The Forester’s Daughter
When he is getting into his car, a stranger who holds his cards close to his chest approaches.
‘I understand you have a dog you’d sell.’
‘A dog?’ says Deegan.
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘a gun dog. Do you still have him?’
‘Well, I do.’ Deegan is set back on his heel but he recovers quickly. ‘I bought him last September but I’ve little time for hunting and it’s a shame to see him wasted.’
Deegan goes on to describe a retriever. He begins to talk easily about pheasants and how his dog can rise them, how the soup off a pheasant tastes finer than anything you can find in a hotel. He talks about the turf basket and how it is never empty since the dog came to the house. As soon as he mentions turf, the man smiles but Deegan does not notice, for he is remembering the girl on her birthday and how she and the retriever now bathe in the same water. But it is too late to back down.
From the archives
·
2022
Dr. No
"I know it's a bright colour," the owner said. "It's chartreuse."
"Actually, it's arctic lime, maybe peridot."
"Okay," he said.
His name was Kenneth Peterman and he wore kelly-green trousers and the aforementioned too-tight powder-blue golf shirt with an upturned collar. He smiled easily and constantly. "Here, sit behind the wheel. Feel that leather. Get out for a second and let me start her up for you." He fell in behind the wheel and cranked the engine, letting out a noise himself as the motor turned over. "Listen to that."
"There's some-"
"No, listen to that for a second."
I nodded, listened.
"That's like music."
"How much?" I asked.
Peterman looked at me as if offended.
"Does she have a name?" I asked.
This question relaxed him. "I call her Audrey. My wife hates her." Peterman stared through the windshield. "She hates her, but she wants her. Everyone wants Audrey."
I let my unspoken question hand in the air.
"Divorce," he said. "Avoid it if you can."
"I'm not married."
"A very good first step."
Read more of this excerpt...
Dr. No
"I know it's a bright colour," the owner said. "It's chartreuse."
"Actually, it's arctic lime, maybe peridot."
"Okay," he said.
His name was Kenneth Peterman and he wore kelly-green trousers and the aforementioned too-tight powder-blue golf shirt with an upturned collar. He smiled easily and constantly. "Here, sit behind the wheel. Feel that leather. Get out for a second and let me start her up for you." He fell in behind the wheel and cranked the engine, letting out a noise himself as the motor turned over. "Listen to that."
"There's some-"
"No, listen to that for a second."
I nodded, listened.
"That's like music."
"How much?" I asked.
Peterman looked at me as if offended.
"Does she have a name?" I asked.
This question relaxed him. "I call her Audrey. My wife hates her." Peterman stared through the windshield. "She hates her, but she wants her. Everyone wants Audrey."
I let my unspoken question hand in the air.
"Divorce," he said. "Avoid it if you can."
"I'm not married."
"A very good first step."
Read more of this excerpt...