The Ribbajack

The Directors of Greenacres Investments P.L.C. slept soundly many miles away in London. G.I.P.L.C., as they were known, had recently purchased the woods from the Urban District Council with a view to developing it as a sporting area for upwardly mobile shooting clubs and rich foreign tourists (on the agreement that the adjacent public fields be converted into a private car park). Of late, Greenacres had been concerned with the dwindling numbers of pheasants, woodgrouse, woodpigeons, woodcock, partridge and quail. They prepared a report for their shareholders, stating that the area would be patrolled, night and day, by two gamekeepers. These men would guard the living assets (gamebirdwise), protecting them until such time as the paid members were ready to blast the birds with their custom-made shotguns. Also, they would discourage any local activities (poachingwise), thereby rendering said woodland tract a viable investment (shootingwise), whilst still complying with parliamentary regulations (environmentwise).

Clouds drifted serenely across the apricot moon, as trees and bushes swayed in the soft breeze, causing shadowy patterns through the nightshaded woodland. Rosie Glegg felt the warm rush of air as she was hauled swiftly along by the big grey dog. Its keen eyes were everywhere at once as it weaved twixt oak and elm, slid around juniper and laurel, and bounded over thistle and gorse, never once stumbling on protruding root or rock. Rosie’s wild young soul was filled to overflowing with exhilaration. She sniffed hungrily at newfound aromas. Pheasant, which smelled better than hamburger, partridge that no hot dog sausage could equal. Oh, why had she been born a mere human, forced to wear clothes and shoes instead of having fur and paws? Why could she not be a dog? Better one night as Rover than a lifetime as Rosie!

Her dog, Charlie, halted, his body quivering with anticipation. Rosie sensed it, too. Danger and adventure combined. Together they crouched in a fern bed, watching the unsuspecting gamekeeper’s back.

Gamekeeper Gordon M. Liggett perched upon his folding campstool, nibbling at a cucumber-and-marmalade sandwich. Nearby, his double-barrelled shotgun lay loaded and close to hand. Approximately six yards from where he sat in hiding, a cock and hen pheasant stood tethered to a slender rowan trunk. Gordon M. sipped Lapsang Oolong tea from his vacuum flask as he watched the live bait he had set up. Hah! Local poachers, he’d show ’em! Those working-class thieves always fell, hook, line and sinker, for the old brace of pheasant trick. He curled his lip scornfully at the unseen culprits as he pictured the scenario. Two village ne’er-do-wells clad in cheap, discount-store fashion. Probably full to the gills with beer and armed with catalogue-purchased Czechoslovakian air pistols. Hunting unlicensed for game birds, which they would doubtless sell to the Manor Restaurant and Carvery, thereby supplementing their generous State Unemployment Benefit. He imagined their conversation.

“Cor, stripe me pink, ’arry, a coupla peasants for the bag!”

“Haha, them’s pheasants, Reg, we’re peasants. Still, they’ll do nicely, thank yew. Wait’ll I get a bead on ’em!”

At this point, Gordon M. would step majestically from cover, shotgun at the ready. “Stand perfectly still, you two louts! I am a licensed gamekeeper for Greenacres P.L.C., and I’ll stand no jiggery pokery from either of you felons. Drop those pistols, hand over that sack marked swag. Now, quick march to the police station. This gun has hair triggers, y’know!”

“Blimey, don’t shoot, Guv, we’ve both got families!”

“We wasn’t doin’ nuffink, sir, just gavverin’ wild-flowers!”

“Tell it to the marines, laddie, the game’s up for you two.”

Gordon M. chuckled to himself. He was the very fellow for the job. Greenacres Investments P.L.C. would soon realise that they had hired a professional gamekeeper. Unlike that other oaf, Patterson, who had let himself get bitten by a couple of kids on the day shift. Huh, he’d let them escape, too!

A rustling from the ferns interrupted his meander ings. Gordon M. Liggett’s hands began shaking—he realised that he was scared. Well, sitting out alone in these woods at night, there could be a whole gang of poachers stealing up on him. His confidence was restored when he saw the shotgun lying nearby. He reached for it. Suddenly a lot of things happened all at once.

As he touched the gun, something barged roughly into him, knocking him sideways. Falling from his folding campstool, he sat down squarely on his vacuum flask. It splintered, injuring his bottom with hot tea and tiny glass shards. Gordon M. gave an odd squeak of dismay, which mingled with the cackling of pheasants as they were seized by someone, or something. His gun missing, he struggled upright, treading upon his unwrapped sandwiches.