed to the brink by decisions made
by civil servants in Whitehall. Tony Blair, the Prime Minister, expressed his
desire for the ban of blood sports promising an imminent hearing in the House
of Lords. In government, at least, the game of divide and rule had been adopted
for sake of argument.
The national press seemed also to be sitting on the fence on
this issue, showing in the same edition hunt saboteurs being arrested for
trespassing, the tabloids berating them as unemployed scroungers, and then a
full page spread showing a picture of a fox snared in barbed wire, the hunt in
the background. One editorial took up the buzz - words of spin. ‘Class Envy’,
‘Town versus Country’, From what I have
observed up here in Scotland, contrary to Mr Blair’s announcement that there is
no class divide in Britain today, it is still very much alive in the hunting
world, certainly in Scotland if not all over the United Kingdom. But if there
is any divide at all it is that of the qualitative and the quantitative, or
sensitivity over insensitivity.
I’m knackered. I’ve just come back from Dunlowlach. Alistair,
Owl and Garth came with while the others went on the another beat. At lunchtime after two drives twenty brace
were got. By the end of the day 38 brace, 76 grouse. The drives were not too
long as only two butt sights were used. The Dunlowlach head gamekeeper, John
was a nice guy, blond hair, robust features, again in tweed; I think a
different kind of tweed though.
The space. The most majestic landscapes in the UK are in Scotland
Saturday 16 August.
I became very juvenile today, actually preferring the company
of the lads to that of the adults. It made me think of the Angel card Jo a
friend of mine drew before I left London London London
I actually feel like I’m on holiday today. It’s hot burning
sun and there is not a cloud in the sky. The boys went skinny-dipping in the
stream behind the lodge. I went
skinny-dipping with them. The water was freezing. I don’t think they could
quite make me out as I’m not of their age but at the same time not an authority
figure. I think they’ve got me down as eccentric. When we first went in, it was
funny because the boys began teasing each other while throwing the rugby ball
from one to the other. The insults sometimes dug quite deep. I resisted the urge
to join; I was aware that, having a good few years on them, any comment from me might carry serious
weight and any way the ball hadn’t come my way yet.
Chris tossed the ball to D Deveer. “Deveer’s dick’s got
Captain ’s wife’s lipstick on it”.
Dan shouted. “Her false teeth are still chomping on it”.
Every one made a sound of disgust.
“I thought that was your belly button.” The ball landed in
front of Dan, splashing him. It started floating away and before he could get
it Anthony made a dive for it.
“Hey Scrum, you’ve got enough foreskin there to make a set of
luggage and two saddles”. Anthony said
launching the ball in Scrums’ direction.
There was a pause, then Scrum veered round and pitched the
ball towards me. I caught it square on. Scrum shouted “Mark’s got AIDS”.
The fact that I had, over the years, buried three friends who
had died of the epidemic, as well as having attended countless funerals of
people lost in their early to late twenties, all seemed suddenly so very
distant. The pure naivety of Scrum’s remark somehow offered, just then in the
stream surrounded by naked teenagers, the promise of renewal and regeneration.
However, the puerile comment had meant to blow me out of the
water. I took the ball rubbed it over my groin several times, lifted to it my
face, sniffed it, to the disgust of everyone.. I then held the ball up ready
for the throw. I looked from boy to boy as if
carefully choosing my victim. They all started to scatter, wading
ferociously through the water in case they should be selected for the dreaded
lurgy. Some clambered out of the stream on to the bank in a kind of
make-believe hysteria bordering on convincing, while others watched what their
mates did and merely copied. Scrum, however had made his way significantly down
stream to make the distance worth the attempt. He knew it and I knew he knew
it. I arched my body backward, and with Scrum in sight hurled the ball. It
arched over the heads of the other boys, a throw so impressive that the aim of
the game became whether Scrum could actually catch it.
Everything seemed suspended during the time the ball took to
complete the distance; half that of a full size pitch. Scrum had been backing
into the eddies and now steadied himself for the impact, his elbows dug firmly
into his ribs in readiness. As the ball made its’ last steep descent into the
inevitable cradle of Scrum’s arms, he did something totally unexpected. Scrum
stepped aside. He stepped aside and the ball belly flopped against the water.
It was so cool, and so surreal a moment that after a few
seconds of utter silence we suddenly began to laugh. I laughed though I did not
know exactly what I was laughing for or at. For what seemed like ages we were
all locked in a crippling chuckle that seemed to have no end and which just
encouraged itself by the mere sight of itself chuckling. I laughed until I
thought my sides would split and I would drown. Boys staggered about on the
banks screaming for release, holding their stomachs. Those in the water clung
to over hanging branches with one hand and their sides with the other. To a
casual observer it would have looked, from a distance, or with the volume turned down, as though we had all, each and
every one of us, been shot, and were staggering around in the throes of agony.
In the distance Scrum was roaring away while trying to make
his way up stream. He held the ball up in the air, and this set off new peels
of excruciating laughter. As he came closer to the group, gathering like
shipwrecked souls on the bank, the laughter was becoming seriously life
threatening. Scrum, upon us now, made as if to throw the ball to one of us,
which set everyone into howling with laughter again while trying feebly to
escape the infected ball. Some had begun
pleading for mercy. The morning laughter and the heat of the day had begun to
sap everyone’s energy and after a few minutes of synchronized convulsions every
one lay about in exhilarated exhaustion.
Captain Hughes drove by in the van going in the direction of
the lodge. He looked bemused at the sight of us collapsed on the banks of the
stream.. Our fun that day by the stream was short lived. Frannie and the Major
had asked for volunteers to wash the Land Rovers. Captain Hughes, who had
walked down to the waters’ edge and interrupted a new game, to announce this,
said that getting out of this was not an option and although there was no money
involved, and although, yes, it was Saturday, it would look good for the
school. In the end Captain Hughes was forced to select five boys for the task.
Those selected moaned.
I spent the whole day in bare feet, shorts and a Tee shirt. A
couple of the lads, Owl, Garth and myself went in search of the monument which
could be seen for miles around and which could be reached by climbing several
steep and winding paths. At the top, though exhausted, the views were stunning
and for the first time I had a perspective of the Lodge, and the big house. I
could see the boys washing the Land Rovers far below, off to the right. The
landscape around was so dramatic and wild that it made the well kept garden in
front of the house seem out of place. I could clearly see the path leading from
the gate to the lodge and beyond. There to the left were the keeper’s houses.
Alan McGreger, and Tosh’s, opposite one another, Alan’s house twice the size of
Toshs’. I could make out the kennels and faintly hear the head keeper’s dogs
barking at nothing in particular.
There, directly below, the lake, silver and shining, sunlight
sparkling on the water. I could make out the reeds, straight out of a
watercolour. A heron stood upright in a tree at the far end of the lake’s edge,
its’ majestic head scanning its’ surroundings, maybe looking out for its’ mate.
There was the pier and the rowing boat moored next to it. From this
vantage-point you looked out at the landscape beyond but the eyes were always
drawn back to the lake, a jewel in a tapestry of greens and browns and blue.
The Monument itself was a kind of four-sided obelisk, which
bore the names of the previous lairds of Kilgarick as well as mentioning their
contribution to various wars throughout the century. Some of the inscriptions
were in Gaelic while some were in Latin. The monument was guarded by railings
some eight feet high, but these had rusted and some were missing. Owl, Garth and
myself got through the gap made by the missing railings and climbed up on to
the ledge which acted as a kind of pedestal for the obelisk. From here we
declared ourselves kings of the world and yelled into the distant yonder. I
used the occasion to exorcise the last demons of city life from my being; my
cries became undisguised primal screams. The boys were now convinced that I was
completely demented.
On the way down Owl and Garth became fascinated with
ant-hills. They looked like huge mounds
of twigs. Close up the mound of twigs
was teeming with life, thousands of ants going about their business under the
afternoon sun. Owl and Garth found sticks and set about poking them into the
ant-hill sending the ants into a frenzied panic. I could imagine them shouting.
“Humans, humans!. Run for you lives!” Owl dug his stick in as deep as it would
go and gave it a good stir. Where his stick had been was now a well of
devastation and terror. Garth suggested setting the ant-hill on fire, and I
found myself pulling rank to prevent mass murder.
All the way down the hill the boys delighted in the discovery
of yet another ant colony and the destruction their sticks could inflict. By
the time we came upon our fifth ant-hill Owl and Garth had mastered the art of
spreading panic. Any attempt on my behalf to compare the treatment of the ants
with that of their fellow human beings, fell on deaf ears. By the sixth ant-hill we lingered so long
that the ants actually decamped. They left in a long line, carrying with them
what twigs they could. Their objective seemingly reached Owl and Garth quickly
grew tired of the game and turned their minds to the lodge and dinner.
After dinner Alistair showed me a note book in which he had
collected the death toll of every film he had watched while up at Kilgarick.
Most of the films were Action hero. There were two videos a night most of which
Alistair had chosen at the video store but all of which I had had to buy due to
them having an over eighteen certificate. Alistair had not only recorded the
numbers of victims and their gender, but also the way in which they had met
their end. It made gruesome reading. Most of the fatalities seemed to have been
shot, whether intentionally or caught in the crossfire. Some had been run over,
though Alistair was uncertain as to how many victims of car chase scenes had
actually died or merely ended up paralysed. (In Alistair’s book there were no
other options.) The most horrific deaths were reserved for the villains of
course; Anything from being lowered into a vat of molten iron to being sent
towards a target while strapped to a missile. Alistair admitted horror to be
the films to yield the highest count. Alistair didn’t like horror films; they
scared the living day lights out of him.
Nascent male sexuality chided and goaded along a path of Dos
and Don’ts, cool and uncool. Films with sirens, Kim Bassinger, Sharon Stone
elicit whoops and lewd comments from the boys. Cars, guns, women, and money.
There you have it.
A day of the boys and their constant twitter can get on the
nerves. Their constant name calling,
and incessant use of the word ‘poof’, and talk of penis size, insults about
mothers, etc. etc.etc.only make me see that the age gap is definitely
there. No Lebensangst yet.
I’ve had a great day today. The soles of my feet are black
from roaming around as though I was on a desert island. What’s that word I’ve
never been able to pronounce; Halcyon… halcyon days. I’m off to shower.
Sunday 15 August
Today I went to Inverness
and as the coach drew in I saw Madhatter. He was with a woman, a girlfriend. We chatted and I left him and
strolled around the town wondering what the hell to do. A short time after, on
the other side of town Madhatter, his girlfriend driving, invited me to go to
Lochness. They couldn’t stay long, Madhatter wanted to catch a four o’clock bus
from Inverness back to Aviemore, but it was enough time to have a pint and a
half and for me to meet a man who lives alone on the shore s of the Loch, next
to the Doors Inn Pub.
He’s been there for eight years Nessy watching. He also makes
somewhat tacky models; gaudily painted hard plasticine images of dragons
perched on rocks. £7.00 a piece. He said he has only seen disturbances,
“nothing distinctive” Strange loner living out a romantic ideal. The approach
to Loch Ness was stunning, row upon row of outcrops stretching into the mist,
the Loch a dark expanse of silver.
As Madhatter’s girlfriend was about to take him to the bus
station Doors Inn suddenly filled up with about twenty bohemian looking
characters. One of them, a woman in her forties, with well weathered features,
no make up, black hair going grey, very earth Mother, sat down next to me. She
seemed to be fifty pence short of a drink, so detecting her dilemma I handed
her the amount needed for a pint. Back from the bar she sat back with her
drink.
“The first drink of the day is always the best” She declared
“Cheers”. she said.
“Cheers”. I returned.
She seemed very much at peace with herself. This gave me the
impression, born more of instinct than anything else, that she would have
little or no truck with idle chat.
A man with a ginger mane of hair and beard picked his way to
the bar. “Hey Beanie”.
Beanie smiled. It was a smile that was both loving and at the
same time cheekily self-satisfied.
A group in the corner sat around a man strumming a guitar.
Off to the left, at the bar I caught snippets of a heated debate between two
women. Both women had long blond
dreadlocks and wore Dr Martin boots below floral skirts. They seemed to be talking
about strategies and the possible flaws in the operation they had carried out
that week. From what I could gather from their conversation the people who had
invaded Doors Inn were hunt saboteurs.
Madhatter and his girlfriend seemed to be on good terms with
some of the saboteurs and I hoped Madhatter would have the tact not to tell
them that I was working on an estate as a grouse beater. I didn’t fancy being
lynched and thrown into the freezing waters of Loch Ness.
“Hi Beanie”. Madhatter and Beanie hugged fondly.
“Simon. How are things”. This is the first time I had heard
what I assumed to be Madhatters real name.
“I’m fine. Here, this is Miranda”. The two women beamed at
each other.
“Hi, Miranda”. Beanie said.
“We were just on our way out. Got to get back to Aviemore and
the Red McGreger for Happy Hour”.
Beanie nodded knowingly, I could tell she didn’t approve of
the joke. I could tell also that these two, Beanie and Madhatter, had had some
history together. Come to mention it Miranda was not entirely dissimilar to
Beanie in looks.
“Have you heard anything down your way?” Beanie asked. “Only
there is wind of something major hush-hush in the pipeline. I don’t exactly
know where yet. Bigwigs. London
“I’m in the dark. If I hear anything I’ll let you know. ”
I sensed that Madhatter was slightly embarrassed in my
presence. He did not know me well enough to trust that I would not go back to
Kilgarick and tell someone that he was obviously an informer.
“Successful week?” He said, swiftly changing the subject.
“Yes” Beanie said smugly. “ Ruined an entire weeks’ hunt for
the posh bastards. Only two of ours arrested; a job thoroughly well done”.
I left with Madhatter and Miranda, saying goodbye to Beanie.
“Thanks for the drink”. she said.
“Good luck “. I said and found to my astonishment that I
meant it. Whatever Beanie did and for whatever reason, it was obvious that it
was her life passion. When I left Doors Inn Beanie was still smiling magnanimously
at everyone and no one in particular.
Monday 16 August. Evening.
88 Brace. 3 Hares. 1 Kestral
Another day grouse beating at Furness.
Since last night I have taken Ed, the School master’s room
downstairs. Captain Hughes has only gone
few miles away to his wife and their Scottish home. The boys have been left in
the care of a younger maths teacher, Phil and his teacher wife, Sue. They start
teaching at the boys’ school in September. It will be the first year for both
of them. They decided to come and join the boys in the holidays in order to
“take the edge off their nerves”.
We did five drives today, all towards the same line of butts.
Weather was changeable mainly from cloud to rain and back again. I got bawled at by one of the gamekeepers much
to the delight of the lads.
Today there was an English guy on the drive, from South-East
England who lives here in Scotland
Today’s drives, especially the last one, was more like a war
game than a grouse beat, especially when we
went down into a deep ravine and then re emerged, as though out of the
trenches, onto the flat plains, towards the guns. Flags waving and shouting to
the left, a line extending a mile to the flanks.
The flankers are usually older men. They stand at either end
of the line of butts and ensure nothing escapes as the rest of the beaters
advance. By lunch time 20 brace. I don’t know exactly how much after lunch but
the fifth and the last drive produced the most birds I have seen to date. Some
hares were also shot, which is sad.
The boys talk sex , sex, sex though most, if not all are
probably virgins. They call each other
‘homo’, ‘gay’. ‘poof’, ‘nonce’ and other derogatory names. In fact growing up
in that environment, within a boarding school situation, I can see how those
with an innate tendency towards homosexuality might be discouraged from that
direction or encouraged to hide it and only ‘ go there’ suffering guilt and
shame.
Though there were women there this time, it is a man’s game.
The gamekeepers seem to span every generation and rank respectively. The head
gamekeepers, older and greyer, the under gamekeepers, my age who bark us into
line and also send their dogs to fetch the shot grouse and the younger keepers in the making who
help count the grouse. There are sons and nephews who want to continue to the
end of the season but have to go back to school this week. (Scottish school
holidays begin and end earlier than English school holidays.)
Tomorrow, Furmore, well, maybe half of us. Stunning views,
though only appreciated towards the end of the fifth drive.
Tuesday 17 August
120 brace . 4 Drives.
Today there were the midges, Scotland ,
and especially the Highlands , is well known
for them. They swarm in certain and
precise conditions; when there is no rain or wind, even the slightest breeze is
enough to stop them flying about. They come out in their millions in hot
weather, and irritate you until you are almost mad. Unfortunately for us
conditions today were on the midges’ side. The boys are nevertheless equipped
with hoods and scarves to keep the little buggers from their faces. The plastic
flags were also used to beat off the invading armies but the arms grow tired
with the effort. You either get eaten alive or you buy one of the many sprays
and lotions on the market, which, apart from being expensive, only delay the inevitable.
At the dinner table, the boys behave like perfect gentlemen
all standing up when the Major pays a visit. At the head of the table Captain
Hughes’s seat is left vacant. Either side, Phil who always looks a picture of
health and Sue who, compared to her husband looks pasty: Phil and Sue make full
use of their time in Scotland
D Deveer always seemed to have a number of faithful followers
around him. This is understandable. He is not only the only boy who owns a gun,
but on drives the undergame keepers often choose him to delegate to the rest of
us. At these times he was the envy of the other boys. It’s strange sometimes to
find myself being bawled at by an eighteen year old. D Deveer is one of the
only boys allowed to drive the mini bus and sound the horn warning the guns of
the approach of the beaters. Captain Ed Hughes, told me over a glass of whisky
one evening, of D Deveers’ eagerness to leave England
D Deveer liked killing things. While the rugby set hurls the
ball from one to the other every evening without fail, D Deveer gathers his
faithful followers on the promise of an even bigger kill than the night before.
I often heard him talk of lamping the animals. Lamping, I learned, is when a
powerful spot light is pointed at the prey. This stuns them. This same
technique was used to capture grouse and feed them the medication against the
worming disease which has, this year, seriously lowered the numbers of grouse,
so much so that most estates have had to cut the number of shooting days from
five to three, hence the fact that we often travel around a bit in the week. D
Deveer uses lamping to stun and kill hares, He leaves them where they fall
noting their deaths in a little book.
Wednesday 18th August 1999
I feel for these boys sometimes. Though their time at public
school seems to have made them independent at an earlier age than other boys,
they also seem lonely. I sometimes hear a boy on the phone to his parents and
pick up on the strained tone of the conversation. The calls always begin
hopeful and enthusiastic, the boy telling one of his parents about the weeks’
events. It soon becomes obvious, by the
way the boy is passed from one parent to the other and back again, that the
people on the other end of the phone are less than keen to spend time talking
to a child they had sent away at the age of nine and who now, at the age of
fourteen, has become a stranger. The boy eventually sounded guarded until it
was clear that both he and whoever he was talking to were merely going through
the motions, a hollow ritual which would, by the time they hung up, justify
their separation. After such calls I often caught the boy looking dejected and
red with suppressed anger, as though he had meant to ask a vitally important
question and had, once again, been robbed of the opportunity. I also saw how
his disappointment would manifest itself once he was back among his
schoolfellows. The boy usually became moody and boisterous.
They reminded me of cuckoos. It is said that the female
cuckoo deposits its’ single egg in the nest of another species before flying
off. The shell has evolved to look
exactly like the eggs in the host nest. Unaware of the impostors’ presence, the
host mother incubates her eggs. The young cuckoo is the first to hatch and
immediately sets about rolling the un-hatched eggs over the side of the nest to
fall and perish on the ground. In this way, the cuckoo gets all the food. It
will take this attitude to life beyond the nest. Like the cuckoo bird, many of
the boys are left at the school gates for three thousand pounds a term, plus
holidays, they will also grow up, I feel, with the instinct to kill their
foster brothers.
I don’t think I mentioned the wonderful conversation I had
with Garth, re. his dyslexia. He confided to me in the kitchen the other night.
I noticed how grave, even grim he became before he spoke. I had the impression
then that he had sought me out on purpose. He spoke about the problem he’d had
getting over this handicap. It was quite some time before his teachers realised
he was dyslexic; they had not marked his work for nearly six months and kept
piling on assignment after assignment. He suffered the humiliation in secret.
His confessing his dyslexia made me want to tell him how I also had lived with
a handicap. I had had a stammer. I said that I almost forget the fact that I
once was unable to even get through a sentence without contorting my face
horribly and taking what seemed like forever to pronounce a word. I told him I
had only learned to read at the age of twelve. I wanted Garth to know that I
could empathise with what he had been through.
Thursday 19 August Early morning
It is 3 o’clock in the morning and I’ve been woken by the
phone. D Deveer, the eldest boy went out to Tosh’s , the gamekeeper, with
Harold, Anthony, Owl and Chris and a clanking bag of Gin and cans of beer. They
were intent on getting slaughtered and roped me in to buying alcohol for them.
I feel like blowing up Victoria
It was Aviemore police station. They were holding three boys
in their cells found roaming around drunk and disorderly. They obviously
thought I was their teacher. “I’ll be there right away”. I said.” God I feel
responsible. If only I hadn’t bought the Gin for them. They are probably half
comatose. I was more concerned about being charged for supplying alcohol to
minors.
Tip toeing across gravel is very hard. I could see Phil and
Sue had not woken up. Luckily Captain Hughes had gone back to stay with his
wife. I got the keys to the van and without turning on the headlights drove out
of Kilgarick to Aviemore Police station.
If D Deveer, Anthony, Harold, Owl and Chris had been reported
missing there would have been a massive hunt news of which would have reached
the owners of Victoria wines who would have gloatingly told the Police, their
parents and horror of horrors, the press!, that I had been seen purchasing
“strong alcohol”.
To see their faces as the cell door was opened just before
they realised it was me was only comparable to my expression. They’d been slung
in a cell together. Owl had fallen asleep after having thrown up. The police
constable in charge seemed to understand teenagers. He’d seen a fair few of the
Aviemore population pass through so much so that so the station had been nick
named Aviemore’s second hotel. D Deveer looked as though he’d just lost a
hunting trophy or something. The police were not going to press charges, but, I
was told I should keep an eye on the boys, things could have been worse. The
boys however were left with the impression that things, as far as the police
were concerned, had only just begun. I was only half listening, my mind still
on the fact that Harold and Anthony were not among the boys in the cell.
On the drive back to Kilgarick, Owl threw up again. Chris
just looked glazed and D Deveer sat up front with me. “Where’s Anthony and
Harold?” I asked D Deveer. He shrugged. “They went off to explore that creepy
mound of rocks near the monument”. I let all three know that while it is heroic
to get slaughtered, it is not heroic to get arrested so that every one in Scotland
At breakfast D Deveer was at his usual place. He didn’t look
up when I asked Scrum for the milk jug. Owl entered in his habitual morning bad
mood. Lee took his place next to Scrum and gave me that look which said both,
“I know what you’ve done and pass the milk please”.
Garth entered took up a bowl of Cornflakes from the side
table and sat down without looking at anyone.
Choosing Weetabix Alistair sat opposite me smiling fondly
which was reassuring for a fleeting moment until I remembered I was supposed to
be on holiday and that it was going horribly wrong. For Dan a bowl of cereal
was a waste of time, time he could be using to down extra rashers of bacon and
extras of anything else for that matter. The guy is plain greedy. He stuffed a
forkful of everything into his mouth and peered expectantly through his thick
black rimmed glasses, like an ill omen.
Once Chris had taken his place, it was obvious that the rugby
playing gang was incomplete. Phil and Sue finished serving bacon, eggs
tomatoes, toast and mushrooms and had sat themselves down, it was not long
before they noticed the absence at the table.” Who are we missing?” Sue asked.”
Harold and Anthony”, I said a little too quickly. “Go and get them out of bed,
someone”, Phil was saying. “Sir, they’re still at Tosh’s house. They had a bit
too much beer and Tosh thought it would be better if they stayed over”. This
was said by D Deveer . He said this steadily, looking up only once, at me.
“Will they be going on a beat today?” Asked Phil. “No”.Said D Deveer. “They’ll be down £20 each.” said Dan stuffing
his face and sniggering.
D Deveer is lying and he knows I know it. At least it offered
a kind of reprieve for which I was grateful. The school teachers Phil and Sue
are not coming on the beat today, they’re going sailing so they won’t have the
chance to verify D Deveer’s story. Far be it from me to blurt out the truth,
right here, right now. But, why is he lying. Is he covering for them. The boys
are probably just finding a way to skive off the drives this morning. Who knows
what teenagers get up to; They are so secretive, boys are. Whispering and
plotting and scheming to so trivial an end. I mean if there is a secret I don’t
see why they would include me, an outsider.
Thursday 19 August Evening
Earlier on after dinner, one of the women from the lodge approached
me to complain about the drunken state of two boys she had had the misfortune
to encounter the early hours of the morning while jogging. Once again in the
last twelve hours I was being mistaken for a teacher. She said that the boys
concerned were far too young to be consuming that amount of alcohol and that
she had warned them that she would be speaking to someone about their appalling
state. I assured her that she need not worry and that I would have serious
words with those involved. She need only leave the matter with me, if she could
just give me a description of the boys. “Blond”, She said, “and young, very
young, too young to be that drunk”. Anthony and Harold I thought. I felt the
urge to say, boys will be boys, but I felt this would only exacerbate the
situation, so I said. “Accept my deepest apologies.” She seemed satisfied with
this and I left her as though I was in a hurry to deal with the problem.
I must mention Garth and his annoying behaviour today. Well
we were divided in to two work parties.
Our team, was made up of Scrum, Garth and myself, while the other team
was assigned the curious task of collecting the debris of a wind generator,
which had been blown to pieces by the previous nights strong wind, over an area
of a mile. This team was made up of the remaining boys. Actually in retrospect,
Garth, who I had previously liked above all the boys, had changed towards me
that day. I put it down to teenage prankery that usually doesn’t know when to
stop. But, I felt also there was contempt towards me. It is as though he was
distancing himself from me as if I were a toy he had explored, played with
several times, even enjoyed and was now abandoning it through boredom, a
destructive boredom.
Friday 20 August
One of the guns was shouting in my direction. I stood frozen
to the spot until one of the under game keepers pointed out with his flag the
injured grouse at my feet. I had secretly wished I would have the opportunity
of finishing off one of these things. I had seen others do it with one deft
knock on it’s head with the end of the wooden flag pole; it looked easy. I bent
down and picked the trembling bird up by its’ neck, got a good grip and whacked
it as hard as I could. The thing was still very much alive. By now the other
boys were looking at me, I attempted the movement whereby you spin the body
around so quickly the neck breaks. What happened instead was more gruesome, my
first kill ever was turning into a bit of a disaster. Instead of the neck
snapping, the whole body fell back down to the ground, leaving me with the head
in my hand. For a moment, I did not know what to do. The body fluttered around
headless on the ground, its’ neck a bloody protrusion. Everyone was still
looking at this spectacle; I felt they wanted desperately to help. The worse
came when, trying to save face, I picked the grouse up by one of the wings and
the continuing frantic movement splattered me with blood. The grouse took
forever to die. Foulest day to date.
Anyway I’m shattered. Hard drives today. Seventy eight brace.
Three hares. Tosh was there. He didn’t
look hung-over. D Deveer who I was surprised showed at all, looked green.. I’m
leaving on Sunday to work at Tomintoul, hopefully there’ll be a load of Aussies
and Kiwis my age and I’ll be able to put ‘childish things away’.
21 August 1999 Saturday
How to begin. Oh I
don’t know, I still can’t believe it myself. As I was packed and waiting to be
picked up and taken to Tomintoul on the Saturday morning, Ed Hughes entered my
room telling me he’d received a call from the head gamekeeper up at Tomintoul
saying, unfortunately, he had already enough beaters and he regrets I would not
now be needed. Ed seemed to commiserate with me, and although I was slightly
upset. I had already bid my farewells
to the boys, and felt idiotic now there would be no actual leave-taking. I was
also secretly glad not to have to get used to a new place. Ed offered to include me on the list of
beaters for the weeks ahead. “Some boys had already gone home, so, “He said,
“Numbers were down”. “Oh”, I said, “Who’s left us?” “Anthony and Harold”, Came
the reply. “I would’ve liked to have said goodbye to them”, I said. “When did
they leave?” I’m not sure but I got the
distinct impression that Captain Ed Hughes was slightly thrown by this
question. He concealed his discomfort very well. “A few days ago”. He replied.
When Ed Hughes had left my room I felt confused. I was glad that I could stay on at Kilgarick
but I felt somehow uneasy and I could not quite pin the feeling of malaise to
one particular thing the school master had said or done.
Later that day, once I had unpacked and suffered the ridicule
from the boys for not having set foot off the estate after so grandiose a
farewell speech, Alistair knocked on my door. Alistair got straight to his
point. He had seen some funny goings on two nights ago. He said he had gone for
a walk up by the monument dedicated to the first owners of the estate. The
monument overlooked the highlands for miles around, including the lake, or
tarn, as the Scots call an expanse of water which is not fed by obvious
tributaries. Scanning the land Alistair noticed movement on the lake below.
There is a small planked jetty, about twelve feet long, at the end of which was
a rowing boat. When I myself had stood on the jetty a few days ago, I had
noticed that the boat had only one oar. From Alistair’s vantage point, the boat
seemed to be out in the middle of the lake. He could make out two figures waist
high in the water navigating the boat back towards the jetty. “What’s strange about that”, I said to an
agitated Alistair “Whoever it was obviously rowed the boat out with the one
oar…”
“How?” interrupted Alistair.
“Well, they probably used the oar like a punting pole having
manoeuvred the boat out so far, got tired, jumped in the water and simply
walked it back.”
“The thing is”, said Alistair “what was the school van doing
in the area?”
I was intrigued at this information.
“What time are we talking about Alistair?”
“I’ve told you, just after dinner.”
“What happened next?” I asked
“Nothing. Whoever they were; I couldn’t see exactly. Too far
away, Well one of them got out of the water while the other stayed in and they
seemed to spend a considerable amount of time in that position making the boat
fast. Then they both got into the van and drove towards the lodge.”
“Have you told anyone else any of this?” I asked, and I let
the seriousness of the situation express itself in my voice.
“No” Alistair replied.
“Well, I don’t know what it means. Probably nothing, but I’d
keep it between you and me for now, Okay?”
“Alright,” He seemed disappointed. “Phil and Sue are the only
people allowed to drive the school van. And Captain Hughes of course, but he’s
only coming back tonight”
“Captain Hughes was here this morning didn’t you see him”
“No” said Alistair.
“Alistair,” I asked, “Did you know that Anthony and Harold
had gone home.”
“Yes, they went a few days ago”.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know, something about Harold’s uncle or dad dying.
Deveer told me, but I forgot”.
At that moment a couple of the other boys called for Alistair
and in a moment his frown had disappeared and he was off to hunt for wild
rabbits with Garth, D Deveer and a lethal looking rifle.
Though I wanted to nonchalantly pass off as mundane the
events Alistair had witnessed on the lake, I couldn’t seem to stop feeling
unsettled. A boat, two figures in the water, waist high. The school van. Anyway
I must recount this in the order in which the day happened. The phone call, the
boat and the letter.
The telephone call came in the early afternoon. As no one
came to answer the phone, I picked it up to hear a distraught woman on the
other end. She was Harold’s mother. Harold had not reached England Edinburgh
I told her that I thought the boys had left two days ago. I
told her I would talk to Captain Hughes, get him to call her as soon as
possible. Harolds’ mother said she had asked the stranger to hand in the phone
to lost property at Edinburgh, Waverly Station. I suggested if they did not
turn up, she contact the police and find out if anybody saw the boys on the
train during the times they were due to be travelling. She mumbled something
then hung up.
So the boys, Harold and Anthony had, between Aviemore and
Edinburgh, disappeared. That is if they left at all. I don’t know. Something is
not right here. Why would Captain Hughes tell me that the boys had left a few
days ago when Harold’s mother had said they were due back at Anthony’s parents’
house yesterday? Who was down at the lake, and why?
I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic so decided to go
for a walk. I went along the path that took me away from the lodge. Pass the
scented trees, up and over the bow that would lead me winding over the natural
barrier presented by the hills overlooking the flat land that stretches off to
the trees obscuring the track leading out of Kilgarick. Down below, the lake
reflected the silver grey sky. As the path wound down the ridge of the hill,
every now and again I lost sight of the lake, but eventually I would land, so
to speak, at the water’s edge. I had to keep to the track, for where the lake
ended and dry land began was difficult to tell. I felt a bit uneasy that
someone should see me. I don’t know why, perhaps because I had a hidden agenda;
to check the boat out.
For some reason the boat had not only been tied to the pier,
but a rope wound around the boat itself as if to keep the bottom and the sides
from drifting part. It had been bound four times and gave the impression of a
fairground ride closed for the season. The oar was still there, lying in the
boat. The boat seemed to have more water in it than I remembered, though there
was no leak, the big black plug was still in place. The boat also seemed to sit
lower in the water than before, so much so that I felt that if anyone climbed
in too hurriedly, it would simply sink to the bottom. I attributed this to the
heaviness of the rope, and looked away from the boat to the centre of the lake.
There were fewer reeds than before. I remembered an island of
them. No doubt, they had been flattened by the oar. There were now only a few
solitary reeds making a stand against the fine tall grasses around the far
edges. There was nothing untoward. In fact I wasn’t sure exactly what I was
looking for. I walked along the wooden planks of the pier, holding on to the
wooden rail. From the piers’ edge, I could survey the area more clearly. I
looked behind me to check nothing or no one was coming along the track. I
scrutinised the right arch of the bow of the hill and tried to make out the
path and whether I could see anyone on it who might be watching me as Alistair
had watched one person or more, waist high in the water the other evening. The
boat must have simply come adrift and passing, The Captain and someone else had
waded in to retrieve it. As I was
walking back to the bank along the wooden pier, I saw the bubble.
From beneath the boat a large bubble emerged and broke on the
surface of the water. These were not the kind that drift up from disturbed life
at the bed of a lake or pond, but rather like those released from an air
pocket. Its’ appearance was accompanied by the smell of rotten eggs. I went to
the piers edge and with one foot gently tilted the boat. This movement caused
yet more air to surface, again with the same rank smell.
I suddenly began acting as though I was in a trance. I
subconsciously knew what I would find before I found it. It was as though
something were standing nearby willing me on. I got down first on my hands and
knees, then onto my stomach so that I was within easy reach of the boat. I then
put my left arm in the water and made an upward sweeping motion, my hand met
the bottom of the boat. I felt along the length of the under belly of the boat.
Nothing. I stood up again and made the boat rock with my foot. Once again a
bubble surfaced from the depths but this time I was able to see that it came
from beneath my feet, from beneath the pier itself. I got down on my stomach
again and forced my arm under the water. Its’ surface was here and there smooth
where it was most full of air. Where the ropes exerted a bit of pressure I
began to feel the contours of a body; first a hip then the shoulder. My hand
was touching what must have been the nape of a neck. By instinct I moved beyond
and immediately touched, again through plastic material, what felt like an
ankle. My other hand went to check and confirm what I thought I had discovered.
There were two bodies fastened top to toe beneath the pier in
an industrial plastic bag of some kind.
I withdrew by hand from the lake as if it were suddenly scalding hot,
stood up and staggered off the pier on to the bank and, chasing the new facts
from my head yet unable to understand or keep them from entering, I threw up
the contents of my stomach and went on violently retching some time after. I
had discovered what had become of Anthony and Harold.
Someone had gone to great lengths to conceal their bodies.
That someone had also murdered them. The
idea of pulling the bodies out to discover how they had met their end was too
horrible to think of. By the smell of decay escaping in the form of air
bubbles, Anthony and Harold had been dead for some time. Could it have been the
night they all went out drinking together with D Deveer to Toshs’ house; the
morning I had fetched them from the police station. Why and what’s more
importantly, who were the two people Alistair had seen waist high in the water
pushing the boat back to its’ present position from the middle of the lake. Who
was driving the school bus at that time? Captain Hughes? It was all too
incredible for words. I glanced back at the boat. Everything looked
undisturbed. A black crow crowed ominously somewhere in the distance as if to
bare witness to the discovery.
I set about tracking down Ed Hughes I had simply intended to
mention the telephone call from the boys’ parent and say nothing about what I
had discovered at the lake. I knocked at his door. There was no answer though
the door was ajar. Stealthily I stepped into the room. The bed was neatly made,
a book lay open on the bedside table, and on the window sill several bottles of
whisky, various brands. The boys had said that the house master liked a drink.
I think they see him as a bit of a lush, though I had never seen him noticeably
drunk…I heard something rustle beneath my feet. I was standing on a letter,
obviously passed under the door. I picked it up and read Captain Ed Hughes’s
name on the front of it. It was not sealed. I don’t know what made me open it.
I first made sure the coast was clear, before unfolding the white paper.
It was from Major McFarlen at the big house. The letter began
by thanking Ed Hughes for handling of a delicate situation. Major McFarlen
promised that all would be back to normal once the important visitors had gone.
He hoped Captain Ed Hughes appreciated the seriousness of the visit. In fact,
Major McFarlen trusted the schoolmaster to behave in such a way as not to
compromise the security of the country, and to maintain a demeanour befitting
the reputation of one of the top private schools in the United Kingdom
The letter then moved on to instructions regarding the
important guests. His instructions were that in no way, during the one days’
shooting in question, were the beaters allowed to come face to face with the
guns. The horns would sound a fair distance from the line of guns and with the
aid of the keepers, who had received their instructions, the beaters were to be
led away and on to the next drive. Major McFarlen stressed, once again, the
importance of keeping the identity of the guests concealed from the boys who
were too young to understand the full implications of the visit. The guests
were due to arrive late Sunday night for the following Monday. They would not
be passing the lodge but it was nevertheless imperative that there be a eight
o’clock curfew for all boys during the evening of the visit and their
departure. The main house was strictly out of bounds.
I made a decision to leave Kilgarick the following morning. I
decided to make out I was walking into Aviemore and simply get on the train to London
Around the dinner table there was talk of the mound of rocks
somewhere near the monument. Dan was saying, between mouthfuls, that whoever so
much as disturbed one of the stones would meet with sudden death. I had heard
of this tale when I first arrived. Captain Hughes had talked of it in the van
one day on the way to Aviemore. I didn’t take much notice at the time and
passed it off as idle if somewhat exotic superstition. At the time, I vaguely
remember some of the boys had tested the curse and had obviously not been
struck down. That is probably why I had passed it off out of hand. D Deveer
said although he didn’t believe it there had been, according to Tosh, several
cases of people who had met a grisly end as a result of misplacing one of the
stones. I wasn’t really listening and I pretended to eat but had no appetite.
The conversation turned to the tomb of Tutankhamoun and the curse of the mummy.
D Deveer maintained that the Titanic had sunk because at least five of the
archaeologists involved in excavating the tomb had been on board. As D Deveer
was the eldest his authority went undisputed, and this new piece of information
was, along with whatever he said, God’s law. Dan suddenly remembered that it
had been Anthony and Harold who had jokingly talked of going up and misplacing
the stones.
Later on that evening I overheard Captain Hughes talking on
the phone to Harolds’ mother. He told
her that Harold and Anthony had talked about going to some show jumping trials
where one of their school friends would be with his parent. He, Ed, had heard
the boys talking enthusiastically about it. It would be over the weekend and,
as he understood there were several parties and as any parent knew parties and
teenage boys meant girls. Captain Hughes told her not to worry; he had seen
this sort of thing before. He said he would go to Edinburgh
By the way Brace: none. Hares: none. Boys: Two.
TO READ ON AND SUPPORT A WRITER GO TO: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Cuckoos-Diary-ebook/dp/B005SSRYPI/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1364231612&sr=8-5
OR FOR GERMAN : http://www.amazon.de/The-Cuckoos-Diary-ebook/dp/B005SSRYPI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364231853&sr=8-1
FRANCE: http://www.amazon.fr/The-Cuckoos-Diary-ebook/dp/B005SSRYPI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364231997&sr=8-1
FOR ITALY:
FOR SPAIN: http://www.amazon.es/The-Cuckoos-Diary-ebook/dp/B005SSRYPI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364232180&sr=8-1
THANK YOU. TONY LATHAM
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