Tamworth Pig Stories

by Gene Kemp

  ‘A failure? You mean a disaster,’ Thomas groaned.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Next day, the autumn sunshine had gone at last as the gales roared over the land, blasting the bright flowers, stripping the trees, blustering, whistling, roaring.

  ‘Summer’s gone and we’ve come.’

  Thomas’s thoughts were as stormy as the weather as he sat in the classroom putting the finishing touches to a papier mâché puppet he was making and, ever after, this particular puppet always had to play the villain because of the ferocity of his painted face.

  His stomach ached and he wanted to cry but could not. Tamworth had always been there across the years, as long as he could remember, invariably wise and kind and splendid, a true friend. But now he just seemed to be a silly old fool of a pig. How could Tamworth behave like a pop-singing teenager over this little fat pig with nothing whatsoever to recommend her as far as Thomas could see?

  Thomas had learnt that grown-ups almost always let you down at some time or another, but not Tamworth. Tamworth was different. All the glorious days, the happy adventures would be gone like a dandelion clock in a puff of wind if he were to start doting on some female. Furthermore, Thomas was convinced that if Tamworth had not been so enraptured by that same black and pink creature, the march would not have been ruined so easily by Deadly Dench and his gang, making fools of all of them.

  They had been waiting for him at playtime, catcalling and gloating, just as he knew they would be, Lurcher Dench and Christopher Robin Baggs and all their mates. Lurcher and Thomas had exchanged a blow each when scuds of rain swept violently across the playground and the whistle blew for them to come in. They had to be content with kicking each other in line, and being reprimanded for doing so.

  At lunchtime the storm was so fierce that there was no chance at all of going outside, so they read and drew and played games in the classroom while, all around him, Thomas could hear the whispers.

  ‘We’ll get him. We’ll finish him. Old Twopenny Tom! Old Measle Bug. Tamworth Pig’s a silly old fool, they ought to send him back to school. Measle Bug. Ugh! Chicken! Thomas is a lemon. Lame dog, Thomas. Chicken! Lame pig. Tamworth. Chicken! Chicken! Don’t like it. Don’t like it!’

  He stuck his fingers in his ears and tried to read but there was no escape. He had no allies. He had gone to school late after a lot of illness, which was why he was known as Measle Bug, and he did not make friends easily. He preferred animals. So he was alone against the class, though most of the girls probably would not interfere. Blossom and her friends would come to his aid if they could, but their classroom was on the far side of the school building and they would not be much use against Christopher Robin and his gang, plus Lurcher and his brothers, the school being full of Denches, all tough as old boots.

  The afternoon break came after the puppet-making. The wind dropped at last and the clouds lifted for a moment. Play was outside even though the ground was wet with puddles. Thomas stuck his hands in his pockets, his head in the air and swaggered out on to the shiny asphalt. There they were, eleven of them, like a football line-up. They started to shuffle slowly to form a circle around him.

  Thomas stood his ground as they approached and then leapt at Lurcher. If he could break him the rest would run. He grabbed the Dench locks and then jabbed to the chin with his left. But the others were now upon him. He managed to hit Christopher Robin right in his spotty face before he fell to the ground beneath a heap of thrusting, punching, hitting, kicking arms and legs. He did not see Henry, the Professor’s son, brought up on strict methods of fair play, and horrified at such an unequal battle, rush forward to try to pull a few at least off the prostrate Thomas.

  Then, from far away, sounded a fearsome ululation. Blossom’s class emerged late from a reluctant Maths lesson, each moment of which was agony for Blossom answering everything wrong, and now, whooping and war-crying, they charged round the corner like young Amazons.

  Encouraged, Thomas managed to squirm his way out of the scrum wriggling around and over him. But, by now, the many Dench brothers, Nosher, Basher, Prodder and Crasher, had gathered their gangs from their assorted classes and were joyously hurtling into what looked like being the scrap of the year.

  Minor battles broke out on the periphery of the main contest which heaved and surged like an enormous, many-tentacled monster in the middle of the playground.

  There was little rhyme and less reason in the fighting. Boys hit their pals and girls kicked their best friends. Even the Infants, pouring in from their own playground, hopelessly pursued by a new and gentle helper, were screaming and pulling each other’s hair and rolling on the wet ground.

  Into the maelstrom strode Mrs Twitchie, followed by the teacher on duty who had gone to fetch her. She blew her whistle. The heap of bodies disintegrated. Children picked themselves off the ground, then stood rooted to the spot. Mrs Twitchie wasted no time.

  ‘There will be no playtime tomorrow. The entire school will assemble in the hall and recite prayers instead.’

  Slowly she scanned the silent figures.

  ‘Who began this fight?’

  The finger of Gwendolyn Twitchie, the Headmistress’s daughter, pointed at Thomas who stood wet, bruised and bleeding, sweater hanging like seaweed.

  ‘Thomas, you will lose all next week’s playtimes. You can come to me each day for a task to do.’

  He was past caring. All he wanted was a hole where he could hide away. But Blossom cried out in protest, and the measured voice of Henry spoke.

  ‘I do not think that Thomas can be held entirely responsible.’

  Mrs Twitchie was above minor interruptions. She waved a hand, the school crawled inside. Silence lay like a blanket save for one whisper.

  ‘Wait till after school. We’ll really get you then.’

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur to Thomas, but at last time for coats and caps and home came. He walked slowly out of the classroom towards the gate. No help there. All the parents waited at the Infant exit round the corner. Thomas walked out of the playground. Yes, there they were, twenty boys at least, perched up on the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Henry move into step beside him. No glasses, he thought. They must have been broken. The boys, led by Christopher Robin, jumped down from the wall. Thomas felt sick. He ached all over. Here we go again, he thought, lifting his grazed fists. That’s odd. No Lurcher with them. Funny that. Still, makes it easier. Wait for it!

  And through the air sounded the click of trotters and the ring of hoofs. Down the road came Tamworth, ears a-prick, tail curled up, every inch the pig of pigs, as a sudden gleam of watery sunshine struck the gold of his skin. Close behind him trotted Joe, the Shire Horse, and Barry MacKenzie Goat. Tamworth’s eyes shone with all his old warmth and friendship. He surveyed the band of boys with amused contempt, then turned to Thomas.

  ‘I thought you might be in need of a lift home today, dear boy. Jump up on my back.’

  Joe was rearing casually in the lane showing his great hoofs, and Barry idly lowered his horns.

  ‘Giddy-up, giddy-up, Tamworth,’ Thomas yelled, grinning all over his face.

  What a glorious world! Being unhappy, being beaten was for other people! Nothing to do with him. He gripped the furry ears.

  ‘Meet my friend. Here he is. He’s called Henry. Tamworth, I’ve got a friend.’

  The waiting band of boys scattered in the face of such formidable opponents and slunk quietly away to their homes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘You see,’ Tamworth said to blossom and Thomas as they sat in Pig House that evening, ‘I spent the whole day thinking and I came to the only possible conclusion.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Blossom asked.

  ‘That I must never see Melanie again.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Blossom cried.

  ‘Very good idea. You don’t really want to have anything to do with her, do you?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Tamworth replied.

  They sat in silenc
e for a moment.

  ‘I don’t hold with females, because they’re always causing trouble,’ Hedgecock muttered. ‘I don’t mean you, Blossom, but then you’re not a proper female, are you?’

  Blossom glared at him, mouth open with indignation, but Mr Rab spoke up for her.

  ‘I think Blossom is a delightful female,’ he said, and bowed a little bow.

  ‘Shut up both of you,’ Thomas called out. ‘It doesn’t matter whether she’s a female or a washing machine. I want to know what Tamworth is going to do.’

  ‘I shall work even harder for the cause. I must save the trees. Melanie lives far away up north and will not come back here unless I ask her.’

  ‘Why did she come in the first place?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘She saw my photograph in the paper and persuaded the farmer’s daughter to bring her to see me. But later I heard the farmer was angry with them, as it was a long journey. So that is that. Moreover, I have decided to devote my life to helping my country and domestic happiness has little part therein. Besides …’

  His voice quavered a little.

  ‘She is a very young pig, too young for me.’

  ‘Oh, poor Tamworth,’ Blossom cried. ‘Never mind, you’ll still have us.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, my very dear friends. We must think of her no more.’

  He shook himself a little and took a deep breath.

  ‘Now, I want to plan the next march so that it is a real success. No more failures, eh, Thomas?’

  *

  Tamworth threw himself heart and soul into his campaign and the next march was splendidly attended. There were no motor-bikes wrecking it this time because Tamworth obtained several tickets for a first division football match and contrived that Deadly Dench and his friends received them. He opened bazaars, held meetings and arranged sponsored walks. He spoke on the local television news and soon his campaign gained fame throughout the country. The Vicar’s wife made a recording of ‘Save the Trees’, and it rose to number forty-three on the Top Fifty Records Chart, to the surprise of everyone except Mr Rab, who thought it should have been number one.

  Blossom and Thomas gathered great quantities of acorns, hazel and chestnuts and, every evening, they set off with nut-filled carrier bags to plant as many as possible in ditches, along hedgerows and on any available wasteland.

  Thomas collected all the flower pots he could find and set orange and apple pips in them. He placed them in a dark cupboard along with the Christmas hyacinths planted by Mummy. In one of the pots, Mr Rab planted a tinned strawberry.

  ‘You stupid fool, that will never grow,’ Hedgecock snorted.

  ‘Oh yes, it will. I’ve used a special compost for it. Think of all those beautiful tinned strawberries growing on trees.’

  Hedgecock rolled over and over, laughing so much that all his feathery prickles got tangled and he had to spend some time grooming himself.

  Every day Mr Rab inspected his little pot to see if the strawberry tree was coming up, but it never did. At last he dug up all the compost and looked for it but, of the strawberry, there was no sign at all.

  He had a little weep to Blossom, when Hedgecock was not looking, because he did not want to look like the stripey fool Hedgecock always said he was.

  ‘Never mind. Let’s put a conker in a milk bottle with some water and watch it grow,’ Blossom consoled him.

  *

  Meanwhile the festivities of an English Autumn followed their traditional pattern. The Harvest Festival was followed by the Harvest Supper, a huge success, marred only for Thomas by the Vicar bending down from his lean and stately height to inquire how his conker collection was progressing. Thomas found himself incapable of speech. But the Vicar only smiled his austere smile and moved away to talk to someone else.

  Hallowe’en was always well celebrated because October 31st was Blossom’s birthday. This year she was to have a Fancy Dress party. She had a witch’s cloak to wear with a tall hat and a broomstick, while Thomas had a black tracksuit with a luminous skeleton painted on it. Mr Rab had a velvet coat, for he was to be the witch’s cat, and Hedgecock a green toad. Masks were provided for one and all and black balloons with funny faces on them hung from the ceiling.

  Thomas spent most of the day at Pig House, once he had inspected Blossom’s presents to make sure she had not received something he especially wanted himself. (He was always jealous on Blossom’s birthday.) However, only a beautiful set of felt pens aroused his envy, and she promised to lend them to him.

  ‘I wish you’d come to the party, Tamworth,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll come along later to give her my present.’

  ‘I gave her a new poetry book,’ Mr Rab said proudly.

  ‘You give her one every year,’ Hedgecock snorted.

  ‘She loves poetry. She liked it much better than your “History of Numbers through the Ages”.’

  ‘I think it’s marvellous.’

  ‘Maybe it is, to you, but you ought to buy people what they like, not what you like.’

  Hedgecock hit him hard. Mr Rab sobbed and hugged himself with his thin paws.

  ‘What a long day,’ Thomas yawned.

  ‘That’s because you’re waiting for the party. What time does it begin?’ Tamworth asked.

  ‘Five o’clock, so that it will be dark for the games. I shall attack Gwendolyn Twitchie and make her horribly afraid.’

  He cheered up considerably at the beauty of this thought.

  ‘Is she coming? I thought Blossom didn’t like her any more,’ Tamworth said.

  ‘She wasn’t invited at first, but she kicked up such a fuss that Blossom asked her after all. I wouldn’t have done.’

  Five o’clock at last arrived and so did the guests, strangely clean and subdued, clutching parcels. Daddy went out muttering about some important business he had to see to. Mrs Postlewaithe had come to help Mummy with the food. Jolly good it was too, baked chestnuts and baked potatoes, hot doughnuts and spiced buns, as well as the usual jelly, ice-cream, crisps and lemonade. Lights were turned off, and candles lit in the pumpkins as the guests approached the food, politely at first.

  Ten minutes later they looked more their usual selves, with hair and hats falling down, costumes drenched in lemonade or Coca-Cola, and Mrs Postlewaithe on her hands and knees on the floor picking up abandoned buns and sandwiches.

  Birthday cake was to come later, so masks were donned to play the first game, Pass the Parcel. Despite wild cheating and snatching by Thomas, it was won by Gwendolyn Twitchie. Thomas retired to a corner to brood on his revenge. Musical Bumps and Dead Lions followed. Gwendolyn won Dead Lions too.

  Seeing Thomas’s angry scowls, Mummy decided it would be a good idea to have the moonlight walk in the garden before the fancy dresses fell apart. The children were very excited by this and ran up and down the garden path whooping and playing ghosts. At last, Mrs Postlewaithe blew a whistle and counted the heads as they came in again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Eighteen heads altogether.’

  ‘Your Thomas seems to be enjoying himself,’ she went on, while the children scattered for hide and seek. ‘He was smiling all over his face.’

  Mummy was just putting out the birthday cake. She looked surprised.

  ‘That’s odd. He usually hates parties, especially girls’ parties.’

  Blossom knew a splendid hiding-place, behind the blankets in the airing cupboard. She wriggled in happily and thought what a wonderful day she was having. A figure crept in beside her. Oh bother, it’s Thomas, she thought. She peered in the gloom. It did not seem like Thomas. As far as she could see it was not anyone she knew at all. She started to tremble and edged forward to push the door open. Light streamed in.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked the figure.

  She knew that voice. Relief made her furious. She stopped trembling.

  ‘Lurcher Dench!’ she snapped crossly and pulled off his mask.

  ‘Ow!’ he exclaimed as the sharp elastic bit him.

&
nbsp; ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t invite you.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  Blossom stared at the old enemy. Grey eyes looked pleadingly out of a freckled face.

  ‘You see, I never go to parties. Nobody ever asks me, and Mum never ’as a party. Not with all us lads.’

  Blossom tried to go on looking angry.

  ‘I like you, Blossom. I like the stories you tell. I’d like you to tell me some, and please, can I stop and ’ave some cake?’

  A slow grin spread across her face.

  ‘When did you get in?’

  ‘With the kids in the garden. I made me costume. Look, it’s newspaper and I painted it black and joined the rest.’

  ‘That’s funny. I thought Mum counted us, and Mrs Postlewaithe definitely did. She must have got it wrong. Come on, let’s give up. I want to see Thomas’s face when he sees you.’

  Thomas won the game of Hide and Seek, hidden under a sack of potatoes in the pantry. He came out to receive his prize and saw Lurcher. Stiff with rage he stalked over to him.

  ‘Outside,’ he hissed, jerking his thumb.

  ‘Don’t go. I’m just going to blow out the candles and cut the cake,’ Blossom cried, but they completely ignored her as they marched to the door in their newspaper and skeleton outfits.

  Mummy came in from the kitchen.

  ‘Come on, Blossom. What are you waiting for?’

  She hesitated for a moment, then blew out the candles. Whatever happened, food was always a great comfort.

  Thomas and Lurcher took up their positions on the lawn and fought long and silently in the dark and the cold, oblivious of the singing and laughter inside. They were alone for the first time, their battle uncomplicated by interfering adults, allies or spectators, the issue straightforward at last, Thomas or Lurcher.

  They were well matched, Lurcher the heavier, Thomas faster. Lurcher stronger but Thomas fiercer. They struck and danced away, weaving, dodging and punching in the moonlight. Thomas fought for his own territory and Lurcher fought for the right to enter Blossom’s world of stories, games and campaigns.