by Magnus Mills
“I’ve got the sleepers on the back here,” he said. “We’ll have a bit of breakfast and then you can get them unloaded.”
We’d all had breakfast before we left the caravan that morning, but none of us said anything as he led us into the canteen, where a number of butchers, all in white coats, were already seated. There was a choice of sausages fried, grilled or baked, served up by a man in a cook’s apron who seemed to bear the Hall Brothers’ family resemblance. He appeared to be running the kitchen single-handed. When not dishing out sausages he spent much of his time attending to the griddle behind the counter, while occasionally replenishing the tea urn. After we’d had a plateful of sausages each we sat and drank mugs of tea while David Hall talked to us about fencing.
“Hard job, fencing, isn’t it?” he began.
“It’s OK,” replied Tam.
“Must be repetitive knocking all those posts in, though. First one, then another, then another after that.”
“You get used to it,” I said.
“Yes, but repeating the same thing over and over again. Enough to drive you mad. All that repetition.”
The more he went on like this, the more it began to sound as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.
“I thought you did all the fencing work round here?” I said.
“It depends what you call work,” he replied. “There’s work-work, and there’s telling other people to work. I prefer the second one.”
“So you’re not a fencer yourself then?” I asked.
“Hoo hoo! Course not!” he said, grinning.
The lorry was still waiting to be unloaded when we went outside again.
“John’s got a plan of the pens somewhere,” said David Hall. “I’ll just go round the office and get it. You can start unloading if you like.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The railway sleepers were stacked lengthways, so Tam and Richie climbed up on the lorry to pass them down, while I remained on the ground. There was a certain way of unloading timber which made the work quite straightforward. It involved the law of gravity. In this case it was simply a matter of Tam pushing each sleeper along the stack until it tipped over, to be upended by Richie, who in turn slid it off the back of the lorry. It would then land upright, ready for me to lower onto the new stack. For a while this procedure worked quite well, and we began to develop a steady rhythm. However, as my stack on the ground got higher, I needed a little more time to move each sleeper into position. Tam and Richie didn’t seem to realize this, and actually started to send them down faster and faster. In the end I had a relentless stream of heavy railway sleepers coming at me, and it was starting to get a bit much.
“Can you slow down a bit!” I shouted. “One of these is going to hit me in a minute!”
I didn’t like having to raise my voice to Tam and Richie, but sometimes it was more than justified. Their response was to stop work and have a fag. This gave me time to catch up on the ground, and when I’d got sorted out I had a rest too.
“This is going to be a fucking slog,” remarked Tam.
Yes, we all agreed, it was. If we were going to build a proper substantial structure then all the uprights would have to be dug into the ground to give them strength. We hadn’t seen the plans yet, but we knew that there’d probably be dozens of holes to dig. Then there was the question of holding it all together. You couldn’t just nail railway sleepers to one another because they were too big. They’d have to be drilled and fastened with coach-bolts to keep them secure. I wondered if Mr Hall had allowed for this and got a supply. Somehow I doubted it. We quickly came to the conclusion that the job would take more than a couple of days, and when David Hall came back with the plans our worst fears were confirmed. These were going to be heavy-duty handling pens for all manner of beasts. It would take us a week at least, maybe more!
Of course, we didn’t express our doubts in front of David Hall, and indeed spent the rest of the day laying out the railway sleepers according to their positions on the plan. But as soon as we left the premises that evening Tam said, “I think we should just fuck off.”
“What, you mean abandon the job?” I asked.
“Fucking right,” he replied. “Otherwise we’ll never get home.”
Richie, of course, agreed with Tam, and I have to admit that it didn’t take long for me to come round to their way of thinking. We’d definitely over-stretched ourselves by agreeing to build those pens, and the best course of action was to just clear off. So when we got back to the caravan we immediately began to make preparations to leave. We decided it would be best to go straight away and travel overnight, with me and Richie sharing the driving. So while they packed up the caravan and hitched it to the truck, I went on a final tour of inspection of Mr Perkins’s fence. It seemed a long time since we had first set eyes on that huge pile of posts and wire in the farmyard. Now it had been transformed into a taut, gleaming structure that glinted in the moonlight. I made sure all the gates were left closed, so that nothing could escape, and then rejoined Tam and Richie. Not long afterwards we hit the road.
♦
It was quiet next morning when we pulled into the company premises and parked outside the tool store. We sat in the cab for a few minutes while Tam and Richie had a smoke.
“Right,” I said when they’d finished. “We’d better have a go at sorting out all the gear.” We got out and stood looking into the back of the truck. The collection of tools lay in a shallow pool of rainwater, some of them bent, most of them showing the first signs of rust. This was supposed to be a set of professional fence-building equipment, but actually looked like a hoard of junk. There were hole-digging implements, wire-tightening gear, a rusty steel spike (blunt), a selection of chisels and a chain winch. All in various states of disrepair. Also several coils of wire. The only item that appeared to be in reasonable condition was the post hammer, lying slightly to one side.
“Here’s Donald,” murmured Tam, and they both immediately began sorting through the gear. Donald had emerged from his office and was advancing across the yard in our direction. His sudden appearance had a marked effect on Tam and Richie, whose faces showed that they were concentrating hard on their work. Tam leaned over the side of the truck and pulled out the post hammer.
“Glad to see it’s still in one piece,” said Donald as he joined us. He took the hammer from Tam and stood it, head downwards, on the concrete. Richie, meanwhile, had lifted one of the coils of wire onto his shoulder and was about to take it into the store room.
“You seem to be in a great hurry all of a sudden,” said Donald.
This caused Richie to hesitate awkwardly in mid-step with the coil balanced on his shoulder. He half-turned and looked at Tam. Donald was now peering into the back of the truck.
“You people really should take more care of your equipment,” he said.
After a dutiful pause Richie made another move towards the store room, but was again brought to a halt by Donald.
“Leave that for now. I’ve just had a serious phone call. You’d better come into the office.” Without further comment he turned and walked off towards the open door. We all glanced at each other, saying nothing, and filed after him.
♦
A very powerful naked light bulb hung from the office ceiling. Beneath it, Donald had placed two hard chairs side by side facing his desk. They were slightly less than full adult size, made from wood, and had been positioned squarely and symmetrically in the middle of the floor. Tam and Richie did not have to be told where to sit.
∨ The Restraint of Beasts ∧
Twelve
How long Donald kept them sitting there, side by side on those two hard chairs, was difficult to say. There were no clocks in that office, no calendar on the wall. Even the limited daylight coming through the small recessed window was defeated by the glare of the light-bulb, further isolating the office interior from the world outside. Donald sat silently behind his desk, holding Tam and Richie under his gaze.
Meanwhile, the radiator pipe beneath the floor did its work. The only sound was the occasional shuffling of feet as they unstuck their warmed-up rubber boots from the lino. Then, at last, Donald spoke.
“I’ve just had your mother on the phone,” he said. “She was in a call box and sounded rather distressed.”
Richie had adopted his usual position and sat with his arms folded, gazing at the desktop. Now he was forced to look directly at Donald.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“Yes she did. It seems she hasn’t heard from you the entire time you’ve been away.”
“Oh,” said Richie. “No.”
“No letters, postcards. Nothing.”
“I told her I’d be back around Christmas.”
“Rather vague, was it not?”
“Spose.”
“And in the meantime you sent no word.”
“No.”
“Well, I know how she must feel,” said Donald. “I find myself in the same situation. I get no tidings from N°3 Gang for days on end. Not one phone call. No sign of a progress report. Nothing. Then suddenly you turn up here, unannounced, out of the blue. It’s like the Retreat from Moscow.”
Richie said nothing.
“Why didn’t you telephone before you came back?” said Donald.
The room remained silent. All this time I’d been casually leaning on the radiator by the window, watching the interrogation but feeling somewhat detached from it. The two hard chairs had been set up for Tam and Richie, therefore I was exempt. Or so I thought. It was only as the silence persisted that I realized Donald had now turned his attention to me.
“Why didn’t you telephone before you came back?” he repeated.
“Forgot,” I replied. Even as I spoke I knew this was a pathetic excuse.
“You forgot.”
“Yes.”
“Your first duty as foreman is to liaise with me, yet you forgot.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“It would be a different story if I forgot to pay you, wouldn’t it?”
I noticed that Tam and Richie were both looking over their shoulders at me, and suddenly I felt like a schoolboy being rebuked by his teacher in front of the whole class. I’d seen them being put through the mill in this way several times, but always considered myself somehow immune. Now it dawned on me that I was no more ‘in’ with Donald than they were. The post of foreman brought no benefits, only problems. In fact, it was beginning to seem like some sort of purgatory.
There was a long silence and then Donald said, “I think it’s time you became acquainted with the Demonstration Fence.”
He rose from his chair and gave a low whistle, at which Ralph emerged from beneath the desk. Tam patted his head once or twice, and then Donald led us all outside. We followed him across the yard to a gate, which he held open as we passed through. Away in the middle of the field I could see a structure glinting in the pale winter light, and as we approached I saw that it was a short fence about thirty yards long, standing alone. This fence served no apparent purpose, because it was possible to walk round either end.
“How long’s this been here?” I asked.
“Just a few weeks,” replied Donald. “This is our Demonstration Fence.”
“Who built it?”
“Me. I did.”
I should have known really. This fence was more or less perfect. All the posts stood erect and unblemished in a dead straight line. The joinery had been done perfectly too, so that each straining post and strut appeared to be an integral unit. Even the wires seemed to be highly polished.
As soon as we got there Donald went to one end and glanced along the line of posts, genuflecting as he did so. As a mark of respect I did the same thing, followed by Tam and Richie.
I noticed a small yellow sign fixed to one of the straining posts. It bore the company name and telephone number.
Also the words CAUTION: ELECTRIC FENCE.
Donald turned to Richie and said, “Give me your hand.”
“What?” said Richie.
“Give me your hand.”
Richie glanced at Tam, who had moved away from the fence slightly and now stood looking very hard at the yellow sign, as if trying to memorize the telephone number. Richie slowly held his hand out. Donald took it in his own left hand, and seized the top fence wire with his right, causing the two of them to jerk in time for several seconds. Finally, Donald let go of the wire and released Richie.
A stunned silence followed, after which Donald said, “Why didn’t your rubber boots save you?”
Richie looked at him for a long moment before replying. “Don’t know.”
Donald turned to Tam. “Do you know why?”
“Because you’re not wearing them,” said Tam.
We all looked down at Donald’s feet. He was wearing ordinary leather boots.
“Correct,” said Donald. “The electricity went to earth through me.”
“Didn’t you get a shock as well?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” replied Donald. “I got a shock.”
We stood looking at the Demonstration Fence in solemn silence.
“This is the way forward,” announced Donald at last. “The permanent electric high-tensile fence. The final solution to the problem of the restraint of beasts. The electricity teaches them to keep away from the structure, so that there is virtually no wear and tear. And if the electricity should fail, the high-tensile wires act as a barrier. Now, do you want another demonstration?”
“No, that’s alright, thanks,” said Tam.
“You’ll be learning all about the electric high-tensile fence in the next few days,” said Donald.
“Will we?”
“Yes. We’ve had several enquiries about it already. You’ll be going to England in the New Year to build one, so it’s important that you know what you’re doing.”
Tam was about to say something, but Donald looked at him and he remained silent instead.
“Any problems with that?” said Donald.
“No, no,” replied Tam.
Donald whistled Ralph, who sat some distance away, having declined to approach the fence, and we walked back across the fields towards the company premises. When we got into the yard Donald said, “By the way, have you got a measurement for me?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, and retrieved Mr Perkins’s file from the truck. On the outside of the file I’d written the final length of the fence at Upper Bowland.
“I take it you had no further problems down there,” said Donald.
“None to speak of,” I replied.
♦
As I drove Tam and Richie home we had a discussion about the electric fence.
“I don’t like the sound of it,” remarked Richie.
“Nor me,” said Tam. “We should do high-tensile and nothing else.”
“I suppose Donald’s going to make us go in over Christmas to learn about it,” I said.
“I’m not fucking going in over Christmas,” Tam snapped.
“Aren’t you?”
“Fucking right I’m not.”
“It’s just me and you then, Richie,” I said.
“Are you going in then, Rich?” said Tam.
“Suppose we’ll have to won’t we?” replied Richie. “If Donald says so.”
I slowed the truck down and turned up the gravel track leading to the golf course. Rounding a bend we came upon Tam’s father operating a saw bench.
“Stop here,” said Tam, and we pulled up and watched.
Strewn on the ground around Mr Finlayson were a number of newly-cut larch poles, all about ten feet in length. He was using the circular saw to sharpen the end of each pole into a point. The safety cover on the bench had been discarded, and the huge blade spun unprotected as he worked. It was a noisy operation. The saw was attached to a diesel power plant, and the combined din of the engine and the blade cutting into the timber had drowned out the sound of
our truck. Mr Finlayson took each pole, swept it across the blade several times to create a point, and then threw it up on a stack beside him. He was concentrating on his work and remained unaware of our presence.
Tam carefully opened his door and got out of the cab. Then he slowly began moving in a circle until he was directly behind his father. He waited until another pole was complete, and then, at the exact moment Mr Finlayson threw it onto the stack, he leapt forward with a wild cry and seized his arms, locking them with his own, and holding his head forward. Then Tam slowly bent his father down, forcing him to kneel in the sawdust until his head was an inch or so from the spinning blade. After holding him in this position for several seconds Tam let go and stepped back quickly. Mr Finlayson moved cautiously away from the blade before standing upright and looking round. Richie and I had both got out of the truck to watch this ‘sport’, and when he caught sight of us he shook his head and closed down the machinery. Then quick as a flash he seized a pole from the stack and hurled it at Tam, who had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.
“That could have been a very nasty accident,” said Mr Finlayson. “Now pick it up and put it back on the stack.”
Tam obeyed.
Mr Finlayson looked at me. “How are you?” he said, removing handfuls of wood shavings from his pockets.
“Alright, thanks,” I replied.
“Still foreman?”
“Er…yeah. Just about.”
“Well, that’s good for you, isn’t it?”
“Spose.”
“They don’t usually last this long.”
Mr Finlayson used his son’s return as a signal to finish work. He replaced the safety cover on the saw bench and began counting the completed poles.
“What are these going to be for?” asked Tam.
“I’m building a stockade round the house,” replied his father.
“Why?”
“To stop you coming home any more.”
♦
Richie was very quiet as we left the golf course behind and carried on towards his place. I realized this was the first occasion he’d been separated from Tam for quite a while, and wondered how he would cope. Who would he share his fags with, for example? It was hard to imagine Tam without immediately thinking of Richie, and vice versa. I remembered back to that time I’d asked Tam where Richie was and he’d said, “We’re not married you know.” Well maybe they weren’t, but they spent more time together than most married people. No doubt they’d be together again very soon (when the Crown Hotel opened), but in the meantime Richie had to face his mother. I expected her to be angry with him for not writing home or anything, but when we pulled into the farmyard she appeared in the doorway with a very worried look on her face. Mrs Campbell was clearly most concerned about something.
