Danny The Champion Of The World Part 2

'It's not true,' I said, starting to laugh.

'You don't believe me?'

'Yes, I believe you.'

'Towards the end, he was so covered in tiny little white scars he looked exactly like it was snowing.'

'I don't know why I'm laughing,' I said. 'It's not funny, it's horrible.'

' "Poacher's bottom" they used to call it,' my father said. 'And there wasn't a man in the whole village who didn't have a bit of it one way or another. But my dad was the champion. How's the cocoa?'

'Fine, thank you.'

'If you're hungry we could have a midnight feast?' he said.

'Could we, Dad?'

'Of course.'

My father got out the bread-tin and the b.u.t.ter and cheese and started making sandwiches.

'Let me tell you about this phoney pheasant-shooting business,' he said. 'First of all, it is practised only by the rich. Only the very rich can afford to rear pheasants just for the fun of shooting them down when they grow up. These wealthy idiots spend huge sums of money every year buying baby pheasants from pheasant farms and rearing them in pens until they are big enough to be put out into the woods. In the woods, the young birds hang around like flocks of chickens. They are guarded by keepers and fed twice a day on the best corn until they're so fat they can hardly fly. Then beaters are hired who walk through the woods clapping their hands and making as much noise as they can to drive the half-tame pheasants towards the half-baked men and their guns. After that, it's bang bang bang bang bang bang and down they come. Would you like strawberry jam on one of these?' and down they come. Would you like strawberry jam on one of these?'

'Yes, please,' I said. 'One jam and one cheese. But Dad...'

'What?'

'How do you actually catch the pheasants when you're poaching? Do you have a gun hidden away up there?'

'A gun!' he cried, disgusted. 'Real poachers don't shoot shoot pheasants, Danny, didn't you know that? You've only got to fire a pheasants, Danny, didn't you know that? You've only got to fire a cap-pistol cap-pistol up in those woods and the keepers'll be on you.' up in those woods and the keepers'll be on you.'

'Then how do you do it?'

'Ah,' my father said, and the eyelids drooped over the eyes, veiled and secretive. He spread strawberry jam thickly on a piece of bread, taking his time.

'These things are big secrets,' he said. 'Very big secrets indeed. But I reckon if my father could tell them to me, then maybe I can tell them to you. Would you like me to do that?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Tell me now'

5.

The Secret Methods 'All the best ways of poaching pheasants were discovered by my old dad,' my father said. 'My old dad studied poaching the way a scientist studies science.'

My father put my sandwiches on a plate and brought them over to my bunk. I put the plate on my lap and started eating. I was ravenous.

'Do you know my old dad actually used to keep a flock of prime roosters in the back-yard just to practise on,' my father said. 'A rooster is very much like a pheasant, you see. They are equally stupid and they like the same sorts of food. A rooster is tamer, that's all. So whenever my dad thought up a new method of catching pheasants, he tried it out on a rooster first to see if it worked.'

'What are the best ways?' I asked.

My father laid a half-eaten sandwich on the edge of the sink and gazed at me in silence for about twenty seconds.

'Promise you won't tell another soul?'

'I promise.'

'Now here's the thing,' he said. 'Here's the first big secret. Ah, but it's more than a secret, Danny. It's the most important discovery in the whole history of poaching.'

He edged a shade closer to me. His face was pale in the pale yellow glow from the lamp in the ceiling, but his eyes were s.h.i.+ning like stars. 'So here it is,' he said, and now suddenly his voice became soft and whispery and very private. 'Pheasants', 'Pheasants', he whispered, he whispered, 'are crazy about raisins 'are crazy about raisins.'

'Is that the big secret?'

'That's it,' he said. 'It may not sound very much when I say it like that, but believe me it is.'

'Raisins?' I said.

'Just ordinary raisins. It's like a mania mania with them. You throw a few raisins into a bunch of pheasants and they'll start fighting each other to get at them. My dad discovered that forty years ago just as he discovered these other things I am about to describe to you.' with them. You throw a few raisins into a bunch of pheasants and they'll start fighting each other to get at them. My dad discovered that forty years ago just as he discovered these other things I am about to describe to you.'

My father paused and glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure there was n.o.body at the door of the caravan, listening. 'Method Number One', he said softly, 'is known as The Horse-hair Stopper The Horse-hair Stopper.'

'The Horse-hair Stopper,' I murmured. I murmured.

'That's it,' my father said. 'And the reason it's such a brilliant method is that it's completely silent. There's no squawking or flapping around or anything else with The Horse-hair Stopper The Horse-hair Stopper when the pheasant is caught. And that's mighty important because don't forget, Danny, when you're up in those woods at night and the great trees are spreading their branches high above you like black ghosts, it is so silent you can hear a mouse moving. And somewhere among it all, the keepers are waiting and listening. They're always there, those keepers, standing stony-still against a tree or behind a bush with their guns at the ready' when the pheasant is caught. And that's mighty important because don't forget, Danny, when you're up in those woods at night and the great trees are spreading their branches high above you like black ghosts, it is so silent you can hear a mouse moving. And somewhere among it all, the keepers are waiting and listening. They're always there, those keepers, standing stony-still against a tree or behind a bush with their guns at the ready'

'What happens with The Horse-hair Stopper? The Horse-hair Stopper?' I asked. 'How does it work?'

'It's very simple,' he said. 'First, you take a few raisins and you soak them in water overnight to make them plump and soft and juicy. Then you get a bit of good stiff horse-hair and you cut it up into half-inch lengths.'

'Horse-hair?' I said. 'Where do you get horse-hair?'

'You pull it out of a horse's tail, of course. That's not difficult as long as you stand to one side when you're doing it so you don't get kicked.'

'Go on,' I said.

'So you cut the horse-hair up into half-inch lengths. Then you push one of these lengths through the middle of a raisin so there's just a tiny bit of horse-hair sticking out on each side. That's all you do. You are now ready to catch a pheasant. If you want to catch more than one, you prepare more raisins. Then, when evening comes, you creep up into the woods, making sure you get there before the pheasants have gone up into the trees to roost. Then you scatter the raisins. And soon, along comes a pheasant and gobbles it up.'

'What happens then?' I asked.

'Here's what my dad discovered,' he said. 'First of all the horse-hair makes the raisin stick in the pheasant's throat. It doesn't hurt him. It simply stays there and tickles. It's rather like having a crumb stuck in your own throat. But after that, believe it or not, the pheasant never moves his feet again the pheasant never moves his feet again! He becomes absolutely rooted to the spot, and there he stands pumping his silly neck up and down just like a piston, and all you've got to do is nip out quickly from the place where you're hiding and pick him up.'

'Is that really true, Dad?'

'I swear it,' my father said. 'Once a pheasant's had The Horse-hair Stopper, The Horse-hair Stopper, you can turn a hosepipe on him and he won't move. It's just one of those unexplainable little things. But it takes a genius to discover it.' you can turn a hosepipe on him and he won't move. It's just one of those unexplainable little things. But it takes a genius to discover it.'

My father paused, and there was a gleam of pride in his eyes as he dwelt for a moment upon the memory of his own dad, the great poaching inventor.

'So that's Method Number One,' he said.

'What's Number Two?' I asked.

'Ah,' he said. 'Number Two's a real beauty. It's a flash of pure brilliance. I can even remember the day it was invented. I was just about the same age as you are now and it was a Sunday morning and my dad comes into the kitchen holding a huge white rooster in his hands. 'I think I've got it,' he says. There's a little smile on his face and a s.h.i.+ne of glory in his eyes and he comes in very soft and quick and puts the bird down right in the middle of the kitchen table. 'By golly,' he says, 'I've got a good one this time.'

' 'A good what?' Mum says, looking up from the sink. 'Horace, take that filthy bird off my table.'

'The rooster has a funny little paper hat over its head, like an ice-cream cone upside down, and my dad is pointing to it proudly and saying, "Stroke him. Go on, stroke him. Do anything you like to him. He won't move an inch." The rooster starts scratching away at the paper hat with one of its feet, but the hat seems to be stuck on and it won't come off. "No bird in the world is going to run away once you cover up its eyes," my dad says, and he starts poking the rooster with his finger and pus.h.i.+ng it around on the table. The rooster doesn't take the slightest bit of notice. "You can have this one," he says to Mum. "You can have it and wring its neck and dish it up for dinner as a celebration of what I have just invented." And then straight away he takes me by the arm and marches me quickly out of the door and off we go over the fields and up into the big forest the other side of Little Hampden which used to belong to the Duke of Buckingham. And in less than two hours we get five lovely fat pheasants with no more trouble than it takes to go out and buy them in a shop.'

My father paused for breath. His eyes were s.h.i.+ning bright as they gazed back into the wonderful world of his youth.

'But Dad,' I said, 'how do you get the paper hats over the pheasants' heads?'

'You'd never guess it, Danny'

'Tell me.'

'Listen carefully,' he said, glancing again over his shoulder as though he expected to see a keeper or even the Duke of Buckingham himself at the caravan door. 'Here's how you do it. First of all you dig a little hole in the ground. Then you twist a piece of paper into the shape of a cone and you fit this into the hole, hollow end up, like a cup. Then you smear the inside of the paper cup with glue and drop in a few raisins. At the same time, you lay a trail of raisins along the ground leading up to it. Now, the old pheasant comes pecking along the trail, and when he gets to the hole he pops his head inside to gobble up the raisins and the next thing he knows he's got a paper hat stuck over his eyes and he can't see a thing. Isn't that a fantastic idea, Danny? My dad called it The Sticky Hat The Sticky Hat: 'Is that the one you used this evening?' I asked.

My father nodded.

'How many did you get, Dad?'

'Well,' he said, looking a bit sheepish. 'Actually I didn't get any. I arrived too late. By the time I got there they were already going up to roost. That shows you how out of practice I am.'

'Was it fun all the same?'

'Marvellous,' he said. 'Absolutely marvellous. Just like the old days.'

He undressed and put on his pyjamas. Then he turned out the lamp in the ceiling and climbed up into his bunk.

'Dad,' I whispered.

'What is it?'

'Have you been doing this often after I've gone to sleep, without me knowing it?'

'No,' he said. 'Tonight was the first time for nine years. When your mother died and I had to look after you by myself, I made a vow to give up poaching until you were old enough to be left alone at nights. But this evening I broke my vow. I had such a tremendous longing to go up into the woods again, I just couldn't stop myself. I'm very sorry I did it.'

'If you ever want to go again, I won't mind,' I said.

'Do you mean that?' he said, his voice rising in excitement. 'Do you really mean it?'

'Yes,' I said. 'So long as you tell me beforehand. You will promise to tell me beforehand if you're going, won't you?'

'You're quite sure you won't mind?'

'Quite sure.'

'Good boy,' he said. 'And we'll have roast pheasant for supper whenever you want it. It's miles better than chicken.'

'And one day, Dad, will you take me with you?'

'Ah,' he said. 'I reckon you're just a bit young to be dodging around up there in the dark. I wouldn't want you to get peppered with buckshot in the backside at your age.'

'Your dad took you at my age,' I said.

There was a short silence.

'We'll see how it goes,' my father said. 'But I'd like to get back into practice before I make any promises, you understand?'

'Yes,' I said.

'I wouldn't want to take you with me until I'm right back in my old form.'

'No,' I said.

'Good-night, Danny. Go to sleep now.'

'Good-night, Dad.'

6.

Mr Victor Hazell The following Friday, while we were having supper in the caravan, my father said, 'If it's all right with you, Danny, I'll be going out again tomorrow night.'

'You mean poaching?'

'Yes.'

'Will it be Hazell's Wood again?'

'It'll always be Hazell's Wood,' he said. 'First because that's where all the pheasants are. And second because I don't like Mr Hazell one little bit and it's a pleasure to poach his birds.'

I must pause here to tell you something about Mr Victor Hazell. He was a brewer of beer and he owned a huge brewery. He was rich beyond words, and his property stretched for miles along either side of the valley. All the land around us belonged to him, everything on both sides of the road, everything except the small patch of ground on which our filling-station stood. That patch belonged to my father. It was a little island in the middle of the vast ocean of Mr Hazell's estate.

Mr Victor Hazell was a roaring sn.o.b and he tried desperately to get in with what he believed were the right kind of people. He hunted with the hounds and gave shooting parties and wore fancy waistcoats. Every week-day he drove his enormous silver Rolls-Royce past our filling-station on his way to the brewery. As he flashed by we would sometimes catch a glimpse of the great glistening beery face above the wheel, pink as a ham, all soft and inflamed from drinking too much beer.

'No,' my father said, 'I do not like Mr Victor Hazell one little bit. I haven't forgotten the way he spoke to you last year when he came in for a fill-up.'

I hadn't forgotten it either. Mr Hazell had pulled up alongside the pumps in his glistening gleaming Rolls-Royce and had said to me, 'Fill her up and look sharp about it.' I was eight years old at the time. He didn't get out of the car, he just handed me the key to the cap of the petrol tank and as he did so, he barked out, 'And keep your filthy little hands to yourself, d'you understand?'