Jackdaws

Her mother smiled, satisfied, and Flick tucked in hungrily. As she ate, she reflected wryly that Ma had effortlessly got out of her everything she wanted to know, despite Flick's attempts to avoid answering questions. "You should work for military intelligence," she said through a mouthful of fried egg. "They could use you as an interrogator. You've made me tell you everything."

"I'm your mother, I've a right to know."

It didn't much matter. Ma would not repeat any of it.

She sipped a cup of tea as she watched Flick eat. "You've got to win the war all on your own, of course," she said with fond sarcasm. "You were that way from a child-independent to a fault."

"I don't know why. I was always looked after. When you were busy there were half a dozen housemaids doting on me."

"I think I encouraged you to be self-sufficient because you didn't have a father. Whenever you wanted me to do something for you, like fix a bicycle chain, or sew on a button, I used to say, 'Try it yourself, and if you can't manage I'll help you.' Nine times out of ten I heard no more about it."

Flick finished the bacon and wiped her plate with a slice of bread. "A lot of the time, Mark used to help me." Mark was Flick's brother, a year older.

Her mother's face froze. "Is that right," she said.

Flick suppressed a sigh. Ma had quarreled with Mark two years ago. He worked in the theater as a stage manager, and lived with an actor called Steve. Ma had long known that Mark was "not the marrying kind," as she put it. But in a burst of excessive honesty Mark had been foolish enough to tell Ma that he loved Steve, and they were like husband and wife. She had been mortally offended and had not spoken to her son since.

Flick said, "Mark loves you, Ma."

"Does he, now."

"I wish you'd see him."

"No doubt." Ma picked up Flick's empty plate and washed it in the sink.

Flick shook her head in exasperation. "You're a bit stubborn, Ma."

"I daresay that's where you get it from, then."

Flick had to smile. She had often been accused of stubbornness. "Mulish" was Percy's word. She made an effort to be conciliatory. "Well, I suppose you can't help the way you feel. Anyway, I'm not going to argue with you, especially after such a wonderful breakfast." All the same, it was her ambition to get the two of them to make up.

But not today. She stood up.

Ma smiled. "It's lovely to see you. I worry about you."

"I've got another reason for coming. I need to talk to Diana."

"Whatever for?"

"Can't say."

"I hope you're not thinking of taking her to France with you."

"Ma, hush! Who said anything about going to France?"

"I suppose it's because she's so handy with a gun."

"I can't say."

"She'll get you killed! She doesn't know what discipline is, why should she? She wasn't brought up that way. Not her fault, of course. But you'd be a fool to rely on her."

"Yes, I know," Flick said impatiently. She had made a decision and she was not going to review it with Ma.

"She's had several war jobs, and been sacked from every one."

"I know." But Diana was a crack shot, and Flick did not have time to be fussy. She had to take what she could get. Her main worry was that Diana might refuse. No one could be forced to do undercover work. It was strictly for volunteers. "Where is Diana now, do you know?"

"I believe she's in the woods," Ma said. "She went out early, after rabbits."

"Of course." Diana loved all the blood sports: foxhunting, deerstalking, hare coursing, grouse shooting, even fishing. If there was nothing else to do, she would shoot rabbits.

"Just follow the sound of gunfire."

Flick kissed her mother's cheek. "Thanks for breakfast." She went to the door.

"And don't get on the wrong side of her gun," Ma called after her.

Flick left by the staff door, crossed the kitchen garden, and entered the woods at the rear of the house. The trees were bright with new leaves, and the nettles grew waist-high. Flick tramped through the undergrowth in her heavy motorcycle boots and leather trousers. The best way to attract Diana, she thought, would be by issuing a challenge.

When she had gone a quarter of a mile into the woods, she heard the report of a shotgun. She stopped, listened, and shouted, "Diana!" There was no reply.

She walked toward the sound, calling out every minute or so. Eventually she heard, "Over here, you noisy idiot, whoever you are!"

"Coming, just put down the gun."

She came upon Diana in a clearing, sitting on the ground with her back against an oak tree, smoking a cigarette. A shotgun lay across her knees, broken open for reloading, and there were half a dozen dead rabbits beside her. "Oh, it's you!" she said. "You scared all the game away."

"They'll come back tomorrow." Flick studied her childhood companion. Diana was pretty in a boyish way, with dark hair cut short and freckles across her nose. She wore a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers. "How are you, Diana?"

"Bored. Frustrated. Depressed. Otherwise fine."

Flick sat on the grass beside her. This might be easier than she had thought. "What's the matter?"