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unmoved and then walked off in the direction of the house. George followed his dwindling figure as he moved away slowly up the drive that rose towards Trelawn with its pseudo-gothic battlements framed by trees. The rest of them said nothing, killed a few more rabbits and went back to lunch.
    George remembered that Steven had enjoyed shooting rabbits when he was as young as eleven. Then with a penknife he would slit open the envelope of the stomach and, holding the rabbit up, watch the still-palpitating intestines fall out and lie quivering on the ground. His interest might have been purely scientific, George felt. But David hadalways been revolted. An event which George remembered with especial distaste had been when David found a small bird a few summers back, caught in a patch of melted tar on the tennis court. He had tried to wash it off with paraffin but without success. Why the hell he hadn’t killed it then George couldn’t guess; the bird’s breathing had grown difficult as the tar slowly dried on its warm body. George had put the shotgun into David’s hand. At six inches there was very little left.
    The day after the rabbit episode the cook elected to give them a meal that they rarely had in spite of their opportunities —rabbit pie. A dish which George secretly admitted was not one of his favourites. But David’s blunt refusal to eat it seemed to be little less than sentimental.
    ‘For heaven’s sake, boy, if everybody behaved like that we’d all be vegetarians. We’d be eaten out of the country by animals.’
    ‘I don’t like rabbit pie and I won’t eat it,’ had been the answer.
    Ruth, who had also found the pie unpleasant, further aggravated George by mentioning the forced breeding of animals.
    ‘I suppose that goes for rabbits?’ said George sarcastically.
    ‘Anyway darling, if he doesn’t like eating meat why should he? I don’t see what’s so funny about being vegetarian . I once knew several …’
    ‘Well, what’d they say to him at school I’d like to know?’
    Ruth really was far too soft with the boys, always had been. If she’d been a bit firmer with Steven earlier on, he wouldn’t be as impossible as he was, reflected George bitterly . And as for those food cranks … George remembered one called Rathbone, whom Ruth had known in London shortly after the war. Such a jolly fellow with his tiny sparkling eyes and boyish humour. Cold showers every morning, never had a cold in his life. His toothlessness he had sworn was nothing to do with his diet: a gum infection when young, or so he said. A fine sense of humour too when it really came to it. They’d had a corgi puppy that piddled in the brim of his hat when it fell off the hat stand in the hall.He didn’t come so often then. Probably thought flowers grew in detergent. George smiled and said:
    ‘An uncle of mine once had a pig called Betty; fed it sugar and sweets every day. He doted on the animal. But in the end he killed her. Used to say, “I never knew how much I loved her till I tasted how good she was”.’
    Nobody seemed amused. George went over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink in the disapproving silence that followed. Of course it wasn’t the boy’s fault he was so sensitive. After all the war blunted most of us, George reflected dully. Used to be pretty sensitive myself. Cried when our pet cat was run over. Dreadful really … you take something for granted and suddenly it isn’t there any longer. His father had buried it with its collar and label on. That was the worst bit, it was so useless somehow that collar. What use was an address now, any more than the bits of cat’s fish in the fridge. Still once you’ve seen more dead men than you’re ever likely to see dead cats, you don’t think like that any more.
    One visit to Margate on Bank Holiday’s the next best thing. All those raw meat shoulders and loose white fleshy stomachs should be enough to make the most sentimental man doubt the sanctity of