One of Stuffer’s little sidelines to keep the (stuffed) wolf from the door is taking out rich sportsmen to the great estates of the southern and western Home Counties to bag a deer. On this particular occasion he was rung by Lord M who had as his guest an Italian count who was, so Lord M understood, of considerable sporting prowess and would like to bag a roe deer, and as his visit was brief, this to be before dinner the following day.
Stuffer smelt the merest whiff of trouble but business is business and next day at 4.30pm he turned up at M Hall to collect his new disciple. He seemed very charming, and as befitted an Italian sporting gentlemen he was immaculately turned out, with wonderfully expensive equipment, shone, lacquered and polished. When he produced for Stuffer’s approval a handmade Italian sporting rifle obviously used with care and cared for to the highest possible standard, Stuffer decided his previous reservations had been wrong and he was indeed accompanying a true and experienced sportsman.
Stuffer had selected, given the time constraints and the need to impress his new Italian friend, and, even more so, Lord M, a place where a roe buck had the nightly habit of coming to a glade on the edge of a wood on the south side of the park, close to a gate into a field with views of the downs. If roe deer smoked, said Stuffer, he would have presumed that the buck was in the habit of enjoying the view across the downs whilst smoking his nightly cigar before dinner.
There was a high seat in position already, and the roe seemed to almost invariably visit between 6 and 7pm. So if for some reason he hadn’t turned up (with his light Corona no doubt) by 7pm, there was still a chance to move elsewhere in the wood for a second attempt.
Stuffer smelt the merest whiff of trouble but business is business and next day at 4.30pm he turned up at M Hall to collect his new disciple. He seemed very charming, and as befitted an Italian sporting gentlemen he was immaculately turned out, with wonderfully expensive equipment, shone, lacquered and polished. When he produced for Stuffer’s approval a handmade Italian sporting rifle obviously used with care and cared for to the highest possible standard, Stuffer decided his previous reservations had been wrong and he was indeed accompanying a true and experienced sportsman.
Stuffer had selected, given the time constraints and the need to impress his new Italian friend, and, even more so, Lord M, a place where a roe buck had the nightly habit of coming to a glade on the edge of a wood on the south side of the park, close to a gate into a field with views of the downs. If roe deer smoked, said Stuffer, he would have presumed that the buck was in the habit of enjoying the view across the downs whilst smoking his nightly cigar before dinner.
There was a high seat in position already, and the roe seemed to almost invariably visit between 6 and 7pm. So if for some reason he hadn’t turned up (with his light Corona no doubt) by 7pm, there was still a chance to move elsewhere in the wood for a second attempt.
The count was loaded into Stuffer’s Toyota with his kit and his unloaded gun across his knees, and they set off. As they drove down the park drive Stuffer was slightly disconcerted as the count, espying a rabbit, pointed the rifle out of the window at it and shouting “Bang! You die!” But when this deadly threat had also been visited on two pigeons, a jay, and a circling buzzard he was happy to put this down to amiable eccentricity.
They reached the high seat at 5.15pm and our sportsman was made comfortable with a bottle of water, bullets to hand, and the lovely sporting rifle on his knees.
They reached the high seat at 5.15pm and our sportsman was made comfortable with a bottle of water, bullets to hand, and the lovely sporting rifle on his knees.
“Right” said Stuffer, “Sit quietly here, try not to move, and if by quarter to seven nothing has happened I’ll be back to move you”
“Hour and one half” exclaimed the count, “Two hours almost?”Stuffer explained that deer were sensitive to change in familiar places so it was necessary to be well out of sight before the merest scent of human presence might alert him to danger.
The count raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, and Stuffer bounced away across the park to a quiet place where nobody would disturb a little slumber. This he was into when he was aroused by a bang, the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot, not far away. He looked at the Toyota clock, not believing he could have been asleep an hour or so, and found he hadn’t; it was 5.30.It seemed unlikely that the deer had changed its habits so dramatically, but you never know, so he started the engine and drove back across the park and down the wood drive, where he was very startled to meet the count running towards him, arms up, red faced, looking panic stricken. Stuffer stopped, leapt out, and put his arm on the count’s shoulder and said some calming words.
When the count’s breathing was under control he said “Now what is the matter? Did you get your buck?”
When the count’s breathing was under control he said “Now what is the matter? Did you get your buck?”
"No” shouted the count. “The sheeps”.
“ The sheeps? What sheeps?"
“The sheeps down there, behind the gate”
“The sheeps – er, the sheep – won’t harm you”“No, come!” said the Italian beginning to walk back along the track to the gate. “I sit in my ‘igh seat. But is very boring. The gun, it is my brother’s, I do not know it, So I practise at the aiming, and I quietly call “O sheeps, pfff, you die”.
“I do this and then, bang, the gun she fires by ‘erself, and, and, and...”
“And...?” said Stuffer.
“The sheeps, it dies”
By now they were at the gate and there on the other side was a motionless sheep, on its side. Stuffer went up to it and gave it the quick once over. Its cause of death was immediately obvious. A perfect headshot, straight through the brain.
One, as Stuffer said, he would have been very proud of, at least if to a deer. And especially if, as the Italian confessed on the way back to M Hall, he had never fired a sporting rifle before. The sheep they buried in a woodland ditch. The buck, they agreed, had not turned up.
One, as Stuffer said, he would have been very proud of, at least if to a deer. And especially if, as the Italian confessed on the way back to M Hall, he had never fired a sporting rifle before. The sheep they buried in a woodland ditch. The buck, they agreed, had not turned up.
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