by Gil McNeil
It’s half past four on Wednesday afternoon and it’s pouring with rain. It’s been raining on and off ever since the Spring Fair. In between torrential downpours, we’ve had steady rain interrupted by drizzle; if it carries on like this, I’d probably be better off asking Mr. Stebbings to leave the gatehouse half-finished and start building a sodding ark. The Harrington menagerie is about to expand yet again with the arrival of the piglets, so Patrick and the boys have waded out to the stables and are busy rearranging damp straw and filling up the water trough. Apparently a constant supply of water is vital, or we’ll end up having to rehydrate two piglets on top of everything else, and God knows what that would involve, but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be pretty.
“The pigs should be arriving soon Bertie.”
“Jolly good.”
Nothing ever fazes Bertie. I’m sure if I popped into the library with his afternoon cup of tea and announced the unicorns were about to arrive, he’d tell me that was jolly good too.
“Stay inside in the warm, and we’ll come and get you once they’re settled.”
“Right you are.”
In an ideal world I’d like to avoid Bertie joining the piglet meet and greet—I’m not sure how they’d react to a spot of celebratory cannon activity, and he’s already got a rotten cold after getting completely plastered with the lifeboat people at their stall at the Spring Fair. The awning collapsed in the wind and the rain, so they all ended up getting soaked trying to put it back up again. By the time Dennis brought him home, they were both pale blue with cold. Ivy’s still sulking with Dennis, and didn’t speak to him at all on Monday, so that’s been a treat on top of all the piglet prep.
Betty is giving me a particularly malevolent look, walking along the back of the sofa and bobbing her head up and down.
“Knob. Knob. Knob.”
“Mum, the farmer’s arrived.”
“Thanks Dan. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Knob.”
“I wonder where Betty is picking up her new vocab Dan?”
He grins, and then looks at his feet.
“Sorry Mum.”
“Is Celia out there with you?”
“Yes, and Jasper.”
Great. More leaping and barking.
At the mention of Jasper, Betty puts her head down and fluffs up her feathers.
“Get to your basket.”
She’s taken to screeching this at random moments whenever she thinks Jasper might be in the vicinity. If only I could find my basket, I’d definitely go and sit in it, particularly as an alternative to introducing piglets to their new home. Dennis and Patrick have spent ages fixing the pigsty roof with a sheet of corrugated iron and some bricks Mr. Stebbings gave them. They’ve even painted the door and the gate a chirpy apple green.
“Dan?”
“Yes Mum.”
“If she starts saying anything beginning with an F, you’re grounded for a month okay?”
“Polly put the kettle on. Knob. Knob. Knob.”
Bloody hell.
There’s quite a crowd by the time we get to the stables. Even Ivy’s put her coat and Wellies on and come out to witness the arrival. Tess is trying hard to herd everyone back out of the rain and into the stables, which would be a top plan under ordinary circumstances. But at least the flaming things can’t get dehydrated on our first day as pig people given there are puddles of water everywhere. So that’s a small bonus to make up for all the squelching.
You wouldn’t think two eight-week-old piglets could cause so much chaos, or make so much noise, but they gallop around in circles squealing, with their ears flapping, looking very sweet, pinky white with black splodges. Until one of them manages to squeeze past Patrick when he opens the gate and it all goes a bit 101 Dalmatians, with dogs and boys running and yelling and falling over in the mud, until Patrick finally manages to grab the piglet and reunite it with its brother.
“Let’s go back inside and leave them to settle for a bit, shall we?”
Sally looks at his jeans, which are caked with mud.
“You can’t go into Molly’s house looking like that.”
“O ye of little faith, I’ve got spare trousers in the car. I thought something like this might happen.”
He looks at the boys, who also require urgent de-muddying assistance.
“We’ll have to get them plastic trousers.”
Sally tuts.
“Less of the ‘we,’ thanks. This pig thing was your idea, not mine, so you can sort the trousers. And get some for yourself while you’re at it.”
“If you find out where they sell them Patrick let me know and I’ll get some for the boys.”
Dan tuts.
“I’m not wearing plastic trousers like a total twat.”
“Dan.”
“Twit. A total twit.”
“So you’ll be doing all your own washing from now on, will you? Rinsing anything muddy in the scullery sink so it doesn’t clog up the machine?”
Ivy nods.
“Dennis has got waterproofs. They’re handy if you’re working outdoors, not that he always has the sense to wear them of course. Coming back with Mr. Bertie soaked to the skin, both of them giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Haven’t got the sense they were born with. So you just listen to your mother, there’s a good boy. Shall I go back in and put the kettle on, then?”
“Please Ivy. Dan will help, won’t you Dan?”
He tuts again.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Our pigs are great, aren’t they?”
“Yes love.”
“If we like them we could get more, couldn’t we, and then they could all have races?”
“Let’s see how we get on with these two first.”
We’re back indoors sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea and eating slices of Ivy’s lemon cake while the debate about what to call the piglets continues. Alfie’s keen to name them Ben and Dan, which I’ve vetoed in deference to family harmony, but Ben is still busy Googling alternatives on Dan’s laptop in case my veto weakens and they end up sharing their names with anything porcine.
“What about Biffer and Boffer, from The Hobbit? Biffer likes raspberry jam and apple tart, and plays the clarinet, and Boffer likes mince pies and cheese and also plays the clarinet.”
Fingers crossed nobody gets hold of a clarinet.
“They’re not dwarves, they’re pigs, and me and Tom want them to have proper names. And we’re going to choose them all by ourselves. They’re our pigs, not yours.”
“Alfie, don’t be rude, Ben’s only trying to help.”
“What about Dumb and Dumber?”
“Mum, tell him.”
“Ben, don’t tease him, unless you want a piglet named after you.”
Ivy pours Sally some more tea and sits down.
“I’ve always thought Pinky and Perky are nice names for pigs. They used to be on the television years ago, when it was still only in black-and-white. Lovely little things they were, puppets, they used to do a little dance.”
Dennis makes a disapproving noise.
“They’re a grand old breed, the Gloucestershire Old Spots, used to call them the ‘Orchard Pig.’ They don’t want daft names like Pinky and Perky, stands to reason.”
Ben nods.
“It says here farmers used to keep them to stop their orchards getting overgrown, and they used to say their black spots were bruises from the falling apples.”
Patrick smiles.
“Once they’ve had a couple of days to settle I’ll get the electric fence rigged up, and we’ll move them round the orchard—they’ll like that.”
Patrick’s put a lot of work into the piggy project already, sorting out all the official paperwork and the herd number. He’s also worked out some complicated strip-grazing plan with Dennis, or it might be grazing strips; whatever it’s called, it’s supposed to mean the orchard doesn’t end up looking like we’re paying homage to the Battle
of the Somme.
“It says here pigs love apple slices as a treat.”
Dennis nods.
“Yes, but there’s no need to spoil them with slices of apple—they’ll have all the apples they want come autumn. You can take out the veg peelings though—they’ll like that.”
Ivy folds her arms.
“They’ll have to share with the hens then, because we need our eggs too you know.”
“The traditional day to kill your pig is Saint Martin’s Day—that’s the eleventh of November.”
“Cool. Can we do it?”
“No Dan we can’t. And we don’t want to know when to kill the poor little things thanks Ben—they’ve only just arrived.”
Alfie gives me a pitying look.
“Yes we do Mum—it’s all part of the circle of life. Uncle Patrick’s explained it, and you wouldn’t have pigs if we didn’t make them into bacon.” He pauses, clearly thinking about scampering piglets. “But only when they’re much bigger.”
He seems fine with this, so I think it might be just me and Ben who’ll be having qualms about the bacon issue.
“Yes Mum, honestly, get with the program—where do you think bacon comes from? Packets? They wouldn’t be here at all if they weren’t bred for bacon. That’s the deal, and they’ll have a good life with us.”
“Yes thank you Ben, when I need you to be cheeky, I’ll ask, okay?”
So that’ll be just me having the qualms then.
Celia pats my arm.
“We always had a pig when I was a girl—can’t remember their names though. Think we had one called Edward.”
Alfie gives Celia a worried look.
“Edward’s not a very good name for a pig Aunty Celia.”
“Fair point, Alfie, fair point. We had one called Prudence too—named after a relative of my mother’s—caused no end of ructions, so on balance, perhaps people’s names are best avoided. Why don’t you make a list of things you like best, that might that do the trick?”
Bertie is clearly rather taken with this idea.
“Well strong drink and strong women would definitely be at the top of my list. Can’t go far wrong if you’d got ready access to both my boy, remember that, it will come in very handy one day. Not ideal for pig-naming purposes, I grant you. No, you want something more fitting. Bacon-and-Eggs seems rather harsh, but it’s on the right track, I know, what about calling them Bubble and Squeak?”
The boys adore bubble and squeak, so I often cook extra potatoes and veg so there are leftovers ready to fry up the next day. Watching the vast quantities of what Alfie likes to call “squeaker,” which they consumed at supper last night, has clearly made a lasting impression on Bertie, and everyone agrees these are excellent names for piglets as Tom and Alfie start skipping round the table chanting, “Bubble and Squeak, Bubble and Squeak.”
“Let’s go out and tell them their new names Dad.”
“Can I finish my tea first?”
I think Patrick would like to stay inside in the warm for a bit longer, so Tom and Alfie stand hopping up and down beside him while he finishes his tea, which makes Sally laugh.
“You’ll have to put your old jeans back on again, and get the boys changed back into theirs.”
“Thanks, I’d never have thought of that.”
“Maybe getting those waterproofs should be a top priority tomorrow?”
“You can go off sarcastic women you know.”
“Not as quickly as you’ll go off washing muddy trousers.”
“Happy Easter darling.”
I’m in the orchard on Sunday morning with Lola, who is wearing her dark glasses despite the drizzle. She and Celia discovered a mutual passion for martinis last night and then moved on to a cocktail-making competition with Bertie, which he inevitably won, but only when all three of them were so plastered we had to practically carry Celia up the stairs. Tre doesn’t drink alcohol, and appears to be in some sort of yogic trance most of the time, but he’s so breathtakingly gorgeous it doesn’t really matter. He just sits there looking astonishing and breathing very slowly. He smiles too, and that’s about it; he’s a very peaceful and relaxing guest. Even Betty seemed calmer when he was in the room.
“Did they do the Easter-egg hunt already?”
“No, I said we’d do it after lunch. Give us time to hide the eggs properly.”
“Great. So you’re officially open now darling, congratulations. I can’t believe how much you’ve done in so short a time.”
“Thanks Lola.”
“And?”
“And nothing really, we’ve had a few bookings, a nice woman called Mrs. Allen who Ivy likes, she was here last year apparently. She was sweet, although she likes poached eggs, so she’s never going to be top of my list. And another couple on Thursday, who were less sweet, and kept moaning.”
“About what?”
“The weather mostly, but also how they liked their room better before because they preferred the old wallpaper.”
“Nutters.”
“Yup, but it’s been fine, so far, and we’ve got a few more bookings in for the summer holidays, so that’s good. And now that Celia is booked in for a few weeks, that really helps, and I can concentrate on the gatehouse. We’ve had a few setbacks there: the ceiling in the bedroom collapsed, and one of the main beams is rotten, so that will cost more than I budgeted for, but we’re getting there. Thank God for Mr. Stebbings.”
“So the B-and-B thing will work then, as a way to pay the bills?”
“No, absolutely no way. Not with just the B-and-B, even if I go into all the guidebooks and run ads and put the prices up as high as they can go, and get to around an eighty-percent occupancy rate—which is really going for it, since it’s been more like thirty percent so far—it’ll still be chicken feed, literally in our case since I’ve just had to buy new sacks of feed for Gertie and the girls. No, the gatehouse is definitely going to be key, and the stables.”
“So will you stop doing B-and-B?”
“Probably, once everything is up and running.”
“Good plan darling. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life cooking bacon for strangers. Not unless they’re girls the boys have brought home.”
“Hopefully they’ll be cooking their own breakfasts by then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it darling. God, this headache really isn’t shifting you know. I thought the fresh air would help.”
“I’m sure it will, give it time.”
“Bertie was on fine form last night—he’s adorable.”
“He is, although he’s a bit less adorable when he’s setting fire to things.”
“Sorry?”
“We had a bit of a moment a couple of weeks back, he fell asleep in the library and set fire to his newspaper. It fell on the hearth and he’d forgotten to put the fireguard in front of the fire properly, so the next thing we knew Betty was squawking and screeching, and he was trying to put it out by bashing it with the poker, which meant he ended up burning a hole in the rug.”
“Right. So he’s not turning into your very own Mrs. Danvers, then?”
“No, but I do a Mrs. Danvers patrol every night now, just to make sure all the fireguards are in the right place. I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Betty, our very own avian smoke alarm.”
“Like those canaries miners used to have to warn them about gas, but more aristocratic. Every home should have one.”
“If they’ve got a Bertie they should. Or have a dog. Jasper does a pretty similar thing for Celia.”
“Christ, is she setting fire to the place too?”
“No, but if she falls asleep on the sofa he yaps and yaps at her until she wakes up. He doesn’t like people sleeping unless they’re in bed. She says she’d half nodded off in the bath once, and he dived in.”
“Handy.”
“Very, unless he starts doing the same thing for our guests. I’d make sure the door’s locked if you fancy a quick ten minutes meditation in the
bath, unless you want Jasper to join you.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, I’ll warn Tre—he’s always zoning out.”
“Good idea, and if you see Bertie settling into his chair by the fire with his newspaper, make sure the fireguard is in the right place would you? I’ve put a new smoke alarm up just outside the door, and I’ve checked all the batteries in the old ones, so I’m really hoping I won’t need to get one of those old-fashioned nursery fireguards, the ones like wire cages—they bolt to the wall, but they look hideous.”
“Those curtain ones are nice. They have them in lots of the smart clubs in town, matt-black metal, very neat, you hardly notice them.”
“Yes, I saw them when I was researching all the alternatives, but they’re the most expensive ones, and you still have to actually shut the curtain.”
“Oh right, yes, so not Bertie-proof then.”
“Not really. I’m sure it’ll be fine, he was pretty mortified about it, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“He’s still adorable though.”
“Oh yes, completely.”
The piglets are now racing Ben and Alfie up and down their run, and it’s hard to tell who is enjoying themselves the most.
“I still don’t really get how you could win a pig darling.”
“Neither do I Lola, but we did.”
“It’s like the twilight zone down here isn’t it, and why are there two of them? Please tell me I’m not seeing double.”
“No, there are definitely two. The boys didn’t want them to be lonely.”
“Do try not to adopt anything else though darling, yes? You don’t want to turn into one of those nutters who breeds alpacas. If you see any donkeys wandering about looking tragic, just look the other way. Although a little donkey might be sweet—it could help carry all the food for the pigs.”
“Thanks Lola, I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Sounds like the architect was in top form at the Fair though, where is he now?”
“Madrid, and yes, he was. Sally had to pretend to look for something under the table at one point she was enjoying it so much. She says he’s got a bit of a reputation locally; apparently he and Portia both had affairs when they were married, so nobody was that surprised when they split up.”
