Like Drawing Teeth

A far distant tapping, sticks against tree trunks. Whimpering from an eager spaniel behind, more tapping in the wood in front. Check foot positioning, check next pair of cartridges in the belt, check the line hasn’t spotted something. Don’t fiddle with safety catch, just relax and be ready.

Jamie’s cigar smoke drifting down the line. A few more falling leaves create a momentary frisson. But it is just drifting golden leaves. Relax. More tapping, nearer.

Now utter silence and then the spaniel whimpers again.  Everything is in suspense, apart from that damn dog. High grey cloud moving slowly across, but furious black skies building up behind. It will rain before lunch and we will be drenched. But just now all that matters is waiting for the beaters to reach the bracken and scrub on the centre of the wood. The tapping has stopped.

They must be in the open now, moving towards the oaks that fell in some storm years ago and have lain there ever since. Any minute the action will start. Feet; cartridges; check the line, check the sky.

Any minute and there will be shouts, tapping, the birds will be rising. Please don’t let the first one come over me.

Jamie has thrown down his cigar and his toe is twisting it into the grass. What has he heard? What has he seen? His gun is in both hands. Mark, next to him, slings his old side by side off his shoulder and adopts the same posture.

More tapping, but with a different beat. They must be at the fallen oaks. A shout of “Ready!” Clicks, a call of “Now!”  A flurry of fiercely beating wings, crashing through the branches, a familiar double screech, then the bird is rising through the filigree of naked branches; to me. Straight to me.

And the drill enters the tooth, the jaw is forced down. Not even the memory of one of last year’s most perfect days can overcome the noise, the screaming, the vibration, the sheer bloody ghastliness of having a tooth drilled.