Country life
First day out
Leanda de Lisle
Igo shooting for love, but not for love of shooting. In my early twenties, I was will- ing to stand in a biting wind all day for the pleasure of watching my beloved husband at play with his gun. By my late twenties, it was down to half a day and after 30 I just turned up for lunch. However, I was out again on Saturday morning, togged up in Peter's Barbour and some old Damart socks. It was to be my eldest son's first day shooting.
My son is 13, but looks younger. A 12- bore was considered too heavy for him and my mother-in-law has lent him a 20-bore until he gets bigger. It's quite powerful enough to kill a man and, although he had some shooting lessons with it over the sum- mer, I was pretty nervous that he might not treat it with quite the respect it deserves. 'It's not important whether or not you hit a bird today,' I told the boy. The only thing that's really important is that you don't shoot anyone.' I expect he knew that, but I 'It could be awkward. That's what my wife thinks I do at weekends.' seemed to forget it, sitting on my shooting- stick, waiting for the partridge to fly over the tree line.
It's true that at first I felt a frisson of horror seeing a child poised to use a loaded gun. But that rapidly vanished when the line began to fire. It's not easy to shoot partridge — far harder than pheasant. They are small and fly quickly. By the time my son had them in his sights they were behind him and he couldn't swing round as he had my husband standing on his tail. 'Can't you show him how to swing and get out of his way?' I told Peter in a tone near- er to an order than a suggestion. 'No, he's too inexperienced. If he drops his sights he'll blow Richard's head off.' Richard was the next gun along the line. Happily, he couldn't hear what was being said about his head, or sense my apparent indifference to its fate.
I remained on my seat, growing increas- ingly huffy as my husband told my son to empty one used cartridge from his double barrel and replace it in double time, before the next wave of birds appeared. It seemed quite unnecessary. 'Why do that?' I demanded. Peter turned on me. He had been shooting for 25 years. I didn't know anything and should shut up or go home. I felt furious, but even while crazed with bloodlust, or whatever it was, I had to acknowledge that he had made a pretty accurate assessment of the situation. I would keep silent, I promised myself. Then — huzza — my son shot a partridge. It drifted down behind us and tumbled along the rough ploughed earth. I was thankful to see that it looked quite dead.
With the beaters now waving white flags directly in front of us, the whistle blew to mark the end of the drive. My son broke his gun and, grinning like the little boy he is, presented himself to me for a kiss. I was proud and, above all, relieved. I could now return to being my relatively normal self. Pepsi, our useless brown labrador gun dog, picked up the sacrificial partridge before declining to touch any others. It was placed at my son's feet where he took hold of it, somewhat gingerly.
'Look, Mummy, I shot it in the head,' he said, holding the bleeding bird up at my eye level.'
'I'm sorry, I just don't want to look,' I told him flinching, 'and please don't hold it in that pansy way.'
Could he eat it that night? he wanted to know, snapping his fingers more tightly around its neck.
I grimaced. 'Perhaps,' I allowed, and strode off in the direction of the farm track where my mother-in-law's Peruvian loader was standing ready with a bottle of sloe gin. The wind was bitter and I was as grateful for the drink as I was knowing that I could now go home.
I never saw my son shoot his first pheas- ant in the afternoon, but then I had to save the remnants of my enthusiasm for the sport for his baby brothers.
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