Margaret whiled away her time with a sandwich, looking down to the river. The evening was good, it demanded no notice, or overcoat. She did however have a rug across her knees. Raymond was just emerging from the house with an air rifle. He took a shot at a crow which spat back at him as it flew a ragged escape, feathers shed, Raymond thought he had hit him, Margaret disagreed. Raymond reloaded and pumped the gun. Margaret warned him to ‘look out’, he snorted at her in derision, did she now think he didn’t know how to handle an airgun? She simply wanted him to take care. He sat next to her and pulled out his spectacles purposely as if he suddenly saw something of interest, the trees filtered the air and light. His small rowing boat pulled at its rope, bobbing on the current. She asked him if he might be going fishing, he told her not to be absurd, she knew damn well it was closed season. He wondered why she insisted on saying such things, was it to get a rise out of him?
“Yes, rather, like a trout.” She answered and laughed.
He took his spectacles off to have a closer look at her, and this exhibition of sudden humour. His idea of a curt reply to this sort of ‘wifey’ comment was the particularly pointed snapping of the pages of the newspaper. Unfortunately he had no paper to hand. So he pulled his handkerchief out and had a good blow. He then grabbed the gun.
“Oh do stop for one minute, please Raymond. There is absolutely nothing in the garden to shoot, you’ll be hunting down the toads soon.”
His riposte was to aim at the sound of a cooing pigeon, he shot into a dark, verdant arbour, they heard a desperate clattering and a pigeon catapulted itself right at Margaret, it smacked into her head and she toppled from her chair raising her hands and screaming. It then gyrated in a desperate one winged circle about them, battering their heads. It then flew fifty feet into the air and plummeted back down to earth like a great grey pebble and landed, remaining quite still.
“Good God.” Said Raymond, he was unnerved by the bird which appeared to be dead but it was hard to tell. He was unmanned. He trembled. He felt for another pellet in his pocket, his fingers were damp and the lead shot slipped from his finger tips. He was also aware that Margaret was shouting at him.
“That was unforgivable.” Cried Margaret she was shocked and tearful, it had been so sudden, so violent. Both of them felt a little disorientated. She rushed towards the house.
It was hardly his fault but he employed a little real politic and apologised. He made a pretence of poking nonchalantly at the bird. “Could eat it, plump enough, but judging by its behaviour probably get awful indigestion.” These words came out feebly and not with the hearty unconcern he hoped for when uttering them. He felt an indescribable dread. He felt helpless and stupid, like a child who has been told with good reason not to do something but none the less, belligerently determined does it - sees the consequences and cries.
Margaret had stamped inside, a trail of shrill “reallys” strung the garden like bunting. Raymond still shaking and perspiring sat back down upon the seat. His breathing was laboured, the bird remained on the lawn, he wished it would vanish. He could see no sign of blood on its breast, no broken wing. He had a sudden fit of vertigo, and lowered his head between his knees.
The Stag’s head eyed Margaret coldly as she entered the hall, Margaret shook her head as she passed it. She was discomposed; her tight bun was loosened and her grey hair fell about her shoulders. In her bedroom she sat at her dressing table, she looked at her reflection, squinted and could almost imagine herself forty years younger. The tumble from the bench reminded her strangely of her youth, the knocks she had taken so blithely.
A few drops of rain fell on Raymond's motionless figure, and it was with horror that he saw the ghastly pigeon suddenly take flight. Raymond sat and watched it, he gripped the stock of the rifle, a nausea subsumed him in the gloaming.
On returning downstairs Margaret heard a thump, a knock perhaps at the back door, it was a muffled sound. She tentatively opened it and was beaten back by the pigeon which flew into the kitchen and wheeled about crazily. The bird battered her and then hit the windows, thumping against the panes. She heard some crockery smash. She hurried into the garden. She stopped.
Raymond lay flat on his back.
