The Dun Cow Rib

by John Lister-Kaye

  That night I lay in bed and pondered my failure. Even though it was fruitless, I had loved it, especially spying on Bernie. I hated him. It was as if I had begun to get my own back: raiding his private domain felt like a redemptive counter-strike against his zeal to entrap and cane me. A deep, glowing justification urged me on. I was determined to try again.

  My mother had given me a vanity pack in a leather case with a zip fastener. It contained a hairbrush and comb, a nail file and a pair of sharp nail clippers like wire cutters. Under the bedclothes with my torch I examined the clippers. Snipping a chunk off my toughest toenail with an audible click, I knew that the clippers were capable of slicing through a peacock quill.

  Two nights later it was overcast with a thick, disorientating darkness. I could feel the excitement funnelling up inside me as it neared eight o’clock. When the bell sounded, I ran to my locker for the clippers and the torch. Then I sauntered out into the night and down between the classrooms. I bumped into Dylan heading back to the main building. ‘Hey, Liss, where are you off to?’

  My hands were sweaty, heart thumping like a bass drum. ‘Nowhere much, just mooching.’

  ‘Fancy a game of ping-pong?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s my bath night, so I’m heading up in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, heck! Yes, it’s mine too, I’d forgotten. I’ll see you in the dorm.’

  ‘Blast!’ I muttered to myself as he walked away. Do I go on, or do I abandon the plan for another night? But the adrenaline had already kicked in. Besides, I was on a mission. The peacocks were the embodiment of Bernie. Pompous, my mother had said. I still wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but it didn’t matter – I had a score to settle.

  The same approach, same wait under the laurel, shadows humming with tension, the night air softly rippling through invisible spaces. Bernie there again in his armchair and through drawn curtains I could see the silhouetted figure of Mrs F moving about upstairs. I slid across the lawn and into the shed. Now my heart was really pounding and I had to force myself to stand still, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  The torch clicked on. The nearest bird shuffled and then, to my joy, it flicked round on its perch, sweeping its long tail over the rail so that it flowed down in front of me. Torch off. Settle, I thought. Come on, settle, you stupid bird. More deep breathing. Steady now, don’t rush it. Seconds floated past. Torch on. Settled. Good! Torch gripped in my teeth I reached for the nearest feather. The bird didn’t move. I ran my fingers gently up the shaft until I could feel the naked quill close to where it emerged from its body. Taking great care not to touch the body, I slid the clippers into place. A deep breath and squeeze . . . Snip! The feather came away in my hand. The bird shook its ludicrous tail and settled again. Wow! I thought, This is easy. I’m sure it won’t miss another one . . . Snip! Why not take three while I’m at it? . . . Snip!

  The peacock didn’t flinch, body perfectly still, only its ridiculous bobble-crested head gyrated slowly from side to side as though it knew something was happening but couldn’t work out what. Very slowly I moved to the next bird. Snip! And another snip. Gently now, don’t rush. Easy does it . . . I had a whole handful of glorious feathers. I may as well take a couple more. Snip, snip and snip again. I had ten feathers more than three feet long. Beautiful, glossy, shining ‘eye’ feathers flashing in the light of my torch. Five bob in the bag.

  Out of the shed. As I started out across the lawn the front door opened and the Forbeses’ fat Welsh corgi waddled out onto the gravel drive. I froze. Fear rocketed up from deep inside my gut. Mrs F was a hard silhouette in the yellow light from the porch, a sinister effigy of dread. ‘Hurry up, Blodwyn,’ she called out. The dog was staring in my direction on the edge of the pool of light. I shrunk back towards the hut. It was a mistake. It detected my movement and advanced, yapping furiously. ‘Bloddie! Bloddie, what is it?’ she called out. Turning back to the house, she shouted, ‘Bernard! Come quickly, Bloddie’s seen something.’

  Bernie leapt out of his chair and appeared in the porch beside his wife. He strode out into the driveway and flicked on a large lantern. The beam swept across the lawn to the dog and then to the peacock shed. ‘I bet it’ll be that bloody fox again.’ His voice charged the night air with dread. ‘What is it, Blod? What have you got there?’ The dog came ever nearer, still barking. The beam swept right to my feet. I wanted to drop the feathers and run for it, but I knew that would be a disaster. I dared not move. ‘Call her in, Bernard. We don’t want her getting bitten. Foxes have rabies.’

  Bernie guffawed his pompous, haughty laugh I had heard so often. ‘Not rabies, Meg, there is no rabies in Britain, but mange, yes. Foxes do have mange. Come on, Bloddie, in you come, no hunting tonight.’ Slowly the dog turned and ambled back across the lawn, stopping twice and glancing back, a growl still rumbling in its throat. The Forbeses’ and their corgi disappeared inside. The door closed and the porch light went out. I breathed again.

  Still trembling, I sneaked into the school clutching ten large feathers. I headed to the changing rooms where I knew no one would be at that time of night. Then I did the most unbelievably stupid thing. I crammed the feathers into my games locker. They were too long, so I had to bend them double, breaking at least two in the process. Then I rushed upstairs to the dorm. I had failed to notice that the locker door had a gap at the bottom and at least one feather poked out into full view.

  Dylan was already in bed. ‘Where have you been? I thought you said it was your bath night.’

  ‘Oh, I made a mistake.’

  ‘You look a bit flushed, have you been fighting again?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve just been running about outside.’

  ‘Ye-ah. That’s likely!’

  After breakfast we filed into chapel. At the end of the service Bernie mounted the five steps to the pulpit. ‘Last night a boy entered my peacock hut and cut tail feathers from three of my birds. I know who that boy is and I give him until eleven o’clock break to come to my study and own up.’ He’s bluffing, I thought, as fear pummelled my bowels. But I didn’t yet know that while we were in breakfast all the house matrons had been instructed to search all lockers. The feathers had been found.

  On the way out of chapel, Dylan sidled up to me. ‘You stupid ass! You’re in for it now. What the hell did you do that for?’

  ‘How do y’ know it was me?’

  ‘It was ruddy obvious, Liss. In late, red-faced, out of breath and all that about your bath night.’ My heart turned to stone, breakfast curdling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Sorry, Dyl.’ And I was. Oh God, I was sorry!

  ‘Are you going to own up? You’ll get the cane, you know.’

  ‘He doesn’t know who it was, does he?’

  ‘Yes, he does. They’ve found the feathers. Where did you hide them?’

  ‘In my games locker.’

  ‘You daft twit! That’s the first place they’d look. You’re rumbled. You’d better own up and get it over with.’

  So I did.

  Beetroot-faced and fuming like a firework, Bernie roared at me. ‘I might have guessed it was you. How dare you interfere with my property? You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived here. And you broke Butterworth’s pen on purpose. And you lied to me. And you ran to Mrs Warmley to get her to support your lies. I am giving you minus eight for lying and minus eight for damaging my birds. I have spoken to your housemaster and he agrees that you are to go home immediately and not to return until next term. But first you must take your punishment. Bend over the arm of that chair.’

  I closed my eyes. It seemed to take forever, counting seconds like waiting for thunder after lightning. I’ll get six for sure, I thought. I heard his sharp intake of breath behind me . . . then a whistling rush of air. ONE! An electric stab of pain surged through my buttocks. Swish! TWO . . . I bit my lip. Images flashed through: my mother in her hospital bed, Nellie at the Aga, Mrs Warmley . . . I bit my lip again, hard. Swish! THREE . . . There was the dead dog and my grandfather lowering hims
elf into his kitchen chair . . . My head was swimming, eyes clenched as hard as I could. Swish! FOUR . . . the Dun Cow rib swinging on its rusty chains . . . Swish! FIVE . . . I could taste the blood in my mouth, fingernails clawed at the leather. Swish! SIX. Thank God, I thought, it’s over. ‘Stay where you are,’ he barked. Swish! SEVEN . . . The world went red, yellow, orange, white . . . Swish! EIGHT . . . I was squirming with pain, choking, chest bursting, desperate not to cry out. I WILL NOT CRY, I said to myself over and over again. I WILL NOT GIVE HIM THE PLEASURE OF SEEING ME CRY. Swish! NINE . . . Swish! TEN. ‘Now get out of my sight. Matron will tell you when you are to go home.’

  I ran to the lavatories, downed my trousers and plunged my handkerchief into cold water to bathe my screaming, raging bottom. Then I saw that I had wet myself. I cried. I cried and cried, grateful there was no one there to see.

  * * *

  That night at lights out Matron came and sat on the edge of my bed, placing a hand lightly on my hip, an uncharacteristic intimacy she had never shown before. She gave me two aspirins and a sip of water. ‘To help you sleep,’ her words a gentle whisper. ‘Your father will be here to collect you at eleven o’clock.’

  Word had spread like wildfire. The other boys in the dorm begged me to show them my wounds, but I refused. Dylan whispered, ‘Hard cheese, Liss.’ In the morning I tried to get into the cold baths early, but a fizz of sensation had crowded the bathroom before I could get there. There was nothing for it. To a gasp of horror I dropped my towel and leapt into the bath. I ducked under, holding for a full ten seconds. The cold water was curiously friendly, both calming and soothing. When I surfaced and stood up, a rousing cheer engulfed me. I smiled a limp acknowledgement as someone handed me my towel. A senior boy called out: ‘Bloody hell, Liss! Bernie’s a beast.’ Back to the dorm I walked tall, my head full of the triumphant, sinew-stiffening moment Horatius plunged headlong into the Tiber, ‘And when above the surges / They saw his crest appear, / All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, / And e’en the ranks of Tuscany / Could scarce forbear to cheer.’

  At ten to eleven my father arrived. ‘Hullo, old boy. You all right?’ His huge hand landed reassuringly on my shoulder. He didn’t seem angry. The Menace appeared looking stern and ushered him straight to Bernie’s study. I hovered in the corridor. Several minutes ticked past. I could hear raised voices. When he emerged, my father was red-faced and tight-lipped. ‘Come on, old thing.’ His moustache bristled with – not anger, but fury – exploding the space around him and shedding like a trail of jagged scales. His heels echoed sharply from the parquet floor as we strode out to the car. I followed in silence, inwardly dreading his rage. But he had not called me John.

  We drove away in silence. Down the avenue of pines to the copse. I glanced up at Mrs Warmley’s window as we passed Hampton House. She was standing in the casement with a white handkerchief held to her face. She raised her hand in a faltering wave, a tiny token gesture, but it shouted from the hilltops to me. I waved back as vigorously as I could.

  A few miles down the road my father pulled into a layby and turned the engine off. ‘You’re not going back to that place,’ he announced solemnly without looking at me. ‘You shouldn’t have done what you did, but that man’s got it in for you and I’m not having that.’ Then he lit his pipe, fired up the engine and we drove forty miles without another word. I lay on my side on the back seat because I was so sore.

  When we arrived home, my mother was in tears. ‘Oh Jay, what have you done?’ She sobbed as she hugged me.

  ‘He’s cut a few feathers off a bloody peacock, that’s all he’s done.’ Still fuming, my father stomped up and down the hall. ‘A prank. A silly schoolboy prank, that’s all. Not the bloody end of the world. You’d think he’d stolen the crown jewels from the fuss Forbes made. He’s not going back to that place, I tell you. Certainly not.’

  Slowly it dawned on me that my parents weren’t angry with me at all, but whatever Bernie had said to my father had enraged him. The tirade wasn’t over. ‘Did you smash that boy’s pen, John? Tell me straight.’

  ‘No.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘No, I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘As I thought,’ he snapped. And to my mother, ‘Our boy’s a prankster, maybe, and a blithering young fool, Helen, but he’s not a malicious little brat – that’s what Forbes called him. And he’s certainly not a bloody liar. Forbes hasn’t heard the last of this, I tell you, not by a long chalk.’

  I began to feel good. I was home. The whole Easter holiday spread out before me and soon we would be off to the Manor House. That night my mother made me have a bath. She wanted to see for herself. I heard the sharp intake of breath when she saw the grid of welts across my backside, raised in angry bars like a washboard, already showing the dark magenta of beetroot. She left the bathroom quickly. ‘Christopher, you must come and see,’ her voice sharp and unfamiliar. She wasn’t just angry, she was spitting, the deeply roused outrage of a mild and generous spirit who abhorred all forms of violence.

  ‘No, Helen. I don’t want to humiliate the boy any more. They’re only bruises and they’ll heal soon enough. He’s been through an ordeal. The important thing is he’s learnt a lesson. From now on, he’ll know a bully when he sees one.’

  ‘Yla’an haramak! Ibn himar! Ornak sharmoota! Mr Bernard bloody Forbes.’ Her words fired like bullets, hard and fast. Good old Mum, I thought.

  13

  Summer and the Arabian Nights

  Long holidays, two houses: the where and the when now so impossibly merged into one long synthesis of freedom and utter rapture that the which no longer seems relevant. Perhaps it was the contrast, the release from the caustic strictures of boarding school and the knowledge that I wouldn’t be going back, at least not to that regime. Perhaps because my parents weren’t angry with me. Perhaps just having my mother home again had so completely transformed my world that a sunlit childish elation had flown in like a dove descending and taken me over. I found myself smiling and laughing out loud at the slightest incitement.

  Our mother was still severely limited in what she could do with us, so it was always a broken-winged happiness, subconsciously constrained and prevented from lifting off again by the unspoken current of anxiety that her condition trailed through all our lives. The only available remedy was escape.

  Both at the Manor House and Bartonfield, during her long absences, freedom had become the accidental and uncharted norm. No one had supervised me except in the most cursory definition of the term. Nellie had never been officially charged with my care, it had just been allowed to happen. In the nine and a half short years of my life, despite her best attempts at picnics and other family outings, my mother had never been well enough to oversee my out-of-doors play and can only have had the scantiest notion of what I got up to, and the significant others – the nanny figures in our lives – had never been equal to the task. Early on I had learned how to escape.

  At both houses it was easy to disappear. At the Manor House there were so many exits to the outside that I could select a different one for each escapade, and while Bartonfield only had three outside doors, those at the back and side were both out of sight of any other part of the house. And then there was the upstairs lavatory window.

  Russell Brock and Paul Wood’s exceptional skills had greatly improved my mother’s quality of life and had deferred the threat of imminent heart failure – a temporary lifeline, no more than that. She would never escape the malevolent and persistent corrosion of her valves. To regulate her struggling heart she took digitalis and digoxin every day – both derivatives of the venerable foxglove – immediately panicking if she forgot. Once, seeing tears in her eyes, I asked her, ‘Why do you need them?’

  ‘Come here, Jay.’ She held her arms out to me. ‘Now, listen.’ She pressed my head to the left side of her chest, my ear flat to her heart. What I heard was more of a rumble than a heartbeat. There were lumpy, muted thumps and soft, whooshing noises like the echoing rush of distant traffic. Th
ey came and went, punctuated by random alarming pauses. ‘That’s why,’ she whispered. No metronomic rhythm at all. ‘I need my pills to keep my clock ticking.’ And then she laughed the nervous little laugh she always produced when she was trying to make the best of things.

  At home there was a new routine; she was on strict orders to rest on her bed for an hour every afternoon to allow the cardiac muscles to relax and recover. With her bedroom door open to listen, we children were encouraged to do the same, to read on our beds – an intolerable imposition to me when excitement beckoned outside.

  It was the perfect opportunity for escape. Carrying my shoes, as long as I kept hard to the wall, the floorboards were silent. The rest was easy. I could climb out of the lavatory window and down the waste pipe. I was free. Out, past the stables and garages with a row of pigeons shimmering on the ridge, past the plot where Mark Cuff weeded the leeks and cabbages in tidy rows, down the old cider track and through the gate to the towering elm tree, the sentinel that marked the gateway to adventure, the beginning of my wild world.

  * * *

  I would not wish to mislead you. Neither Bartonfield’s enticing orchards and damp fields nor the Manor House gardens and the Manor Farm’s chervil-scented meadows of my boyhood were, by any contorted definition of the term, anything remotely approaching wilderness. They were no more than the friendly but fading echo of a far older, richer world. They were the un-mechanised and un-chemicalised countryside of post-war England, land that had been farmed for a thousand years and more.

  It was a farmland unrecognisable today, now a vanished and a vanquished world. A farmland of labourers walking or cycling to work to hand-milk cows into a bucket; milk delivered warm and frothy to the Manor House back door every morning in white enamel cans; of the jingling harness of working horses and their rickety carts; of herb-rich meadows of clover, buttercups, cowslips, corn marigolds and ox-eye daisies humming with bumble bees and the rasping serenade of grasshoppers; of wheat cut by a binder’s rattling blades, sheaves hand-tied with a twist of straw and leaned against each other in stooks of three dotting the fields like fleur-de-lys on a golden counterpane. When dry, they were pitchforked onto a trailer and hauled off to the tractor-powered thresher beside the barn, where the men yelled to each other above its roaring, churning and flailing din as the grain was beaten free. Bronze arms pitchforked the straw away into a stack while the chaff flew through a chute to a dusty heap.