Tamworth Pig Stories

by Gene Kemp

  ‘Cheer up. It’s a lovely day and we’re having a picnic with Tamworth,’ Blossom said.

  ‘Don’t care. Shan’t cheer up. Ugh! Cheer up she says. As if anyone could cheer up with school tomorrow.’

  Tamworth came trotting out of Pig House to greet them.

  ‘Hello, my friends. Why, what’s the matter, Thomas?’

  ‘I’m fed up. It’s horrible old school. I don’t want to go to school. I just want everything to go on like it is now, for ever and ever.’

  Tamworth rooted in the bag and selected the best cabbage. When he had finished it he sat down under the damson tree and looked at Thomas, who was eating nothing. Blossom had already eaten four sandwiches and a bag of crisps.

  ‘Oh, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Everything changes. It has to. It’s the way of things. It won’t be so bad at school, in fact, you’ll enjoy it once you’re there again.’

  ‘The only things I shall enjoy are bashing old Baggsy and pulling Gwendolyn horrible Twitchie’s hair.’

  ‘You mean horrible hair,’ Hedgecock put in.

  ‘No I don’t. I mean Gwendolyn, horrible, Twitchie,’ Thomas snapped.

  ‘Well, I know something you’ll like,’ Tamworth said.

  He went into Pig House and emerged with a football, dribbling it mostly between his trotters.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Blossom asked, her mouth full of chocolate.

  She’d almost finished her share of the picnic.

  ‘It was sent to me by one of my many admirers. Come on, everyone. We’re going to play football and give Thomas lots of practice.’

  Thomas still looked sulky, so Tamworth flipped the ball at him with his snout. He looked so funny that a grin began to spread over Thomas’s face, and he too, ran forward, took a mighty kick and sent the ball high over Pig House. In no time at all, two sweaters were down as goal posts and everyone was running and kicking like mad.

  At last Tamworth stopped, puffing like a steam-engine.

  ‘I’m losing pounds of beautiful fat. I shall have to have some more sustenance,’ he panted, as he searched in the bag for another cabbage.

  Everyone collapsed, red, sweaty and cheerful, and finished the rest of the picnic.

  ‘And now I’ve got another surprise for you. Come into Pig House,’ Tamworth said.

  They went inside, and there on a box stood a transistor radio. Tamworth turned the knob and music blared forth.

  ‘It’s a beauty. Where did you get it?’ Mr Rab asked.

  ‘The Vegetarian Society presented it to me for my work in trying to stop people eating meat.’

  He looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘I want you to listen to the news, which is on in a minute. Sit down all of you.’

  They sat down and listened quietly. At last the music stopped and the newsreader came on. He read out several items of news and Mr Rab began to fidget because he found it boring, but Hedgecock nudged him sharply. Then came the item Tamworth was waiting for and he turned up the volume.

  ‘After a debate in Parliament yesterday, it was decided to start a campaign for “Grow more food” in Britain. A committee has been set up to promote food expansion and it will be advised by Tamworth Pig of Baggs’s Farm.’

  ‘There,’ Tamworth said, and switched off the radio.

  ‘Why, Tamworth, you’ve gone pink under your bristles!’ Blossom said.

  ‘Yes, I’m very pleased that my small efforts have not gone unnoticed. And I owe so much of this to you, dear friends.’

  He took the lid off a cardboard box and emptied out several parcels, all wrapped in blue and red paper decorated with white dancing pigs.

  ‘So I have presents for you all. The Vicar’s wife was kind enough to purchase them for me.’

  Blossom opened hers first and there inside was the prettiest, floppiest doll ever, with hair so soft you wanted to rub your face in it. She wore a little white gown with a blue ribbon round it to match her eyes.

  ‘Oh, oh,’ was all Blossom could say.

  She felt as if she could cry, it was so beautiful.

  For Thomas there was a gloriously complicated train set with lots of points, gradients, stations, signals, engines and rolling stock. Mr Rab had a book containing hundreds and hundreds of poems and for Hedgecock there was a compendium of games, including chess, draughts, ludo, snakes and ladders, tiddly winks and dominoes.

  They could hardly speak, it was such a surprise. Tamworth trotted back and forth poking his snout into everything, enjoying the presents just as much as they did, and he simultaneously played games with Hedgecock, dolls with Blossom, trains with Thomas and listened to Mr Rab reading from his book.

  Then he rooted around in the box and pulled out one last parcel.

  ‘The Vicar’s wife also sent something else for you, Thomas. She says she hopes you’ll be friends again.’

  With a huge grin, he handed over a box of chocolates.

  TAMWORTH PIG SAVES THE TREES

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was saturday and thomas arose singing.

  ‘No school. No school,’ he carolled through the house.

  He pushed open the door of Daddy’s and Mummy’s bedroom.

  ‘It’s Saturday, Dad. You can lie in bed for a bit.’

  Dad opened a weary eye and reached out for the alarm clock at the side of the bed. He shook it incredulously.

  ‘Why, it’s only five to six.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I only came in to tell you, you didn’t have to wake up early today, as it’s Saturday.’

  Daddy groaned pitifully and pulled the bedclothes over his head.

  ‘Go away, you horrible child,’ came a muffled cry.

  Thomas trotted away, leaving the door open, not hearing the call behind him.

  ‘And close the door!’

  He was too busy shaking his head and muttering about the ingratitude of grown-ups, who never appreciated anything that one did for them. Still, Blossom should be ready to play by now.

  Blossom, his sister, was a wonderful teller of tales and inventor of games. Yesterday she had begun the story of Stringo, the little boy made of string, and Thomas wanted to hear more of it. He opened her door. Gentle snuffles whiffled through the quiet room. He took a running leap and landed with his knees on her soft form. It was always pleasant jumping on Blossom. She was so plump and comfortable, just like a pillow, he thought. He felt quite fond of her, but, strangely enough, she didn’t seem fond of him. Flushed with sleep, brown eyes full of tears, she pushed and kicked him off the bed.

  ‘I was having a wonderful dream and now you’ve spoilt it. Go away, you horrible boy!’

  Hurt, he stared at her, then walked out of the room. He didn’t like being told to go away twice like that. People were peculiar, he decided as he made his way down to the kitchen.

  Breakfast was obviously hours away, so he helped himself to his favourite cereal, pouring nearly all the packet into the largest Pyrex bowl, the one his mother made apple pies in. Some cereal fell on the floor where it made an extremely pleasing, scrunchy noise under his feet.

  ‘Scrunchy, munchy, chunchy, grunchy,’ he murmured contentedly.

  The sugar bowl was almost empty, so he found the sugar bag and tore it open. This proved difficult at first, so he pulled extra hard and the bag split right down the side, spilling half on the table. He scooped this on to the floor and turned to get the milk. There was only a pint left and he must leave some for Mummy’s early cup of tea. A bargain offer of an inflatable boat on the cereal packet caught his eye and he proceeded to read it as he poured out the milk. When he looked down he was surprised to find he had used the whole pint. He tried to get some back into the bottle but it proved impossible, so he gave up, and started on his cereal, and soon the kitchen was filled with the noise of Thomas eating.

  What next? A day of infinite possibilities lay ahead. He could climb a mountain, tame a lion, walk a tightrope, score a goal for England. Contemplating all these, he went upstairs and flung his friends,
the snoring Hedgecock and sniffling Mr Rab, out of his bed. Hedgecock, as cantankerous and irritable as ever, snarled at him, while Mr Rab, a long, thin rabbit wearing a red and white striped waistcoat and green bow tie, whimpered as he tried to climb back into warmth and comfort.

  He whimpered even more when Thomas set up an indoor football game of his own invention, involving a very hard, tiny, rubber ball. He hated football. His skinny legs always got hurt. Poetry was the thing Mr Rab loved best of all, and next to poetry, Thomas’s sister Blossom and then Thomas. He didn’t love Hedgecock at all.

  Once aroused, Hedgecock played quite well, though sometimes the ball got lost among his feathery prickles. No one ever knew what Hedgecock really was, and as he became incredibly cross if anyone tried to find out, it remained a mystery. It was also difficult to discover what he actually liked as he grumbled so much about everything whatsoever, but he did enjoy counting and numbers, and utterly despised Mr Rab and his poetry.

  At half-time, Thomas decided the hanging bedclothes were in the way, so he hauled them all off, dumped them in the bathroom next door, and continued with the game. Finally Thomas’s team won six-two. Hedgecock and Mr Rab always let him win because if he lost he grew very angry and threw things and stamped and shouted. The game over, to Thomas’s satisfaction and no loss of temper, he went to the window and looked out between the curtains.

  The morning was thick and white like cotton wool. They could not even see the bottom of the garden. In a moment Thomas had hauled jeans and sweater over his pyjamas and pulled on the slippers he never wore in the house. Urging Hedgecock and Mr Rab before him, he hurried out into the mist, which thinned around them as they walked across the white lawn, leaving a green trail behind them. Spiders’ webs clung wetly to their hands and faces.

  ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ Mr Rab cried suddenly in his special, high, poetry-reciting voice.

  He stopped equally suddenly as Hedgecock kicked him.

  ‘Can’t we go anywhere without you reciting your rotten old poetry?’

  ‘It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I love poetry. It’s much better than your horrid counting. Why, you’d even count your own snores if you could.’

  ‘I don’t snore,’ Hedgecock objected indignantly.

  ‘Yes you do. You snore like … like ten thousand chain saws cutting down trees.’

  ‘I – do – not – snore.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do.’

  Hedgecock kicked Mr Rab much harder this time, so that he squealed.

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ Thomas commanded. ‘We’re going to see Tamworth Pig. I hope he’s up and not asleep like everyone else.’

  Tamworth’s favourite damson tree and Pig House, Tamworth’s home, loomed unexpectedly out of the mist and there in the doorway stood the great pig himself, huge and golden, like some lesser sun. President of the Animals’ Union, great campaigner for such causes as ‘Grow More Food and Eat Less Meat’ (especially pork), he was the most famous pig in Britain and Thomas’s friend and ally.

  ‘Come in and have some Pig’s Delight,’ he invited.

  They went in and settled on the hay-strewn floor. Tamworth’s home, which he refused to call a sty, was very comfortable and decorated with posters and photographs. A transistor radio stood on a handsome chest, both presents from the Vegetarian Society in gratitude for Tamworth’s efforts to stop people eating meat. He had not succeeded yet, but he persevered. He handed round a bag of Pig’s Delight, a special sweet he had concocted for children which did not rot the teeth. It tasted delicious, rather like a mixture of chocolate, treacle, strawberries, mint, toffee and marshmallow.

  ‘Thanks,’ Thomas muttered as he chewed. ‘I’ve brought you a cabbage. I picked it in the garden on the way here.’

  ‘Thank you, dear boy. You know how I appreciate a fine cabbage. And it’s most welcome, for Mrs Baggs, that extremely mean woman, who is supposed to feed me, has not yet appeared with one of her inferior repasts.’

  ‘Now that you’re famous and quite rich, I wonder you don’t get someone kind to look after you. I wouldn’t have her. Not after she tried to have you slaughtered.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t worry me. She won’t do that again and, after all, I do belong to Farmer Baggs. He’s all right, a good, honest man, and I wouldn’t want to upset him by changing things. What’s more, I like it here.’

  Cabbage consumed, Tamworth sat back on his vast haunches. His eyes glittered and he wore a look of intense excitement. Thomas peered at him curiously.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  The giant pig tapped the floor with his neat little trotters. They all waited. At last he spoke in a deep voice.

  ‘Last night I dreamed a dream …’

  ‘Like Joseph, you mean,’ put in Mr Rab helpfully.

  ‘Don’t interrupt, you pink-nosed fool,’ Hedgecock snapped.

  ‘In my dream, I saw the country below me.’

  ‘You were the ruler?’

  It was Hedgecock interrupting this time. Mr Rab pulled a face at him.

  ‘Oh, no. I do not seek power. It would not be right for a pig to rule our country, though I should probably do no worse than some have done. No, the land was actually below me because I was flying over it in a kind of hovercraft.’

  ‘It must have been very strong to stand your weight.’

  Too late Mr Rab put a hand over his mouth as though to push back his words, but Tamworth took no notice anyway. He was staring into the distance as though re-living his dream.

  ‘And – and – dearest friends, there were no trees!’

  His voice shook with emotion.

  ‘No trees? What do you mean?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘There were no trees to be seen. They’d all disappeared, been cut down, torn up, burnt, destroyed. There were no forests, no woods, no commons, no shady gardens, no tree-lined parks. All, all were gone, the oak and the elm, the ash and the holly. There was no shade from the sun, no shelter from the storm, no branches for birds to nest in, nor for children to climb. There were no apples in Autumn, no trees for Christmas.

  He paused, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be upset. It was only a dream. I have nasty ones sometimes. Forget it,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I can’t forget it. It was a vision of the future. Every day trees are destroyed. Every day trees are dying. We must save the trees,’ Tamworth cried.

  A loud neighing was heard as the head of Joe the Shire Horse pushed through the aperture cut specially for him.

  ‘What be ’ee goin’ on about now, Tamworth?’ he asked in his slow voice. ‘I ’eard ’ee talkin’ on and on. I come to tell ’ee that Mrs Baggs is just a-settin’ out with your grub.’

  ‘Then I’m off,’ Thomas said, for Mrs Baggs was no friend of his.

  He stroked Tamworth’s upstanding, furry ears.

  ‘Cheer up. You don’t want to worry about rotten old dreams.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? I must start a new campaign. “Grow more Food” is going well now. I can take time off for this newer, greater cause. Save the trees! Save the trees!’ Tamworth cried, going to the door and gazing into the mist.

  ‘I can only see the damson tree in this lot, and I haven’t heard of anyone threatening to cut that down,’ Hedgecock muttered.

  The clank of a pail was heard. Mrs Baggs was approaching, so Thomas, Hedgecock and Mr Rab vanished rapidly into the fog.

  *

  ‘Tamworth’s off again,’ Thomas said to Blossom as he re-entered the kitchen.

  She sat, scrubbed, pink and shining, behind a mound of toast. Blossom dearly loved food.

  ‘And so is Mum. You want to look out,’ she replied, licking the melting butter off her fingers.

  ‘Why, what have I done?’

  ‘I think she said that you’d made more mess before breakfast than most children do in a day.’

  ‘Well, that’s unfair. All I did was to come downstairs, bothering no one, get myself some grub and go out. What’s wrong with tha
t?’

  ‘That’s not what she said you did. And if I were you, I’d change those slippers before she sees them.’

  ‘You’re not me, and I don’t want you to be, you great, fat, stupid girl. I don’t care about slippers. I want to tell you about Tamworth.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s got a new cause. He wants to save the trees.’

  ‘Is that you, Thomas?’

  Mummy’s voice was calling and her feet approaching. Thomas dived under the table, but it was no use. He was soon discovered. So, too, were his slippers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blossom sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, having just completed a banner, a huge creation mounted on two broom handles painted gold. The design was simple, a white background with ‘SAVE THE TREES’ emblazoned on it in green. She laid it carefully on the floor to dry, together with two small pennants which read, ‘Planta Seeda Day’ and ‘Keep Britain Green’.

  ‘There!’ she said.

  ‘They’re jolly nice. I wish I could have written a poem on one,’ Mr Rab said enviously.

  ‘No one would be able to read it being marched along on a banner. You’d do better to write a marching song.’

  Mollified, Mr Rab began to sing:

  ‘I think that I shall never see

  A poem lovely as a tree.’

  ‘Somebody’s already written that one,’ Hedgecock growled.

  ‘Come and help me clear up all this mess,’ Blossom said, eyeing the paints, rags, brushes and jars.

  She was alone. Everyone had deserted her. Sighing, she pushed all the painting paraphernalia into the nearest cupboard, and wandered into the garden, where the sun beamed down on the dahlias, the chrysanthemums and the last roses. St Luke’s little summer had arrived, in October, with some of the sunniest days of the year, before the equinoctial gales arrived to blow away the soft warmth and the mists, making way for winter.