Dew Glistened on the Grass

The sun squinted through the poplars at the end of Bernard’s garden. The finches had started to feed, perching themselves on the cages of nuts that hung from the birch and the plum trees. Dew glistened on the grass. Bernard had fed the chickens and left the run open, so that the birds had just started to tentatively peck and strut. A jay had perched itself in a plum tree.

“Two eggs or one?”

“Two, I think love.”

Bernard looked round at his wife as she brought the plate over. She was still a handsome woman, a little full perhaps but healthily so. Marrying had been good for Bernard. He and his wife had raised two beautiful, successful children. The house had seemed a risk at first but fortune had been kind. The place was paid for and now represented a sizeable asset.

He had worked very hard for what he had. It had been a long slog but now he had it. He had retired, and he was enjoying it.

“That Jay’s back again.”

“He’s a persistent fellow isn’t he?” his wife replied as she placed the toast and the bacon in front of him.

“Comes for the blackberries.”

The two sat down to eat. Breakfast was delicious as it always was and Bernard’s thoughts turned again to his garden: his gooseberries, his broad beans, his asparagus.

It was then that they heard the bustle, the barking, the clucking and the growling. His hand tightened on his knife and fork. His wife stood up arching her back to get a good view through the sash windows.

“Bernard! They’re back! Those bloody dogs!”

But Bernard wasn’t listening. He had scraped back the chair and bundled his way through the back door before he even noticed that he still held the knife and fork in his hands.

“Gaa-ohn! Geddaht!” he yelled as he moved towards the dogs – half sprint, half tribal-dance. “Gaa-ohn! Gitt!”

The dogs lurched, loped and wheeled, both bounding back towards the boundary with an excited burst of barks and panting.

Bernard’s heart pounded in his chest, his shoulders sagging as he took in deep lungfuls of breath. He turned back towards the house already with a faint awareness of what he was about to see and a hint of vomit in the back of his throat. The hen lay dead in front of him on the grass, its neck ripped and broken. The chickens had lost feathers everywhere; he would need to get the rake out. Bernard squatted down and picked up the dead bird, cradling it in his arms, its body still warm, its blood still seeming to pulse, gently falling away.

Later he cleared away the loose feathers. He found the gap in the hedge where the dogs must have got in. He put in some chicken wire for what it was worth. It wouldn’t be enough of course. It never was.

“Are you going to go round?” his wife asked him as he read the business section.

“I’ll get short shrift there I think, love.”

“You can’t just let this go on, you know. This is the third bird we’ve…”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“I’m not going to go round again, love. They’re not interested.”

He made a half-hearted attempt to return to his reading.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“So what are we going to do?”

He sucked his lips into his mouth and raised his eyebrows a little. He made a short sound, something between a clearing of the throat and a guttural grunt. He lowered his head and pushed himself up from the table.

“There’s something I want in the garage.”

Half an hour later he returned holding a filthy old tea chest box. He put his head down as he passed his wife and made for the stairs.

“I’m just going online.”

The sun sank into the roof like a drowning man, its bright orange arms sprawled around the Earth. The finches were quiet now, returning to the security of their perches. In the fading light Bernard shooed his hens back into their run, taking particular care over the lowering of the latch, the squeezing the padlock, tugging at it to check before trudging back to the warm, insulated and comfortable house.

As night fell two Weimaraners bustled about the undergrowth not fifty yards from Bernard’s garden. The smaller animal had pulled up a sapling. The larger seemed intent on relieving the other of its plaything, trotting alongside and banging its head against the head of the smaller dog - frantically yanking away at scraps of mud and leaf and root.

Suddenly the dogs stopped. They stood straight, still, their noses up: a rabbit, a rat or a bird? The smaller dog lowered its nose to the earth. It circled the larger animal, sniffing uncertainly. The larger dog continued to stand straight and still, smelling the air.

A tiny flash and a loud crack rent through the air.

The dogs wheeled and crouched. A second crack, and the larger dog yelped and fell, blood spewing from its neck and throat. A third, and the animal convulsed again, a bullet tearing into its ribs. The smaller dog, whimpering and yelping, turned to run. A fourth crack, and a bullet tore into its rump. A fifth hung harmlessly in the air as the animal fled, the sound uneven as the injured dog dragged its injured leg across the scrub.

Bernard Muir climbed out from a ditch and awkwardly made his way back towards his own garden fence. His heart was pumping hard and fast as he attempted to run across the unkempt ground. It wasn’t until he actually placed his hand on his fence that he realised that he still held his father’s old World War II pistol. He could easily have fired it again - quite by accident. That certainly would have been hairy! But still he didn’t flick the safety catch until he had clambered over the fence, ripping his best work jeans in the process.

Upon reaching the house, he worked near silently, removing his coat, hat, scarf and Wellingtons, stuffing the pistol into his right boot before going upstairs. His wife had been in bed some time now. The sidelight was still on, an open book resting pages down on her front. She moaned gently as he climbed into bed beside her.

“Where’ve you been?” she slurred.

“I love you, darling.”

He leant over and kissed her on the cheek, wrapping his arm around her as the two drifted off to sleep.

As the sun rose, squinting through the poplars at the end of Bernard’s garden, the finches started to feed, perching themselves on the cages of nuts that hung from the birch and the plum trees. Dew glistened on the grass. The chickens pecked and strutted about the garden, and in the corner of the plot, Bernard Muir buried an Enfield revolver before moving the composter over just a tad to cover up the exposed earth. Less than fifty yards away, a pair of jays pecked at the flesh of a dead Weimaraner.