Goosey Goosey Gander

Prologue

a s the morning mists lifted from the reed beds a single shot rang out, echoing along the estuary. The geese, frightened in their early flight from the ponds to their feeding ground along the river, croaked their concern and rose higher, whirling and banking against the first red of the rising sun. The ducks worried and scurried about the other lakes until calming as no further report reverberated over the marshes to disturb their early swim. Slowly, with care and suspicion, the Bewick’s swans circled, necks outstretched until, by instinct as much as by sound, they swept their way, reassured, to their feet-forward landings on the quietly filling waters of the tidal reach.

The marksman broke the gun and rested it across the crook of the arm. One shot was enough. No dog was called for to run and splash, tail wagging, into the water on the recovery mission. Not today. Not this day. The mark had been struck as intended and, as intended, left to float. As the sun rose further from the early Spring horizon it, for the moment, matched the spreading red along the reed’s edge as the body, half hanging out as though in a last attempt to paddle for safety, drifted in the small undirected craft to the boundary of its last known world.

The Mute swan, nesting, watched, with head bowed, the floating pyre go slowly by.

Chapter One

t he village, hamlet more than village – the real village, townlet, was more than a mile away, on the main road which had pushed Talbot aside long ago – stood at the river’s edge. It still, just, sustained a small shop-cum-post office and a pub, The Bell . These did well when the Severn bore promenaded its way up the estuary, for Talbot was a vintage viewing spot. Other times, they continued by a combination of habit and hobby more than by regularly tinkling tills. Yet survive they did, as did a village school. By attracting children from a wide area, it had avoided the dread hand of the amalgamators, to the delight of its parents. Apart from the gaggle around what was euphemistically called The Square, there were few houses. Two big ones. Wickton, the pile that had been the Duke’s, and Thornley’s manor The Grange. Together with five or so farms they made up Talbot. Blakton, that mile up the river Blakton, straddling the main road from Wales to Gloucester, provided other services. Talbot remained a little world of its own. Peaceful, generally, but still absorbed in the drama of the previous year. The argument had been typified at The Grange.

Preposterous! Bloody preposterous! Impossible!!

Preposterous, maybe. But impossible? No. The Force is with him.

For a duckpond?

More than that. Much more than a duckpond. Acres of water. For ducks and for geese. And for people. Hordes of ‘em. Wanting lavatories and eateries, car parks and footpaths. All over. And, as I say, for this the Force is with him.

Like Hell it is! I’m the force, as you call it, in this district. It adjoins my land, and be damned to your Force.

No argument, Lacey. Not any longer. Not where he plans to go. Some shooting rights still, by tradition, may be retained, though that will take some sorting out. Compensation…

…Compensation! What for? It’s mine, I tell you.

No, Lacey, it’s not. You know that well enough. Not there. Not what he’s got hold of now, nor where the Duke allowed your father to go. That land’s his. By right. By proper inheritance. There’s no way out of that.

Can he be stopped?

We can try. Certainly try. Ken Gaskell had added the reinforcer as he saw the glint in the eye get yet fiercer. Most certainly shall try. But I hold out no hopes of overturning the Will. We might get some objections into the planning process, and here the lawyer paused and gave a somewhat hopeless shrug of his shoulders that did nothing to ease the fire storm he was facing. I say again. The Force is with him, and the government is quite a force. It likes it. It likes the idea a lot. So does the Council. So do the public, God bless them. Everyone’s into conservation these days, and here’s a case where you - they - can ally it to tourism. Money, my dear Lacey. Visitors. That’s what they see coming, to look at the geese and goggle at the ducks.

DeLacey Thornley, when he had learned of the plans to establish a wetlands park on his doorstep, as he saw it, was not to be assuaged as easily as that. His father had dominated the Council. His grandfather had been the Council; Chairman for over thirty years. Lacey regretted he had broken the chain. He should never have resigned. What’s age to do with anything? His still robust frame, at approaching eighty, was neither overweight nor scraggy with age. He still had vigour, and his five foot ten was still upright. Lacey overlooked the fact that he, unlike his forebears, couldn’t be sure of a safe Ward any more. No pocket borough left even for his deep pockets. He was no longer assured of an unopposed return, so had left while, as he put it at the time, ‘the going was good’. These duckpond plans threatened to throw up a few rocks in his smooth way of life. He still had influence; still controlled a member or two. He decided there and then that he would call them in. Needed to! following the solicitor’s indication that the liberal-fascist dolts who now held sway in the Council chamber were going to allow that whipper-snapper of an Alan Tewkes to flood the old Duke’s cress ponds and turn them into a goose haven. Thornley looked up at the space on the wall, above the wide, though now scarce used, fire place where, in more certain days, his and his father’s fowling pieces had hung. Proudly. Functionally. Yet, incarcerated in those damn fool locked cabinets the police now insisted on or not, he still knew what to do with them when it came to geese. And ducks. There was going to be a fight ahead.

Ken Gaskell’s family links with the Thornley family ran through the years. He, too, had a grandfather and a father, both in the law before him. Both handling the Thornley affairs. It was the only reason, he had often surmised, that DeLacey had stuck with him. A sort of loyalty, perhaps. Conservatism. Comfort. They had little in common. Widening opinions on most things ‘modern’. His father should still be dealing with the older man. He could still be relied on for comment, or insight, or consolation, but had retired to Eastbourne following his stroke. Ken did wonder if and, if so, when and how he should cease the connection. Let some other firm take on the Thornleys. Yet, with only DeLacey around and little chance of any family successor to the pile – it would make a fine Retirement Home come that time or, in view of Tewkes’ plans, an hotel – and with the weight he still carried locally, he was a client worth humouring that little longer. If he went on as he had that morning, it would not be over long before he, too, might be seeking sanctuary on the south coast! Until then, whatever his views and however expressed, Ken Gaskell knew he had a profitable client. There would be quite a few pounds in it if his client did try to dispute any lingering rights he felt he had to the water meadows. By the time he had cooled off, Gaskell doubted much would come of that. Blusterer, maybe, but with a cool enough brain behind the smouldering eyes. He could still shoot, if he wished, as he so often had, along the upper reaches of the river, but would he now? So far as the lawyer knew, the self-styled ‘Squire’ had not taken a gun out in years. His bones were but human, and the waters of the river were as chill as the muds of the banks were treacherous. Legs that had bestrode far flung plains, deserts and mountain ranges, were now satisfied by ambling around his still generous estate. Nonetheless, he knew that he would have to keep an ear as well as an eye open to head off any unwise action. He might ring his Dad for a line on that. If Lacey decided that he was going to get that ‘whipper-snapper’ off the land or, failing that, spike his expansion plans, then there was much he might try to do. Not all of it would be wise, legally.

Councillor Mrs Antonia White had not been surprised to be summoned. Not that she conceded such a word. ‘Asked’. ‘Requested’. Those were her interpretations of the call which had come from De Lacey, but she knew that the invitation should be accepted with all dispatch. She sat on the Council thanks to him. He had, so he had told her often enough, bequeathed his Ward to her. The voters who supported her did so because she was his successor. His chosen successor. There seemed to be enough political truth in that to hold her loyalty. Not a blind one. She was her own woman, but a practical one. She enjoyed being on the Council. Her two former bids had failed in unsympathetic areas, and her selection for the Riverside Ward had hung much in the balance. Those responsible for selecting candidates had a more exact replacement for DeLacey Thornley in mind when he had declared the end of his innings. But DeLacey remained a politician, retiring only from the hustings. A strong man of his nature selected in his place – his stature, he knew, was irreplaceable – would not be as malleable, not as willing to give him access to his ear as readily as a woman might, especially one who wanted a seat and had yet to find one. He had worked to ensure that a surrogate would be chosen when he stepped down, not a clone. Arriving at Thornley’s house, The Grange, the Councillor was scarcely inside before she was addressed.

You’ll have heard of the plans?

For the wetlands park? Not a difficult guess.

What else? DeLacey had been calm. Not haranguing a solicitor, now. Influencing a voice accepted as independent on the Council. I can’t say that I am happy. People mean upset. Traffic, noise and sweet papers in every hedgerow. Sort of thing. Are you happy with the plans?

Mrs White had at that stage a problem. She didn’t then know what the plans were. She knew of the intention. That had been trumpeted abroad for some months. But the detail was not yet in her hands. There had been a public meeting. A consultation. Chaired by a bigwig from Conservation – which of the myriad bodies that now pollute that subject she could not recall. There had been a council committee meeting that night and thus she had not been free to attend. Instead, she had to rely on the reports of others. These had varied with the personal agendas. What all agreed, what mattered to her, was that a plan for developing diversity in nature, for a wild life reserve providing easy access to the wonders of the water-bird world, had been enthusiastically applauded by a large audience. A large audience that was mainly local. Such an audience consisted of voters. Voters wanted to be part of saving the goose and the duck. All informants told her that. The public mood, they said, was clear. This struck her forcibly. How useful to be with climate change, or conservation or whatever the tag was that week and, at the same time, to secure good will amongst the voters. Now that was practical politics. That’s democracy at its very best. So, faced with an anti DeLacey, she strove to edit her views and realign those of her host.

There seems little chance of any official objection and, at first sight you must allow me to say, I can’t see any grounds for one. For a wetlands park that is. The infrastructure will need looking at. Carefully.

There had been a pause.

Votes in it?

I think so. Also money. Would help our precepts. All that carpark money. If we can site them on Council land and not that of Alan Tewkes.

He’s got the lot, though, hasn’t he? Mortlemann left him all the ground. All the old Duke’s cress ponds for starters. Gave the house to Jeremy, I know. Plus the money for all I know. The land went to Alan.

Nothing to Galina?

Don’t leave property to daughters. Anyway, the girl married money and conveniently saw the man off once the cash was secure.

Really, Lacey! You wouldn’t speak like that if you were still courting votes.

Never did court them. One reason I left. Lacey was in no way abashed. Damned good marriage she made. Financially that is. Nothing else seems to have happened. She’s only now beginning to blossom if you want my opinion. Will become a full-blown merry widow soon, you’ll see. Wouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t behind Alan’s scheme, backing it with her money. Could afford a million or two, I’m certain. Probably earns that much in interest alone each year. Good God! She’s as well off as these damned footballers are these days.

Antonia had steered him away from one of his rants. She was a busy woman, and thankfulness stretched only so far.

Maybe you could run the carparks on your land. The far field borders Tewkes’.

That had been a mistake. She received a rant.

The fate of the Mortelmann land and money had captured the interest of all in the area. DeLacey had, at first, been put off by the ‘suspicious’ name when the industrialist had bought outright the land and big house that had been the home of the Duke who had died familyless, the title dying with him. Whether aware of the suspicion of DeLacey, shared by more than a few around, or just because the new owner wanted acceptance into the beagle hunt and the shooting fraternity, there had been a name change to Tewkes.

‘Probably because he went on a charabanc outing to Tewkesbury one day, though better than to Bugbrooke’, the then Councillor Thornley had been heard to mutter. Over time he, DeLacey, had come to accept his new neighbour. ‘Not a bad chap after all and, I have to say, a damn fine shot.’ He was not so keen on the outcome of the division of the spoils upon the renamed Tewkes’ death from cancer.

You’ll keep an eye on things? Let me know what he puts in for. Particularly carparks and any access roads. Quicker we put a few spokes in his wheels the better.

Antonia had wanted to say that, from all that she had heard of possible developments, she was not keen on spoking any wheels. She was personally, voters apart, sympathetic to what was being proposed. Had a decided feeling that this was a good use of otherwise waste land. For that was all it seemed to be. A few people did shoot over it, she knew. This did not encourage her support. Killing birds for fun was no longer the flavour of the month even in a county that, largely, still supported hunting. Funny things, voters’ consciences. But, early days! She knew that DeLacey was looking to pre-empt any plans of Tewkes. She needed to keep her political balance. At this stage, it behove her no more than to stonewall.

Although not knowledgeable on the subject, Antonia White knew that the estuary attracted an interesting gathering of winged migrants most winters. She could see, further, that with encouragement they could form the basis of a worthwhile collection. A visitor focus in a by-passed area. She had said so to Jeremy Tewkes recently, when she had met him striding, gun over his arm, towards the river one morning. She had not got a favourable reply.

Wildfowling is an inalienable right of all God-fearing Englishmen had been his response. Antonia was too polite to point out that his father had been anything but an Englishman, by birth. By paper he had changed that image and become a paragon of the Thornley set. She was politician enough to remember that. No room for prejudice. Yet, increasingly politically, it was all right to be prejudiced about people who killed things for sport. In this country. In this County. Why else the anti-hunting Bill, whatever the local sentiment? Yet she was going to hold her fire until things, plans, became clearer. Not all fences are uncomfortable to sit on. For a sensible period of time. There were things in common between the present and the previous councillors for the Riverside Ward.

Things in common or not, Mrs White had been ready enough to take her leave of DeLacey. She assured him that she would let him know ‘all that there was to know – officially’, at which he had smiled the smile of one who knows the game well, and left. As her car reached Goose Lane – such a suitable name for the not-much-more-than track which led down from the main village to Alan’s newly-acquired land, she spotted the owner walking up it.

Can I give you a lift?

Going up to see my brother.

Hop in. Been counting your chickens?

Alan Tewkes’ enthusiasm was boundless, as was his energy. Both were in full display in his inherited venture. To, on what was now his land, came migrating birds. He began to tell her of his plans to increase the numbers of resident ones. Antonia drove as slowly as made sense to allow him time to expand. Who knows what news she might pick up.

You need residents, as a basic attraction all year long as much as anything. And to attract more migrators.

Decoy ducks?

Alan shuddered at that term, but let it pass. He could see what she meant. He had pressed on.

We’ve got two breeding pairs of Goldeneye already, he had eagerly explained. At least, that is, we are sure the one pair bred last year and we’ve every hope that the two will this. I’ve got to keep a regular eye on them, though. Until we can afford it, there just isn’t enough predator-proof fencing. It’s a hell of a worry. At times.

I’m sure it must be. Must be, the councillor had murmured soothingly. It sounds like a big project you’ve undertaken, from all I’m told.

My life’s dream.

Yet your brother shoots them, she couldn’t help putting in, thinking of that morning exchange.

That’s one of the things I’m going to see him about now.

A bit formal, isn’t it? By appointment at the big house! She had tried to make her tone light and avoid any indication of probing.

Alan had laughed at the reference.

Since I moved out to the gatehouse, it is in a way. The big house, rather than my old home. Jeremy’s all right. I don’t like everything he does, but the house is now his and he has assumed that with it go the upper reaches shooting rights. In conjunction with Thornley, that is, although it is some time now since the old boy did any shooting himself.

Goldeneye (Goldeneye, WWT Llanelli)

Councillor White sensed a touch of scepticism in the young man’s tone that she would have liked to explore, especially following her recent summons, but Alan was in full flood.

Marcia’s not so keen on my calling, though. Sees me as the impoverished younger son. She, rather they, have got the house and the money, and thus, in her wifely eyes, they have the position. My problem is not them. They’re welcome to it all. My father left me all I ever wanted, although some funds extra to my little stipend, as I call it, would come in nicely. But no! My problem, the problem, is that birds coming in and going out can and will cross those upper reaches. I’m damned if I’m having Jeremy or anyone else shooting them. The idea’s preposterous! Unthinkable.

Chapter Two

t he setting could have been lifted direct from a Jane Austen novel. Or, to be more exact, a television producer’s idea of what it was that authoress was describing. Jeremy, the new master of what had once been a Ducal home, not on this occasion accompanied by his good lady wife Marcia, had decided to receive his younger brother while standing with his back to the fireplace. He should have had coat-tails to flap in the conventional manner, but his shooting jacket gave him flaps enough, and the confidence to put the kid into the way of things. For such a task was his. Of that Jeremy was certain. What had his father been thinking of? Splitting things up like that! He had the house, Wickton, and the money, or most of it. So he should! The two should go together. Damned expensive game, keeping up old places. Not that he could think of moving out. Marcia, already a ‘Lady’ by acquisition if not, yet, by act of primeministerial grace, had arrived. And there she was determined to stay. Still, all that land going to Alan! No good for either stock animals or crops, for sure, but owned space. There was something very satisfying, Jeremy felt as he awaited his sibling, in gazing out across broad acres one owned, waterlogged though they might be.

At over six foot, lean and with the air of authority which a short service commission in a ‘proper’ cavalry regiment endows – whether one is then got rid of nicely or purposefully – Jeremy knew that he filled the picture of a man who had standing in the community. Just by being in the community. Once he had come into his inheritance he had hurriedly and happily left his life as a not-over-successful estate agent. To be exact, an employee of an estate agent. He had not sparked sufficiently to advance in any way. Although selling property had not been that difficult over the period he had graced the occupation, his heart had never been in it. He was just glad it was all over. The experience had, however, given him a feel for land. For property. For what others wanted and how much they might pay for it. And not just property. Industry had needs wider than merely acres of buildable land. It needed water. And drainage. Alan’s salt marshes had a potential that his younger brother didn’t dream of. Luckily.

The brothers were not incompatible. Alan’s comment to Mrs White was an honest one. They did see each other as ‘all right’. They had both inherited more than possessions from Mr Tewkes (né Mortlemann) senior. He had built the whole of his life, not just his fortune, on entrepreneurial drive. This gene he had passed on though, as is so often the case, whether you be a creationist or Darwinian, the gift had mutated with the next generation. Jeremy, although slack as an underling in an estate office, was no slouch when it came to seeing, and seizing, a business opportunity. Hence one reason why he had languished as a seller of property; he was always on the look-out for associated openings for his own ambitions. In any event, the developing illness of his father not only kept him at home out of filial duty - and also where life was cheaper, the better to sustain Marcia - but, by so staying in the neighbourhood, it had made it easier to take over when the inevitable end came. Alan, the less driven of the two, also had received, from his father’s guidance and example, a business acumen that even the Business degree he had been directed into taking managed not to undo. Both men, along with their sister the, soon-to-be merry, widow Galina, had further acquired the ‘landowner’ manners and skills so assiduously embraced by Tewkes père.

Alan, on entering the long room, smiled at the patriarchal pose of his brother.

Not much fire there to keep your bum warm.

I do that by getting on with things.

You can’t criticise me for not doing likewise, now. Come on! And its colder working on water.

Which is no doubt why you’ve come to see me today. Especially. Thought you wouldn’t wait much longer or for a more casual occasion to turn up. Alan reddened slightly. Jeremy’s tone had been cold. No humour.

I have to make a few important decisions very soon, so I thought it best to get one or two things off my chest now. Sorry if it’s been a great inconvenience.

Jeremy had relaxed. A little. Only an iota. Alan knew that he could be an obsessive.

Oh, come off it, Alan! But you can’t blame me. Being wary of your motives I mean. I suppose you want me to fund your fun park. Well, I won’t. Let’s get that straight for a start. Have you seen the bills just for the roofing of the old stable? He did not mention the upkeep of the gatehouse wherein the other now dwelt.

Alan was not surprised by the reply. He would have liked some funding, or the promise of some backing; some underwriting perhaps. But he was not over-dismayed. Just a little miffed that it had been given before he had got round to asking the question. He had hoped to ease it in. Foiled in that approach, he abandoned the idea and pressed ahead with his main point.

OK! If you say so. It could be a money spinner you know.

Come the next millennium! Don’t kid me. There might, eventually, be a small working profit from the venture – if it ever gets off the ground – but a money spinner? You must be joking. It takes the might of a Peter Scott heritage empire to be big enough to employ and to profit. But your puddles! Not a chance. I’m not putting father’s money where he would never have put it. Sunk it. Literally.

Very well. Allow me some credit for knowing something of what I’m about. Of course we won’t rival the WWT. But there’s room for a one-off, particularly here. We’re far enough away from any of the Wetlands sites and the area’s perfect. Perfect for the birds and, thus, the people who love birds. People who don’t go out and shoot them.

Ha! Just as I thought. So, not only do you want me to give up my money to your half-baked, ill-thought-out project, but you want me to give up my sport as well. The second request, my dear brother, gets the same answer as the first. A firm no. No! Why the hell should I? What use are your flaming ducks except for sport. And the table. I’m not going to shoot the lot. Indeed, I doubt if I’ll get through as many as the hunters in Russia, or Iceland or wherever they come from, and the other countries they fly over. Just take a few more, that’s all. There’ll still be enough quack-quacks for you and your fellow fan club members to cluck over.

The cold tone hit home. Alan realised that he couldn’t expect Jeremy to see that his concern was as much with those birds he was introducing as