‘Well, I’m not clear how much he knows,’ says Rose. ‘Pierre isn’t saying an awful lot and keeps to his studio – he seems to be there so much at the moment, maybe, for once, he’s actually working. And Ceci doesn’t know anything. Does she? Why? Do you think she does?’ Rose then wails, ‘Ooh, this wind,’ and pulls up her collar. ‘It puts ten years on to the face.’ She has become much more appearance-conscious since the thing with Jesse Marlon, I’ve noticed.

We stop talking, because the birds are now coming thick and fast.

Serena comes over to join us, managing to look edgy in a belted Norfolk jacket over breeks, and a battered cowboy hat with a string of turquoise stones slung around the brim on her blonde mane. Rose and I cover our ears as bangs echo over the valley, the pheasants thud to the ground and the browny, downy feathers take their time to dawdle earthwards, insouciantly, as an afterthought, even as their owners lie twitching in their death throes.

All the while, the beaters are moving through the woods like a primitive tribe, making tom-tom noises, clacking, issuing high cries, knocking on trees with sticks, waving white flags as if in surrender, the primeval drum-roll to the pointless slaying that will follow.

‘Let’s take the duck now,’ Granville cries. ‘For the last drive! Shall we all stagger down to the river, eh?’ And so, for once, the guns walk on their own two feet down to the Lar, to where the numbered pegs have been stuck in the bank in readiness for their arrival.

I am paired with Andrew. Rose has gone to stand by Ned, who has been missing and scowling. One beater is counting each shot fired with a clicker. At the end of the day the ratio of birds to shots fired will be worked out. Max has noticed this and, being terribly competitive, wants the biggest bag.

‘Look, Max, it’s not a contest,’ says Andrew, noticing Max’s blood is well and truly up after the claret, not to mention the sloe gin at elevenses, ‘so let’s not play silly buggers, eh? It’s not about who shoots more birds, it’s about Granville’s ability to show us high, testing pheasant and our ability to shoot them. A man’s a fool if he’s in some sort of damn competition, especially with me.’

Granville, who never misses anything, notes all this, and I see him have a word in the ear of the second keeper. The keeper then moves quietly over and takes up a stance at Max’s side, presumably on the pretext of helping by being Max’s loader but basically to keep an eye on him, as Max has only shot in City syndicates before – i.e. much less than the other guns.

At our arrival, the ducks take off lazily and fly low, following the river.