Mr Great gave me a reassuring smile, the smile that says "Well done for trying, but you are in the prescence of true talent", and walked off, pulling out his cigar case as he made for the gunbus.
The pretty picker-up provided further confirmation that her true future lay in investment banking. Thoughfully folding the £50 note she said "Every drive here is like this'un, yer know" And tucked the note in an inner pocket of her astonishingly battered barbour..
"And Ah'll be picking up behind you and 'im, each drive, like"
A smaller and purpler version of the first note made the short journey from my wallet to the inner pocket.
She raised an eyebrow. Two more of the larger and redder variety of notes followed their companions (the art of long term gain is knowing when to make that vital investment decision). She smiled confidentially.
"Don't know who that bloke is, love, but ah'll make him love his day"
And (unlike your average investment banker, I hear you say) she delivered. At the end of each drive she produced Mr Great's birds and pointed out the sparse numbers brought down by Mr B. By the fourth drive Mr Great was feeling so sorry for the terrible day I was having that he proferred his cigar case to me and lent me his silver lighter to lit the chosen stoogie with. I notice his gaze rather lingered on the picker-up at several points, but then, she was a pretty girl. Or had he noticed, as I fancied I had, that some of these birds did seem to slightly resemble ones that had been produced on previous drives? But then, who on earth can tell one pheasant from another....
Finally, the last drive was completed, the guns stood in the lee of a wood that curved away from the prevailing wind. The view was truly magnificent with the ruins of a distant castle tower catching the last of the sun a long way below us. The beaters slowly emerged from the wood, and the lightely loaded game cart hove into view. Mr Great looked thoughtful again as the picker-up hung two brace of birds on the rack, giving me a wink as she turned away.
Finally the keeper appeared, a magnificent figure in estate tweed and battered hat: "Had a good day gentlemen?"
We assured him we had, Mr Great in terms of enthusiasm which gladdened my heart .
Each of us walked forward with a note or two rolled in our right hands, and as we shook his, a mysterious sleight of hand took place as the notes disappeared into his waistcoat pocket. Best be generous I always feel, as I suspect part of the advanced training for head keeping is to how to know exactly who is Mr Generous and who is Mr Skinflint, and next time out to direct the drives so that not much passes over the Skinflints.
As host I waited until last, and then the ritual handshake and transfer took place. Finally relaxed, I engaged this colossus of his craft in conversation:
"Thank you, it was a really astonishing day; our client, I mean our clients, loved it"
"Oh, aye"
"One doesn't get birds like this in the south, astonishing, I fear we didn't do them proper justice"
He scratched his head under his hat: "Aye, nev'r mind, they'll be there for't next lot on Munda"
"Haha, indeed. We certainly have left them a few. Another corporate group?"
"Nay, local syndicate, farmers and like."
"I think we had better come up and take some lessons as to how to hit such high birds, there must be some special technique in Yorkshire for hitting birds on drives like these ones."
He pulled his hat down: "No Yorkshireman would shoot these drives, tha knows, these birds is completely out of range; they wouldn't waste their cartridges. We keep 'em for foreigners. Afternoon to you"
