'I want to talk to you,' I said. 'Lucy's convinced me from the moment we met we got off on the wrong foot. You're due an explanation. You see, Tim, I'm a one time Army instructor. In the Army, things have to get done fast. There's no time to take personalities into consideration, and without meaning to I have got you feeling hostile towards me.'
I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. He continued to hide behind the goggles and look towards the sea.
I rubbed the back of my neck and contained my impatience. I had promised Lucy to handle him with kid gloves, so I was going to.
'Your father wants you to become a crack shot. He wants to win an important, big money bet. You know about that. He made a mistake making the bet, but we all make mistakes sometime or other. I guess because you're his son, you'll want to get him out of the mess he's in.' Again I eyed the profile: again no response. He picked on me to help you. I don't know if he told you, but he is offering me fifty thousand dollars to make you a good shot in nine days. With your co-operation, this is possible.' Again no response. I went on, 'You've been here a few hours and you've seen this place. It's in a mess. I've sunk all the money I got from the Army into it. Maybe I've made a mistake. What I need is extra capital to give this dump a shot in the arm. Your father will give me the capital if — only if — I turn you into a good shot. With this capital, Lucy and I can make a success of the range.'
I looked at him. He continued to stare out to sea. He might have been stone deaf for all the impact I was making on him.
I sat for a long minute, resisting the urge to get up and kick the arse off him.
'You've already talked to Lucy,' I said, making my final appeal. 'She tells me you two think alike. Getting capital to put this place on its feet is as important to her as it is to me. What I'm trying to say, Tim, is now I've explained the set-up to you, can I rely on your co-operation? Will you help us by letting me help you?'
I waited, watching him. He just sat there, but his big hands had turned into fists. Well, at least he was showing signs of being alive.
I waited. I had said all I had to say. If he didn't respond, then I had made up my mind to give him the Army treatment.
Finally, just when I was about to start bawling at him, he began to unwind like a mechanical figure and he climbed to his feet. He hesitated, not looking at me, then with slow, dragging steps, he started towards the shooting gallery.
When he had disappeared into the lean-to, I got up and went after him.
I found him standing by his rifle. He had taken off the goggles and he looked as miserable and as animated as a drowned cat.
I loaded the rifle.
'Go ahead, Tim,' I said. 'Take it nice and easy. We have all the afternoon. I want you to get as close to the bull as you can. Don't get fussed if you don't make good shooting : that'll come. Okay?'
He took the rifle, went over to the shooting stand and began firing.
I let him loose off six shots. He didn't even clip the target.
'Okay, Tim . . . hold it.' I got out the tripod that Nick Lewis used to use for his most hopeless women pupils. I fixed it up, screwed the rifle to it, lined up the sight, then stepped back. 'Just keep shooting.' With the tripod he couldn't miss. I thought maybe when he saw his grouping, he might get ambitious. I let him fire off twenty rounds during which time he cut the bull out of the target.
'That's shooting, but it's only because the gun is rock steady.' I took the gun off the tripod. 'Now take it dead slow. I only want you to shoot when you're sure you're on target. If it takes an hour to fire six rounds that's okay with me.'
With sweat running down his face, he hung on to the rifle for so long I thought he had become paralysed, then finally he fired. We had a new target now. He got an outer. Well, at least he was hitting something.
After an hour, he had managed to place six shots around the outer ring and in a group. This was better progress than I had hoped for. All the time he was shooting, he remained silent. He was so tense I imagined I could hear his muscles creaking. Although I wanted to keep him at it, I knew this wouldn't help.
'Okay, Tim, let's knock it off. I've got a thirst on me that would slay a camel. Let's go over to the bungalow and show Lucy what you've been doing.'
He lowered the rifle the way Hercules must have lowered the world. I went down the sand and took off his two targets and then joined him.
'How do you feel about it, Tim? It's not so hard, is it?'
'No.'
He put his sun goggles on again and I was shut out.
As we approached the bungalow, I saw Lucy was painting. She was on a ladder, doing the gutter. Already the bungalow looked pretty smart.
'Hi, Lucy . . . beer,' I called.
She looked down and waved her paint brush, smiling.
'Get it yourself, helpless. I'm busy.'
'Come on down. I want you to see what Tim's been doing.'
'Suppose Tim comes on up and finishes this gutter. It's killing me!'
He started forward like a greyhound released from the trap. He was at the bottom of the ladder before I got moving. I heard him say, 'I'll be glad to do it. It's too hard for you, Lucy.'
I hung back as she came down the ladder and gave him the brush and the pot of paint. As he climbed the
