Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘You haven’t finished telling me about your sister.’

  ‘Before we knew it, she and Andrew were engaged. Sue had the big white wedding and a reception for one hundred and fifty at the Barnscote, with a horse and carriage and a marquee and everything. It cost my parents an arm and a leg.

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, Dad set them up with a house and a farm-machinery business, but within three years, Andrew had remortgaged the house, gone through my sister’s savings and petitioned for divorce. The bastard went for everything he could get.’

  ‘Including the farm? I don’t see how he could make a claim against it.’

  ‘Not only had my father taken out loans against the farm to provide for Sue and her husband, he’d also planned ahead against death duties by handing over a financial interest in the farm to each of us. What with having to pay off the debts and settle the solicitor’s bills, he was forced into selling up.’ James swings a hammer down hard onto the top of another post. There’s a loud crack and it shears straight through. ‘Bugger,’ he says, bashing it to smithereens before fetching another one. ‘I thought my parents would have fought harder for it, but they couldn’t see any way out. My father lost heart really.’

  ‘It’s shocking to see what effect a single bad apple can have. What a rotten thing to happen.’

  ‘I told Sue she should have a pre-nup, but she was completely besotted with the weasel and convinced their marriage was going to last for ever.’

  ‘Where is your sister now?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s a survivor. She married again and moved away to the other side of Exeter. She has a couple of kids, a boy and a girl.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Mum and Dad live in a tiny house on the new estate in Talyton. I rent one of the houses opposite the church.’ He pauses. ‘I have some money put by to buy a place of my own one day. I do a bit of painting and decorating and any odd jobs that need doing. I’ve made the best of it and, all in all, I can say I’m a happy man.’

  ‘Are you married?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘I live alone, but I don’t let on that I’m single to my clients. Some of them are right goers.’ He chuckles. ‘I sometimes think I should take on an apprentice to fend off their advances.’

  ‘Don’t you miss the farm?’

  ‘I know I used to grumble about the hours and the muck, but I’d love to work in farming again, although I’d find it hard to work for someone else. I was the boss’s son and used to making decisions. Of course, if we’d diversified like you’re planning to do, we might have managed to hold on to a few acres.’

  James’s family reared pigs for fattening. I remember the rows of pig sheds, the smell and the ear-splitting squealing of hundreds of hungry piglets. It made me appreciate the cows.

  ‘If I were you,’ James says, ‘I’d see if I could apply for a grant to convert the outbuildings to office space and retail instead of setting up a petting farm. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, never work with animals and children?’

  ‘It’s too late. I’ve set my heart on it.’

  ‘I wish you luck. Some people – not me – are up in arms over the idea. Apparently, you’re single-handedly bringing gridlock to Talyton St George.’

  ‘I thought that happened already.’

  ‘It does in the summer, but it doesn’t stop them.’

  ‘What else are they complaining about?’

  ‘You’re altering the character of the area, moving from traditional farming to some way-out-there enterprise.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. This way, we’ll still have animals on the farm, and continue to take care of the countryside.’

  ‘Are you working to a deadline?’ James asks.

  ‘I want it up and running by next spring. It’s the perfect time of year. There’ll be newborn lambs, cute baby bunnies and fluffy chicks.’

  James grins. ‘What about an Easter egg hunt?’

  ‘That’s a great suggestion. Thanks.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about the locals. They don’t like change, but they’ll come round in the end. They usually do.’ James is struggling to get the next post into the ground. He fetches a shovel from the Land Rover and starts digging about in the soil. ‘I didn’t understand why you took off to London when you finished college.’

  ‘You must know what happened, that my father handed the farm over to my brother. I was expected to go and marry a farmer.’ I look at him. ‘I think my dad wanted me to marry you.’

  ‘Hey, don’t laugh so loud about that. There was a time when I thought you might.’

  ‘I was eighteen. I wasn’t ready to settle down and you were very serious. You brought me a red rose on the first date and chocolates on the second. It was quite scary.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder what would have happened if you had stayed.’ James rubs his chin, deep in thought.

  ‘James, I liked you, as a friend.’

  ‘I used to hate it that you were so popular with the men.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m a bit of a slapper?’ I say lightly.

  ‘I’m just saying that men like you, and so do women, but not in the same way I hasten to add.’ James is blushing.

  ‘I think you’d better stop.’ It’s my turn to be amused. ‘I think it’s called digging yourself into a hole.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we ran into each other again.’

  ‘So am I. You know, I might have a proposition for you if you’re looking for work.’

  ‘How can I refuse?’ he says, nodding down the hill towards the gateway. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll tow the van out until I say yes.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I tease.

  Later, I attach James’s van to the tractor and drag it out onto firmer ground before leaving him to finish the fencing.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he says, sounding envious.

  ‘I’m going to start halter-breaking the heifer Dad’s chosen as our entry for the Country Show.’

  ‘Best of luck. We used to take a couple of pigs every year.’ James looks wistful. ‘I used to love giving them a bath.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit weird?’

  ‘It’s probably why I haven’t got a girlfriend,’ he says in a mocking, self-deprecatory way. ‘Have fun. I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘Mind you don’t get stuck again.’ I give him a wave and take the tractor back to the farmyard. Then I head into the house to see my father, who’s supposed to be showing me the heifer with the most potential to win a hotly contested class.

  ‘What are you doing back?’ my father asks. He’s watching This Morning.

  ‘We’re going to look at the heifer, remember?’ I move over and grab the remote control to switch the television off in case he can’t hear what I’m saying.

  ‘Which heifer?’ he asks.

  ‘Magnificent Millicent, or whatever you say she’s called – the one who’s going to take supreme champion at the show.’

  ‘Oh yes, I see. Good idea.’ He looks around at the photos on the wall that show various winning cattle from Nettlebed Farm, his eyes eventually settling on the walnut cabinet in the corner where he keeps the cups and shields and a few fading rosettes.

  ‘You aren’t properly dressed,’ I say, noticing he’s still wearing his pyjama top with green cords and no socks.

  ‘I must have nodded off,’ he says sheepishly. ‘I’ll find my coat and boots.’

  ‘I’ll get them. Go and put some socks on. It isn’t terribly warm out there.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Stevie, you sound like your mother.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ I insist. ‘By the way, did you find the halter?’

  ‘It’s on Bear’s chair in the lean-to. It’s a bit grubby, but I think it will clean up well with a wash and some whitener.’

  ‘Are you offering?’ I ask. ‘No, I thought not. So that’s another job for me – as if I need anything else to do.’ I collect the boots, coat and halter, and soon Dad and I are walking slowly across the driv
e with Bear to the field where the heifers and dry cows have their heads down grazing.

  ‘That’s Milly.’ My father points in the general direction of the small herd. ‘The black-and-white one,’ he goes on, deadpan.

  ‘Dad.’ I groan, but I can’t help chuckling. The Country Show appears to have sparked his interest. I haven’t seen him this animated since I arrived back on the farm. ‘She’s nicely put together.’

  ‘She has a winning dairyness about her,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It’s what the judge always says about our cattle. Aren’t you going to go and catch her?’ he asks.

  ‘These girls are pretty wild,’ I say, remembering how they behaved on their trip into town. ‘I’d rather round them all up and catch her in a confined space, not try to lasso her out in the middle of the field.’ I whistle Bear to help me move the cows across the drive and into the collecting yard, making sure the gate onto the lane is firmly shut so there can be no repeat of their great escape. They are fairly amenable to the possibility of some extra food, but they become quite fractious when they discover their freedom has been curtailed once more.

  My father closes the gate behind them and Bear sits guarding it. Brandishing his crutches, Dad and I separate Milly from the others, cornering her so I can approach her with the halter behind my back. She is highly suspicious, fidgeting and pawing at the concrete.

  ‘She might be the most beautiful heifer we have, Dad, but has she the temperament for this?’

  ‘She’ll get used to it.’ Dad scratches her head from a safe distance with the end of one of his crutches. ‘Go on, Stevie, slip that halter over her head.’

  I step in close to Milly’s shoulder and give her withers a good scratch, moving up her neck to her ears. When she appears completely chilled, I lean over and slip the halter up over her nose and back of her head, at which she takes umbrage, tosses her head in the air and kicks up her heels.

  ‘Mind yourself, Dad,’ I yell, as Milly trots away at speed, yanking the rope through my hands and leaving my palms stinging with rope burns. I watch the heifer dragging the end of the rope through the muck as she pushes her friends aside so she can hide behind them.

  ‘Now you’re going to have to get that off,’ Dad chuckles.

  ‘I’m tempted to leave it on.’ Not for the first time in my life, I am reminded where the term ‘silly cow’ must have originated. ‘I’ll wait until she calms down. Are you sure about this, Dad?’ I ask while we watch the cows milling about. ‘I can give her a couple of baths and groom her, but she’s pretty skinny. She’ll need more flesh than that on her to have any chance of catching the judge’s eye.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time yet. The show isn’t until the third weekend in June. That’s eight or nine weeks away.’

  ‘Do you know who’s judging?’

  Dad names Roger Jones who was born into the dairy industry – rumour has it that his mother gave birth to him in a cowshed – and he’s a Holstein classifier, so Dad reckons he’ll favour our black-and-white cows over Guy’s roan-and-white shorthorns.

  ‘I’ve put the entry in already so you can’t back out, Stevie,’ Dad continues.

  ‘Thanks for checking with me first.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  Magnificent Millicent and I don’t hit it off the first time we meet, and our relationship doesn’t improve much over the following couple of weeks. I have to entice her into the crush with a bucket of feed in front of her and Bear, or Cecil with a stick, behind, but suddenly we click and she holds her head still, albeit showing the whites of her eyes, for me to slip the halter on and knot the rope at the side of her face.

  The next time she lets me put it on without a fuss, I take her for a walk, making the most of the half an hour I have before one of the vets from Talyton Manor calls. He’s coming to look at one of the other cows; her water bag has broken but she has made no further headway in giving birth to her calf, which is now a couple of days overdue.

  At first Milly isn’t keen on leaving her friends in the collecting yard, but I manage to persuade her to walk – with her neck outstretched as she drags back on the rope – down the drive towards the lane, tickling her now and then with a stick of ash I’ve pulled from the hedge.

  As we reach the gate, a vehicle draws up, and my heart skips a beat when I realise it’s Leo. He jumps out and opens the gate as I apologise for not opening it for him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’m glad the mad lady farmer isn’t thinking of taking her pet heifer into town after what happened the last time.’

  I lead Milly onto the verge and ask her to stand like a celebrity on a red carpet – with one hind leg slightly behind the other to show off her figure – so Leo can drive past safely.

  ‘Nice heifer,’ he says, stopping beside us.

  His wicked grin makes me blush and Milly takes advantage of my loss of concentration, diving off into the hedge to tear out great mouthfuls of vegetation.

  ‘I should stick with walking the dog in future,’ Leo says.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘It is quite comical,’ he says, tipping his head to one side. ‘Where’s this cow I’m supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘She’s in the cowshed. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath. Is Cecil about?’

  ‘You’ll find him in the dairy cleaning out the bulk tank.’ I tug at Milly’s rope, but she refuses to budge.

  ‘Ask her to moooove.’ Leo laughs at his own joke, before continuing, ‘I think you’re going to need more practice if you’re planning to show her. You know, you have a lot of competition – half the dairy farms I’ve visited in the past week have been training their animals for this Country Show.’

  ‘It’s very important. It’s the one of the highlights of Talyton’s year.’

  ‘Each to their own,’ Leo shrugs as he drives away.

  Ten minutes later, I’m still trying to extract Milly from the hedge. Eventually, thoroughly irritated and overheated, I throw the rope down.

  ‘You are one stubborn cow,’ I tell her. ‘You can stay there for the rest of the day. You can stay there all night if you want to. I don’t care.’ I stamp my foot, but she takes no notice and I walk away in despair. She’ll never be any good in the show ring.

  However, within a few seconds she’s right behind me, afraid perhaps that she’s going to be left on her own.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ I ask her when she catches up. ‘I didn’t think so,’ I add as she trots past and rejoins her friends, running up and down along the railings, bellowing to be allowed back into the collecting yard. I whip the halter off and let her in.

  Thanks to Milly, I’m not in the best of moods when I catch up with Leo and Cecil in the cowshed.

  ‘I hear that heifer’s been running rings round you, my lover,’ Cecil observes, his face more creased than ever with delight.

  Leo glances up from where he’s examining the rear end of the cow, Honeydew the third, who is lying on her side in the straw.

  ‘I’d give up, if I were you,’ he says brightly.

  ‘I don’t give up that easily.’ I move closer to Leo. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The calf’s in the birth canal but it’s rather large – I’m not sure it’s going to come out without help.’

  ‘Does that mean another Caesarean?’

  ‘I’ll try the ropes first.’ Leo opens the plastic box he’s brought along with him and takes out a pair of white ropes, which he ties around the calf’s fetlocks. ‘Let’s have a go.’ He takes the ropes and pulls, leaning right back and pushing his foot against the cow’s rump. Honeydew strains and lets out a groan of pain that makes me wince.

  ‘It makes your toes curl, doesn’t it, Stevie?’ Cecil says.

  I have to agree with him. ‘There’s no way I’ll ever choose to fall pregnant, now I’ve seen the agony some of the cows go through.’

&nbs
p; I can hardly watch as the cow strains again and again and Leo pulls on the calving ropes. He pauses to wipe his brow, readjusts the ropes and repeats the exercise several more times. The cow strains and Leo pulls until I can see sweat dripping from the end of his nose.

  ‘It isn’t budging,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Can’t you stop?’ I beg. ‘I’d prefer to pay for her to have a caesarean.’

  ‘Who’s the vet here? I decide,’ Leo says.

  ‘Look at her.’ Honeydew’s body is trembling and her eyes are dark with anxiety because she’s scared. ‘She’s suffering.’

  ‘Let him be, Stevie,’ Cecil says gently.

  ‘But this isn’t right! I’ve seen lots of difficult calvings before and you can’t keep pulling like that with nothing happening.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen a few more than you have,’ Leo says with a hint of irritation. ‘I’m going to have one last try.’ He takes up the slack in the ropes once more. I glare at him and he looks away, keeping his eyes focused on the calf’s limbs which, as the cow strains one more time, emerge to the level of the shanks.

  ‘It’s coming now,’ Cecil says.

  ‘It’s too slow,’ I say. ‘It’ll be dead—’

  ‘Will you shut up!’ Leo snaps. His face is red with annoyance, the sinews in his arms and neck taut with effort.

  ‘I’ll shut up when you stop being so pig-headed and change your mind about a natural delivery. This is cruel.’ Honeydew the third was the last heifer my mum showed at the Country Show. She was supreme champion and her favourite cow.

  ‘Stevie, hush,’ says Cecil. ‘Leo knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Does he?’ I say rather curtly.

  ‘Here it comes.’ Leo falls back into the straw as Honeydew groans again and the calf emerges tail end first with an accompanying rush of fluid. Cecil dives in to help (I say ‘dives’, but he’s struggling to get about today), hauling the calf with Leo so it’s fully born. Ashamed at my lack of confidence in Leo’s judgement, I stand back while the two men work on the calf, trying to revive it.

  ‘I reckon she’s got water in the lungs,’ Cecil opines as Leo picks the calf up with ease and holds it by the back legs over his shoulder so the fluid can drain from its nostrils. It’s a big calf, a monster, more black than white, and it’s no wonder Honeydew had so much difficulty giving birth to it.