by Gene Kemp
Thomas turned a look of sheer, righteous fury on her.
‘You’ve spoilt it, you mean. You said we was goin’ to get a box of chocolates and all I’ve got is a mouldy old book of fairy stories. It’s your fault.’
The audience was getting restive. Daddy had managed to reach the end of the row. Shouts of: ‘Get on with the play!’, ‘Send him off!’, ‘Shut up!’, ‘Scotland for ever!’, ‘Send for Tamworth Pig,’ boos and cheers went up.
One of the small bears ran down the stage steps sobbing dreadfully.
‘I knew he would spoil it. I told and told everybody. Now will you believe me?’
Thomas stood in the centre of the stage still shouting. ‘Give me my box of chocolates, then I’ll be an angel.’
Two bears started to fight. The Vicar’s wife, now struggling with Thomas, seemed to be in tears.
Daddy arrived on the stage at last, picked up the reluctant angel, still speaking loudly about his chocolates, and carried him under one arm down the gangway to the back of the hall and outside.
Above the din could be heard Lurcher Dench yelling: ‘Hooray for Measle Bug.’
Mummy collected the weeping Blossom.
‘Do you have to let us down all the time?’ Daddy asked as they drove home.
‘But,’ Thomas said, ‘she said she was going to give us …’
‘We know,’ joined in the others, ‘a box of chocolates.’
Thomas’s voice rose above all opposition.
‘She’s a silly, stupid lady, that one. And that’s the last time I’ll be an angel.’
‘How right you are,’ Daddy replied.
*
Up in bed Thomas greeted Mr Rab, Hedgecock and Num lovingly. They had been neglected of late.
‘You’re all right but people are stupid.’
‘Did you get the chocolates?’ Hedgecock asked.
‘Course not. Grown-ups! Huh! They always let you down. Sing the good-night song, Mr Rab. I shall never act again.’
CHAPTER TEN
On baggs’s farm all was excitement. The Minister was coming! Reporters and animals were crowding into the farm. The Baggses themselves had been informed by the Minister’s Secretary the previous morning and Farmer Baggs had spent the day in feverish activity, ordering gaps to be filled, gates to be repaired and extra food and vitamins for all the animals so that they would look their very best. Mrs Baggs cleaned the house from top to bottom, dressed her dairy maids in new nylon overalls and bought herself a dress with purple flowers on it. Tamworth had an extra bucketful of food in his trough, about which he was both amused and grateful.
‘I wish the Minister came every day,’ he said.
He’d been checking Pig House to see that it looked especially neat and tidy, and Blossom brushed him all over, which he loved. Then Thomas scratched his back for half an hour.
‘I do love to be clean and well turned out,’ he remarked, looking at himself in Pig House mirror. ‘I wish people would realize this. It’s not that I’m as fussy as a cat. Indeed, I’d hate to be as pernickety as some cats. But I’m cleaner than a dog, for instance. I don’t get fleas.’
‘You haven’t got much to get fleas in,’ Thomas pointed out, looking at the spaces between the bristles.
‘Don’t be impertinent, Thomas.’
Tamworth flipped his ears, for he was just a bit nervous and irritable.
‘It’s like before my birthday,’ Blossom said. ‘I just can’t wait.’
‘But you’ll just have to,’ Thomas replied.
‘Tell us a story, Tamworth, to pass the time.’
So Tamworth told them about the Greeks whom Circe the enchantress had changed into pigs, and how Odysseus, their wily leader, landed on her isle but was saved by the god Mercury, who gave him a plant to withstand her spells.
Then he told them about St Anthony, who had a pig that he led about with a bell round its neck.
‘There’s a stained-glass window somewhere, showing this handsome pig,’ Tamworth said. ‘One day when St Anthony was in Spain, he was asked to heal the King’s son, but when he heard that a sow in the town had a lame and blind piglet, he healed it first before going to cure the Prince.’
‘He knew what was important,’ Thomas said.
Crowds were gathering round the farm. Photographers and reporters were wandering hither and thither. People from the Vegetarian Society had arrived by now and were walking up and down holding banners. Barry McKenzie and Joe took up their positions outside Pig House and Ethelberta was perched on the roof, Jasper and Rover were at the farmhouse, standing as quietly as Mr and Mrs Baggs were running up and down. Christopher Robin, arrayed in his best suit and a hideous pair of pink socks, sat moodily on the doorstep. He found it all a great bore, except that he, like Blossom, had a day’s holiday from school. Gwendolyn had scarlatina, which was a good thing for everyone, except, possibly, Gwendolyn. Mummy was there with the Vicar’s wife, but Daddy had refused to come, for crowds weren’t in his line at all.
‘Give my regards to Tamworth,’ he said.
Hedgecock and Mr Rab, full of excitement, kept scuttling in and out of Pig House, and getting in Joe’s way. He was so very large and always afraid of putting his huge hoofs down on something or someone small.
The warm afternoon and its crowd waited.
‘It’s five to three. He’ll be here in a minute,’ Blossom said.
‘Five minutes,’ Hedgecock corrected, accurate as ever.
A procession of cars appeared. He was early. The photographers pressed forward. A few voices called ‘Hurray’, and the school orchestra struck up a raggedy note on six recorders, a flute and the drum, as the Minister alighted from his Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.
He shook the hands of Mr and Mrs Baggs, patted Christopher’s head and asked them to lead him on a tour of the farm, so off they went with a trail of people following, ruining Mrs Baggs’s herbaceous borders.
‘What a wonderful place,’ he exclaimed, eyes darting everywhere over barns, animals, haystacks, milking equipment and machinery. ‘Beautifully kept. You are a credit to our country, Farmer er … er … er …’
‘Baggs,’ his secretary whispered from behind, as he busily scribbled down notes in a little black book.
‘Farmer Baggs,’ the Minister continued smoothly. ‘These fields, the hay, the wheat …’ Here he climbed on a gate to look down over the pleasant countryside. ‘It’s wonderful to see the results of such industry and efficiency.’
Mr Baggs smiled broadly. He was a kind man and a good farmer. It was his wife whom nobody could bear. She stood screwing up her grey hair with her fingers.
‘And now may I meet our famous Tamworth Pig, whose invitation brought me here?’
Mr Baggs beamed. ‘Of course,’ he said as he led the way. ‘We’re right proud of him, you know. He gets some funny ideas, he do, but there’s no pig like Tamworth.’
Mrs Baggs glared out of her small, blue, beady eyes.
Tamworth was waiting, his huge beautiful shape standing firmly on his four neat little trotters. On one side was Joe, on the other Barry McKenzie with Blossom and Thomas, holding Hedgecock with Mr Rab at his feet. Pig House was resplendent in posters, photographs of Tamworth, drawings by Blossom and pictures of food, all kinds of food except meat.
‘Ah, Tamworth Pig, I presume,’ the Minister said, proffering his hand.
‘I am deeply honoured, brother,’ Tamworth said lifting a trotter. ‘With your permission, I should like to speak to you alone.’
The Minister frowned slightly.
‘It’s somewhat unusual,’ he said. ‘But then, this is rather a special case. Let us go into your – er – sty.’
‘Not my sty,’ Tamworth’s voice was gentle. ‘Welcome to Pig House, brother.’
They retired together and closed the door, leaving a restless and inquiring crowd outside.
‘Let’s count the seconds,’ Hedgecock said to Thomas.
They counted up to a hundred eighteen times before the Minister and Tamworth emer
ged. The crowd rushed forward; Blossom and Thomas crept under Joe for shelter.
‘What did you talk about? How did it go? Did you decide anything? What did you say? Have you come to an agreement?’
‘We’ll let you know later,’ the Minister smiled. ‘There will be a report. Right now there are tea and refreshments for everyone, being served at the farm.’
There was a mad rush to the dairy where tea, biscuits, ice-cream and lemonade were being handed out by various assorted ladies and the dairy maids in their pink nylon overalls. Mrs Baggs was charging high prices and hoping to make a good profit.
‘What a lovely day,’ everyone said.
The lovely day was followed by one of those perfect evenings, blue and golden, that we get from time to time in England, just to remind us that it is a green and pleasant land. The Minister returned to London. The crowds went home and so did Blossom and Thomas. They played for a while and then decided to go back to Tamworth.
He was glad to see them.
‘I feel restless. I can’t settle down after all the excitement. I keep composing speeches and then I can’t finish them. And Mrs Baggs had a very nasty look in her eye when she brought in my food just now.’
Blossom gave him some apples.
‘Many thanks. I do like apples so much. But best of all, I think, I like a cabbage.’
‘We’ll remember next time,’ Blossom promised.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Tamworth said, ‘I’d like to go for a walk. Will you come with me?’
‘Yes, if I can ride on your back.’
‘Of course, my young friend. Leap on.’
Leaping was hardly the word to describe getting on to Tamworth’s back, but Thomas managed it quite well. He’d had plenty of practice.
They jogged over the fields and into the lane, Tamworth chuffing cheerily as they went along and Thomas waving hedge-parsley over them to keep off the flies.
At last Blossom said, ‘Just what did you and the Minister talk about, Tamworth?’
There was a roar of a powerful engine. Round the corner zoomed a motor-bike. Unable to stop, its rider crashed straight into Tamworth’s huge and shapely form. The pig stood unshaken though he let out one terrible squeal. Thomas flew straight off into the ditch, full after the heavy rains, and landed squelching amid hedge-parsley, ground-ivy, foxgloves and willow-herb, to be joined by the motor-cyclist, and the pair sat glaring at each other in the ditch with garlands of uprooted flowers round their heads while the motor-bike, far more damaged than Tamworth, lay uselessly on the grassy verge.
‘Are you hurt, Tamworth?’ Blossom cried. ‘Are you all right, Thomas?’
She ran from one to the other, waving her hands.
‘I find myself undamaged,’ Tamworth said, after he had investigated all his trotters to see if they were still intact. ‘But I shall never forgive myself for that terrible squeal. It will ring in my ears till my dying day. I have never squealed in my life up till now, and I pray that I never shall again. But let us help Thomas and this unwary speedway rider out of the ditch.’
However, they were already climbing out, unhurt but rather dazed, plucking flowers from their shirts, their trousers, and their shoes. The cyclist regarded the others all with horror.
‘To hit a pig,’ he moaned. ‘All these years accident free and I have to hit a pig. With a boy riding it. I must be going crazy! I’m off for the police.’
With difficulty he hauled up his bike and tried to start it, but no mere motor-bike could survive a head-on collision with Tamworth, so he put it down again, shook his fist at Tamworth and set off down the road.
‘My good friend,’ Tamworth shouted, hurrying after him, ‘wait and see if we can help you.’
It was no use, for they couldn’t catch him.
‘This will bring trouble,’ Thomas muttered, pulling a piece of willow-herb out of his mouth. ‘I know it will.’
He was right. The motor-cyclist complained to the Sergeant at the Station, who immediately recognized Tamworth from the description. A claim was made to Farmer Baggs for the sum of one hundred pounds’-worth of damage to the motorbike caused by a menace to the public, namely a large pig with a small boy on its back.
‘Pride had to come before a fall,’ Tamworth said. ‘I was too cocky after the Minister’s visit.’
The motor-cyclist did not get his hundred-pound claim awarded to him, but Mrs Baggs said many nasty words and chalked up another bad mark against Tamworth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
During the following week, Tamworth was asked to appear on television. On the morning that he was due to go on, Thomas found him greatly agitated.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked the pig, who was scratching furiously with his front trotter.
‘I’ve got dandruff. Horrible, itchy dandruff, I’m covered in it. There I am, about to appear before an audience of millions, and I’ve got dandruff. Thomas, what shall I do?’
‘That’s easy enough. Mother uses a medicated shampoo on us. I’ll go and get it.’
He shot back home and returned with a bottle of shampoo and a scrubbing brush.
‘Hang on,’ and he once more went home to return weighed down with two buckets of water. Before Tamworth could protest he poured a bucketful straight over him.
‘Ouch, ow, ow,’ spluttered and spat the pig, for the sudden cascade was absolutely icy. Thomas had forgotten to use the hot tap. Unmoved, he then upended the entire bottle of shampoo and started to scrub. He rubbed and dubbed till lather bubbled and blew in all directions. Tamworth moaned piteously. No one would have taken him for the President at that moment.
‘It’s going in my eyes.’
‘Mummy always tells us to be brave.’
‘It’s difficult under such circumstances.’
‘Shan’t be long. I’ve done you really well. Next your ears. They’re important. Now for the rinsing.’
Thomas flung the other bucket of cold water over the unhappy animal.
‘Oh save me, someone. Help!’
No one heeded his cries and Thomas rubbed him remorselessly with one of the best bath towels. Mummy was rather annoyed about that when she found out later.
‘Now sit in the sun and dry. You’ll feel very nice soon. I got rid of nearly all the dandruff.’
Thomas inspected the shivering pig. Even his ears hung down for once, but slowly the sun warmed him and his bristles dried. He shook himself. Yes, he did feel better.
‘Oh, you look beautiful. You’re the handsomest as well as the cleverest pig in the world.’
‘You really think so?’
Tamworth loved admiration. He did, indeed, look well. His red-gold coat shone in the sun, and his ears pricked up into furry points.
‘What time is the programme?’
‘Eight o’clock. I’ve got a good showing time. The van will soon be coming to fetch me. This is a great day. I, the President of the Animals’ Union, shall address the Nation.’
‘We’ll be watching,’ Thomas promised.
*
Throughout the land the sets were flickering merrily before the great British public. Thomas and Blossom sat in complete harmony on the same chair, together with Hedgecock and Mr Rab. Mummy and Daddy were also watching and so were most of the neighbours. But one household, at least, was not so pleased. Mrs Baggs was furious that no one had asked her husband to take part in the programme. She had shaken her fist at the van that came to take Tamworth to the television studio. Christopher Robin and Lurcher had booed, but Joe, Barry McKenzie and Ethelberta chorused, ‘Good luck, Tamworth,’ as he drove away.
Mr Baggs was not sorry at all that he had not been invited. He hated speeches and furthermore he was feeling ill that evening. He just wished his wife would stop grumbling, and that his head would stop aching. But the Baggs family, too, sat in their chairs like the rest, and watched.
At eight o’clock the Minister came on to open the programme.
‘I have come here tonight to introduce my good friend, Tamwor
th Pig, who has some interesting schemes of his own to put forward. I do not agree with all of them, but some could bring extra prosperity to this country. However, let our eloquent friend speak for himself. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is Tamworth Pig.’
Cameras panned to the handsome, porcine face with its smiling snout.
‘Oh, he does look nice,’ Blossom whispered. ‘I wish we had colour television.’
‘I shampooed him while you were at school,’ Thomas hissed.
‘You used my best bath towel.’
Mummy was still bitter about this.
‘Sh! Listen. He’s about to start.’
‘I have come here, this evening, to ask for your help, to carry out the ideas I have in mind. Wherever we turn today we are faced with the fact that half the people of the world do not get enough to eat. Now, food is one of the best things in life. A good, tasty meal gives one a warm glow inside. Well-fed humans and animals may not be happy but at least they have a chance to be. Hungry humans and animals have no chance at all. They can only think food. They can’t really think about any of the important things in life because they only feel hungry, hungry, hungry, and wonder where the next meal is coming from.
‘Now in this country are many fine farmers and gardeners and food manufacturers who are doing a good job. Men like my good friend Farmer Baggs, who work hard.’
‘’Ear! ’Ear!’ Farmer Baggs said to his wife.
‘Yet much more could be done. Let every man and woman, child and animal in the country try to produce more food, grub, as another friend of mine, Thomas, calls it.’
Here Thomas went bright red and hid his face in the chair.
‘Let us fill every space, every unused bit of country and waste ground in our towns, with food, oomptious, scrumptious food. I have composed a little song which goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’.
Let us grow more grub today, more and more and more,
Wheat and fruit and vegetables, potatoes by the score,
