The Game Book, bound in black morocco leather, lay on his desk and the sight of it cheered him up considerably. He knew of no other morale-booster that could ever rival the Game Book!
It had belonged to his great-grandfather; it had then passed to his grandfather, then to his father. His grandfather had shot with the Prince of Wales, later Edward VII. Screwing up his face, John de Coverley adjusted his silver-rimmed monocle in his left eye. Pheasants 456, Hares 90, Rabbits 99, Woodstock 57, Boar 15, Grouse 47. He turned a page, then another.
He picked up his pen and started writing. Herring-gulls 18. Lesser black-backed gulls 4. Bonaparte gulls. 3 Black-legged Kittiwake 4. Sybil gulls 4 –
No, not Sybil – Sabine – Sabine gulls! Funny mistake to make – a ‘Freudian slip’. Well, sometimes he did see Sybil – his impossible older sister – as a seagull. It wasn’t only his imagination. She did resemble a seagull. The way she walked, the way she put her head to one side, the quizzical look she gave him. Most irritating of all, there was her cawing laugh. He had nearly taken a pot-shot at her the other day. There were times when he felt like wringing Sybil’s neck.
John knew the exact number of seagulls he had killed the night before. Also the precise genus they belonged to. He had examined each corpse carefully by the light of his lantern. Every time he shot a gull, he made an entry in his little notebook; he later transferred all the entries to the pages of the Game Book.
The gulls were familiar with him by now and they tried to fight back in various ways. Sometimes they were too lazy for a full-on attack, then they tried to scare him off with their ominous ‘gagagaga’ and when they failed, they subjected him to a low pass. One of their intimidation tactics was to drop oyster shells on his head, another to vomit on him, or worse, and, if he let them, they would certainly succeed in bespattering him since they had the precision of stealth-bombers. Only he didn’t let them. As soon as they started descending, he took aim and pulled the trigger – boum-boum!
He never missed. He was a crack shot.
Most of his male ancestors had been big game hunters. De Coverleys had travelled the world over, looking for beasts to kill, to places like India, the Amazon, the Zambezi, even the Siberian steppes. Papa’s hunting lodge in the Upper Hebrides, he remembered, had been full of ‘trophies of the chase’. Antlers and tusks gracing every wall, elephant’s feet serving as umbrella stands, and, best of all, there had been the mounted maws of snarling tigris and ursa.
The difference between me and my ancestors, John thought, is that I don’t shoot pour le sport. No – this was war! He regarded himself as a soldier. He had moved his bed to the middle of the room and it now occupied a diagonal position, like a battleship of the paper game Jutland, which, forty years ago, he had been extremely fond of playing.
There wasn’t anything wrong with him, was there? He took off his monocle and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. He thought back to that fatal day in June when he had been nearly scalped by the two herring gulls, which had swooped down on him and attacked him simultaneously, in a synchronized manner …
Perhaps he had suffered some kind of brain damage after all. Or was there something in the de Coverley genes that caused male members of the family to cling tenaciously to some idée fixe? Or, for that matter, to remain partially stuck in their childhood? John smiled at the idea.
The doctor who examined him had described his wounds as ‘superficial’, but sometimes these chaps didn’t know what they were talking about. The funny thing was that he had never so much as considered the possibility of subjecting himself to a proper, more comprehensive examination. Sybil had made the suggestion, several times in fact, but then he knew she was eager to have him despatched to a loony bin, blast her.
Had he been born with a rogue gene or was he catapulted into non-conformity by the seagulls’ attack? He found the question endlessly fascinating. As a matter of fact it was his sister who was the bedlamite. Sybil frequently did things that defied logic, like filling the house with crowds of people and then going off to London.
Extreme gregariousness was a form of madness, of that he had no doubt. And she had dismissed the servants. She was up to something, he could tell. Not that he minded a servant-less state. The fewer people there were about the better. He needed neither a daily woman nor a night nurse.
He would have preferred the island ‘not honour’d with a human shape’. He’d told Sybil time and again – no more house-parties, please – but he might have been speaking Eskimo. It stuck in his craw that his sister never seemed to understand what he told her. Or pretended not to.
If gulls pose a particular threat to health and safety, a cull should be conducted, either by shooting or poisoning. He had seen that written somewhere. He was doing society a favour, not that he expected society to show any appreciation, let alone return the favour.
Gulls could live up to forty years, which was an awfully long time. They bred excessively. Their wingspan was three to five feet and they had fearsome hooked beaks. They were evilly-inclined and full of malice. They knew he went to bed at about two every morning and they woke him up at five with their shrieks. They tried to punish him for the destruction of their brethren.
John glanced at his watch. Tea-time. Marching up to a side table, he turned on the electric kettle. There were the Spode teacup and pot with the hunting scenes which he rather liked. Sybil, he had to admit, was awfully adept at providing him with regular supplies of eatables. And if she wasn’t around, it would be that obliging American girl who answered his call. The other day he had asked for a dish of fritto misto – and he’d got it – hey presto! – piping hot – done to perfection!
The American girl had also brought him a whole cherry Bakewell tart. He had tried to lure and entice the Enemy with pieces of cake, which he had left lying on his windowsill. His intention was to capture a seagull alive, put it in a cage and subject it to some refined nastiness worthy of Dante, but the blasted things were too clever to fall for such a ruse, it seemed.
There was still some cake left. Goody! He swung his monocle on its black silk ribbon.
The American girl was actually the kind of girl he’d enjoy making friends with. But she seemed to be at the beck and call of the chap in the yachting cap, another American, whom John suspected of coveting the island. It was the kind of aberration that urgently needed correcting.
As John poured boiling water over the Gunpowder tealeaves, he felt the beginnings of a headache. The fellow in the yachting cap looked ruddy and hearty and he had discussed the island with Sybil. They had been standing on the terrace below. The fellow said the island was exactly what he needed …
There should be an eleventh commandment. Thou shall not covet thy host’s island.
He carried his cup to his desk and sat in the swivel chair. The window was open. Such a magnificent day – not a single cloud in the sky! He couldn’t see any gulls either. He took a sip of tea.
No, he didn’t care at all for the chap in the yachting cap. Not one little bit.
What was that – voices? There were people in the library – which was immediately below his room.
His headache was worse now, so he reached out for the rosewood box that lay on the desk before him. Taking out a sheet of blotting paper, he tore out a large piece, crumpled it up between his fingers and popped it into his mouth. Then another.
The trick was to concentrate and chew slowly. Once the blotting paper was transformed into paste, he would insert it between his front teeth and the upper lip and thus prevent the vibrations of the skull which caused the shooting headaches.
The voices in the library were becoming louder. He was a perfectly reasonable man, but if they went on like that, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Should he get his gun and fire a warning shot in the air?
He could actually hear what was being said. Nellie Grylls asking when Sybil was coming back. He knew her voice well enough. Once, years ago, he and Nellie Grylls had sat next to each other at dinner. He then heard the chap with the hearty American accent – the chap who coveted his island – ask the girl called Maisie to sit beside him. Damned presumptuous of him.
John put down his cup. He heard a door open and then there was a sudden hush.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises. Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
He didn’t see himself as Caliban, but the Bard might have had Sphinx Island in mind when he wrote The Tempest. I wouldn’t mind a Miranda, John thought. Or for that matter, a Maisie. It was some time since he had enjoyed female company of the right sort. That American girl would be quite perfect.
He glanced out of the window. L’isle, c’est moi, he murmured. Sybil and her American could go to hell. He believed the skies would be clear tonight. There was going to be a moon – a full moon?
The next moment a voice started speaking. It was a schoolmarm-ish sort of voice. Some bossy middle-aged woman. Really, the people his sister mixed with!
What was it the woman just said? John sat up. No, ridiculous, he couldn’t have heard properly. The teacup shook slightly in his hand and tea spilled in the saucer.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to John de Coverley!’