by Jo Bailey
At that same moment, a cold breeze sailed down the hillside, sending a chill all the way down my spine. I had a feeling something terrible was about to happen.
‘Come back!’ I gestured to the boys to retreat to the Wendy house.
Sam and Will started bounding towards me, expecting Chester to be on their heels, but he was far behind. In fact, he hadn’t moved a trotter since he’d stopped stock still. His head was hung low; his body was leaning to one side, as if ready to topple at any moment. The boys raced back to him, ready to catch him if need be. Chester then let out a long, low grunt – it was so loud and tortured I was certain it was his final breath.
‘Hurry!’ I screamed to the boys to reach Chester in time to stop him from keeling over.
But Chester wasn’t dying – he was finally getting rid of his blockage.
‘He’s done a poo, he’s done a poo!’ the boys cheered, jumping in the air with joy.
I didn’t think I’d ever been so happy to hear those words! I did a little celebratory dance and then I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and called Mum.
‘Chester’s done a poo!’ was the first thing I said.
‘Oh, thank God!’ Mum breathed a sigh of relief. She understood that this meant Chester was going to live.
The passing of the blockage really had made Chester lighter on his feet. Almost at once, he rocketed through the long grass and flowers after the boys. Sam opened his arms wide and pretended to be a plane soaring through the sky. Chester squealed with delight as he gathered speed and the boys giggled with happiness as he gained on them. It could have been a scene from Heidi with the flowers and the sunshine and the bright blue sky.
But Chester’s trotters were going too fast for his body . . . and he took off tumbling down the hill. I couldn’t help letting out a scream as I saw him fall – an accident was the last thing he needed having only just recovered from a near-fatal blockage. Chester was perfectly fine, though. He staggered back on to his feet and chased Will and Sam all the way into his Wendy house.
As Sam and Will huddled around Chester, petting him fondly, I felt immensely proud. Our pig wouldn’t have pulled through if it hadn’t been for my boys – it was thanks to Sam getting up that little bit earlier every morning to stew apples, and thanks to both my sons for getting him back on his feet, that Chester was restored to health. Their love had given him back his life.
You could tell Chester was grateful to them by the way he wagged his tail and from his excited, breathless oinking. He also refused to leave Sam’s side – if Sam stood still for even a moment, Chester would take the chance to lean his giant body against Sam’s legs. ‘Stop it, Chester,’ Sam would say, giggling under the weight, although he didn’t really want Chester to stop squashing him as he loved being smothered with his affection.
Becoming receptive to affection was something that had changed in Sam since he had known Chester. The unconditional love Chester showed Sam had made him receptive to receiving love. The sad little boy who had wanted to be alone seemed to be long gone.
The scare with the barbed wire and then the blockage had made me realise that all that mattered now was bringing Chester home. Especially as I wasn’t sure how he had come to eat a foodstuff that had bunged up his system so catastrophically. That was still an unsolved mystery and the sooner he was back home with us the better.
Darren was relieved to hear the good news when I spoke to him later that night.
Even though he liked to joke about how Chester was the most expensive pig in Devon, and that he could do without spending any more money on him, he admitted he’d had some sleepless nights as he too worried about Chester’s survival.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ I asked him. I was a person who wore my heart on my sleeve but Darren hadn’t breathed a word about his concerns. He reminded me that he worked on an oil rig with macho men, so losing sleep over a pig wasn’t really the thing to do! I burst out laughing and the stress of the past week felt as if it was receding as Darren and I both chuckled together on the phone.
The next day, I went to visit Chester by myself at lunchtime. I felt it was important for me to have a moment alone with him – I wanted to say thank you to him for helping my son. Nearly losing Chester had made me realise how precious he was. I didn’t tell him how grateful I was enough and now the scare was over I wanted to take every chance I could to show him how very much he was appreciated.
I didn’t panic when he wasn’t at the gate to greet me – I thought he’d be in his Wendy house, probably still recovering from having a sore belly.
When he wasn’t in his bed, I did start to panic.
‘Chester, Chester!’ I shouted across the huge field. The grass was waist-high in parts, so there was no way I could spot him easily.
It was then that I heard the noise. It wasn’t the terrible rasping sound he’d made a week ago. It was deeper and slower, very much like . . .
SNORING!
I moved closer to the whistling grunts.
There he was, hidden in a patch of purple flowers. Chester was on his side, his big belly angled skywards to catch the sun. His mouth was slightly open, allowing the air to whistle as it passed in and out through his snout.
‘Oh Chesty,’ I sighed affectionately.
Chester always knew how to make himself comfortable. I thought back to all the times he’d taken over our living room. At times his size had been a massive inconvenience, but we were leaving all that behind now. Nearly losing Chester had made me realise what was important: bringing our pet pig home was all that mattered now. And, in good news for us all, our new house was ready and waiting for us at long last.
Home sweet home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Home Sweet Home
FOR MOST PEOPLE, unpacking everything in their new house would be a priority. But for us, making sure Chester was comfortable in his new home came first. We’d nearly lost him, and all we cared about now was bringing him back to be with us. Aside from our love and concern for Chester, it was crucial for Sam’s wellbeing that we had our pig safely back in our care.
As timing would have it, the move fell during one of Darren’s stints at home, but he had only five days before he had to be back on the rigs. We were all going to have to work at the speed of light again, packing, unpacking and, most importantly, making a pen for Chester.
It was 24 June 2010 when we followed the removal van through the country lanes to our new home, which was situated at the head of a coombe on the edge of Dartmoor National Park. It was everything I’d dreamed of when I’d planned our escape from Spain, with old cob walls, wooden beams, oak floorboards and a big open fireplace in the living room.
Built in 1610, the house was steeped in history and had once belonged to Lord Churchston’s gamekeeper. The previous owners, who had lived there for forty-five years, had painted the outside pink, in keeping with how the cottage would have looked in the seventeenth century, when the locals used to mix the paint with the red Devon soil. Inside, the former owners had done little in the way of renovations, keeping the character of the place intact; the animal barn had been turned into a kitchen, but that was about all they had changed. When I stood in the living room and closed my eyes, I could imagine all the pheasants and venison hanging from the beams in front of the inglenook, as they must have done all those hundreds of years ago when it was a gamekeeper’s home.
Gorgeous as the house was, the garden was the main reason I’d fallen in love with the property. Spread out over half an acre, it was a haven of colours and sounds. There was a brook that meandered its way along the bottom – you could hear the sound of the water rushing over the pebbles from our bedrooms. There were apple and plum trees, a raspberry patch, a greenhouse . . . and the previous owners had loved exotic flowers so, if you walked into the wooded area near the brook, you would discover an oasis of the most strange and unusual-looking plants.
The garden was important for two reasons. Firstly, I wanted a safe place where Sam could esca
pe to have some alone time. The garden provided a sensual sanctuary for him and would keep him out of harm’s way if he suddenly felt an urge to bolt, as some children with autism do when they are on the cusp of a meltdown. Secondly, I wanted somewhere big enough to make a nice home for Chester, that was far enough away from our neighbours not to annoy them!
So, as soon as we had assembled our beds on moving-in day, it was off to the DIY store to buy the posts and wire to make Chester a pen.
Darren and I debated where we should put him. I wanted to build the pen in the wooded area so Chester would have loads of room to roam around, but Darren pointed out that he would inevitably dig up all the beautiful flowers there.
Then I suggested the terrace, which was by the back door.
‘No way, it’s too close to the house,’ Darren said, reminding me of all the work he’d had to do on the doors at our previous house.
Yet I reminded him that we were going to make Chester a pen that he wouldn’t escape from, so the doors would be safe as houses.
‘He’ll get out, you wait . . .’ Darren warned.
‘No, he won’t,’ I said cheerily. Nothing could puncture my high spirits.
After talking it over, we settled on the bottom right-hand corner of the garden. Chester would be far enough away not to disturb us or destroy the house, but close enough for Sam to keep an eye on him. Sam would have a bird’s-eye view of Chester’s pen from his bedroom window.
The next big dilemma was how we were going to make Chester’s pen escape-proof. We would have to do it in an old-fashioned way, by making a fence out of posts and wire and adding a stile for us humans to climb over – so we could get in and out but Chester couldn’t.
Darren called on the boys to lend a hand. It was like building the Wendy house all over again, only by now Sam’s upper body strength had improved so much he could help with the lifting. I watched Sam beam with pride as he handed Darren the posts and helped Will unravel the big roll of mesh wire, and I felt a flutter of relief that he was settling in so well. We had been lucky that the previous owners had been so understanding of his autism, letting us show Sam around the property half a dozen times in the lead-up to the move.
Showing Sam what was to come had made all the difference to his welfare as he could embrace the change rather than be terrified of it. He’d even drawn a picture of our pink cottage at school with the words ‘This is my new home, I will be very happy here’ written underneath. He carried the drawing with him everywhere.
Sam couldn’t wait to have the pen finished so we could bring Chester home from his field, where our pig was still living. Every few hours he would ask, ‘Can we get Chester?’
By the fourth day, we were finally able to say yes.
Darren had worked his socks off to get the pen finished before he left for the rig. Our new home was absolute chaos inside, with boxes piled high in every direction, but our pig’s new pen looked like a palace. Yet it was a small price to pay to have Chester home safely.
We called on the old pig farmer, Mr Stephens, to help us move him again.
This time we led the convoy from the field through the lanes and up and down the vales and hills. How the Wendy house remained in one piece as it rattled around on the front of the tractor was anyone’s guess. Once we’d arrived at our destination, Mr Stephens used pig boards and pignuts to lead Chester into his new palatial home. As soon as Chester and his Wendy house were inside, Darren boarded up the last segment of the fencing.
Chester seemed delighted with his new pad. He rummaged his snout through the grass, taking in the new smells, checking out what grubs and worms he might be able to root up.
‘I give it a week before that’s a mud pit.’ Darren nodded at the rectangle of lush grass and clovers on which Chester was standing, merrily sniffing away.
The wonderful thing was, it didn’t matter this time because it was our grass to dig up.
Sam leaned on the fence, resting his chin on his arms, soaking up the summer sunshine. Seeing him there, Chester spotted an opportunity to give his friend a pig kiss. He used one of the posts to lever himself up on to his hind legs, so his head was at the same level as Sam’s. He grunted as he rubbed his nose against Sam’s sun-kissed skin, just as he had done when they’d first met in the pen at Pennywell Farm.
‘I love you, Chester!’ Sam declared.
All the hard work had been worth it. Everything was so perfect and we really thought that day marked the end of all our dramas with Chester. Our family was complete again.
We celebrated by having dinner al fresco on our patio, watching the sun set. I made a big bowl of pasta and sauce; only at the last minute did I realise I hadn’t a clue where I’d stashed the cutlery. We’d been so busy building Chester’s pen I hadn’t looked for it yet and we hadn’t needed it until now as we’d mostly been eating picnic food. There was a mountain of boxes to work through, though, so in the end I settled on our using some big plastic salad ladles. The large serving spoons weren’t ideal, but they made the boys laugh – they giggled away as they tried to stop the spaghetti slipping off the huge spoons.
We could see Chester from the terrace, and he could smell us – and the food. It wouldn’t have been fair to leave him out so Sam brought him a plate full of goodies, but not including the pasta as we didn’t want a repeat of the blockage scare.
As the ‘cherry on top’ of our sweet family reunion, it was about now, maybe a day or so later, that Sam sat down to draw a picture as usual – and sketched something very special indeed. Glancing over his shoulder as I pottered about, unpacking, I saw his artwork begin to take shape. He was sketching our cottage. He drew the brook which ran alongside the lane leading up to our new house, along with the stone bridge. And then, in his picture, the brook entered our land, weaving its silvery way along the bottom of our garden. In that garden, he drew a huge apple tree with twelve red apples, lots of green grass and flowers everywhere.
But it wasn’t the lush, verdant vegetation that caught my eye.
Sam drew a boy and a pig playing in the garden.
It was the first time he had ever drawn Chester voluntarily. Lynda Russell had asked him to draw Chester at school before as part of a set task, but Sam had never chosen to draw his special pig before. It was an incredibly joyful picture and I liked to think it was confirmation that now we’d moved into our forever home, and moved Chester over from the field, Sam felt really secure, hence this drawing to express his happiness.
I was particularly sad to wave Darren off to the rig that time. Everything seemed so perfect and I just wanted him to be with us for a while longer while we made the house our own.
‘Everything will be unpacked by the time you get back,’ I promised him, reminding him of what he had to look forward to.
‘And Chester will have destroyed his patch of grass!’ Darren told me, in turn reminding me what I had to look forward to.
Darren was right about the grass: it took just under a week for our greedy pig to turf it up. But at least the grass was keeping him occupied – and the pen was keeping him in.
I was in the kitchen when it happened. I heard a roar of laughter, followed by a series of loud grunts. I rushed into our living room to find Chester scuttling around, having a whale of a time sticking his snout in every nook and cranny. I winced as I heard the sound of his trotters scratching our oak floor.
‘Chester, out!’ I commanded, as I tried to herd him back into the garden.
But Chester wasn’t anywhere near ready to go back in his pen. He wanted to check out what was in our bins. Let me tell you, attempting to separate a 15-stone pig from food is impossible. I tried pushing him, and pulling him, but he was determined to find out if there were any scraps worth rooting out in the kitchen bin.
All the while, the boys were sniggering in the background.
‘Who let him in?’ I demanded, annoyed at the chaos Chester was causing.
‘It was me, Mummy,’ Sam confessed with a mischievous grin.
/> Chester had somehow escaped from his pen and Sam, spotting him running free in the garden, had opened the back door to let him in. He’d obviously missed watching Chester misbehave!
I eventually managed to shepherd Chester away from the kitchen and tried to steer him back into the garden. He was too strong and quick for me, though; he bulldozed past my legs and ran back into the living room. In the blink of an eye, he had scampered across the room and jumped on top of his favourite green sofa.
It was the most ridiculous sight – a huge pig sitting on his haunches on the couch, grinning at us, while the bottom of the sofa sank straight to the floor under his enormous weight. Thank goodness it wasn’t an expensive piece of furniture!
By now, the boys were doubled over with laughter. And even I could see the funny side. It really was hard to stay angry at Chester when he looked so adorable. In a way, too, I knew he just wanted to be back in the house with us – and who could blame him for that?
I felt a pang of guilt about Chester living out in the garden and decided I’d let him sit on the sofa for a while longer. What harm could it do?
As it turned out, quite a lot. Unsurprisingly, no more than five minutes later he was causing trouble – sticking his snout in the half-unpacked boxes and turning the chairs over. I’m sure he was looking for a reaction to his antics, just like a child craving attention.
‘Right that’s it, out!’ I shouted.
Sam, Will and I all filled our hands with pignuts and rattled them around in our palms, trying to lure him out of the back door. Really, the food was unnecessary: all it took was Sam running into the garden for Chester to follow.
We headed for the pen. Darren – clever as ever – had, of course, foreseen just this sort of situation so his design for the pen had included some moveable horizontal slats of wood. I just needed to pull them out to create a temporary opening. Seeing the way made clear, Sam ran full pelt into the pen and Chester followed him in, enjoying the game. Quick as a flash, I locked our pig back into his pen, popping the wood back into place. Sam climbed back out over the stile into the garden.
