Free The Private Wound by Nicholas Blake Page B

rain-storms and sent the clouds packing. England, my friends there, the imminent war, all seemed a life-time away.
    Harriet and I went for some rides together. She was indeed a marvellous horsewoman and I followed her lead over banks and stone walls—as in other things—determined not to let her see me frightened. There was something gallant in her bearing on horseback: she seemed to me almost a mythical figure.
    It was when we’d returned one June evening with the horses to Lissawn House, and I was walking back alone to the cottage, that someone took a pot-shot at me from the thick bushes lining the left-hand side of the lane.
    The gun appeared to go off in my ear, so loud was the explosion. I had never been under fire before, so I stood a few moments utterly stupefied. My tall Connemara tweed hat had flown off my head. I bent down dazedly to pick it up, and heard footsteps pounding away from the ambush. There were two pellet holes in the top of the hat. The bushes are very thick just there, and I could not break through them even if I had the nerve to follow my assailant. But I was now angry enough to run back along the lane to Lissawn House.
    Flurry was sitting in his fishing-room, a glass of whiskey at his side. I banged on the window and rushed in.
    â€œWhat the devil ails ya, Dominic? You’re white as a sheet.” His voice was slurred, and a bit petulant
    â€œSomeone’s just taken a shot at me. From the bushes. Look at my hat.”
    Flurry’s eyes focused with some difficulty. “By God, you’re right! Did ye see the fella?”
    â€œNo.”
    He poured me half a glass of neat whiskey. “Drink up. This’ll never do at all. Who’d be wanting to shoot you, in the name of God?”
    â€œSearch me.”
    â€œMaybe he was after a rabbit.”
    â€œA
flying
rabbit?”
    â€œWell now, that’s a point. But there might be some bold young sinner around with his da’s shotgun. We’ll ask Seamus did he see anyone.”
    Seamus was in his room above the stable, cleaning harness. No, he’d not seen anyone in the demesne, but he’d been rubbing down the horses the last half-hour. He asked me a number of questions, the efficient adjutant.
    â€œWill I tell you what I’m thinking, Mr. Eyre?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œIf the fella was so near to you, he’d be apt to blow your head off.”
    â€œBut he
was.
The explosion damn’ near deafened me.”
    â€œSo he must have deliberately aimed high. The charge went over your head, except for two pellets. That’s the size of it.” Seamus didn’t seem greatly concerned.
    â€œBut why should anyone want to aim
over
his head?” asked Flurry interestedly. I felt like an academic problem under discussion, and said so.
    â€œWhy should anyone want to fire at me at all?”
    Seamus regarded me politely, coolly. “Only yourself would be after knowing that, Mr. Eyre.”
    â€œSure, Dominic is a quiet fella. He wouldn’t be making enemies,” offered Flurry. I hardly heard him. Had Seamus hinted at something? Involuntarily, my eyes went round the room. There was no shotgun to be seen; and I could hardly search the outbuildings and demesne in case Seamus had dumped it somewhere.
    â€œYou’re not frit, Mr. Eyre?” he said. “Will I walk back with you?”
    â€œOh, I’m scared stiff. I’ll go to the Garda to-morrow and demand police protection,” I replied satirically. I thought I saw a look of respect in Seamus’s eyes.
    â€œThat’s the boy,” said Flurry tipsily. “To hell with them all. C’mon and have a bite to eat. Harry’ll be done bathing by now. I don’t know why that woman’s got so desperate to take baths nowadays.”
    I declined his invitation politely. The next morning I went to the Garda in Charlottestown and had a long conversation with a somewhat incredulous