LATE AUTUMN - COLOURFUL, CAPRICIOUS. An arrow flies across a field in Duke’s Wood hitting its target. A magpie clings to a high branch like a weathervane surveying the scene; it flicks its tail as if irritated by an invisible adversary. Behind the clubhouse, two rats gorge themselves on the glossy red berries of a hawthorn. Bare-limbed ash trees reach for the promise of a clear-blue sky casting skeletal shadows over the grass. Coppery leaves still cling to a hornbeam that sports cascades of catkins hanging under its branches. But the lime trees are in the act of undressing - an unseasonably warm wind carries their large yellow leaves across the clearing, discarding them in drifts around the targets.
‘The gold centre is set at the height of a Frenchman’s heart,’ Tony explains to the beginners. ‘Aim a little higher at first, and then I can adjust your sights later on.’
Catherine takes an arrow from her quiver, nocks it, draws the string, feels the tension build, closes one eye, takes aim and releases. The arrow flies from her bow and is buffeted by the wind as it arches towards the target. She hears a satisfying thud as it hits the corner of the boss. This is her second visit to the club, and each time she performs the action she feels lighter - shedding emotional baggage accumulated over the last two years of bitter arguments with the Count over their divorce. She is, however, distracted by another argument in the tea tent behind her – this one is not about a man, but about Brexit.
‘You should have raised your concerns at the committee meeting when it was agreed,’ says Theresa, the club captain.
‘It was a stitch-up’ replies veteran archer Ken. ‘Nigel overstated how much Brexit would save us, and we didn’t know then what a blasted mess it would cause.’
‘As far as I am concerned, it was a fair vote, and most of the members are delighted. Brexit keeps vermin away from the clubhouse saving us money on rat poison, and young Boris loves playing with it while his Dad is shooting.’
‘It’s a feral beast, and it's decimating the local wildlife. I caught it dismembering a French Partridge last week, its entrails were strewn across the changing rooms and I found its head in my kit bag. What’s more, it brings Tony out in hives!’
‘Perhaps we could compromise and keep Brexit out of the clubhouse? That way we protect your kit and Tony’s complexion but honour the vote.’
‘Do what you will, but I am warning you, Brexit will split this club down the middle!’ Ken abandons his half-eaten slice of Battenburg cake and galumphs towards Tony and the shooters.
Catherine continues her practice under Tony’s instruction. Her aim is improving, and her confidence is growing. ‘I’m impressed,’ says Tony, ‘I’ll adjust your sights slightly to counter the strengthening wind.’ Again, Catherine draws the bow and wonders if her counsellor would approve of her thoughts as she aims at the inner circle: pull… hold… release… whack… the arrow embeds deep into his chest… breathe…‘
AaaaaaaaaaaaWwwwwwwww…’ A strangled cry from across the range snaps Catherine out of her reverie. The arrow has veered off course into the straw bales.
Tony shouts ‘Fast!’ Theresa throws down her cup of tea and runs through the field of fallen leaves. She bends down and picks up the skewered, eponymous cat that first appeared at the archery club on the day of the referendum.
Brexit dies in her arms.
Silence falls as Theresa carries the dead cat towards the tea tent shedding bitter tears; the Wind holds its breath; the magpie glowers; the rats are nowhere to be seen. Catherine can’t take her eyes off the bloody cat; horrified, she realises it is her arrow protruding from its neck.
Theresa passes Tony, who looks on impassively as she lays her burden on the grass. Boris, who had been scoffing a pork pie, runs to Brexit and cries as he strokes its matted fur.
‘Meeowww…’ The silence is broken as three scrawny kittens creep out from the straw close to where Brexit was shot. Boris hears them first. Approaching them with outstretched arms, he offers them the remains of his pie. As they devour the meat, he thinks of names for each of them.
Tony weeps.
Marek Bidwell
