Free Green Grass by Raffaella Barker Page A

jills and Hedley says they are more difficult to train, but there’s one I really like here called Precious. They like to eat dried food, but obviously dead things are better.’
    This is truly ghastly, thinks Laura, waiting at the edge of the spinney for Fred to make himself known to the group. She wonders how soon she can mutter some excuse and go back to the warm oasis of peace that is the kitchen. Her fantasies about toast, and coffee-scented air, the newspaper waiting to be read, an egg to be boiled and eaten at leisure are broken by Fred. He ambles towards her, waving an animal.
    â€˜Here, Mum, hold this one while I put its harness on. It’s a she and she’s called Precious. I told you about her. She belongs to Jeff, over there.’ A slitherof ferret, pink-eyed and wriggling, is thrust into her hands. Intentions of being a ferret whisperer and a great help to her son suffer a setback.
    â€˜Urgh, it stinks.’ Laura drops it at once, repulsed by the foxy aroma and the density of its blonde pelt. There is something unnervingly smug about the ferret; even when dropped it retains self-possession, sniffing keenly at Laura’s feet. Fred retrieves it, with a pained glare at his mother. Hedley nods a greeting to his sister and with Fred turns back to the group. Fred, showing all the ease with which Hedley greets everyone he meets, and none of his father’s reserve, gets involved immediately in mending one of the electric ferret collars which beep when the animal is underground to help the owner find it.
    Laura shivers in her coat, tucking her hands up the sleeves and stamping her feet to return some feeling to them. Now she has shown herself to be no use as an assistant, she can watch uninterrupted. This is much better, as she has no further enthusiasm for becoming a ferret groupie, and can think of nothing at all to say to Jeff or any other of the men bundled in balaclavas and muddy waxed coats now preening their ferrets as a prelude to stuffing them down into rabbit holes. A figure appears out of the white fog on the field, jogging towards them, his breath a pale cloud as big as his face in front of him. Laura is impressed to seethat it is Inigo, up and dressed already and carrying a camera.
    â€˜Hi, Dad,’ calls Fred in a stage whisper. ‘Come and see.’ He is in his element. Eyes shining, he darts between the three ferret men and Hedley, asking questions, watching each ferret manoeuvre intently. Inigo moves over to where Laura is standing.
    â€˜Some hellish chickens started screeching as if they were being murdered, so I had to get up,’ he says, folding away the lens of his camera and shoving it deep into his pocket.
    â€˜I like your country casuals,’ says Laura, grinning as she takes in his new camouflage trousers and jacket, and his black balaclava, pulled up like an ordinary hat at present. Inigo ignores her; he is fascinated by the group in front of them.
    â€˜I’m actually quite glad I got here so early,’ he says. ‘Tribal ritual like this is so important. Every country has a version of this, with men parading their killing machines in front of their women.’
    A pheasant call cracks through the copse, otherwise the muffled conversation of the ferreters is all Laura can hear. Despite the gnawing cold, the unsavoury smell which now hangs on her clothes, and her own inclinations, she lingers. Inigo, still talking in his special, urgent wildlife programme voice, nudgesher. ‘Isn’t it interesting? The women have got themselves dolled up, even though it’s dawn in a muddy field. It’s tribal paint, you see.’
    Both entertained and exasperated by his commentary, Laura dutifully observes, and agrees that he does have a point – the two women in the group are made up with great care and peacock-bright glamour, and considering the time of day and the circumstances, they are giggling and flirting with unusual energy. Wishing