I turned, exasperated. The cows were in a row again, staring at me with huge brown eyes, their heads over the fence.
“What?” I snapped. “You’ve been fed, now jolly well shut up.”
They stared balefully back. I resumed my contemplation of the ploughed field. There was silence for a moment, then it started again. Loudly. I turned. They stopped. I turned back to paint—they started. It was a bit like playing Grandmother’s footsteps. Every time I swung round to face them, they shut up, but the minute my back was turned, they bellowed again. Finally I flung my brush down with an angry flourish and stalked across.
“What?” I demanded shrilly in their faces. “What is it?”
They gazed mournfully back. The hay, I noticed, hadn’t been touched. Most of it was still in the roundel, but some had been pulled out and trampled underfoot.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating it?”
I reached through the fence rails, picked up a handful and offered it—rather bravely, I thought—to Marge. She turned her head away. I frowned, tried to tempt another one, Santa’s Little Helper, but she coughed, hoarsely, in my face. Coughed? Did cows cough? Were they ill? What was wrong with them, for God’s sake. Why weren’t they eating? Suddenly I realised there was one missing. Where was the fifth cow? The little brown one called—don’t ask—Princess Consuela Banana Hammock?
I ran up the fence line a bit, but the cows didn’t even attempt to follow me. I hopped over nervously, keeping an eye on them, but they just stood still, heads hanging, eyeballing the ground with dull, listless eyes. I picked my way fearfully through the mud until I got to grass, then ran towards the copse of trees. I had the most awful feeling. The most awful feeling. The fifth cow—where was she? Was she in the copse? I ran fast, glancing wildly round the field as I went, until I got to the clump of beech trees where I’d noticed they sometimes sheltered from the rain. Inside the copse was a clearing. I pushed my way through to it, protecting my face from the brambles with my arm; and there, in the middle of it, in a shallow ditch, lay Princess Consuela Banana Hammock. She was stretched out on her side, eyes shut, mouth gaping, surrounded by flies. My heart leaped in my throat. I stole across and gazed down. Not a flicker. Not a raising of an eyelid, not even a hint of a heaving side to suggest a struggle for life. Oh God—she was dead!
Chapter Twelve
I backed away from her, but as I did, I saw a great glob of green slime flood from the corner of her mouth. It was all over the earth beside her mouth, puddles of it, and there were bubbles in it. Foam. She was foaming. My eyes shot to her feet. They were stiff, and her cloven hoofs were sticking out straight, peculiar in their rigidity. I crept forward and bent down for a closer look. On the bottom of her hoofs were white lumps. Like giant clumps of acne. My eyes went back to her mouth, then to her feet again; from foot…to mouth…foot…to mouth…And then I turned and fled. I raced across the field, splashed through the mud, over the fence, across the orchard and, wrestling with the little iron gate, my heart pounding, flew up the garden path and into the cottage, not bothering to shut the door behind me. I raced to the kitchen and with trembling hands, rifled through a pile of papers on the table by the phone. Where was it? Oh, where was it, that handy list of numbers Eleanor had so thoughtfully—ah, there.
I pounced on it, the paper shaking in my hands, and punched out the vet’s number. The knacker’s yard was actually what I wanted, I thought desperately as it rang and rang, but presumably someone had to come and look at the corpse first; verify it.
“Marshbank Veterinary Practice,” purred the receptionist.
“Um, yes, hello.” I could barely speak. My breath was coming in short shallow bursts and my voice wasn’t working. I tried to get some air into my lungs. Tried to get a grip.
“One of my cows has died and I think it might be foot-and- mouth,” I said in a rush.
There was a silence.
“Where are you?”
“My name’s Imogen Cameron,” I rattled on, “and I’m just looking after the cows, they’re not actually mine, but her feet look extraordinary and there’s this like, green foamy stuff coming out of her—oh!”
She’d cut me off. A blast of classical music filled my eardrum for a brief moment, then a curt male voice cut in.
“Where exactly is this cow?”
“Are you the vet?”
“Yes, I’m the vet. Where’s the cow?”
“She’s at Shepherd’s Cottage. It’s a little house on the Latimers’ estate. You go past their main gates and—”
“We’ll be there directly. Stay where you are and don’t go near any other stock.”
“No, I won’t, but I was just saying to your receptionist, the cows aren’t actually mine and—oh!” Now he’d cut me off. I was left holding a buzzing receiver. Rude man. Didn’t he want a bit more info? Directions to the cottage? Although I supposed everyone round here knew the Latimers. Should I ring Piers, I wondered feverishly, pacing up and down the tiny kitchen. Tell him one of his beloved exotics had died? I quaked at the thought and decided better of it. No, let the vet do that. It would be better coming from him; better he told Piers there was nothing I could have done and that I’d—you know—nursed it to the end. Done all I could. Yes, leave it to the professionals.
I stood in the open front doorway, my arms tightly crossed and looked at the four remaining cows standing mournfully at the fence. Did they know? Yes, of course they knew. Animals could sense it, couldn’t they? And did any of them have it, I wondered. Were they all going to die? I trembled. Oh, thank God Rufus hadn’t been here. He’d have been so upset. Would still be upset, I thought with a pang. The little brown one was his favourite, the most friendly. I hoped it could be dealt with…efficiently. Taken away before he got back. But what did one do with a dead cow? Bury it? You’d need a bloody big hole. No, incinerate it, probably. I shuddered.
Don’t go near the other stock, he’d said, but I had, I thought with a jolt. Just before I’d gone to find the little brown one, I’d tried to give them some hay. Had they licked my hands? Yes—one of them had. I remembered her big pink tongue. Although, now I came to think of it, it was yellow in the middle. I looked at my fingers in horror. Ran to the loo and washed them thoroughly. But what if I’d bitten my nails, could I still catch something? I thrust them under my armpits, clamping my arms down tight.
Minutes later, as I stood at the front gate, my eyes avidly scanning the horizon behind the cottage, a dark blue Land Rover sped along behind the hedge and down the zigzag track towards me, followed by a white van. The Land Rover screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, and out leaped a man in a white plastic boiler suit and a space mask. Two similarly dressed men jumped out of the van behind. They ran round the back to open the double doors, and seemed to be dragging some sort of tarpaulin tent out between them. It looked like something I’d seen on the news, ages ago, some kind of isolation unit. I went a bit hot; made to go towards them.
“No, stay there!” One of them swung round and shouted thickly through his mask. I stopped obediently in my tracks.
“This way?” shouted another, spacemanlike figure from behind his mask, pointing towards the cows’ field.
“Um, yes. But—listen, when I said I thought it was foot and mouth, I wasn’t entirely—”
“IS SHE SEPARATED FROM THE REST OF THE HERD?”
This was boomed at me from a loudspeaker, making me leap in the air. One of the masked men was crouched down on the opposite side of the van and was directing his foghorn at me from across the bonnet. The other man seemed to be spraying stuff all over the wheels, all over the track, and all over my car too, from a long thin hose. Good Lord.
“Yes, she’s in that copse over there,” I yelled back. “But look, I’m not entirely sure she’s even—”
“STAY…IN…THE HOUSE!!”
This was blasted at a million decibels. The echo from t
he megaphone hung portentously in the air and I froze, paralysed in its reverberation. When I’d come to, they were off, the three of them, at the double: gripping their equipment and their plastic tent, running as fast as their space suits would allow, across the field towards the copse, looking for all the world like some sort of anti-terrorist squad. Like something out of the SAS, I thought nervously. Heavens. Was this really necessary? I watched them disappear into the trees. Well, I assumed they knew what they were doing, but it seemed a bit over the top to me. I chewed my thumbnail, remembered the yellow tongue and shoved my hand hastily under my arm. Actually, no. Best to be on the safe side. And anyway, I was pretty sure any farm animal death had to be attended to fairly rigorously these days, what with all those bossy EU restrictions from Brussels. The Common Agricultural Policy, or whatever it was called. No, you couldn’t just go burying a cow in a field. It might be diseased, might infect the land. Yes, I’d definitely done the right thing, I thought, going more buoyantly now to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Acted very promptly.
I bustled around the kitchen getting out proper leaf tea, not bags, and a plate of biscuits. I had an idea vets were rather like vicars, and you had to offer them the works. James Herriot always seemed to be swigging it in farmhouse kitchens—obviously a perk of the job.
A few minutes later the front door burst open. I jumped in surprise. Well, I suppose I had left it on the latch.
“In here!” I sang, pouring boiling water in the pot.
A white-suited man strode through, still in his mask. He took up most of the kitchen. I could just see his eyes and mouth, through the mesh.
“Do you mean the Murray Grey?” he demanded thickly.
“Sorry?” He had a rather unfortunate manner, this chap. For a vet. Not exactly bedside.
“Are we talking about the same cow? The Murray Grey?”
“Well, it’s the little dark brown one, without the horns,” I said patiently. Golly, there were only five of them and only one was flat on her back with her legs in the air. Perhaps he was newly qualified? I went to the window. “The others are all paler, see? With horns.” I pointed at them lined up at the fence. “She’s more—oh!”
“That one?” He jabbed his finger on the pane of glass. My hand shot to my mouth. Princess Consuela Banana Hammock had mysteriously joined her friends, and was lined up alongside them, gazing over the fence at me.
“Oh. My. God.” I clutched the windowsill. “That’s amazing!” I turned to him. “How did you do that?”
“I’m Jesus Christ in disguise.”
I gaped.
“I nudged her with my foot, Mrs. Cameron. That cow has a dust cough. She does not have foot-and-mouth.”
I stared at him some more. “Oh!” I clutched my heart. “But…the green slime—”
“Grass. Cud, to be more precise, regurgitated from her stomach as she slept.”
“Cud! Really? And she was just asleep? But—what about all that white stuff on her feet?”
“Chalk. Which adheres to hoofs in clumps in the wet.”
“Gracious. Oh, well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I did say before you went rushing out there in such a tearing hurry that I wasn’t entirely—oh, what a relief.” I clasped my hands, beaming delightedly at him. “Rufus will be so pleased—that’s my son—he’s only nine. I was dreading telling him Princess Consuela Banana Hammock had bitten the dust. She’s his favourite. Cup of tea?”
He didn’t respond. The eyes behind the mesh stared fixedly at me. His voice, when it eventually came, was dangerously low. “Have you no concept, at all, of the mayhem, you’ve caused? The chaos?”
I paused as I tipped the pot to pour. Righted it. “Sorry?”
“On the way over here I put a restriction order on all neighbouring farms within a twenty-mile radius, stating that no livestock, absolutely nothing, should be moved. On farms within a five-mile radius, I placed an order instructing that all cattle should be prepared for slaughter and incinerated.”
I put the teapot down. “Killed?”
“And burned. The lot of them.” I stared at him. A vision of mountains of burning cows swam horrifically before my eyes. Carcasses and bones dripping with acrid flesh; the fumes, the stench…My mouth dried. I sat down slowly on a stool.
“You mean…all Piers’s stock? You’ve ordered them to be…?”
“Such is the highly contagious and virulent nature of foot-and-mouth, I had no option.”
“Oh Christ.” My hand flew to cover my mouth.
“Happily I was able to reverse the order on my mobile just now.”
“Oh, thank God!” I jumped up and clutched his plastic hand. Nearly kissed it.
He snatched it away. “And thankfully, no lives have been needlessly lost. But, Mrs. Cameron, your reckless and alarmist behaviour would most certainly have spelled the end for this local farming community, and probably for the whole of the South of England. The ripple effect would have sent shock waves throughout the entire country, and because of the last outbreak, I’m not sure English farming would ever have recovered. The beef industry certainly wouldn’t, maybe not even the government.”
The government? I’d almost brought down the government? I sat down again, rather abruptly this time. The stool rattled.
“I’m…so sorry,” I whispered. “I had no idea. I—I just knew cattle got that disease. It was the only one I’d heard of, and—and, well, I looked at her mouth and then at her feet, and I—”
“You applied the same impulsive, cavalier attitude that you do to your underwear?”
I frowned. “What?”
He took off his white hat and mask. I stared. Oh my God. It was the gypsy with the curls. Heathcliff. My dinner companion from the other night, the one I’d sat next to at the Latimers’, with the twinkly eyes, only his eyes weren’t nearly so twinkly now.
“Clearly whipping your pants off and causing a national disaster are all in a day’s work to you, Mrs. Cameron. I’m not suggesting, incidentally, that the one could in any way lead to the other.”
“Oh!” I stood up, furious. “How dare you? How dare you come here and—and hoodwink me like that!”
“I dare,” he said in level tones, taking a step towards me, “because you dared to breeze in from London and apply a ridiculous warped logic to what you saw as a simple rural situation. In one blasé knee-jerk reaction you almost brought down an entire community. You made no attempt to consider the repercussions your alarmist telephone call would cause, or the devastation your amateur diagnosis would create. And then you attempted to brush it off brazenly, and offer me a cup of tea.”
I swallowed, caught in the barely controlled fury of his flinty dark eyes. “I—I’m sorry,” I muttered. “You’re right, I didn’t think. It was stupid of me.” His eyes continued to bore into me. Then his hand went to the zipper at his neck. He unzipped his entire boiler suit, right down to his crutch as I quickly averted my eyes. I had an awful feeling he was naked underneath.
“It’s all right,” he said, stepping out in jeans and a T-shirt. He bundled the suit under his arm and made for the door. “You’re quite safe.”
I watched him go, rooted to the spot for a moment. Then I ran after him. He went down the path and stashed his suit away in the open boot of the Land Rover. The white van had disappeared.
“Where have the others gone?” I spun around.
“Back to the lab to report a false alarm to the Ministry of Agriculture. As fast as possible, I hope. We don’t want DEFRA sniffing around. We’ll never get rid of them.”
“I’m truly sorry,” I said humbly, twisting my hands agitatedly. “And will Princess Cons—the Murray Grey recover? I mean, from her cough?”
“She will if you stop giving her straw to eat and give her hay instead. The straw’s full of dust. It’s getting in her throat.”
“Oh Lord, you mean—”
>
“Don’t you know the difference?” he said irritably, throwing his space shoes in the boot, sitting on the back bumper and getting out some Wellingtons. He thrust his feet into them. “Come with me.”
In another moment he was striding off towards the barn and I was mincing after him, picking my way through the mud in my beige suede boots.
“This is straw,” he said, plucking a handful of the stuff I’d been giving them, “and this, is hay.” He snatched an identical handful from another bale. I blinked. “Er…”
“Feel it,” he said impatiently. “It’s much finer. It’s dried grass, as opposed to dried stubble.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” I marvelled as I fondled it. “Gosh, how awful. I’ve been giving them the wrong stuff!”
“They’ll live,” he said crisply. “Cows eat straw in extremis. It’s used as bedding in the winter, but if they’re not getting hay they’re not getting essential minerals so they’re more prone to magnesium deficiency. Then you really will get them keeling over with their feet in the air, frothing at the mouth.”
“Heavens.”
He turned and gave me a probing look. “How about a lick?”
I bristled. “I beg your pardon?”
“A cow lick,” he said impatiently. “Have you got one?”
“Oh!”
“Provides them with essential vitamins until the grass comes through properly.” He strode off towards the feed bins, picking up lids and peering in.
“Here.” He reached in and brought out what looked like a gigantic soap on a rope, then went across the yard to the cows and tied it on their fence. The cows clustered instantly, licking avidly.
“Oh, look!” I said delighted. “They love it.”
“Course they do.”
We watched as they slurped away.
“But why do they need licks and hay in the first place? Why can’t they just go in that lovely green field over there, behind the orchard?” I pointed. “They keep looking at it longingly. I nearly let them in the other day.”
A Crowded Marriage Page 18
