by Jo Bailey
Despite my pleas, I couldn’t get him to move from his bed. Sam was huddled in a ball with his knees tucked tightly into his chest, flickering his fingers in front of his eyes as he stared into space.
‘Sam, honey!’ I sat next to him, softly rubbing his knee.
Will scurried into the bedroom, took one look at us and then scurried out, sensing that Sam was at tipping point.
‘Leave. Me. Alone!’ Sam pronounced every word with force.
Finding Sam a school that specialised in autism hadn’t stopped me from wanting to learn more about the condition. I wasn’t researching on the internet with the ferocity that I’d had when we were in Spain but I still wanted to learn. Only recently I’d read an article about ‘vestibular and proprioceptive input’ – how I could calm Sam when he was having a sensory overload or a meltdown by rocking him, hugging him, and even applying deep pressure with part of my body weight on him if he was really out of control. So that’s what I did: I threw my arms around my boy, and hugged him.
At first Sam resisted, his body rigid like a board. As I gently rocked him and kissed his head, he relaxed in my arms.
‘It’s OK, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.’ I reassured him that he could hide away in his room if that made him feel safe. Then we both heard a very familiar sound – it was the noise of little trotters; but they were scrambling down the stairs . . . Chester had just worked out how to get from the living room to the bedrooms below.
He poked his ginger head around the door.
‘Chester!’ Sam’s whole face lit up.
The pig rammed his body through the opening in the doorway and charged for the bed.
‘Not on the . . .’
‘Bed’, I was about to say, but Sam had already scooped Chester into his arms. Strangely, he didn’t squeal this time. It was as if he knew Sam really needed a hug.
At that moment, Will burst into the room, as giggles from Sam could mean only one thing – there was a pig present. He did a running jump on to the bed and then there were three of us huddled together with a miniature pig.
Then I heard a stampede from above as Tom and Dan made their way downstairs: they also wanted in on the fun. That was my cue to leave; the guests were arriving in just over an hour and I still had so much to do. I went to put the finishing touches on the table.
The caterers had delivered an impressive feast. There was smoked salmon, roast chicken drumsticks, coronation chicken in thick creamy spiced mayonnaise, sausages and every salad you could imagine, from rice to leafy greens scattered with pomegranates.
I couldn’t have wished for a more dreamy summer’s day in the Devonshire countryside. Our garden was now an explosion of colour with daisies sprinkled across the lush green lawn, pink blossom in the apple tree and honeysuckle climbing up the grey stone wall.
One by one, the guests started arriving. Our lawn filled up with laughter and happiness as friends and family chatted away merrily. The children were playing, threading their way through the grown-ups.
I’m not sure if it was Chester who gave Sam the courage to face the crowd, but my son eventually emerged with Chester by his side. There was a chorus of ‘ahhhhhhs’ as everyone clapped eyes on our cute micro pig.
Unlike Sam, Chester adored every second of being in the limelight. He scooted between each person, lifting his snout in the air as he waited to be petted. I was quite happy to leave Chester to his own devices; he was such a well-behaved pig I knew I had nothing to worry about.
‘Hello!’ Our neighbours Henry and Liz popped by to join in the fun. Chester ran up to them to say ‘hello’ as they must have had a familiar scent. Henry raised his eyebrows, apparently not softened by the friendly greeting, but Liz was delighted by the attention.
The next to arrive was the magician. He set up shop in front of the atrium (which connected the downstairs hallway to the spare bedroom). The children gathered around and sat cross-legged on the grass, gazing up at the magician, who was wearing a bright green shirt and spotted bow tie.
I grabbed a bottle of bubbly and went in search of anyone who needed topping up. Spotting Darren chatting to my mum up on the decking, I went to join them.
‘What do you think?’ I asked them, wondering how they felt the party was going, but I could see they hadn’t heard me: they were absorbed by what the magician was doing. I peered over the decking bannister to catch him making a wallet go up in flames. The children all screamed with surprise. Sam was sitting at the back of the group, transfixed by the magician’s hands.
From the decking, I had a bird’s-eye view of everything that was going on in the garden. I could see the children, people milling around, chatting and topping up their plates from the buffet, and Chester . . .
. . . who was hoovering up the food from my sister’s plate while her back was turned. It was as if I was watching the whole thing in slow motion: Sarah put her hand behind her back, feeling for her plate, only to encounter Chester instead. She let out a scream and Chester bolted, knocking her wine glass over in the process.
‘That pig!’ she shrieked.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to see what the fuss was about. As soon as they realised Chester was at the centre of it, they laughed and pointed.
‘Isn’t he adorable!’ I heard someone say.
The noise of the party revved up again and I carried on chatting to Mum and Darren. Every now and again I peered over the bannister to check on the boys.
Then I did a double take. I couldn’t believe it – Chester was gobbling up the food from another plate that had been left on the grass. As soon as he had cleared up there, he was on to the next one, and the next one. He was minesweeping the lawn. He wasn’t going unnoticed, though: one by one guests were letting out shrieks of surprise and disgust.
I needed to contain the situation – and quickly.
I ran down the stairs, arms open, ready to snatch the little hooligan. I didn’t care if he was going to squeal when I picked him up; that was better than him slobbering over everyone’s food.
Chester saw me coming. He darted this way and then that way, charging through people’s legs. I followed him as best I could. Everyone was laughing but I found it far from funny, though with hindsight it must have looked hilarious, like a Benny Hill sketch starring a micro pig.
It was Sam who came to the rescue. Chester was just about to make another run for it when Sam caught him in the nick of time.
‘Sam, keep hold of him!’ I cried, so pleased my son had stepped in.
Chester was wriggling like a fish caught in a net, his snout covered in mayonnaise. I bundled the naughty piglet under my arm and headed for the downstairs French doors. Chester, naturally, screamed in protest, wanting to be put down to continue his snackfest. And we had a little shadow: Sam was hot on my heels, wanting to make sure Chester was OK.
I needed to keep Chester somewhere tucked away, as people were coming and going through the living room. I decided to put him in the downstairs bathroom.
‘Sam, will you get Chester’s basket for me?’ I asked my little shadow. That way, our pet would at least be comfortable while he waited on his own.
Sam came back with his arms full, carrying the basket and Chester’s favourite toy pig. It was sweet that Sam was thinking about Chester’s wellbeing, I thought. But I didn’t trust our pig not to find his own amusements. I removed everything he might be able to chew on, such as the loo roll and the plastic bin.
‘Stay!’ I wagged my finger at Chester.
He sat back on his haunches and stared up at Sam and me forlornly. I felt a little pang of guilt as I closed the door on him. I hated the idea of keeping him away from the fun, but I felt I didn’t have any other option.
‘Let’s go, Sam.’ I took my son’s hand in mine and gently pulled him away, as he was reluctant to leave Chester’s side. I promised him we would check up on the pig very soon.
About forty-five minutes passed before I headed back to the bathroom to see how
Chester was getting on. I thought he would probably have gone to sleep in his basket on the terracotta tiled floor.
But Chester wasn’t asleep. Oh no: he was sat in the middle of the bathroom floor with what looked like a cape of wallpaper strips trailing down his furry back. They looked like super-long dreadlocks.
I couldn’t believe it. He had used his little razor-sharp teeth to grip the paper just above the skirting board, pull it up above his head, rip it off the wall and then toss it over his head. He’d stripped the entire wall between the basin and the loo of its expensive burgundy-and-cream wallpaper.
‘Chester!’ I exclaimed at the top of my voice.
Who, me? He looked up, grinning.
It was a ridiculous sight. If I hadn’t been so cross I would have found it funny.
‘What’s wrong?’ Darren arrived, out of breath, as he’d run from the other side of the garden on hearing me cry out.
‘That’s what’s wrong!’ I said, pointing to our naughty piglet.
Sam had also heard the commotion – his ears were always tuned into anything involving Chester. Sam, Darren and I were all now peering down at Chester, who was grinning merrily from ear to ear.
‘He’s done this to get his own back!’ I would have used much stronger words if Sam hadn’t been there. ‘He didn’t like being locked up so he took his revenge on the wallpaper. How on earth are we going to fix this?’
Obviously my prime concern right at that moment was the landlord. Darren was as steady and reassuring as ever. He directed me to collect all the wallpaper strips from Chester’s back and promised me he would do a DIY job on the bathroom later. If Darren was cross, he was hiding it well – he had the patience of a saint.
Sam, on the other hand, found the whole thing hilarious. His whole body was shaking with laughter.
‘Take that pig outside, right now,’ I ordered. Everyone had finished eating so it was safe to set him loose in the garden again. A lot safer than keeping him in the bathroom, anyway; goodness only knew what he would destroy next.
‘Chester, Chester!’ Sam patted his leg to get Chester’s attention and his pig followed him outside like an obedient dog.
I emerged into the sunshine to a lot of bewildered faces. Everyone had heard my scream and wondered what on earth had happened.
‘Chester has pulled our wallpaper off the downstairs bathroom wall,’ I announced to my audience. There was a chorus of gasps and stifled sniggers and then a surge of friends and family stepped forward, wanting to inspect the damage for themselves.
My mum had a few things to say on the matter: ‘Do you remember what they told us at Pennywell?’ she said. I shook my head, not knowing what she meant specifically. ‘Mr Murray said you had to give the pig a tap on the nose when they are being naughty,’ she continued. ‘Nothing too hard, mind, just a gentle smack.’
The science behind this was that pigs’ noses are super-sensitive – thus them using their snouts to guide them rather than their eyes. Chester was definitely led by his nose at our garden party . . . I thought now.
To be honest, I’d forgotten about the nose tapping. I mused on my mum’s words. If there was to be another occasion when Chester needed disciplining, I thought perhaps I would try it, but I was very confident that was a big if. Chester had been so well-behaved up until now I was convinced the wallpaper disaster was a one-off.
We had a very full house that night: all our bedrooms and floors were taken up by sleeping family and friends. Chester was as good as gold, though; if he wasn’t dozing on someone’s knees or across his favourite green sofa, he was lying flat out on the Persian rug – his belly on full display. Both Sam and Chester were exhausted and, come bedtime, I found them lying together under the dining-room table in their little ‘den’, with Sam’s arm protectively wrapped over his pig. It was easy to forget the drama of the day when they looked so at peace together now.
Breakfast the next morning was a little chaotic, with many mouths to feed and lots of clearing up to do. Chester was waiting by the door that opened on to the decking so he could go out for a wee.
‘Off you go.’ I pushed it ajar. Chester scooted between my legs, across the decking and down the wooden stairs (a former obstacle which he had also now mastered). I had so much to do that I completely forgot about him until Sam raised the alarm.
‘Where’s Chester?’ Sam’s brow was furrowed with concern.
Mum, who was busy washing the dishes, told Sam not to worry and to come and keep her company. But Sam couldn’t bear the thought of Chester being out of his sight for too long and went on the hunt for his pig. Will, Tom and Dan followed his lead as they smelled the start of an adventure.
Two minutes later, I heard peals of laughter coming from the decking. I glanced across to see all four boys were bent double. As I carried a tower of plates and bowls to the kitchen, I popped my head out of the door to find out what was so funny.
‘Mummy, look at what Chester is doing.’ Will pointed across the stream to Neil and Brenda’s garden.
Far off in the distance, next to the chicken houses, was an orange speck. I narrowed my eyes to get a better focus. It was definitely Chester, with his head down . . .
‘Oh my God!’ I practically threw the plates on to the ground. Chester was eating our neighbours’ chicken feed.
I ran down the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me, across the bridge and up the sloping hill that led to the chicken coops. The whole time I was glancing back at Neil and Brenda’s converted barn, hoping they wouldn’t catch me. They were rightfully proud of their garden – I didn’t think they would appreciate me being in it, let alone a greedy pig. I also felt bad about having to go and fetch my pig from their property.
This will be over in a minute, I thought, as I headed towards Chester and the chickens. But the cheeky thing was ahead of me. He saw me coming and started packing as much food into his mouth as he could manage. I could hear him snorting and oinking as he stuffed his cheeks full of chicken feed. He kept checking over his shoulder to see how close I was getting as he gobbled up some more.
‘Come here, you!’ I went to grab him, but he shot off in the other direction, towards the neighbours’ trampoline. Chester was so clever that he had worked out that I wouldn’t be able to catch him if he hid under the trampoline, right in the centre where I couldn’t reach him.
‘You little . . .’ I muttered under my breath as Chester frantically tried to get everything he’d stuffed into his cheeks down his neck before I got to him. I had to get down on my hands and knees and crawl underneath the trampoline to reach him.
‘Chester!’ I hissed at him, trying not to alert the neighbours, as I dropped to my belly and squirmed my way across the lawn. Chester was licking his chops, taunting me. I swiped my left arm, and then my right, missing him by a matter of inches each time as he dodged this way and that. I caterpillared my way forward a bit more and then decided that there was only one thing for it – I was going to have to ambush him.
I lay completely still for as long as it took for Chester to remember he had a mouthful of food in his chops that still needed devouring. As soon as he was distracted, I lunged.
‘Got yer!’ I said, fastening my grip around his wriggling ginger body. Of course, the minute I touched him, Chester started screaming. I might as well have set off a car alarm. I realised I had to get him out before the neighbours saw us. Somehow, I managed to reverse out from under the trampoline, bum in the air and Chester under my arm. I then made a run for it, down the garden and across the stream with Chester squealing the whole way. I felt like the character from the nursery rhyme ‘Tom the Piper’s Son’, stealing the pig from the market.
By the time I was safely back in our garden, all my family had gathered on the decking to watch what was going on. They were holding their stomachs because they were laughing so much. Sam was almost crying with joy and it suddenly dawned on me that the naughtier Chester was, the happier Sam became.
Of course, that put me in
a catch-22. Did I curb Chester’s behaviour to keep my sanity – or did I let Chester get away with murder for the sake of Sam’s happiness?
I had a feeling that I didn’t have much choice in the matter . . .
And so that became the weekend we waved goodbye to our angelic micro pig.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Teacher’s Pet
ONCE CHESTER HAD got a taste for the ‘good stuff’, it was impossible to wean him off. I lost count of the number of times I had to fetch him from the neighbours’ garden. Sometimes it would be several times a day. I would cringe to myself as I took the well-trodden (and trottered) path across the bridge, through the apple trees, past the roaming ducks and to the chicken houses.
Of course, Neil and Brenda would sometimes be in their garden when Chester escaped.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I would say as I darted this way and that, trying to catch our naughty pig. ‘Chester, will you come here,’ I would hiss. I could always feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Neil would grumble that Chester was eating all his chicken feed while Brenda tried to help me catch the little devil.
The problem was, I had to leave the back door open so Chester could go outside when he needed the loo. Even though I always kept our gate shut, Chester was like Harry Houdini – he could still flatten his full belly and squeeze underneath it. The whole thing was becoming very stressful.
There was only one thing for it: I was going to have to do a bit of DIY in order to secure the gate and stop Chester from getting out. Darren had just returned to Rio, so I was going to have to work this one out for myself. Before picking up the boys from school one day, I took a detour into town to the DIY superstore. I grabbed a trolley, went through the turnstile and then stared blankly at the dozens of aisles selling everything from hammers and nails to lighting fixtures. I wondered where on earth to start.
