Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  Nick picks up a pair of my father’s boots from the lean-to, wrinkling his nose as he puts them on.

  I take one of the waxed coats from the hooks on the back of the door, shaking out the spiders before handing it over to him. I find a pair of size sixes in the cupboard under the sink, alongside preserving jars filled with onions and plums, then take down one of my old green boiler suits from a hook on the wall and pull it on.

  ‘What do you think?’ I hold my hair up and give Nick a twirl. ‘Sexy or what?’

  ‘Or what, I should say,’ he smiles.

  ‘You’re supposed to say: “Stevie, you look hot whatever you’re wearing.” Let’s go.’ I collect an apple – a pippin of some kind – from the wooden box, stored in newspaper from when it was picked and still good to eat in March. I stick it between my teeth. The fresh country air is making me hungry. Outside, Nick and I find a couple of broken brooms. I knock a brush and handle together and drive in a nail to hold them while Nick looks on in amazement.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were so practical,’ he says as I hand him a broom and shovel. ‘You aren’t going to leave those cows wandering about in the yard,’ he goes on when I let Pollyanna out of the crush to join the others.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nick, they won’t charge you.’

  ‘I might have to charge you for doing this,’ he smiles. ‘I don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Stop whingeing and get on with it,’ I say, laughing.

  He clambers between the rails and into the yard and starts scraping up the muck. ‘Where am I putting this?’

  ‘In the corner. I’ll sort out a tractor ASAP – we’ll move it then. It goes into the slurry pit and later we’ll spread it on the fields.’

  ‘I couldn’t be a farmer,’ Nick says after about fifteen minutes. He pauses, sweating and rubbing his back.

  ‘It’s better than a work-out down at the gym,’ I say, getting into a rhythm.

  The yard looks a little better when we’ve finished, but as soon as we let the cows through for milking, it’s covered with muck again.

  ‘That was a waste of time,’ Nick observes.

  ‘We can wash it down when the milking’s done. I’ll just grab the pressure hose and hey presto, it’s done. I don’t know what you want to do now, but I’m going to give Cecil a hand and find out what’s been going on here.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve never milked a cow.’

  I hesitate because I’m not sure Cecil will be willing to talk about the farm in front of a stranger, but Nick is determined to have a taste of country life so we join him in the parlour.

  The cows, a black-and-white dairy breed, are waiting, queuing to get into the parlour for their afternoon feed.

  ‘Do you mind if Nick joins us?’ I yell through to Cecil, who’s already in the well in the centre of the parlour between the two platforms on which the cows stand, five on each side so their udders are at Cecil’s waist height.

  ‘Not at all,’ he calls back over the sounds of Radio Four, the hum of the milking machine and the mooing of the cows. ‘It’ll be nice to have some company – Tom hasn’t been out here for a while now. The more the merrier.’

  Nick and I pause on the balcony.

  ‘This is udderly extraordinary,’ says Nick.

  ‘That isn’t funny, Nick.’

  ‘Do the cows like being milked?’

  ‘They know when it’s milking time,’ Cecil says. ‘They’re always waiting. If one’s missing, you know there’s something wrong.’

  ‘You can stay up here, Nick,’ I say, before I join Cecil in the pit and pull the lever that slides the doors open to let the cows in each side. They wander in with purpose, as beautiful as ever I remember them, with their big ears, brown eyes with long lashes, dripping noses and cloven hooves, and their breath as sweet. However, their coats are dull and they have muddy knees and mucky tails that they flick against their bony backsides now and then.

  If they were models, they would all be size zeros.

  When there are ten inside, five to the left and five to the right, I pull the lever again to close the doors. Cecil makes sure that the cows move along to the end, filling the spaces. When they’re all in place, he releases more levers to let the feed into the mangers in front of them. A few nuts rattle into each container.

  ‘How much feed are you giving them?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve had to cut back – Tom told me I had to make economies.’

  ‘False economies, I should say.’ I’m looking around at the milk running down the insides of the jars. I don’t have to ask. I can see yields are way down.

  ‘Food in equals milk out?’ Nick enquires.

  ‘Essentially, yes,’ I say.

  ‘How many cattle are there?’ Nick asks. I look to Cecil for the answer.

  ‘We have eighty-seven head on the farm, with about sixty in milk at one time. We calve them all year round.’

  ‘They look like clones,’ Nick says.

  ‘They’re closely related, many of them. Mothers and daughters, sisters and aunts.’ Cecil bellows at the first cow to move forwards. ‘Get up, Daisy Mae.’

  ‘Can you tell them all apart?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know them all, and if I should ever forget, which I doubt, they have the yellow ear tags and their numbers freeze-marked onto their behinds.’ Cecil picks up a hose and cleans the first cow’s teats with a spray of sanitising solution before moving on to the next one.

  ‘As we were, Cecil?’ I ask, taking a paper towel from the dispenser and drying the first cow’s udder. ‘Daisy Mae must be one of the oldest cows – she’s from the same generation as Pollyanna.’ Her udder is enormous, covered with a down of white hair and a network of swollen milk veins. Her teats are like old man’s fingers, almost touching the concrete floor and leaking milk.

  ‘She’s lost her figure,’ Cecil says. ‘I don’t think she’s going to make another year.’

  ‘What will you do with her?’ Nick says.

  ‘She’ll have to move on,’ he says euphemistically. ‘They don’t last for long, seven lactations if you’re lucky. ‘Stevie, if you carry on and put the clusters on these, I’ll start on the next lot.’

  I slip the cluster, a claw-shaped contraption with four tubes or cups, one for each teat, onto Daisy Mae’s teats, attaching her to the milking machine and waiting for the vacuum pump to suck the milk from her udder with its regular, rhythmic beat.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ Nick comes down from the balcony and waits beside me while I show him how to put the next cluster on Daisy Mae’s neighbour.

  ‘This is something to tell the guys at the office when we get back,’ he says, keeping an eye on the chamber behind Daisy Mae, watching the milk pulsing into it.

  ‘When are you intending to put the cows out?’ I ask Cecil. ‘They could do with fattening up on the spring grass.’

  ‘I’d say tomorrow, but Tom’s insisting they stay in till April Fools’ Day as they’ve done other years, but the ground’s dry enough for them to go out now, in my humble opinion, anyway.’ Cecil shrugs.

  I remove the clusters and flick the switch to let Daisy Mae’s milk into the bulk tank through the pipe above us.

  ‘Watch out,’ Cecil says suddenly, but it’s too late. One of the cows has raised her tail and spattered Nick with muck.

  ‘Ugh, that is disgusting.’ Nick steps back.

  ‘Ever been in the shit before?’ I say lightly.

  ‘What goes in must come out one way or another,’ Cecil chuckles. ‘Now you have to keep your eyes on the other back ends.’

  ‘How can this be hygienic?’ Nick grumbles. ‘I’ll be having orange juice on my cereal in future.’

  ‘At least you had a go,’ I say.

  We sweep and hose down the parlour after the last batch of cows before we take our bags from the car and freshen up for a roast dinner, Cecil and Mary having excused themselves, assuming I’d like to spend some quality time with m
y dad. I chat with Nick much of the time, my father preferring to concentrate on eating, not talking.

  He pauses now and again to gesture with his good hand and tell us how he’s looking forward to getting back to doing the milking and taking the dog up to the top of Steep Acres, the steepest field on the farm. My heart grows hollow at the realisation he won’t be going far beyond these four walls in a hurry. It’s painful to watch him struggle to cut up his meat and transfer morsels of food to his mouth without dropping them from the fork. I want to offer to cut it up for him and give him a spoon, but decide it’s just too demeaning. He isn’t happy about me turning up on the farm. I don’t want him hating me for it.

  I’d like to ask him why he didn’t inform me of his stroke, but he’s so preoccupied with feeding himself it doesn’t seem right to distract him. It can wait, I think.

  By the end of the meal, he’s exhausted and needs to sleep. As he makes to stand up from the table, he drops his crutches.

  ‘No, Stevie,’ he snaps when I get up to assist. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ I say sarcastically, ‘just like you can manage to run this farm.’

  ‘Leave him be,’ Nick says gently, resting his hand on mine. ‘He says he doesn’t need help.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s his choice. When he’s ready he’ll ask.’

  ‘He’s so stubborn.’

  ‘Like you,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that right, Tom? Like father, like daughter.’

  The ghost of a smile crosses my father’s lips as he uses one crutch and the edge of the table to support him on his way to bed.

  Later, I’m lying in my old single bed unable to sleep.

  Mary made up the double bed in my parents’ room (Dad’s been sleeping downstairs since he came home from hospital after his stroke) with fresh white linen and a patchwork quilt that my grandmother made, and aired the room. There was a small bunch of daffodils in a vase on the dressing table, a lovely, welcoming touch, but I couldn’t sleep in my parents’ room anyway, and as soon as I explained to Mary that Nick and I aren’t married, she wondered aloud if Nick shouldn’t have my brother’s old room. I agreed and gave her a hand to make the other bedrooms ready.

  In my old room, the furniture was covered with sheets. I wandered across the bare floorboards and onto the sheepskin rug to look at the trinkets on the bookcase. Everything was as I left it when I last visited the farm a year ago, almost to the day, for my mother’s funeral. I picked up the faded photo of a grey pony and blew away the dust – reddish, brick-coloured dust that drifts from the fields in summer. I gave the frame a rub with the end of my sleeve and put it back on the shelf before helping Mary fold the sheets and put them away in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Stevie, can I come in?’

  ‘Nick, of course you can.’

  ‘It’s freezing in this house. Where’s the thermostat?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’ I switch the bedside light on to find Nick standing in the doorway with a blanket draped around his shoulders. ‘There’s no central heating.’

  ‘Oh? Is there room for a small one?’

  ‘Come on,’ I say, shifting up against the wall for him to join me. I’m grateful for the company. ‘I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking.’

  ‘Thinking about what?’ Nick asks, looking down at me.

  ‘The farm, of course.’

  ‘Oh?’ There is a long pause. ‘Why didn’t you introduce me to Jack and the vet as your boyfriend this afternoon? Are you ashamed of me, or have I reason to be jealous?’

  I frown. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I thought I detected some tension when I appeared in the yard.’

  ‘You did. Leo had just threatened to have Bear put to sleep and as good as blamed me for the state of the cows.’

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘The vet. He’s called Leo.’

  ‘So you’re on first-name terms.’

  ‘Nick, I don’t know what you’re getting at. You aren’t really jealous, are you? Only I can assure you, you have absolutely no reason to be. Now, are you coming to bed, or not?’

  Nick crawls under the quilt with me, cold and a little drunk on some scrumpy that Cecil made in the late autumn and stored in barrels in the barn. My brother Ray and I used to make and sell it to anyone who turned up with a vessel to put it in. We made a good income, but it was rough stuff, so sharp it stung your mouth. A glass of scrumpy was once the height of sophistication for me, but I prefer something much smoother now.

  ‘Are you feeling warmer? I could warm you up even more if you like …’

  I do like. Making love with Nick is familiar and comforting.

  ‘I wish I’d kept a closer eye on the farm,’ I say afterwards. ‘I should have come down sooner, but I couldn’t face it. After Mum’s funeral I felt that the last tie holding me to the farm was gone, but seeing Cecil and Mary and Bear and the cows again …’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned …’

  ‘My dad?’ I smile wryly. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen him, purely because I’d feel terribly guilty if he died and I hadn’t seen him for months. Mum would have expected me to …’ I bite my lip as Nick enfolds me in his arms, burying his face in my hair.

  ‘Ugh,’ Nick exclaims. ‘You’ve showered and you still reek of cow.’

  ‘It’s one of the best smells in the world,’ I sigh.

  ‘That is debatable.’ He hesitates. ‘What shall we do tomorrow? We could go to the beach, or I could take you to the nearest city to look at engagement rings. We could have dinner, something light as opposed to that fat-laden meal we had this evening. Was she trying to kill us? I could feel my arteries clogging up as we were eating.’

  ‘I thought it was delicious.’ Lamb with fatty gravy, crispy roast potatoes, leeks in cheese sauce and carrots cooked in butter.

  ‘So we’ll go shopping?’ Nick says.

  ‘I’m sorry. I need to sort out a few things here.’

  ‘Can’t that wait until Monday? I mean, we’re going to have to be here then to take the dog to the vet and see that the tractor is fixed. Surely, you can take one day out?’

  ‘Farming’s full-time, twenty-four-seven, and although I’m not the farmer,’ I continue, pre-empting Nick’s next interruption, ‘whether you like it or not, I am the farmer’s daughter. And I know you’re upset because I won’t go and look at rings tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. You can’t deal with the marriage thing right now,’ he says, his voice filled with regret.

  It would be too easy, lying here in his arms, bathed in the afterglow of making love to say yes, I’ll marry you, but in the stark light of the morning, I can’t help thinking I’ll feel it was a mistake. I sense that I’ve arrived at a crossroads like the one on the lane, where the signposts are blank and I don’t know which way to go.

  Chapter Four

  Black and White

  On Monday morning, I wake Nick, pretty sure that I look like a freak of nature, with my hair scraped back with a hairband, my nails engrained with muck, and wearing an ancient sweatshirt and jeans I found in the chest of drawers in my old room.

  ‘Ugh, you stink,’ he groans. ‘What is it again?’

  ‘Eau de cow-logne.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he says, chuckling lightly.

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever could. It gets right up my nose.’ He pauses as I plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘Go and have a shower.’

  ‘I’ll have one later. I’ve a couple of errands to do before the tractor’s fixed and then I’m going to scrape the yard and clean out the calves.’ I bounce on the bed. ‘Are you going to help?’

  ‘I could really do with a lie in.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ I tip my head to one side. ‘I’ll let you drive the tractor as soon as it’s fixed. Come on, Nick.’

  ‘I suppose I could get up,’ he says. ‘It is our last day on the farm, after all.’


  ‘Ah, I meant to talk to you about that.’ We’ve had a busy couple of days, cleaning the place up and making sure the cows have plenty of silage to eat from the racks in the barn. ‘Jack from Animal Welfare comes back again this afternoon and I don’t know what he’s going to say.’

  ‘Hopefully, he’ll say it’s looking good, he’ll let the cows stay here on the farm, leave your father alone and we can get back to work, to our lives. I feel like an alien here.’

  ‘Everyone admires your spaceship,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes, the car definitely turns heads,’ Nick smiles.

  ‘Anyway, going back to the subject of when we go home, I think I’ll be staying on for a few more days, at least until the end of the week.’

  ‘What for? We really should be getting back soon.’

  ‘I know, but even if Jack says it’s fine, I can’t leave everything to Cecil and Dad. There’s still far too much left for them to cope with.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Checking all the bills have been paid and arranging for someone to do some general maintenance on the farm. I need to speak to my brother Ray and he isn’t answering his phone. I’ve also got to take my father in for his appointment at the police station.’

  ‘I thought we were going to spend some time together, but I haven’t seen much of you. You’re always out milking the cows and doing the lady farmer thing.’

  ‘I’m here to help out. I told you, it isn’t a holiday.’ I reach out and massage Nick’s shoulder. ‘If I can get things straight here, I can get back to normal very soon.’ I hesitate. ‘Why don’t you go back home and I’ll catch up as soon as I’m ready?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay a bit longer as it’s only a couple more days.’ He reaches out to the bedside cabinet for his mobile and checks it for emails and texts.

  ‘Nick, that can wait. It’s time for breakfast.’

  He pulls himself up, the quilt falling away from his bony shoulder.

  ‘How long have you been up?’ he asks.

  ‘Three hours,’ I say, glancing at the clock. ‘You’ve wasted half the day – it’s a beautiful morning.’