Whose?’
‘Weatheralls’.’
‘Ah. Well?’
‘Fine. Arthriticky. Two hundred brace. Only six of us.’
‘Mmm. Bulldozer?’
‘’Fraid so. Took as many as a’cd.’
‘City fellahs?’
‘Austrians.’
‘Ah,’ says Rufus again. ‘W’dn’t mind a b’da’that ourselves.’
‘Agency. Hols people. Int’n’t. Waddya give th’man who h’zev’r’th’ng? Find th’URL for you f’y’like.’
‘Good one. Ta.’
I decide that it’s time to intervene. I could cope with not understanding what they’re talking about. I can even live with a deficit of pronouns. But if they’re going to dispense with vowels as well, I’ll be floundering without a lifebelt.
‘Can you guys just recap a little bit of that conversation?’
‘Sorry.’ Rufus’s head and shoulders pop through the gap between Roly and my seats. ‘Roly’s been shooting with some friends in Hampshire. They’ve got a huge shoot and bagged four hundred birds in a day, though most of them were ploughed under because it’s almost impossible to sell the things in that sort of quantity, let alone eat them. But they keep the whole thing going by renting a day’s sport at a time to foreign businessmen. Corporate entertainment, that sort of thing. I was just wondering if we couldn’t get a bit of that sent the way of us.’
‘Four hundred birds in one day?’
‘I know,’ says Roly. ‘Bit obscene, s’pose.’
‘Too right. And they don’t get eaten?’
‘The great British public,’ says Rufus, ‘don’t like to gut and pluck their own food. And most of them wouldn’t touch game even if it was pre-packaged with a lemon up its arse. I’m afraid it’s not economical to do anything else.’
‘But why kill them in the first place?’
‘’Fraid the German businessmen expect to get value for their two grand a day. Our City traders expect exactly the same thing when they go boar hunting in the Black Forest. There’s not a lot left up to chance these days.’
‘Oh Jeez.’ I can’t keep the disapproval out of my voice.
Roly laughs. ‘I say, Roof, looks like you’ve married a hippie! Vegetarian? Labour voter?’ These last questions are aimed at me.
‘No,’ I protest. ‘No, I’ve got nothing against people killing things they’re going to eat. Or culling pests and stuff. But seriously. They breed these things, right?’
‘Uh-huh,’ they concur.
‘So they breed these things to be shot and buried? Don’t you think that’s a bit –’
‘Townie,’ says Roly, dismissing me with a single word.
‘No. Hold on—’
‘Trouble with townies,’ he says, ‘full of opinions about things they know nothing about. Interfering in country ways. We don’t go up there and tell them not to mug each other, do we?’
I’m stunned; lapse into silence.
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ says Rufus. ‘Come on. It does look a bit foul from the outside.’
‘Well, I think their sinkholes of debauchery look pretty foul,’ says Roly, ‘but I leave ’em to get on with it. Stringfellows, Spearmint Rhino – wouldn’t catch me taking a young lady to those sorts of place, but live and let live. That’s what I say.’
I start up again. ‘Now, hold on —’
‘So what’re you going to ours for, anyway?’ Rufus changes the subject in a pointed manner.
We’re on a road that leads through a grungy-looking estate of two-storey prefabs whose occupants’ taste in garden design is mostly influenced by the fridge-and-nettle school, circa 1976.
‘Dunno,’ says Roly. ‘Got a call from th’mater and thought I’d better oblige. Thought there was probably a drink in it, at least. Something about you coming home.’
‘Oh cripes,’ says Rufus. ‘She’s not put together some grim gathering, has she?’
‘Possibility. Wet the bridie’s head, that sort of thing.’
‘You what?’ I tear my eyes away from a picturesque vista of rusting car bodies beneath a clump of elders and look at Roly in horror. ‘You mean, they’ve …
‘Weatheralls’.’
‘Ah. Well?’
‘Fine. Arthriticky. Two hundred brace. Only six of us.’
‘Mmm. Bulldozer?’
‘’Fraid so. Took as many as a’cd.’
‘City fellahs?’
‘Austrians.’
‘Ah,’ says Rufus again. ‘W’dn’t mind a b’da’that ourselves.’
‘Agency. Hols people. Int’n’t. Waddya give th’man who h’zev’r’th’ng? Find th’URL for you f’y’like.’
‘Good one. Ta.’
I decide that it’s time to intervene. I could cope with not understanding what they’re talking about. I can even live with a deficit of pronouns. But if they’re going to dispense with vowels as well, I’ll be floundering without a lifebelt.
‘Can you guys just recap a little bit of that conversation?’
‘Sorry.’ Rufus’s head and shoulders pop through the gap between Roly and my seats. ‘Roly’s been shooting with some friends in Hampshire. They’ve got a huge shoot and bagged four hundred birds in a day, though most of them were ploughed under because it’s almost impossible to sell the things in that sort of quantity, let alone eat them. But they keep the whole thing going by renting a day’s sport at a time to foreign businessmen. Corporate entertainment, that sort of thing. I was just wondering if we couldn’t get a bit of that sent the way of us.’
‘Four hundred birds in one day?’
‘I know,’ says Roly. ‘Bit obscene, s’pose.’
‘Too right. And they don’t get eaten?’
‘The great British public,’ says Rufus, ‘don’t like to gut and pluck their own food. And most of them wouldn’t touch game even if it was pre-packaged with a lemon up its arse. I’m afraid it’s not economical to do anything else.’
‘But why kill them in the first place?’
‘’Fraid the German businessmen expect to get value for their two grand a day. Our City traders expect exactly the same thing when they go boar hunting in the Black Forest. There’s not a lot left up to chance these days.’
‘Oh Jeez.’ I can’t keep the disapproval out of my voice.
Roly laughs. ‘I say, Roof, looks like you’ve married a hippie! Vegetarian? Labour voter?’ These last questions are aimed at me.
‘No,’ I protest. ‘No, I’ve got nothing against people killing things they’re going to eat. Or culling pests and stuff. But seriously. They breed these things, right?’
‘Uh-huh,’ they concur.
‘So they breed these things to be shot and buried? Don’t you think that’s a bit –’
‘Townie,’ says Roly, dismissing me with a single word.
‘No. Hold on—’
‘Trouble with townies,’ he says, ‘full of opinions about things they know nothing about. Interfering in country ways. We don’t go up there and tell them not to mug each other, do we?’
I’m stunned; lapse into silence.
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ says Rufus. ‘Come on. It does look a bit foul from the outside.’
‘Well, I think their sinkholes of debauchery look pretty foul,’ says Roly, ‘but I leave ’em to get on with it. Stringfellows, Spearmint Rhino – wouldn’t catch me taking a young lady to those sorts of place, but live and let live. That’s what I say.’
I start up again. ‘Now, hold on —’
‘So what’re you going to ours for, anyway?’ Rufus changes the subject in a pointed manner.
We’re on a road that leads through a grungy-looking estate of two-storey prefabs whose occupants’ taste in garden design is mostly influenced by the fridge-and-nettle school, circa 1976.
‘Dunno,’ says Roly. ‘Got a call from th’mater and thought I’d better oblige. Thought there was probably a drink in it, at least. Something about you coming home.’
‘Oh cripes,’ says Rufus. ‘She’s not put together some grim gathering, has she?’
‘Possibility. Wet the bridie’s head, that sort of thing.’
‘You what?’ I tear my eyes away from a picturesque vista of rusting car bodies beneath a clump of elders and look at Roly in horror. ‘You mean, they’ve …
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