A Partridge on a Shoe Tree

Farmer Jack and his wife, Lady Polly, had invited several guests down to the farmhouse for Christmas. Outside, the wind was howling dismally; inside, great flaming pine logs in the fireplace were throwing out noxious gases. So, indeed, were those of the guests who had partaken of too many baked beans. They were all feeling lethargic after a huge meal of roast gurkey and chanukah pudding. Farmer Jack lay sprawled in his armchair, his expanse of yellow worsted waistcoat bursting at the seams. His eyelids were closing and he appeared to be asleep. Suddenly, however, he struggled into consciousness and thrusting a poker into the burning logs, declared 'Surprising things happen in Dorset between Candlemas and Michaelmas.'

His guests pretended they hadn't heard. It was common knowledge that, especially at this time of the year, Farmer Jack suffered from a severe attack of 'philosophical reflections.' He was likely to discourse unendingly on religion and the eternal verities, departing from his favourite themes only to complain bitterly about the effect the weather was having on his crops. Once he started there would be no stopping him.

Irish Jack interrupted to say there was a good film on television. Farmer Jack, however, ignored him and went on in a reminiscent tone, 'Yes, around chanukah '88 St. Lukes farm was the scene of an amazing coincidence. I call the story I am about to tell A Partridge On A Shoe Tree, because it happened on the First Day of Christmas.

He declined to be put off by the bored expression on the faces of his guests. They were trying hard to accept the notion that one must endure stoically the foibles of great men. This, after all, was the man who produced the Gurkey 747, the famous cross-bred fowl which emigrated en masse to New England, thus depriving its inventor of vast profits. They had, incidentally, just eaten the last survivor of that ill-fated flock for dinner. The unfortunate gurkey had paid the final price for his loyalty in not flying away.

To continue, Farmer Jack was also the inventor of the famous Dorset Time Machine. Because of the many benefits his inventions had brought to mankind, he was probably entitled to his guests' respectful attention, taking into account that the material rewards he had derived from these wonderful inventions were pretty meagre.

Farmer Jack now explained to his guests how his latest invention, the revolutionary concept of the Perfectly Balanced Partridge had come into being. It had first entered his mind the previous Christmas and had taken a whole year to come to fruition. His idea had been to make a giant-sized replica of a partridge with a likeness so convincing that it would seduce other partridges into flying alongside. It would be a kind of Trojan horse, enabling him to lie inside and massacre the birds as they approached. The apparatus, which he had just completed in his well-equipped workshop, not only looked like a partridge but behaved like one by flapping its wings in a thoroughly realistic manner. It was his proud boast that it was so sensitive that the breathing of a gnat could set it dancing on its jewelled bearings.

Partridges, he gravely told his guests, were the most perverse of birds and appallingly difficult to bring down. He reasoned that since duck hunters made decoy ducks and moose hunters made decoy mooses (or meeses?) why should he not also give himself the chance of bagging that most elusive of birds, the partridge, by constructing a decoy.

I should like to interrupt Farmer's Jack's discourse for a moment to point out that it would be misleading in the extreme to describe Farmer Jack as an indifferent shot. When he took his favourite Purdy and Purdy gun down into the copse all living creatures knew that their safety was virtually guaranteed. Bookmakers would provide heavy odds against their being harmed, insurance companies would gladly grant reduced life premiums. The flora, the trees and the surrounding countryside might be at risk but fauna of every description would be completely safe from injury. During the whole of his shooting career, Farmer Jack had never so much as disturbed a bird from its chosen path. He was smarting from this knowledge, as the shooting season approached that year. An unquenchable ambition to bring down a partridge burnt in his breast until it became an obsession.

He now regaled his guests with a dramatic and highly coloured account of how on one occasion he had come within an ace of bagging a partridge. The embarrassing truth was that his shot had ricocheted off a crow's nest and winged a bird different from the one at which he had aimed. The wounded partridge sought sanctuary in the grounds of a neighbouring farm. Farmer Jack stalked it through the underbrush, intending to strangle it with his bare hands and might have succeeded had not Farmer Edward Burt, his neighbour, rescued the bird and kept it for some time as a household pet. This humiliating incident reinforced Farmer Jack's ambition to bag a partridge. It was his stated intention, when one finally came his way, to have it stuffed and mounted above his fireplace. For ever afterwards he could rest his eyes on the bird and boast of his victory. If that happy event ever occurred he vowed to open a new distillery in honour of the dead bird to be called Famous Partridge.

There is little doubt that he had became quite unbalanced over the issue. As the shooting season approached he dreamed about partridges. They weaved, fluttered and zigzagged, never keeping to a straight path. In his dream he loosed off enough shot at them to kill off the whole partridge population. They laughed at his futile endeavours. When he awoke it was to a cool, partridge-less morning.

He bought a book in Bridport market called The Hunter and His Prey, which quoted Earnest Hemingway as saying there has to be an empathy between the hunter and the hunted. Col. Van de Post, that famous mystic and explorer, has said this applies equally to Kalahari bushmen, the Sioux indians of North America and the Australian aborigines. Farmer Jack therefore came to the conclusion that if he was ever to achieve his ambition of bagging a partridge, it would be necessary to enter the mind and body of a partridge.

Near the copse is a small lake across which partridges fly. Farmer Jack spent a lot of time there with binoculars, studying their habits and their irregular flight paths. But they are timid birds; he could never get as close as he would have liked. It was while he was lying camouflaged in the spinney, with a bottle of Famous Grouse to keep him company, that the dazzling idea came into his mind of building as a decoy a large-scale model of a partridge that would hang innocently over the lake. As the unsuspicious birds flew all around it he would be able to bang away to his heart's content. The proposed device represented the only possible means of realising his lifelong ambition. He swore that this would be the last year a partridge would elude him.

The specification for the decoy was that it must be life-like, able to flap its wings accommodate a party of hunters in comfort. An added spur to building it was the prospect of letting it out to parties of huntsmen. The Germans and Dutch pay enormous sums for such shooting facilities.

The finished product was a slender cantilever aluminium arm reaching out eighty feet over the lake, which resembleda giant metal shoe tree. At the far end sat a large partridge-like object covered with feathers. The slightest movement sets it trembling and oscillating. When the wind speed reached fifteen miles an hour the wings flapped realistically. It so strongly resembled a giant partridge that Farmer Jack was confident that hundreds of the birds would formate on it and fall victim to his gun.

That year his guests included his son, Michael the distinguished guitarist, his beautiful wife, Marion, who managed her husband's vast business empire, Long John Silva, Master of Oily Molecules and his lovely wife, Lady Lilian of Laguna, Sir Geoff Bradman, the famous cricketer and rally driver and his delightful wife, Lady Pat Bradman, who had wanted to be a ballet dancer but instead of balancing on her toes became a bookkeeper and balanced books insted. Also present were gorgeous Lady Betty, the femme fatale of Northwood and her husband, raffish Irish Jack

We might just as well, before proceeding to the main narrative, listen in to a conversation. Farmer Jack had been ladling out vast quantitities of his own special Chanukah punch. Clearly it was having the intended effect.

Long John Silva in a slurred voice to Irish Jack: 'Why do you make out I'm a pirate.'

'It's nothing to be ashamed of. I used to be pilot.'

'I said PIRATE. Long John Silver was a one-legged pirate''

'A one-legged Parrot, did you say. In that case let's have a game of snooker.'

But at this point Farmer Jack insisted that everyone accompany him to the lake to inspect the decoy partridge he had just finished building.. They put on their green wellies and dutifully trudged through the muddy fields. Farmer Jack armed himself with his faithful Purdy and Purdy shot gun. Michael slung his guitar over his shoulder, just in case the tranquil waters of the lake brought on an urge to practice.

Arriving at the edge of the lake, they all gazed across the waters at Farmer Jack's feathered decoy. While loudly expressing admiration at his ingenuity, they could not help privately doubting his sanity.

He said: 'You might just as well come aboard this 'ere contraption and experience it for yourself.'

'It looks a bit dangerous,' Irish Jack said, looking apprehensively at the long swaying girder.

'Aha,' said Farmer Jack with some satisfaction. ''There's no cause to worry. I have installed an electrically-operated brake which holds the whole thing rigid while you're walking along it.'

The group of guests were persuaded to edge gingerly along the swaying aluminium beam, clutching the guide-rail, until they came to the small feather-covered door which allowed them entry into what was in effect a ten-feet by ten-feet hunting platform.

It was quite comfortable. The floor was carpeted. There was a fridge containing food and drink. Embrasures cut into three sides of the plywood walls opened fields of fire for shooting down the flocks of partridge Farmer Jack confidently expected to approach the giant decoy. They all experienced a slight unease as the contraption lifted and swayed in the wind. But its movement was limited by the application of the electrically-operated brake.. They all sat on the floor and Farmer Jack poured out drinks.

'Is there a loo?' Irish Jack enquired.

Farmer Jack pointed silently to a hole in the floor.

He unpacked his shotgun and peered out hopefully across the shining pewter-coloured waters of the lake. Small ripples were beginning to appear as the wind increased and the decoy began to gently flap its wings. Suddenly an excited cry left his lips. A partridge was fast approaching, following a crooked flight path that had in the past continually perplexed and confused Farmer Jack's aim. This time everything would be different. Continuing along in its present direction, it would come within six feet of the decoy partridge in which they were all sitting. Even Farmer Jack could not miss at that range.

He called for silence and then sat with his gun, carefully changing deflection as the bird winged its way nearer and nearer. He whispered softly as it approached the decoy: Champagne all round, if I get it''

'How will you pull it out of the water?' Geoff Bradman enquired.

Farmer Jack brusquely silenced him as he took careful aim, so we will never know the answer to that question.

There was a loud bang, accompanied by a brilliant flash on the shore. Farmer Jack swore as the bird continued in flight, blissfully ignorant of the fact that it had just missed death by something like twenty feet. As Farmer Jack fired a second shot at its disappearing tail, the platform began to shake violently. Splinters flew from distant fir trees. The partridge was now out of sight. But the decoy platform had commenced a combined up and down and sideways motion, swinging vertiginously at the end of its long pliable lever.

Lady Betty, clinging desperately to the fridge, complained that the motion was making her feel sick.

Irish Jack said it was like looping the loop.

They all clung to each other for safety. Lady Pat, however, lost her grip and described a graceful arc, first touching the ceiling and then landing daintily on her husband's neck.

Michael, held by Marion in a tight embrace, remarked that it was like a second honeymoon.

Lady Polly said: 'Farmer Jack, that's enough! Put on the brake.'

He operated a switch several times, but the platform continued to swing even more violently, rising to its maximum height and then falling, before going upwards again. Everyone experienced nausea. A slight jerking sideways component now added to the wild gyrations, causing the whole contraption to shiver. The wings flapped noisily outside. Partridge feathers floated in through the open windows.

'I think I must have winged the bird,' Farmer Jack called out excitedly.

'Those feathers are coming off the outside wall,' Long John Silva said deprecatingly. 'Why don't you put on the brake?'

'Yes, do put on the brake,' Lady Polly entreated her husband.

Farmer Jack, floating from floor to ceiling, shouted: 'Don't worry. Everything is under control. The electric power supply has failed. That's why I can't switch the brake on. But don't worry, I've got an emergency generator here somewhere.'

'But why has the power supply failed?' Marion asked.

Farmer Jack didn't answer. He was reluctant to admit that instead of the partridge he had hit the power line that ran along the shore of the lake.

PART TWO

I do not propose to describe the distressing scene as the decoy continued its wild swinging motion. Everyone became giddy and frightened. The standby generator wouldn't work. Long John Silva made an heroic attempt to regain the shore along the wildly swaying beam but was pulled back just in time by Lady Lillian of Laguna, frightened that he would fall into the icy waters below. They continued thus, flying up, down and sideways, with the whole contraption in hideous unstable motion. Meanwhile, Lady Betty continued to hug the fridge. The other farm visitors clung to her tenaciously, as the room swayed, bobbed and bounced

'How are we going to get out of this?' Lady Pat Bradman enquired tremulously, loth to repeat her recent aerobatics.

'No need to worry,' Farmer Jack insisted, as he cranked the emergency generator unavailingly with one hand and hung onto Michael's belt with the other. 'I'll soon have you out of here.'

He continued cranking desperately, until Lady Polly ordered him to stop, because each movement aggravated the gyratory movements of the swaying container. Irish Jack's request that Lady Betty should let go of the fridge so that he could get at the whiskey inside was met with a storm of protest.

'Why not – oops!,' said Lady Lilian. 'Why not – sorry Farmer Jack, I didn't mean to grope...Why don't we all stop talking and keep absolutely still until the vibrations die down. Once the motion has ceased at least we shall be able to think clearly.'

'First sensible idea I've heard,' Farmer Jack said approvingly.

Complete and absolute silence ensued for the next twenty minutes. Gradually the vibrations died down. Then, Irish Jack's use of the trap door for a call of nature se the whole contraption in motion again and it took a further ten minutes to settle down.

They tried to remain silent for some time, but the desire to talk and exchange ideas became irresistible. They spoke in subdued whispers. Nevertheless, an occasional warning shudder ran through the decoy when someone – Irish Jack was the chief culprit – raised his voice too loudly.

As the giant partridge began a wriggling motion in a strong breeze, Lady Polly said: 'I think the wind is getting up.'

Irish Jack remarked: 'It's the baked beans.'

The ensuing laughter brought about a renewal of violent swaying and rocking both vertically and horizontally. When after another fifteen minutes the giant partridge settled down again, Farmer Jack, determined to master the situation, reloaded his fowling piece and threatened to shoot the next person who tried to tell a joke.'

Silence reigned again, broken only by the faint soughing of the wind that sent shivers along the beam and resulted in a rhythmic slewing motion that made everyone, except the Famous Cricketer, feel sea sick.

When he complained that he was hungry, it was agreed that Lady Betty would be allowed to open the fridge and remove the sandwiches that Farmer Jack had left, in case a visitor became hungry. Not that he had ever imagined that he would be trapped inside his giant partridge. The operation of obtaining and handing round the food was conducted with extreme circumspection and was completed more or less successfully. Most of the worried guests managed to eat a few mouthfuls of stale tuna sandwiches.

Irish Jack's request for whiskey was again denied, on the grounds that it might rock the boat. He sulked for a while and then said: 'Farmer Jack, you've invented an ideal environment for practising space travel. And added gloomily: 'But least those guys get down to earth eventually, when they fire their retro-rockets.'

A discussion started about possible methods of damping down the vibrations. But no one was able to come up with a viable solution. Even Farmer Jack was at a loss.

Lady Betty, trying to look on the bright side, remarked: 'Someone's bound to rescue us after a while. What about your neighbour, Edward Burt?'

'He's gone away for Christmas,' Farmer Jack said gruffly.

'Perfect peace,' Long John Silva whispered, looking around at the melancholy expressions on the faces of his fellow guests. 'That's what we all wish one another. Now we've got it we don't want it!'

Lady Pat said in a small voice: 'I never thought I'd end my life inside a giant-sized partridge.'

Unfortunately, this remark brought about peals of laughter which set the decoy bucking like a rodeo horse for a further fifteen minutes. Farmer Jack angrily repeated his threat to shoot the first person who told a joke.

'That wasn't a joke,''Lady Pat protested, 'It was a statement of fact.'

There followed a whispered discussion about what did or did not constitute a joke and whether capital punishment would be appropriate in the circumstances. Marion insisted that the broad definition of a joke should be anything which made people laugh and in the circumstances pulling a funny face should equally be a capital offence. Farmer Jack supported his daughter-in-law.

Terrified of becoming a victim of his natural garrulity, Irish Jack argued that not only must the joker be shot but laughers as well, because it was they who set the contraption wobbling.

The Famous Cricketer objected. 'If I say something unfunny, I can't be held responsible if someone laughs''

'In that case, I'll tell my joke about the gold mountain. Nobody has ever laughed at it,' Irish Jack said.

'There will be no jokes of any kind around here,' Farmer Jack insisted fiercely, feeling increasing vibrations running through the frame of the giant partridge. 'It's far too dangerous. If the beam fractures under the strain, we'll all end up in the water.'

Everyone nodded silent agreement with this general principle, except Irish Jack, who suddenly enquired: 'What about numbers?'

'Numbers?' Farmer Jack repeated, with a mystified expression.

'Yes, are they forbidden? Supposing, for example, I said number thirty-seven.'

This happened to be the code number of a joke that both Jacks had laughed at in their distant youth. The split in Farmer Jack's mind by a desire to laugh at joke number thirty-seven and an equally strong desire to punish Irish Jack caused his fingers to touch the sensitively-balanced trigger of his shotgun. This set off an explosion which initiated a violent rock 'n roll motion, up, down and sideways. Bodies were sent flying through the air, performing all kinds of undignified capers. Long John Silva did a barrel roll followed by two entrechats. Lady Pat performed a pas de deux with the Famous Cricketer on the ceiling. Irish Jack did a cartwheel. Lady Polly performed a double somersault over Farmer Jack, who floated just above the floor with an astonished expression on his face.

The reason for his astonished expression was that a miracle had happened. The shot had hit a passing partridge- a fine plump bird- which, floated in through the window. There it lay in full view of the guests, as they bounced helplessly around.

We will not go explore the further agonies which they all endured. They continued speculating endlessly on whether they would ever regain their freedom. It was Michael who saved the day. His profound knowledge of harmonics and theory of music led to a simple and elegant solution. I shall allow a brief pause in this narrative of twenty seconds to determine whether any of my audience can spot the answer. No?

Well, Michael worked out a sequence of notes that counter-pointed the vibrations of the long beam connecting them to the shore of the lake. He played this tune- it is now famous under the title of Maid Marion's Song - as each guests in turn wended his way along the lightly dancing beam. The brave fellow was the last to leave, precariously balancing like a tight-rope walker as the shuddering beam surrendered its cyclic motions to his music.

'Well, I can see now why people appreciate guitar plonking,' Irish Jack commented as they trooped back to the farmhouse.

The stuffed partridge that was accidentally shot can be seen every year in its position over the fireplace. But is only displayed on the First Day of Christmas. The apparatus called the PARTRIDGE ON A SHOE TREE has been dismantled in the interests of safety. Finally, Farmer Jack admits that this has been one of his less successful inventions. But he is comforted by the thought that it has provided him with a good story to tell when Christmas/Chanukah draws nigh.