‘Where are they going?’ I ask, wondering why none of the guns are shooting.

The guns stand at their pegs. It is suddenly quiet. All you can hear is the wind in the trees, the whirr of wings and the high whining of the dogs, panting to go and pick up dead birds.

‘The birds will be better when they come back,’ replies Andrew, with certainty. The weak winter sun goes behind a cloud. I zip Cas’s anorak up and toy with the idea of pulling up the hood but vainly decide against it. ‘When they come back, they’ll be higher, and faster,’ Andrew says, a cigar clamped between his teeth, ‘but still, there’ll be a heck of a lot of sky around each bird, there always is after lunch, as I fear our friend Max will discover.’ He raises his gun to his shoulder. It is a beautifully tooled Holland & Holland, with silver etching on the oiled gunmetal barrel. Earlier, he had told me it was a pheasant shooting gun from 1918 which used to belong to his grandfather, and I had tried to look suitably moved.

‘Holland & Holland make the best. It used to be Purdey. Now a lot of people are buying Berettas,’ he had gone on. ‘If you’re going to reward yourself, the Silver Pigeon is a sound investment,’ and he continued to talk so knowledgeably about box-locks and forged barrels that I began to regret asking anything about it in the first place, but I tried to look keenly interested nonetheless.

And then the duck return, higher, as promised, and in formation. Andrew cocks his head, switches the cigar to the other side of his mouth, and squeezes the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

And on, and on, as the guns keep a watchful eye on each other to see how many birds fall from the sky in relation to how many cartridges are spent at each peg, with cries of ‘over’ and ‘shot’, until no more duck. Duck all gone. Or so we think.

And so at last, after a whole day of this shooting and drinking and driving and standing, the head keeper peeps his whistle, long and loud. The guns fall silent. But just as everyone’s mind is switching gear, from slaughter to tea, there comes a jam in the transmission. For one lone shot rings out – followed by a distant cry from the edge of the copse on the other side of the Lar river. ‘Oh fuckety fuckety fuck,’ Max screams, dragging his army-style ear defenders off his head. ‘I didn’t hear the bloody fucking whistle. Didn’t know it was the end of the drive. For fuck’s sake!’