by Jo Bailey
I was sitting on the cold hallway tiles, my back up against the wall. Though the floor chilled me, my hand that held the phone receiver felt hot and clammy from all the emotions that were pulsing through me.
For an hour and a half Darren chatted to me, gently soothing me with his calming words. I was counting down the days until we’d be together again. Darren told me brightly that tomorrow was another day and that I shouldn’t give up. He reassured me that I was a good mother who was trying her best.
‘Listen to me, Jo, you have to stop giving yourself a hard time,’ he insisted.
Gradually, I started to believe him. Nobody could make me feel better like Darren did. With his help, I batted away the glum feelings that had been threatening to swamp me and focused on what I had to do for Sam. I had to be strong. I had to try again. I wasn’t a quitter and this was one battle I was determined to win.
‘Things will be better tomorrow,’ Darren told me as we said goodbye.
And I knew he was right. Tomorrow, here I come, I thought.
Nothing was going to stand in my way.
CHAPTER TEN
Pennywell Pig Farm
I WAS MORE determined than ever to get Sam to Pennywell Farm. Once I had an idea in my head I couldn’t shake it, especially if there was a chance it could help my boy.
The first thing I did was call on Lynda Russell. The only way I’d be able to shift the mental block from Sam’s mind was if we prepared him for his visit to see the pigs. She was more than happy to rustle up another storybook with pictures and words describing ‘Sam’s day out’. Lynda thought a trip to the micro pigs wouldn’t just help Sam; it would also do me the world of good.
Bit by bit, I put in place the building blocks that would enable me to create a safe day trip for Sam. By the time we’d got him used to the idea of visiting the farm, a month had gone by. It was now January 2009 and Sam had just turned six.
Darren was back from the rigs at that time and found ‘Operation Pig’ highly amusing. Being a bit of a macho Northerner, he couldn’t see the appeal in a micro pig, but humoured me anyway.
‘Wouldn’t you rather take the boys to Paignton Zoo?’ he joked.
I explained to Darren that the miniature pigs were legendary in the area and how Will, Tom and Dan – and even my mum – had been touched by their cuteness. And, despite his teasing, Darren was keen to see what all the hype was about.
It was a freezing cold day when Sam’s Day Out finally dawned, but absolutely beautiful. The sun caught the frost on the trees, turning the Devonshire valley into a sparkling white mass. We dressed the boys snugly in their hats, scarves and gloves and the four of us set off on our grand adventure.
Will was over the moon about returning to Pennywell, clapping and singing the whole way there. I think he was also happy that his older brother was coming with him this time. Pennywell wasn’t far from our home – just a twenty-five-minute car journey – but I kept an eye on Sam as we drove.
‘Sam, are you excited about seeing the pigs?’ I asked, peering more closely into the rear-view mirror, trying to see his expression.
‘Yes,’ he replied flatly, gazing out of the window. But that was a very positive response from Sam, so I turned back to the road with my spirits lifted.
They were lifted too by Darren being there; I’d missed him tremendously. He had this way about him that made me feel calm, even as he helped me navigate my way through the narrow country lanes that twisted and turned their way up the hillside. Darren was a great map-reader and I felt safe in his hands.
Pennywell Farm was on the crest of a hill, overlooking the valley. The views from the top were incredible – rolling fields dusted with frost as far as the eye could see.
We all bundled out of the car. The air was fresh on our faces and made Sam sneeze.
‘Come here, Sam.’ I crouched down beside him, zipping his coat up, jiggling his gloves back on to his hands. Sam had lost the glassy, vacant look from his eyes that he’d had a few weeks before but he still seemed sad to me. His gaze was glued to the ground, like there was nothing worth looking up for; like the world couldn’t offer him anything any more.
Darren sensed my concern and stepped in.
‘Right then, let’s meet these micro pigs!’ He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically.
The farm building wasn’t much to look at from the outside, just a large wooden barn. We followed the signs to the entrance, which was a smaller wooden hut protruding from the main building. There was a very friendly woman behind the reception desk who was armed with stickers, ready to pat them on to the boys’ coats.
Will beamed as he was handed his name tag, but Sam continued to stare at the ground.
It was a shame that Sam didn’t want to soak up his surroundings, as the entrance was bursting with colour. It clearly doubled up as a shop as there was micro-pig merchandise everywhere – calendars, diaries, notebooks . . . I had no idea it was such a big business. The pictures of the pigs on the calendars were to die for – just so cute. My favourite was of a black-and-white piglet dressed in tiny, pillar-box-red Wellington boots.
‘Darren, look!’ I almost cooed.
‘Oh stop it!’ Darren laughed as he herded us all towards the entrance.
I wasn’t sure who was more excited about meeting the pigs now – Will or me!
The small wooden entrance hut opened out on to a massive farmyard. I felt a bit like I’d just stepped out of the wardrobe into Narnia! It looked magical with the frost dusting on the stables, pens and fields, and there were animals everywhere.
Although the micro pigs were the main attraction, there were also shire horses and donkeys, alpacas, red and fallow deer, cows, ducks, geese, lambs, hedgehogs, goats – the list went on and on. I’d had no idea that people travelled from all over the country to meet the animals, but Pennywell attracted 100,000 visitors a year.
‘Poo, it stinks!’ Will exclaimed, fanning his nose with his hand.
He wasn’t wrong: the smell of animal droppings and straw was quite a cocktail. But there was something very comforting and nurturing about it too. We walked past the goats and then the donkeys, the latter with their heads bowed over the gate, waiting to be petted. Will waved at the shire horses and then ran to the field where the deer were kept. I signalled to him to keep going: we had no time for deer, this was Operation Pig. I was pointing out to Sam all the wonderful creatures along the way, but he wasn’t interested.
‘Mummy, when are we going home?’ he asked instead.
He wasn’t being stroppy about it this time; he was just disinterested. Sam was surrounded by beauty but he wasn’t capable of engaging with it. I looked to Darren and he gave me an ‘it’s going to be all right’ smile.
‘Sam, we’re just going to meet the pigs and then we’ll go home.’ I tried to keep him distracted from wanting to return to the house already.
We didn’t need to worry about which direction to take: soon enough we came across a big sign bearing a cartoon pig that read: ‘Pennywell Miniature Pigs This Way’.
My heart fluttered. I had a good feeling about this.
Will led the way and pushed open a door that took us into a small barn. The first thing that hit us wasn’t the smell, but the noise! The room was filled with the sound of little squeaks and squeals. There was also loud chatter and laughter from the dozen or so children crowding around the pen at the end of the barn. I checked on Sam; I didn’t want him to have a sensory overload. His arms were crossed defensively and his eyes were still fixed on the ground, but he seemed to be doing OK.
‘Come on.’ Will tugged on my hand, itching to see what was making all the noise.
As we edged forward, the squeals grew louder. I turned around to talk to Sam, wanting to get him excited about the pigs, but he had disappeared.
‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked Darren.
He pointed to the bench in the corner of the barn. Sam was sitting by himself, flickering his fingers in front of his face. I glanced back at al
l the children laughing and having fun, and then at my boy, sitting there alone. I wasn’t having it. There was no way Sam was going to miss out on this.
I marched over to where he was sitting and crouched down beside him, gently cupping my hands around his twitching fingers.
‘Sam, honey, it’s time to go and see the pigs.’
He raised his sad-looking eyes and instinctively all I wanted to do was to cuddle him, to protect him from everything that scared him. But I knew that I needed to keep pushing him, to make him see the world was not as scary a place as he thought. I took his hand in mine and led him across the barn to where his brother and all the other children were having fun.
Darren saw us coming and cleared a space around the pen so that Sam would be able to see in. Darren had a big grin plastered across his face as he beckoned us over.
‘Oh my God!’ It was my turn to squeal as I peered over the enclosure fence.
Nestled amongst the straw were seven piglets suckling, running around and clambering over their mum. They were tiny little things, 15cm in length, if that. There were black ones with white spots and white ones with black dots and tawny-coloured ones too, their tiny eyes engulfed by their long eyelashes. Some had piled on top of each other, stealing each other’s warmth. One of the spotted pigs had made himself a duvet out of the straw – only his tiny nose sticking out like a snorkel gave him away.
My heart melted.
‘Look, Sam!’ I half expected my son to be staring at the ground, but he was mesmerised by the little pigs. His hands tightly gripped the gate, as if he wanted to prise it open there and then. His expression reminded me of his encounter with the tiger in the zoo in Spain – he had that same adoring look in his eyes.
One of the women who worked at the farm picked up on Sam’s desire to be close to the babies.
‘Would you like to hold them?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please!’ Will piped up, jumping up and down on the spot. But Sam also started flapping his arms with excitement – I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him so animated.
‘Is it safe?’ Darren spoke up. He was a safety officer, after all.
Under normal circumstances, the sow might have become aggressive and protective over her offspring, but not with a Pennywell pig. The woman explained that the pigs had been specifically bred to be calm and placid – as well as tiny.
The woman, who was dressed head to toe in blue overalls with the farm logo on her chest, slowly opened the gate. My boys were like two racehorses waiting for the starting gun, so eager were they to get inside.
As soon as Will stepped into the pen, the curious pigs raced over to check him out, oinking and squeaking as they rushed around his feet.
‘Arrrgh!’ Will giggled as they nibbled at his shoes, tugged at his laces, their tiny teeth nipping through his trainer fabric.
But Sam only had eyes for one pig.
He was so small that I didn’t spot him at first, but tucked away in the corner was the only ginger piglet of the litter. He looked sad and lonely, just like Sam had done moments earlier.
Sam cautiously waded through the straw and crouched down beside the teacup-sized animal. It was as if Sam understood what the pig was going through.
I grabbed Darren’s arm, whispering to him to look; I didn’t want to destroy the magic that was unfolding.
Sam scooped the piglet into his arms and buried his nose into his soft ginger fur (older pigs have coarse hair, but these tiny piglets had velvety down all over their bodies). Incredibly, the little creature reciprocated by nuzzling his snout against Sam’s neck, ear and face. Sam let out a roar of laughter as the pig smothered him with affection, his hairs tickling Sam’s skin.
Amongst the pig squeals and all the commotion, something truly magical was quietly happening. The connection between Sam and the little ginger pig was obvious. The pig had a calming effect on Sam like nothing I’d seen before. It was exactly like the story I’d heard of the boy in the wheelchair. With every stroke of the pig in his arms, Sam became more relaxed.
And the pig clearly appreciated all the love Sam was pouring into him. With every caress of his soft fur he let out a tiny squeak, like a cat purring with happiness.
I clasped my hands over my mouth to stop myself from squealing with joy. Could this be the solution I’d been searching for?
I turned to Darren, who seemed to know what was coming next.
‘You’ve got to be joking!’ he laughed.
‘Don’t you think we should buy that pig?’ I asked Darren excitedly.
Sam was now lying down on the straw next to his friend – his friend! – and I was able to have a better look at the little piglet. He was adorable with his tiny, furless nose that wrinkled like a concertina and his smiley upturned mouth.
‘If you want a pet for Sam, we could get a dog,’ Darren suggested.
‘I’d have a pet pig over a dog any day!’ interjected a booming voice above the commotion.
It was the pig farmer, Chris Murray. He came striding over.
‘How do you do?’ He wiped his hand on his trousers before offering it to Darren and me to shake. He was very well-spoken, quite a dashing type of character; I suppose not quite what I had expected from a pig farmer.
‘Why’s a pig better than a dog?’ asked Darren, with a smile.
Mr Murray rubbed his hands with glee, clearly looking forward to answering this question.
‘That’s easy. They are cleaner. Smarter. Easier to keep. Cheaper to keep. Don’t demand so much of your time, and incredibly affectionate,’ he said, lifting a black-and-white piglet up into the air. ‘You can house-train them and you can even teach them to do tricks. They don’t need all the vaccinations and expenses other pets have.’
Mr Murray then launched into his spiel about Pennywell Farm. He explained that ‘micro pigs’ and ‘teacup pigs’ were names that had been coined by the media. His pigs were officially called ‘Pennywell Miniature Pigs’.
‘Do you see their smiley mouth?’ He pointed to the little ginger piglet’s grin.
‘Yes.’ I nodded, still gooey-eyed.
‘Well, that’s the Pennywell signature. My pigs are happy pigs,’ he said with great gusto. Mr Murray went on to explain a little about the history of Pennywell and the breeding process.
Twenty-five years ago, Chris Murray was making his living from selling pigs as meat. All of a sudden, the market turned on its head, as it often did in the pig world, and he was losing between £7 and £11 per pig.
‘ “You’re going to have to get rid of them all,” my wife told me.’ Mr Murray waved his hands in the air – he was a very animated farmer. But he couldn’t get rid of the pigs because he loved rearing them. He decided he was going to keep a few aside as pets.
‘Something strange then happened.’ He paused for effect.
Darren and I were now hanging on the farmer’s every word – it was fascinating.
‘I noticed when friends and family came to the farm, they were drawn to my pet pigs.’
Mr Murray described how their faces had lit up as they stroked and petted the animals – much like Sam’s just had, no doubt. They all said they only wished the pigs were smaller so they could cuddle them in their arms.
‘It was a Eureka moment! I thought, “Why don’t I breed a pig small enough to hold in the palm of your hand?” Plus small pigs wouldn’t cost so much to keep. I’d be winning on all levels.’
‘Posh pigs!’ Darren quipped. I dug my elbow into his ribs to shush him up.
Darren and I weren’t the only ones intrigued by the pig tales – Sam was also listening intently; he wanted to know everything about his new friend.
Mr Murray next spoke about the breeding process. After a long and complicated process of trial and error involving breeding a particular sow with a particular boar, the perfect Pennywell Miniature Pig was eventually created, he explained.
‘I knew how to breed pigs to make them nice and big – so I just put that knowledge into r
everse! I cherry-picked the best pigs from each litter, and voilà!’
It had taken Mr Murray about five years to create a miniature pig he was happy with, and he admitted the task of breeding the perfect Pennywell pig was still ongoing.
‘The females dictate the size of the offspring. The males think they do, but it’s actually the females!’ He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
As he’d been speaking, I’d been watching Sam, seeing how besotted he was with his little piglet friend. Now Mr Murray had paused for breath, I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
‘Are the pigs for sale?’ I blurted out, half wishing I could take back the words once I’d said them, as I wasn’t quite ready to burst the bubble of excitement that was growing inside me. What if he said ‘no’? What if Sam couldn’t have this wonderful ginger pig that had had such an effect on him?
Mr Murray puffed up his chest in an eccentric manner.
‘Now, it’s funny you should ask that. The pig your son is holding is the only one of the litter that hasn’t been sold.’
I was happy and sad at the same time – sad that nobody had wanted to buy the odd pig out who had stood alone in the corner, but happy because I’d be able to continue whatever magic was happening between Sam and his new friend.
I clapped my hands together enthusiastically; Darren rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.
Selling micro pigs as a business was never Mr Murray’s intention, the farmer wanted to make clear.
‘I originally bred them for the farm as pets, not for selling, but everyone went mad for them so I caved in a little.’
Mr Murray explained that he still didn’t sell that many to the public – fifty-five in a year, if that. His main income was generated from running an open farm.
‘And I’m very choosy about who I sell them to,’ he said, leaning towards us and arching his eyebrow meaningfully. ‘The reason being, pigs need a lot of space, even miniature ones. Cramped London flats will not do!’
Mr Murray needed to be assured of his piglet’s happiness before he would even contemplate handing one over. He told us he hadn’t even been sure whether to sell one to the TV presenter Jonathan Ross at first, who had been one of Mr Murray’s very first customers.
