They spread out across the fields, fanning out away from the farm until they came to their allotted pegs. The mizzle had evaporated and now a weak autumnal sun warmed Arthur’s face. It was lonely shooting. You couldn’t speak to anyone, apart from the odd shout, though sometimes it was a relief to be removed from the unspoken separation he felt from all of them. Along the line of guns, he could see Jack down by the pines, his red hair garish in the sun, and further away near the marsh, the long figure of Peter, alert like a bloodhound. In the middle, an old squire on his land, was the tall, imposing figure of Mr Frost. Arthur couldn’t tell if the state of the farm’s finances weighed him down, but certainly the farmer looked as commanding as he always had. Mr Frost never let them forget he’d seen service in the first war, and in the recent war he’d been on the Home Guard, a platoon commander shooting at birds. Skitmore had disappeared, along with a few other farm workers, to beat out the partridge and now they were all waiting.

As Arthur looked along the line, Jack raised his hand, a kind of salute. He was thinking about how to respond, when there was a flap, a beating of wings and a flurry of grey in the sky, then a crack, crack, and the first birds fell, spiralling from the sky.