Goosey Goosey Gander Read online

  To all who love the wetlands and the wild things that live there

  Helion & Company Limited

  26 Willow Road

  Solihull

  West Midlands

  B91 1UE

  England

  Tel. 0121 705 3393

  Fax 0121 711 4075

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: http://www.helionco.uk

  Published by Helion & Company 2008

  eBook Published 2012

  Designed and typeset by Helion & Company Limited, Solihull, West Midlands

  Cover designed by Bookcraft Limited, Stroud, Gloucestershire

  Printed and bound by CPod, Trowbridge, Wiltshire

  © Frank Edwards 2008

  ISBN 978 1 906033 38 5

  eISBN 978 1 908916 70 9

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written consent of Helion & Company Limited.

  Contents

  List of illustrations

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Epilogue

  eBooks Published by Helion & Company

  List of Illustrations

  he illustrations have been chosen (where they seemed appropriate) from Marion’s wildfowl collection. These were original acrylics, all from life (with the memory aid of her own photography) at Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust reserves around Britain.

  Greylag Goose (My patch – WWT Llanelli)

  Mute Swan (I’m coming – WWT Washington)

  Goldeneye (Goldeneye – WWT Llanelli)

  Moorhen (Detail from: Keep together now, moorhen & chicks,

  WWT Arundel)

  Whooper Swan (Icelandic visitor – WWT Caerlaverock)

  Canada Geese (Not quite in step – WWT Washington)

  Mute Swan on Nest (Wanda – WWT Welney)

  Greylag Goose (My patch – WWT Llanelli)

  Whooper Swans (Taking by storm – WWT Llanelli)

  Eider (Purposeful – WWT Llanelli)

  Barnacle Goose (Barnacle Bill – WWT Llanelli)

  Mallard (Mallard in reeds – WWT Llanelli)

  Sheldrake (Handsome – WWT Martin Mere)

  Bewick’s Swans (Detail from: Afternoon feed – WWT Slimbridge)

  Goosey goosey gander,

  Whither shall I wander?

  Upstairs and downstairs,

  And in my lady’s chamber;

  There I met an old man

  That would not say his prayers;

  I took him by the left leg,

  And threw him down the stairs.

  Gammer Gurton’s Garland (1784)

  Mute Swan (I'm Coming, WWT Wahsington)

  Prologue

  s the morning mists lifted from the reed beds a single shot rang out, echoing along the estuary. The geese, frightened in their early flight from the ponds to their feeding ground along the river, croaked their concern and rose higher, whirling and banking against the first red of the rising sun. The ducks worried and scurried about the other lakes until calming as no further report reverberated over the marshes to disturb their early swim. Slowly, with care and suspicion, the Bewick’s swans circled, necks outstretched until, by instinct as much as by sound, they swept their way, reassured, to their feet-forward landings on the quietly filling waters of the tidal reach.

  The marksman broke the gun and rested it across the crook of the arm. One shot was enough. No dog was called for to run and splash, tail wagging, into the water on the recovery mission. Not today. Not this day. The mark had been struck as intended and, as intended, left to float. As the sun rose further from the early Spring horizon it, for the moment, matched the spreading red along the reed’s edge as the body, half hanging out as though in a last attempt to paddle for safety, drifted in the small undirected craft to the boundary of its last known world.

  The Mute swan, nesting, watched, with head bowed, the floating pyre go slowly by.

  Chapter One

  he village, hamlet more than village – the real village, townlet, was more than a mile away, on the main road which had pushed Talbot aside long ago – stood at the river’s edge. It still, just, sustained a small shop-cum-post office and a pub, The Bell. These did well when the Severn bore promenaded its way up the estuary, for Talbot was a vintage viewing spot. Other times, they continued by a combination of habit and hobby more than by regularly tinkling tills. Yet survive they did, as did a village school. By attracting children from a wide area, it had avoided the dread hand of the amalgamators, to the delight of its parents. Apart from the gaggle around what was euphemistically called The Square, there were few houses. Two big ones. Wickton, the pile that had been the Duke’s, and Thornley’s manor The Grange. Together with five or so farms they made up Talbot. Blakton, that mile up the river Blakton, straddling the main road from Wales to Gloucester, provided other services. Talbot remained a little world of its own. Peaceful, generally, but still absorbed in the drama of the previous year. The argument had been typified at The Grange.

  “Preposterous! Bloody preposterous! Impossible!!”

  “Preposterous, maybe. But impossible? No. The Force is with him.”

  “For a duckpond?”

  “More than that. Much more than a duckpond. Acres of water. For ducks and for geese. And for people. Hordes of ‘em. Wanting lavatories and eateries, car parks and footpaths. All over. And, as I say, for this the Force is with him.”

  “Like Hell it is! I’m the force, as you call it, in this district. It adjoins my land, and be damned to your Force.”

  “No argument, Lacey. Not any longer. Not where he plans to go. Some shooting rights still, by tradition, may be retained, though that will take some sorting out. Compensation…”

  “…Compensation! What for? It’s mine, I tell you.”

  “No, Lacey, it’s not. You know that well enough. Not there. Not what he’s got hold of now, nor where the Duke allowed your father to go. That land’s his. By right. By proper inheritance. There’s no way out of that.”

  “Can he be stopped?”

  “We can try. Certainly try.” Ken Gaskell had added the reinforcer as he saw the glint in the eye get yet fiercer. “Most certainly shall try. But I hold out no hopes of overturning the Will. We might get some objections into the planning process,” and here the lawyer paused and gave a somewhat hopeless shrug of his shoulders that did nothing to ease the fire storm he was facing. “I say again. The Force is with him, and the government is quite a force. It likes it. It likes the idea a lot. So does the Council.
So do the public, God bless them. Everyone’s into conservation these days, and here’s a case where you - they - can ally it to tourism. Money, my dear Lacey. Visitors. That’s what they see coming, to look at the geese and goggle at the ducks.”

  DeLacey Thornley, when he had learned of the plans to establish a wetlands park on his doorstep, as he saw it, was not to be assuaged as easily as that. His father had dominated the Council. His grandfather had been the Council; Chairman for over thirty years. Lacey regretted he had broken the chain. He should never have resigned. What’s age to do with anything? His still robust frame, at approaching eighty, was neither overweight nor scraggy with age. He still had vigour, and his five foot ten was still upright. Lacey overlooked the fact that he, unlike his forebears, couldn’t be sure of a safe Ward any more. No pocket borough left even for his deep pockets. He was no longer assured of an unopposed return, so had left while, as he put it at the time, ‘the going was good’. These duckpond plans threatened to throw up a few rocks in his smooth way of life. He still had influence; still controlled a member or two. He decided there and then that he would call them in. Needed to! following the solicitor’s indication that the liberal-fascist dolts who now held sway in the Council chamber were going to allow that whipper-snapper of an Alan Tewkes to flood the old Duke’s cress ponds and turn them into a goose haven. Thornley looked up at the space on the wall, above the wide, though now scarce used, fire place where, in more certain days, his and his father’s fowling pieces had hung. Proudly. Functionally. Yet, incarcerated in those damn fool locked cabinets the police now insisted on or not, he still knew what to do with them when it came to geese. And ducks. There was going to be a fight ahead.

  Ken Gaskell’s family links with the Thornley family ran through the years. He, too, had a grandfather and a father, both in the law before him. Both handling the Thornley affairs. It was the only reason, he had often surmised, that DeLacey had stuck with him. A sort of loyalty, perhaps. Conservatism. Comfort. They had little in common. Widening opinions on most things ‘modern’. His father should still be dealing with the older man. He could still be relied on for comment, or insight, or consolation, but had retired to Eastbourne following his stroke. Ken did wonder if and, if so, when and how he should cease the connection. Let some other firm take on the Thornleys. Yet, with only DeLacey around and little chance of any family successor to the pile – it would make a fine Retirement Home come that time or, in view of Tewkes’ plans, an hotel – and with the weight he still carried locally, he was a client worth humouring that little longer. If he went on as he had that morning, it would not be over long before he, too, might be seeking sanctuary on the south coast! Until then, whatever his views and however expressed, Ken Gaskell knew he had a profitable client. There would be quite a few pounds in it if his client did try to dispute any lingering rights he felt he had to the water meadows. By the time he had cooled off, Gaskell doubted much would come of that. Blusterer, maybe, but with a cool enough brain behind the smouldering eyes. He could still shoot, if he wished, as he so often had, along the upper reaches of the river, but would he now? So far as the lawyer knew, the self-styled ‘Squire’ had not taken a gun out in years. His bones were but human, and the waters of the river were as chill as the muds of the banks were treacherous. Legs that had bestrode far flung plains, deserts and mountain ranges, were now satisfied by ambling around his still generous estate. Nonetheless, he knew that he would have to keep an ear as well as an eye open to head off any unwise action. He might ring his Dad for a line on that. If Lacey decided that he was going to get that ‘whipper-snapper’ off the land or, failing that, spike his expansion plans, then there was much he might try to do. Not all of it would be wise, legally.

  Councillor Mrs Antonia White had not been surprised to be summoned. Not that she conceded such a word. ‘Asked’. ‘Requested’. Those were her interpretations of the call which had come from De Lacey, but she knew that the invitation should be accepted with all dispatch. She sat on the Council thanks to him. He had, so he had told her often enough, bequeathed his Ward to her. The voters who supported her did so because she was his successor. His chosen successor. There seemed to be enough political truth in that to hold her loyalty. Not a blind one. She was her own woman, but a practical one. She enjoyed being on the Council. Her two former bids had failed in unsympathetic areas, and her selection for the Riverside Ward had hung much in the balance. Those responsible for selecting candidates had a more exact replacement for DeLacey Thornley in mind when he had declared the end of his innings. But DeLacey remained a politician, retiring only from the hustings. A strong man of his nature selected in his place – his stature, he knew, was irreplaceable – would not be as malleable, not as willing to give him access to his ear as readily as a woman might, especially one who wanted a seat and had yet to find one. He had worked to ensure that a surrogate would be chosen when he stepped down, not a clone. Arriving at Thornley’s house, The Grange, the Councillor was scarcely inside before she was addressed.

  “You’ll have heard of the plans?”

  “For the wetlands park?” Not a difficult guess.

  “What else?” DeLacey had been calm. Not haranguing a solicitor, now. Influencing a voice accepted as independent on the Council. “I can’t say that I am happy. People mean upset. Traffic, noise and sweet papers in every hedgerow. Sort of thing. Are you happy with the plans?”

  Mrs White had at that stage a problem. She didn’t then know what the plans were. She knew of the intention. That had been trumpeted abroad for some months. But the detail was not yet in her hands. There had been a public meeting. A consultation. Chaired by a bigwig from Conservation – which of the myriad bodies that now pollute that subject she could not recall. There had been a council committee meeting that night and thus she had not been free to attend. Instead, she had to rely on the reports of others. These had varied with the personal agendas. What all agreed, what mattered to her, was that a plan for developing diversity in nature, for a wild life reserve providing easy access to the wonders of the water-bird world, had been enthusiastically applauded by a large audience. A large audience that was mainly local. Such an audience consisted of voters. Voters wanted to be part of saving the goose and the duck. All informants told her that. The public mood, they said, was clear. This struck her forcibly. How useful to be with climate change, or conservation or whatever the tag was that week and, at the same time, to secure good will amongst the voters. Now that was practical politics. That’s democracy at its very best. So, faced with an anti DeLacey, she strove to edit her views and realign those of her host.

  “There seems little chance of any official objection and, at first sight you must allow me to say, I can’t see any grounds for one. For a wetlands park that is. The infrastructure will need looking at. Carefully.”

  There had been a pause.

  “Votes in it?”

  “I think so. Also money. Would help our precepts. All that carpark money. If we can site them on Council land and not that of Alan Tewkes.”

  “He’s got the lot, though, hasn’t he? Mortlemann left him all the ground. All the old Duke’s cress ponds for starters. Gave the house to Jeremy, I know. Plus the money for all I know. The land went to Alan.”

  “Nothing to Galina?”

  “Don’t leave property to daughters. Anyway, the girl married money and conveniently saw the man off once the cash was secure.”

  “Really, Lacey! You wouldn’t speak like that if you were still courting votes.”

  “Never did court them. One reason I left.” Lacey was in no way abashed. “Damned good marriage she made. Financially that is. Nothing else seems to have happened. She’s only now beginning to blossom if you want my opinion. Will become a full-blown merry widow soon, you’ll see. Wouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t behind Alan’s scheme, backing it with her money. Could afford a million or two, I’m certain. Probably earns that much in interest alone each year. Good God! She’s as well off as these damned footbal
lers are these days.”

  Antonia had steered him away from one of his rants. She was a busy woman, and thankfulness stretched only so far.

  “Maybe you could run the carparks on your land. The far field borders Tewkes’.”

  That had been a mistake. She received a rant.

  The fate of the Mortelmann land and money had captured the interest of all in the area. DeLacey had, at first, been put off by the ‘suspicious’ name when the industrialist had bought outright the land and big house that had been the home of the Duke who had died familyless, the title dying with him. Whether aware of the suspicion of DeLacey, shared by more than a few around, or just because the new owner wanted acceptance into the beagle hunt and the shooting fraternity, there had been a name change to Tewkes.

  ‘Probably because he went on a charabanc outing to Tewkesbury one day, though better than to Bugbrooke’, the then Councillor Thornley had been heard to mutter. Over time he, DeLacey, had come to accept his new neighbour. ‘Not a bad chap after all and, I have to say, a damn fine shot.’ He was not so keen on the outcome of the division of the spoils upon the renamed Tewkes’ death from cancer.

  “You’ll keep an eye on things? Let me know what he puts in for. Particularly carparks and any access roads. Quicker we put a few spokes in his wheels the better.”

  Antonia had wanted to say that, from all that she had heard of possible developments, she was not keen on spoking any wheels. She was personally, voters apart, sympathetic to what was being proposed. Had a decided feeling that this was a good use of otherwise waste land. For that was all it seemed to be. A few people did shoot over it, she knew. This did not encourage her support. Killing birds for fun was no longer the flavour of the month even in a county that, largely, still supported hunting. Funny things, voters’ consciences. But, early days! She knew that DeLacey was looking to pre-empt any plans of Tewkes. She needed to keep her political balance. At this stage, it behove her no more than to stonewall.

  Although not knowledgeable on the subject, Antonia White knew that the estuary attracted an interesting gathering of winged migrants most winters. She could see, further, that with encouragement they could form the basis of a worthwhile collection. A visitor focus in a by-passed area. She had said so to Jeremy Tewkes recently, when she had met him striding, gun over his arm, towards the river one morning. She had not got a favourable reply.