by Angela Huth
He was staring at a pen of ewes, his eyes carefully scouring each one. George was beside him. He thought back to that morning so recently when he had stood, in all innocence, studying his flock, his eyes admiring. Now he knew they were fearful as Saul’s as he looked over heads, mouths, feet, searching for signs.
‘Think of those poor buggers it’s already hit,’ said Saul. ‘One minute owners of three hundred sheep - the next, nothing. Nothing. I remember the last time. Whole lot never recovered. Never got back to farming.’ He blinked. ‘Think we’re clean today, but I’ll be looking them over morning and night.’
‘Right,’ said George. ‘If—’
‘I’m not going to think about that, Mr Elkin,’ said Saul, and wandered away, cap replaced.
Back in the house George found Nell and Prodge in the kitchen. They had stopped by on their way to the village. George made them coffee. They sat round the table, listening to the clock’s impervious tick, each one heavy with his own imaginings.
‘Trying to find more disinfectant,’ said Prodge. ‘It ran out everywhere almost at once. The Farmers’ Co-operative says they’ll ring as soon as it’s delivered. But seems the manufacturers’ve been caught out. Meantime, what do we do?’
‘I can let you have a couple of cans,’ said George.
Thanks.’ Prodge, sat in his usual chair, leant back, spread his legs wide and closed his eyes. A man, thought George, in whom exhaustion was beginning to tell, and hope was beginning to wane. He gave the faintest smile, opened his eyes.
‘Could be a premature end for Nell and me,’ he said. ‘I was banking on a bit of cash when we sold the stock before leaving. Still, if the worst comes to the worst, I suppose there’ll be compensation.’
‘Don’t tempt fate,’ said Nell. ‘Maybe it’ll be scotched before it gets out of hand. Maybe we’ll be lucky’
‘No hope,’ said Prodge. ‘Massive culling isn’t the answer, I’m telling you. Not unless it’s done immediately And that isn’t happening, is it? They’re dithering. They should be vaccinating now.’
‘Did you see the pictures on the news last night?’ Nell asked George. ‘The pyres? Hard to believe.’ It had taken the crisis to convert Nell to television. George nodded.
‘Of course, none of this is very helpful to a government about to go to the country’ he said. ‘Daresay that’ll come into their calculations. And what about the march?’
‘There’s already talk of that being cancelled,’ said Prodge. ‘Well, it’d have to be. That’ll be a relief for the ministers.’ He paused. ‘And you not being able to get away to find Lily. That’s the bugger of it.’
‘Plan only postponed, not scotched,’ said George.
‘Good,’ said Nell.
There was a weariness in their brief exchanges: their anxious eyes revealing their dread of what might come. After half an hour Prodge and Nell rose to collect the disinfectant from George’s store.
When they had gone, George settled himself down to the vast pile of papers on his desk. For the last few days he had felt too agitated to attend to it and had abandoned it every time he tried. Now, he looked through the pile that had arrived this morning and plucked out a postmark - a picture of a land girl holding a lamb. A Norfolk postmark. So she was home again.
Darling George, he read, I’m saying prayers for you and all farmers. Love as always, L.
George did not add the card to his collection on the dresser, nor did he write her an unpostable reply. He was weary of her postcards, of her cryptic little messages. Never had he so wanted Lily to be here, and there she was still flitting about, no nearer to coming home. And now, due to his own foolish procrastination, an unforeseen disaster had destroyed his chance of retrieving her. He had no wish to read any more meanings into any more messages. When this foot and mouth epidemic was over - and according to MAFF there was every chance it would be stamped out pretty soon - he was going to resolve things once and for all. Find her, bring her back. Or give up. Make decisions that would change his bleak emotional life: what, exactly, they would be, he was not sure, and for the moment he had no time to think. But changes there would be.
Eight days after the first case was confirmed at an Essex abattoir, the Prime Minister announced the situation was ‘grave’. George doubted whether anyone not living on a farm could begin to understand the anguish that now pervaded both Cumbria and the West Country, while farmers elsewhere predicted it would reach them eventually. The long-planned march for Liberty and Livelihood which would have been the biggest protest to date, so brilliantly plotted for months, was cancelled. So were hotel bookings by tourists. Meat prices rose, festivals and race meetings were cancelled, movement of stock was forbidden.
For George, as for thousands of farmers, each day went by in dread lest they became the next doomed farm. By 11 March the NFU admitted the disease was ‘out of control geographically’, and half a million healthy sheep and lambs awaited slaughter. Daily there were terrible statistics concerning financial hardship and emotional despair: livelihoods wiped out at a stroke, officialdom in chaos, the future a black hole. Saul was constantly holding his cap to his chest as he relayed the latest ghastly news to George and Ben.
The nearest confirmed case to the Elkin farm was still fifteen miles away. But as no one knew precisely how the disease travelled, this gave no feeling of comfort or safety. The lambing season began well: a high proportion of fine healthy lambs. As always the three men worked their long shifts and felt the bone-hard fatigue that is part of lambing time. Their work was increased by the daily examination of both sheep and cattle. Each evening, no signs reported, George felt a tenuous relief but would allow himself little optimism. Each evening he and Prodge or Nell would telephone: to date, their farm was clear, too.
On 14 March, having done a shift until 3 a.m. in the lambing pen, George did not come down for breakfast until eight. He turned on the news, as he always did nowadays, to hear the background to the terrible headlines that Saul recited every day. This morning the news was that the NFU had joined opponents to the May election, and the Prince of Wales had donated £500,000 to help farmers. Perhaps, George thought, this would convey to the government that sympathy and understanding were elements lacking in this crisis.
As George finished his cereal Saul came through the kitchen door without knocking. This was the first time George could ever remember Saul failing in his own code of behaviour. He held his cap in both hands. His face was the colour of an old mushroom. His mouth moved silently, then the words came with a rush.
‘It’s the old ewe we thought was about to birth yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘She was fine last evening, I know she was. But this morning.’ He stopped, clutched harder at his cap. George stood up.
‘Yes?’
‘I know it’s hard to spot on a sheep, but I know my ewes. I found a small sore on her mouth.’
‘Shit. Any others?’
‘I’m just going round them now. None to date.’
‘You go back and carry on inspecting. I’ll ring Simon, get on to MAFF straight away’
George caught their local vet on his mobile travelling to another farm a few miles away. He was able to stop off at the Elkin farm, quickly confirm his belief that the sheep was infected. George then took some time to get through to the Ministry and report the case. A harassed sounding voice promised an official vet would be sent round as soon as possible. Finally George rang Prodge and broke the news. Prodge could find no words for a moment or two, then apologised for the inadequacy of his sympathy.
‘Your lot gone, then it’s us gone too,’ he said.
‘Not necessarily. It seems the whole thing is so erratic. You might be lucky’
‘This policy of contiguous slaughter: we might not get infected, but we’re in the three-mile radius, so we’ll have to be culled. Though there seem to be no hard rules about culling at the moment - no one knows what’s going on. But if we’re for the chop, that’s it. Premature exit from the farming world, as I reckoned
the other day’
‘Again, nothing’s very firm, Prodge. The road between us might mean you’re spared.’
‘But our fields meet on Higher Ridge.’
‘So they do. We can only hope.’
‘Not much point,’ said Prodge, dully. ‘It’s the end for thousands of us. At least it’ll mean Nell and I don’t have to hang around for the rest of the year, things getting worse every day. But Jesus, I’m sorry, George. It’s bloody awful. I don’t know what to say’
‘My turn,’ said George. ‘You get BSE. I get foot and mouth.’
George walked over to the sheep shed. As usual he was greeted by the cacophonous music of his flock. Many of them were lying down, their lambs beside them. Those, George fleetingly thought, looked less indignant than usual. Their almond eyes were peaceful, relieved.
Ben was in a corner pen helping a ewe deliver a large lamb. George went over to him.
‘Bit of trouble here,’ he said. His overall was covered in blood. He tugged hard at the forelegs in his hands, and a black lamb, misty in its caul, slipped on to the bed of straw. There was the sudden sweet-sour smell of birth. Threads of steam, like the smoke from dying candles, rose in the air from the lamb’s body. All these things were so familiar to George that he could not imagine a life denied this annual experience.
‘It’ll be OK,’ said Ben. ‘Near thing, though.’ He wiped his bloody hands - soon, now, to spend their days among bloodless tools and wires - on a rag. He stood. ‘She’s the one.’ He gave her a pat. ‘Poor lass. As for the lamb, what’ll it have? Two, three days of life on this earth? Bloody hell, Mr Elkin.’ He scraped a forearm across his eyes. ‘Tell you one thing, though. I’d rather the lamb was shot out of the womb. What’s been getting me is the thought of all those unborn . . . Who knows how long it takes them to die inside their dead mothers? I can’t get my head round that thought.’
‘Me neither,’ said George. ‘And we’ve still a good many to give birth. It’s . . . well’
He left the shed, walked back to the house. A farmer two miles away rang in commiseration - news among neighbouring farmers travelled with astonishing speed. He also told George of the pyre being built nearby. ‘Lorries everywhere. You can’t get down the lanes. A lot of people confined to their houses, holing themselves up, leaving boxes at their gates for groceries to be delivered. It’s like the war, George. It’s a bloody nightmare.’
When he looked back later, George had no clear picture of how he spent that day: lambs birthing, the telephone constantly ringing, the exhausting examination of every animal, the tricks of the imagination, the slurry of grim thought to be put aside while trying to get through the work. The two days of waiting were spared the tension of hope, for there was no hope. It was quite apparent that the Elkin farm was doomed: it was just a matter of waiting for confirmation.
The three men worked harder than they had ever worked in their lives. But the normal exhaustion of lambing, on top of everything else, was made manageable by a strange sense of abnormal energy. Perhaps, thought George, it’s because all three of us know it’s the last few days of working together for what could be a very long time.
The results came, as the official vet - a confused Spaniard -predicted, forty-eight hours after his visit. In this they were lucky. So chaotic was the ministerial organisation when the disease first broke that many farms were left for days waiting for their animals to be killed. Arrangements were made for the slaughter to take place. George went down to the cowshed to tell Saul and Ben. Before he could do so, Ben broke news of his own.
‘I was coming to find you,’ he said. ‘Orchid’s in a bad way. Drooling. Horrible blistered tongue. You were right.’ He swallowed. ‘An’ I always fancied the cows more ‘n the sheep, didn’t I?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve had the confirmation,’ said George, quietly. ‘As we thought. No surprise. The ewes. Now the cows . . .’ He stopped for a moment to firm his voice. ‘That’s it, for us, I daresay. I suppose we’re lucky they’re coming to do their job so soon.’
Saul swallowed, turned, hurried out. his son’s eyes followed him.
‘It’s not so bad for you and me,’ he said at last. ‘I’m still young, there’s plenty for me in another world. You - well, like, you’re an employer. I don’t want to be cheeky, but I daresay you’ll survive. It’s Dad I worry about. His whole life farming. In his late fifties. What can he do? He knows nothing but farming.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said George. ‘I’ll take care of your father, I promise you. We might be going under, but only for a while. Look at this lot, Ben: good cows. You and Saul did a wonderful job, building up this herd. Now I must go and ring the vet about Orchid. Though what’s the point? She’ll be shot anyway, day after tomorrow. Thursday, they’ll all be gone.’ He patted Ben on the shoulder, quickly left.
Back in the kitchen he forced himself to eat eggs and bacon, needing energy for the night ahead. It would be his - their -penultimate night in the sheep shed, helping the birth of lambs destined to live for scarcely two days. The only thing that gave George the strength to make his way to the shed, scan his flock, engrave their bleating on his memory, was that these appalling facts were unbelievable.
16
Slaughter day: a morning brightened by invisible sun. George, with both Ben and Saul, had been in the shed all night attending to two difficult births. One of the ewes had died – thank God it was that way, said Saul. There were two fine lambs who would taste fresh air, warm milk and the protection of their mother for a few hours, then be gone. When the three men were not engaged with a ewe, they stood without speaking, looking over the sheep, trying to hold back the morning.
At 5 a.m. Ben went off to bring in the cows. George collected a fresh flask of strong coffee for himself and Saul. He felt lightheaded. But also he felt in control of the acute fatigue which was creeping up behind him. He had the power to postpone it, for once the killing was over, he could sleep for days. There would be nothing to do.
He and Saul sat side by side on a bale of hay in the shed drinking their coffee. Saul kept rubbing at the back of his neck with a cupped hand. His lips quivered as he put the plastic mug to his mouth.
‘I heard this good joke on the wireless,’ he said. ‘The Prime Minister was up on his back legs saying something about the supermarkets having an arm-lock on farmers. But what made me laugh – ’ his mouth turned down, denying laughter – ‘was the bit where he said he could imagine the pain us guys were going through. How about that? By my reckoning that’s the first time in history us farmers have been called guys. If he thinks he can win us over like that. . .’He paused, affronted on behalf of all farmers. ‘Better go and help Ben.’
‘Ben can manage. You stay here.’
‘I’d like to stay with the sheep. But Ben’s that upset about Orchid. She’s drooling. You don’t like to see a cow drooling. Suffering.’
Time went by in a jumble of stops and starts. One moment it giddied out of control, an hour passing in a second. Then a few minutes dragged mercifully, as if reluctant to bring the end of an era. The ewes, who had been sleepy, muted, during the night, began to stir. They stood up, bleating in their usual indignant way.
‘Better feed them.’ George did not say for the last time.
‘Innocent buggers,’ said Saul, well knowing what his employer meant.
Soon after eight there was the sound of several vehicles driving into the yard. George went out to meet them. The day was now oddly bright for March: sky churned up with cloud like a rough sea. He saw the men coming at him – men from Mars, men from outer space in identical white overalls, boots creamily laced with disinfectant they had hosed over themselves at the gate. Tired, clamped faces. They carried face masks and gloves. One of them held a plastic lunch box. George saw him swivel round, looking for somewhere to put it. Lunch, thought George. A lunch break in the killing. God Almighty.
The man in charge shook George’s hand. There was apology in his grasp, and yet he and his band had co
me to take over the farm, finish it.
‘The latrines, sir,’ he said. ‘Would it be all right to put them up over there? I’m from the Health and Safety Executive.’ He waved vaguely in some direction. George nodded. This campaign was the stuff of madness.
The men followed George to the shed. One of them explained to him how they would go about their job. George kept nodding, but could not bring himself really to listen. He summoned a curtain across his inner ear, a device that had often served him well in boring lessons at school, so that he could make no sense of the words.
Saul was waiting for them at the shed, sitting staring at the animals. When George and the men in white appeared, he stood up. The leader shook his hand. There was a certain sympathy exuded by the whole overalled team for which George, even in his desolate state, registered admiration. They must have become used to the horror of snatching people’s livelihoods by now: they felt for them, their concern was to carry out their loathsome job causing as little pain as possible. But they were busy, overworked men under great pressure. There was no time to confirm their sympathy by procrastination. They had to get on with the job.
The lambs were to be segregated from their mothers. Saul had set aside the small barn for them at the far side of the yard. George, Saul and the aliens carried the lambs away. The ewes bleated in outrage, their anguish thick in the air. They tossed their heads, turned in circles. A few of them, who had lambed in the night, stood without moving, paralysed by loss. That their last living moments should be so agonised seemed to George the final outrage.
Back at the shed he stood by Saul to watch the beginning of the slaughter. Ben appeared. He made no attempt to hide the tears guttering down his face. Saul gave his son a brief glance. Then he tipped up his own chin, dry-eyed, like an old solider on parade, and stared blankly at the men with their .32 revolvers.
They did their job with skill and efficiency, these men, not all of them vets, whose work during this crisis must have been the least desirable of their lives. While one man would control a ewe’s body, another would steady her head between his gloved hands. Some of the sheep skittered in alarm, or annoyance: others looked in grateful anticipation towards their killer, perhaps expecting an extra feed.
