Games

MOVING ON

The shed door released easily to the old key but it only swung half open, stopped by the shrubs. Frank had been going to cut them back.  Too late now, the trees would stay as they were.  He peered into the shed, some grey light leaked drab in through the smeared window to outline piles of stuff.  The sharper light from the pushed-open door now picked them out as a mess of old tools, toys and treasures.  The lawnmower occupied the only clear space and Frank pulled it out to make room.  For a moment, as he pushed it onto the lawn, he contemplated starting it up and cutting the grass but immediatly dropped that idea, the house was sold, the buyers could mow the lawn.

He had told Janice the shed clear-out would be all done in half an hour or so.  When he had told her that he had seen himself quickly man-sorting stuff into three logical piles, rubbish, tools and treasures. Throw, need and want, simple.
                             
That was well over an hour ago and as he straightened up he let out a small moan. 
There were three small piles, plus one other don't know pile, and one pile for Janice to decide, and a pile of things to give to James who he knew would use them, and one pile for the charity shop, and a pile for eBay. 
So that was eight piles. Still all in the shed.
He had just been moving stuff around. Frank admitted he wasn't any better at this sorting game than Jan.
 
He unfolded a faded but sturdy picnic chair from the 'Janice' stack and sat down to be closer to his eight piles.  Time for some practical decisions.
Then he spotted it. Not in a pile yet.  Leaned up forgotten in the corner, thick end down.
'Oh my god, look at you...' 
The felt-lined bag had gone brittle over the years and it cracked to his touch as he reached over and pulled at the shoulder strap.  The old zip running the full length had fused shut but the pocket stitching had split so he could see a small, rusty oil can pressed against a stained and brittle cloth. Frank felt a catch in his throat as he glimpsed the pink pony pattern.
He changed his grip and felt the familiar shape inside the bag.
' Let me see if I can get a look at you'. 
The stitching at base had rotted and Frank pulled the weapon out of its shroud through the hole in the seam.  The timber butt was water damaged, grey, split and rough, the heel plate a corroded green and powdery mess. 
'OH.  What a shame, look at you.  You're the dead one now, aren't you'
The rifle barrel no longer held a blued-grey sheen, the once smooth, beautifully carved stock no longer gleamed a sweet honey brown. He thumbed the green muck off what had been the shiny brass heel.  Pulling the rifle onto his lap he tried to work the chamber ... it had seized.  He slowly ran his hands over the decrepit treasure and a tear cut an irritating path down the side of his cheek.  He brushed it away and sighted down the weapon from his shoulder.
The memory was too bitter-sweet.

He'd been like a kid at Christmas , he'd never owned his own rifle before and had never fired one outside of a range.  It was a month after his 40th birthday and he'd driven the old Landy out of town, along the farm tracks and into the woods.  Susan had been bouncing excitedly in the passenger seat asking every possible question about what they were going to do. For the previous four Friday nights she had accompanied him down to the range, watching from the gallery and cheering him as he got his eye in.
'Really Petal, you have to calm down now. You'll scare all the game away and there won't be anything to shoot at' 
'Aw Daddy! No... I'll be real quiet.  What'll be there? Will there be bears there , will there be  wolves?'
'Sweetheart we'll be lucky if we bag ourselves a pheasant or pair of rabbits for Mummy to stew.  Today we just learn to be quiet and careful.  You and me Pet, we are stealth hunters!' 
This of course did nothing to calm her down.
When the hunt had begun though she had been quiet, and careful, a very good girl.  She had even spotted the rabbit first and, staying behind him all the time, had tugged silently at his sleeve pointing wide-eyed.
He'd smiled at her, moved her backwards a little, cocked, took aim and fired.
The retort shook the valley silent, two rabbits leaped into the air. One twisted itself and hit the ground running for cover, the other fell, lifeless, into the long grass.
Good, a clean shot.
Susan tugged his coat as he ejected the cartridge.
'You Got It Daddy!' she yelled 'Can we go and see?'  He clicked the safety.
'Sure Pet, but might be messy.  I'll check it out first'
'Well that's not going to help me be a hunter is it Daddy?' she frowned, attempting to mimic Janice.
'No, I suppose not'.  He had a feeling this was another of those life lessons he may have got wrong.
Naturally Susan was the first to the target.  She stopped short and stared, locked on the creature.  She whispered,
'Is the bunny dead Daddy?'  'Its eyes are open!  It's looking at me ...'
Frank picked the brown-white bundle up by the ears. One small mark above the shoulder, a large bloodstain on the chest.  Clean through the heart.
'Very dead, very quick, Petal'
She reached out to take it and cradled it in her arms, patting its ears flat along its back.
'Oh Daddy she's so cute.' Sorrow flowed from her as she pulled out her handkerchief and gently began to wipe away its blood. 
She looked up at him and pleaded, 'Can we go home now Daddy?'
Susan had sat quietly,  nursing the rabbit in her lap and sometimes weeping, all the way home. 
Janice had tried to look pleased with the prize as Susan sadly handed it to her.  Janice never did make a rabbit stew.
There were never any more days out with the rifle, Susan had woken as her  normal happy self the next morning but they never did speak of the hunt.

Frank replaced the rifle into its bag and placed it carefully on the fourth pile.