5. ‘GAMEKEEPER’ – an upstart word: now considered sexy. Before that, it lined things up to be shot.
Cock with hens - illustrator Sarah Keen
Southampton: a sprawling port town that is somehow strangely detached from the sea. It is possible to live in the suburb of Shirley and never become aware of the ships that sail into the city’s heart. Shirley is a bustle of a place, alive with discount shops, bargain hunters, numerous languages from Chinese to Romanian. Polish is the predominant one; the once empty Catholic Church thrives again.
A brothel runs its business discretely two doors down from where I live – but not quite quietly enough. My elderly neighbour is alive with gossip; her sharp little face pokes over the garden fence to update me. “Man knocked my door for his 3 o’ clock massage. I gave him what for I can tell you… Madam turned up later with flowers. Flowers! – but I knew what she was – soon as I sees her.”
I bet she did, I think to myself as I listen. Takes one to know one. The sentence in my mind rings clear as a bell, and her next words lend credence to my uncharitable thoughts. “Always fancied running a fine house. I’d look after my girls, make sure they were safe.” My neighbour leans on the fence with a sigh. “Such a shame getting old. I miss my nights. All the games I know – going to waste.” I don’t have too much sympathy. She is seventy – her husband twenty years younger. It can’t be all bad.
Shirley is not usually the place to find a gamekeeper, but nevertheless at this time one can be found. Unbeknownst to me, there is a to-do in Romsey. It is its turn to host a major game fair. Every gamekeeper across the country wants to stay. Soon there is not a hotel or B&B to be had for miles around. Deep in the countryside, the descendents of Elworth Hall, pause. They remember a scattered seed, a lost daughter and her line. The vanished house passes my details onto a distant cousin. The delicate threads, believed broken for so long, stir and start to re-tie broken bonds: shroud like. Perhaps I can help? Perhaps I can – and rather surprisingly for me, as I guard my privacy so carefully – perhaps I will. I ensure that all my work’s deadlines are up-to-date and cleared in good time. I agree to take the gamekeeper and my unknown relative. In return I get a ticket to the fair.
I am briefed about the gamekeeper. He spent too much time out-of-doors, on the wet moors and consequently suffers terribly from arthritis. Some days he can hardly move. He has to be kept warm. He must not eat sugar or it all flares up. I build a very clear picture of him, hobbling with a stick, relying on his dogs to run after anything for him. Sometimes they practically have to hold the gun and shoot for him. I add white hair under his keeper’s cap. I wonder vaguely if he will require grab rails around the toilet.
They find me easily enough, flanked by the Catholic Church on one side and prostitutes on the other. I no longer live in Shirley, but I can tell you now on the doorstep of my old house there is still a mark where my jaw hit the ground. The word to describe the gamekeeper is FIT. Mid forties, tanned brown as a hazel nut: a quality of stillness in his face that belies his sharply observant green eyes. He springs across the threshold and kisses me. He too seems pleasantly surprised. I wonder how my cousin described me.
“Why’s there a copper hiding in the next garden, ” he asks. Sure enough behind him, I glimpse the head and shoulders of a man peeking over a hedge. I explain about the brothel and the surveillance that now surrounds it. The gamekeeper is amazed at the inept stalking methods shown by our local constabulary. “No way to catch birds,” he mutters.”No way at all. Got any biscuits?”