by Linda Moller
CHAPTER 14
A Land Fit For Pigs
IT WAS AFTERNOON when the pigs woke. One by one they stole away from the thicket. Now this was against the rules. For they had agreed that, while they were escaping, no pig should leave cover until dark. But their hunger wouldn’t wait until night.
‘And what about that bracken?’ they said. ‘Isn’t that cover enough? It’s a good two pigs high, or higher.’
The bracken was indeed a forest of food where they could disappear from sight. Only the bracken tops waved rather oddly as the pigs snatched at the lower fronds.
They were still eating at half-past four when the tractor driver turned home for his tea. From his high tractor seat he could see fairly well over the roadside hedges, and he happened to notice those oddly waving bracken tops, and wondered … But he didn’t investigate. He wanted his tea.
Over tea he said, ‘There are badgers at Hopeless. Saw them, rolling in the bracken.’
‘I’ll have them if they roll in my corn,’ replied his father and added, ‘I suppose the Faraways will be jumping for joy when they find they’ve got badgers on their land. You know they asked me was there any wildlife around here before they bought that place. Wildlife here? Not on my farm, thank you! They didn’t like that. “Well, it’s got as much right to live here as you or I have,” they said, and walked off.
‘They’re weird, just weird, those Faraways. With her long hair and dingle-dangle bangles. And him with his beard and sandals. Ridiculous!’
‘I know,’ said the son. ‘They say one or two of that sort are trying to move in around here. Trying to buy up small farms with poor land, going cheap. The Faraways are moving into Hopeless in two weeks’ time. Did you know?’
‘But there’s nothing growing there. Nothing but weeds! The land’s only fit for pigs! They’ll never get rid of those weeds. Not unless they plough it, and grow potatoes for two years. To me, they don’t look as though they’ve got the money for that.’
He remembered the battered old van they’d arrived in, repainted a horrible bright blue.
And it was true. The Faraways didn’t have the money for that.
In Hopeless the bracken had quietened down. Meadow had just left it.
‘I’m sick of bracken,’ he gulped, making for the stream.
Some of the others were already there, looking pale.
‘I feel awful,’ moaned Meadow.
‘You’ll feel better when you’ve been sick,’ the others told him.
‘Why, have you been sick?’
‘Yes. All of us. We’re going for a lie-down in the thicket.’
Meadow stayed by the stream. He tried not to be sick. He didn’t want to be sick. He was afraid of being sick. Then, he saw Runtling coming slowly out of the bracken. He wasn’t looking very cheerful either. And he was muttering, ‘I feel rather ill – and you look ill too.’
‘You’ll be better when you’ve been sick,’ Meadow told him. Suddenly he turned his back and surrendered helplessly to being sick. A moment later, Runtling did the same.
After a short drink in the stream, they wandered back to the thicket where the rest were lying.
‘We’ve got to have a meeting. Now,’ Runtling announced, ‘there’s something I forgot to tell you.’
The pigs raised their heads weakly.
‘This morning the fox came when we were all asleep. He said to go easy on the bracken, but I wasn’t properly awake so I forgot. Now we know what he meant. We’ll have to have another rule. About bracken. So, from now on, we rootle for our food till evening, then have a fresh bracken supper.’
‘There could be another new rule,’ added Hawthorn daringly. ‘No trotting after dark!’
‘That would mean we stay here!’
‘And sleep in the thicket every night!’
They looked at Runtling.
‘Well!’ said Runtling. ‘It looks as though no-one owns this place. Doesn’t it remind you of the world Sow talked about, you remember, where nuts fall from trees and pigs are free. Perhaps this is it? Let’s stay here.’
That night they felt safe at last, and slept long and deep in the dark still thicket.
In the days that followed, they rootled from morning to evening. Under the beech-tree by the house they found beech-nuts. They were delicious. Acorns too, under the oak tree, which the pigs cracked open and ate noisily. There was no-one to hear them. They turned up the soil and overturned the weeds. They ate the grass and trampled it. Gradually the fields of Hopeless Farm began to change colour from green to earth brown.
CHAPTER 15
Nick and Polly
ON A BRIGHT AUTUMN DAY, a van pulled up at the gate of Hopeless Farm. It was a battered old van, repainted a vivid blue, a blue even brighter and bluer than the sky that day. On the top of the van and inside it were mountains of luggage, bulging sacks, pans, rolls of bedding and boxes of crockery which had rattled all through the journey. Disentangling their feet from the bottom layer of packing, out got the new farmers of Hopeless, Nick and Polly Faraway.
They did not look in the least like farmers, and most certainly not like the Taggertys. The Faraways were young and straight and tall and slim. And what farmers wear beards and spectacles and a great mane of dark hair like Nick? And do ordinary farm women run about in bare legs with bangles jingling on their arms, and do they look as gentle and happy as Polly? Well, not many, not for long. They are all too busy.
Nick and Polly didn’t seem to bother greatly about their clothes. Nick wore a large and baggy pullover in bright green and red, hand-knitted, not very well, by Polly. It was a bit torn at the bottom too. And Polly wore some sort of loose white top. Printed on it was ‘SAVE THE TREES’ with a picture of trees above.
They opened the gate and stood on the pathway for a moment in silence. There was their castle, a stone farmhouse among trees, and around it stretched their kingdom. Within this kingdom lay many things, trees, banks, tangles of hazel and hawthorn, a stream – a rushy stream – and a hidden glade in a blackthorn thicket. It was hard to believe that this was all theirs, every tree and leaf, theirs.
‘Polly! Polly!’ cried Nick. But Polly’s eyes were fixed on the castle.
‘Polly, look! Something’s happened to the land. It’s been dug up. And look, there are pigs there!’
Polly looked. ‘Oh no … Oh! … It’s been ruined. Who let pigs in? It’s been ruined! What a mess! What a ghastly rotten mess!’
The pigs saw them coming and made a rush for the blackthorn thicket.
‘Polly, a lot of the weeds have gone.’
‘But a lot of the grass has too.’
‘Well, that wasn’t much good, that rank old grass. Don’t you see? The pigs have been ploughing up the land for us. And fertilising it too. Pig dung’s marvellous stuff. Things grow like mad in it. If the pigs stay long enough to finish digging, we can start growing our own vegetables.’
‘And oats for our porridge, and wheat for flour so we can make our own bread,’ added Polly. ‘What a dream!’
When they reached the thicket the pigs were bunched together close up against the blackthorn, staring at them. They looked like wild pigs, thin and sharp-eyed.
Nick and Polly stared back. With the pigs living there it seemed like a real farm already. Both stood quite still, afraid that a sudden movement might alarm the pigs. Polly was thinking that if she and Nick were no bigger than pigs, they would be less frightening to them. She sank down on her knees, and Nick knelt down too, slowly and carefully.
He held out a hand and made small grunting noises. One or two pairs of ears moved perplexedly. Polly held out her hand and talked to them in a sweet, whispery voice.
‘Piggywigs … Piggywigs … Piggy-wiggy-wiggy-wigs. Here piggywigs, wiggy-wigs.’ The pigs shifted about uneasily.
‘Let’s try them with food,’ suggested Polly. ‘We’ve got those loaves in the van.’
They rose slowly and backed away. The pigs turned to each other anxiously,
‘
What are they doing here? This is our land now.’
‘But what are they? Are they real people?’
People were dangerous. The only ones the pigs knew were the Taggertys and one or two others who called into the farm. And they all had loud voices, not soft, coaxing voices like Nick and Polly. Runtling remembered Mr Stubbs too, with an old cap on his head which he never took off, whatever the weather. He could hear Mr Stubbs even now, how he shouted and swore at his dogs.
Nick and Polly came back with two loaves. They tore them into pieces and laid the pieces down in lines. Close to the last line, they sat and waited. But the pigs would only eat the bread farthest away.
‘I wish they could understand that we want to be their friends, that we wouldn’t harm them,’ said Polly sadly.
‘Hm … they will … in time. They seem very suspicious, very suspicious of people. I wonder why,’ replied Nick.
‘Well, let’s go and unpack the van, and leave them to think it over.’
CHAPTER 16
Pigs Ploughmen
IT SEEMED SAFE to come out of the thicket now. The pigs were glad it was daytime so no-one could possibly suggest escaping. They didn’t want to escape. This was their home now. If anyone had to go, it should be those two with the bread.
‘You know,’ said Runtling, ‘I think they’re trying to please us. They even seem a bit afraid of us. Well … it wouldn’t take four of us to knock them down, would it? If we had to, I mean. Maybe we’ll be the bosses here.’
That evening the Faraways sat by the fire in the old stone farmhouse wondering where the pigs had come from.
‘They must have been here for days and days. Their owners don’t seem much bothered about them, do they? Perhaps they’ll let them stay until they’ve finished ploughing up our land,’ said Nick hopefully.
‘I wish they could be ours. Cows and sheep are fine, but they are so, so … aloof! Pigs aren’t. You can always see what they’re feeling.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Nick, ‘if we had pigs we’d get too fond of them and never be able to sell them off. Unless,’ he added, ‘we found them a job for life. Wait, I know – ploughing! That’s it! Pigs can be used to plough. I remember I once saw pigs on an organic farm digging up a field. They really churned it up. The farmer said pigs were better than tractors, and cheaper. And it got the pig dung on the land without the cost of spreading it. And got rid of all the weeds too without using poisons. Poison can kill more than the weeds, you know.
‘We could start by hiring pigs out for a fee to farmers to plough up their small fields and their rough land, where there’s only bracken and gorse and stuff, like parts of Hopeless.’
‘Oh Nick, I like those parts of Hopeless. They’re exciting, and they’re home for other creatures too, wild ones.’
‘But wildlife doesn’t eat bracken, Polly. That’s why there’s so much of it. You should tell the pigs to get rid of the bracken and save the rest! You seem to be learning to grunt quite well.
‘And Polly, remember there’s poor land, rough land which is not supposed to be worth the cost of ploughing up and sowing with grass. Pigs could work miracles there!’
‘I’ll bet the farmers won’t believe us. They’ll just think we’re a couple of starry-eyed crackpots.’
‘But,’ said Nick, ‘they’ll have to believe it. We’ll invite them to Hope Farm to see for themselves.’
‘Hope Farm, The Pigs Ploughman Demonstration Farm.’ They were both getting excited by the idea.
‘We’ll advertise in the paper and put notices in shop windows.’
‘And paint out the “less” in Hopeless to start with.’
‘And become friends with the pigs.’
‘And find out whose pigs they are. And buy them.’
‘But where’s the money to come from?’
Silence followed.
Then Polly said slowly, ‘I suppose I could sell that gold necklace of my Auntie May’s. What’s the use of something so valuable that you daren’t wear it for fear of losing it? Something you have to hide away in a safe place. Anyway I’d never wear it here. Real rubies. Real gold. But it might be enough to buy thirteen pigs.’
CHAPTER 17
At Mrs Dew’s
THE NEXT MORNING, Polly and Nick set out for Coxton village shop.
‘We’ll need more bread for the pigs – and a sack of potatoes. They look so thin. And we ought to find out where we can get sacks of proper pigmeal,’ said Polly.
‘But,’ warned Nick, ‘don’t ask anyone round here. We don’t want anyone to know – not just yet – that we’re looking after thirteen stray pigs. Some busybody might start interfering.’
Above the shop window hung an old sign:
‘Dew Provisions’. Mrs Dew was inside – rosy-faced, plump, and inquisitive.
‘Hello,’ said the Faraways as they entered. ‘We’re Nick and Polly Faraway. We’ve just taken over Hope Farm.’
‘Oh really! I am pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs Dew.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Dew. Could you spare three large wholemeal loaves and, if you’ve got one, a sack of potatoes, please?’
‘Oh, so you’ve got a family, have you?’ enquired Mrs Dew.
Nick nudged Polly, warningly.
‘No, no, there’s just us,’ Polly replied. ‘We’re vegetarians, you see, so we eat a lot of bread and potatoes. And we … er … feed the birds too, you know.’
‘Being out of doors a lot gives us huge appetites,’ added Nick. ‘Would you save us three loaves for tomorrow, too?’
‘Why, of course.’
Three loaves for Mrs Faraway, she noted in her order book.
‘Thanks Mrs Dew. Bye.’
Mrs Dew was curious. Such quantities of bread and potatoes, just for two? Impossible! Who else is living there? One or two they don’t want to mention? Someone wanted by the police? No. Couldn’t be. But they certainly do look odd, those two. Though not bad.
The Faraways went home, laughing. ‘How dew dew, Mrs Dew! How dew dew, Mrs Dew,’ they chanted.
Back on the farm, they took two loaves of bread to the pigs. The pigs were bolder today and snatched the bread from wherever it fell. Nick was so encouraged by this that he spent the whole afternoon making a long wooden trough for them, long enough for each pig to have its own place. And Polly drove off to find pigmeal and buckets.
The next day they filled buckets with boiled potatoes and pigmeal, trundled them along in a wheelbarrow, then poured the good thick mixture into the trough. They stood a little way off and waited.
When the smell of a really good swill reached the pigs, they came running. They ate until not a crumb, hardly a smear remained.
At the same time the following day, came the sound of the wheelbarrow and the aroma of food. Within a minute thirteen enthusiastic pigs were escorting the wheelbarrow and Nick and Polly to the trough.
Meadow followed close by Polly’s legs. Polly reached down and rubbed his back. Meadow ignored her. His thoughts were entirely on pigmeal and potatoes. But he didn’t avoid Polly’s hand either. And while the pigs were eating, Polly scratched quite a few more backs.
‘We’re winning, Nick! We’re winning!’ she said triumphantly.
Not many days later, they could walk up to almost any pig, give it a friendly slap, or scratch its back. Sometimes the pig would grunt with pleasure and arch its back for more.
They knew they should start to look for the pigs’ owner, but they kept putting it off – suppose the owner wouldn’t sell or suppose the price was more than the gold necklace was worth?
‘But,’ said Nick one day, ‘suppose the owner arrived while we were out and just loaded the pigs into a truck and took them away – who knows where?’
Polly was alarmed. ‘You stay here and guard the pigs. I’m going to Mrs Dew’s.’
‘Mrs Dew,’ Polly said breathlessly, ‘there are thirteen pigs on Hope Farm. Do you know of anyone round here who might have lost them?’ ‘Well, now … I haven’t heard,’ said
Mrs Dew slowly. ‘But I’ll ask Tom.’
Tom Dew worked at the garage but he came home at mid-day for a meal.
‘Tom!’ called Mrs Dew.
Tom came in wiping his mouth.
‘Tom. Has anyone round here lost any pigs that you’ve heard of?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. And I’d be bound to have heard if they had! How long have you had them?’
‘Oh, about a week or so. You see we’ve been expecting the owner to call every day. If you suddenly lost all those pigs, you’d call round all the local farms looking for them wouldn’t you? We couldn’t turn them out on to the road, could we?’
‘Very good of you, Mrs Faraway. I would charge the owner for their keep if I were you. But it seems those pigs must have come a distance. There’s no-one keeping pigs round Coxton. But they do Oldcastle way, I’ve heard.’
‘Oldcastle! Too far away. They’d never get here from Oldcastle. Think, Tom, think,’ commanded Mrs Dew.
‘I am thinking … Now I do recall – but it was a while ago – some talk of pigs that escaped from somewhere Oldcastle way. I heard there were police warnings on the roadsides there, saying “PIGS ON THE ROAD”. We got a bit of a laugh out of that. Maybe, maybe they’re the pigs on your land. Why not ring Oldcastle police? Telephone box is round the corner.’
CHAPTER 18
For Ever and Ever
MRS TAGGERTY answered her telephone.
‘What! Where? … Where did you say they were? Thank you. We’ll be along there as soon as possible.’
