Living in a small village surrounded by boys I couldn’t help being a tom boy but I also think it’s in my nature. I was always being coerced into situations by my eldest brother, always against my better judgment and never in a lady like fashion, we would climb trees. We would string a line across two tall trees to make an aerial slide. To do this though we needed a small person to try the branch out first, to swing on to make sure it was safe. That was my brother’s reasoning. That small young and innocent person was me.
After climbing as far as I dared and was sure I could just about touch the skies, I duly swung on the branch which held my weight. I tied the rope and threw the line down. My brother tied the other end to the next tree so that when we reached the bottom we could safely drop to the ground. We had made a handle over an old pram wheel which we had taken the tyre off. The ridge this left fitted the rope well allowing us to free fall from one tree to the next. We had done this many times before; getting higher and longer each time.
Now this particular day the branch held until my Cousin Paul took his turn. He was one of the eldest and biggest. Well his weight got too much for the branch. We heard the loud crack and then they both came crashing down, breaking his wrist. At that moment I understood with clarity what my brother was really asking me to do and I refused to risk my bones for his idea of fun. My brother was a little upset over my decision and would goad me that I was just a mere girl. When I retorted back that he should give it a go himself sometime, his argument run out of steam. He then decided that we should have a shooting contest which would prove that I would never be as good as a boy. I didn’t see what shooting had to do with climbing trees but I had to prove him wrong. My brother had an air rifle that he practiced everyday with and I wasn’t allowed to touch. This didn’t seem to be a fair way to decide but I was so incensed by his view of me and my kind I felt I had to prove him wrong and agreed to take the challenge.
So there I found my self watching my brother take aim. With his allotted three shots he managed to kill one blackbird. I stepped forward and I told him flatly that I would shoot the poor bird through the head as I didn’t want the bird to suffer. He just laughed at me. My eyes were shut but with determination and resolve to gain my brothers respect, I took my first shot. I hit the bird through the head and killed it outright. I turned to my brother who had his mouth wide open in a very satisfying way and said‘I told you, if you want to get a job done, get a girl to do it!’ And stormed off like a pre-Madonna.
I thought this would be an end to it but like all flukes it became gossip around the village. This was compounded when my uncle Ian decided it was time I shot my first 12-bore shot gun. He showed me how to lean into this gun so the recoil would not hurt my shoulder. My elbow was just below his rib cadge. When I squeezed the trigger my arm flew back winding my uncle badly. This changed the trajectory and I hit two ducks that happened to be flying by. My brother now in awe of my ability reckoned I shot them with one barrel but I’m fairly sure I let both barrels off. My Gran plucked and cooked them in my honour. Best duck I have ever tasted, my Gran was a mighty fine cook.
By the time shooting season was upon us the myth had became a legend, which I tried to distance myself from, knowing one day I would have to live up to it. I refused to shoot in the presence of my brother as I didn’t want my luck to run out. Beating on a shoot for Mr Spring early on in that season, it was a pleasant but chilly morning and I had dressed accordingly with many layers. We had stopped for lunch and I was leaning on a gate waiting for the rest of the beaters to catch up and go to lunch when Mr. Spring’s commando voice broke the tranquil air. ‘Good God man you’ve got to your age and you can’t tell the difference between the sexes, no wonder ya such a bad shot Sir. This lady, I’ll have you know is the best shot in the county.’ He winked at me as he went past and I caught sight of his humour dancing in his eyes.
I had been aware of a pompous man that spoke in that hard on the ear nasal way, portraying an aristocratic background. He was indeed a bad shot which had been annoying Mr. Spring all morning. I looked around to see what had taken place when I realised all eyes were on me. I had never known Mr. Spring to verbally and openly chastise a paying gun. It transpired that this man had been calling me lad and when I didn’t answer he got less than polite with his language.
There was great merriment over lunch about me being a ‘lad’ and my shooting capabilities. My brother revelled in the telling of the blackbird and ducks myth. Mr Spring came to have a word with me and we had a good giggle about it all.
He imparted some of his wise wisdom that day that I always remember when I encounter a pretentious sort of person. The worst of people are the ones that make you think they are above the rest of us. You have to learn to give your respect wisely, he told me. It sounded so easy and that man’s character could be spotted in a crowded room. But people are more complex and sometimes you just want to climb a tree or two and look out on the view, just for the sheer joy of it, or is that just me?
Was it the short hair that did it?
Dad Mum Me and Jim
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