Tamworth Pig Stories

by Gene Kemp

  At last they broke and fell back, battered, exhausted but satisfied, all hatred gone, the result a draw. The lawn was littered with the shreds of the newspaper costume.

  They entered the room arm in arm and advanced for their share of the cake. Parents were arriving to take away the guests. Mummy was handing each one a lollipop when her eyes alighted on the battle-marked pair. Swiftly she pushed them into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ she said grimly.

  They sat with quiet resignation awaiting her return. After a while, Thomas found a cold flannel for his bleeding mouth and handed Lurcher a dishcloth for his swollen eye. They listened to the noise of those departing. This noise crescendoed enormously.

  ‘That sounds like Mrs Twitchie,’ Lurcher remarked.

  Thomas tried to grin despite his painful lips.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said.

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘I locked Gwendolyn in the shed when we went round the garden and I forgot to let her out.’

  ‘That’s why Ma Postlewaithe didn’t spot me when she counted us in.’

  Voices and footsteps came near. Angry voices, hard steps. United they turned to meet their doom.

  But later, when all the telling off was over and Mrs Twitchie and Gwendolyn had finally gone, Blossom was waiting with two vast slices of cake and lollipops for all the Dench children.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Half-term arrived and, on one fine afternoon, Blossom, Thomas, Tamworth, Hedgecock and Mr Rab set off for the Tumbling Wood. Mr Rab’s nose was a-twitch with excitement at the prospect of visiting the Welsh Rabbit once more.

  Thomas carried a bag to collect sweet chestnuts, this time, for the year’s crop was a record one and they lay on the ground in thousands just waiting to be picked up. Never had there been such a time for nuts. The squirrels had filled every nest and every secret cache and still the woods were carpeted with them.

  Sweet chestnut cases are very prickly, and hands and paws grew sore as they picked up one after another, cracking the outer shells to reveal the brown nuts curled inside, three of them, unlike the single conker.

  At last, the bag full, they stopped, content. Six hundred and thirty-one nuts Hedgecock reported, a pleasant addition to the food Tamworth and Blossom had brought with them. They both believed that food improved all occasions.

  They left Mr Rab by the elderberry bush so that he could see his friend, then rambled on to the centre of the wood.

  ‘Let’s eat something, I’m starving,’ Blossom said.

  ‘Wait until we find the right place,’ Thomas answered.

  ‘How do we know when it is the right place?’

  ‘I shall know when I see it,’ he said, running along the path with Hedgecock. Tamworth and Blossom followed more slowly, thinking about food.

  Suddenly he turned sharply right, straight up the wooded hill.

  ‘There’s a path here. Come on!’ he called.

  ‘I cannot perceive any sign whatsoever of a path, dear boy,’ Tamworth puffed.

  ‘Nor me,’ Blossom agreed.

  This was not surprising, as she was quietly investigating the picnic bag to see if she could sneak a chocolate biscuit without anyone noticing.

  ‘I think I got the number right,’ Hedgecock was muttering to himself. ‘I think it was six hundred and thirty-one, not six hundred and twenty-three.’

  Thomas ran ahead up the slope, brushing aside nettles and brambles.

  ‘Look, somebody’s cut steps here.’

  Between the moss and the fallen leaves, the edge of a stone step showed. On and up they climbed, Thomas now far ahead, almost seeming to fly. The others stumbled after, scratched and nettled and not at all eager.

  At last Thomas stopped and the others caught up with him. A great ring of giant beech trees loomed up against the sky at the summit of the hill. Within this ring stretched a smooth, green lawn, all soft, springy grass, clear of nettles or bracken. Right in the centre stood a tree of immense girth, the widest tree they had ever seen, with powerful branches growing almost horizontally from the trunk. They ran to it and tried to encircle it, but they could not.

  ‘It makes you look small, Tamworth,’ Thomas shouted.

  ‘It’s a British Oak, the finest tree in the world. It takes three hundred years to grow, three hundred years to live, three hundred years to die and a hundred years to fall down.’

  ‘That’s a thousand years,’ Hedgecock breathed in delight.

  ‘Oh, do let’s eat here. I love this place. Mr Rab would say that it was enchanted,’ Blossom exclaimed.

  ‘Silly old fool. I’m glad he isn’t here or he’d be going on about fairies,’ Hedgecock replied.

  They laid an old groundsheet on the short turf and sat down. Soon all was silent save for the sound of eating. At the bottom of the bag, Thomas found a paper flag left over from summer days. He put it in his pocket, climbed on to Tamworth’s back and managed to haul himself on to the lowest branch. There he fixed his flag, a Union Jack.

  ‘My tree,’ he remarked as he descended.

  ‘Our tree,’ Blossom corrected him.

  ‘The tree of Saint Thomas.’

  Blossom did not bother to reply. Sometimes it just was not worth arguing with Thomas. But she thought to herself that it would always be the king of the wood for her.

  At last they decided to go home, turning at the ring of beech trees for one last look at the noble oak. They could just see Thomas’s little flag.

  ‘You know, that tree might have been growing when William the Conqueror invaded the land,’ Tamworth said.

  He looked thoughtful.

  ‘For me, it seems to stand for all the trees in the country.’

  *

  Mr Rab was waiting for them beside the elderberry bush. He was very excited and would not listen when they tried to tell him about the oak tree. He was full of his own news.

  ‘My friend the Welsh Rabbit says there’s trouble coming to this wood. All the wild animals are full of strange rumours. More and more machines are arriving and men in bowler hats pop up everywhere.’

  ‘We haven’t seen any machines today,’ Tamworth said.

  ‘There are six on the other side of the wood, he says.’

  Tamworth looked grave.

  ‘I have a feeling the wood is in danger. It is going to need our campaign.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Late that night the wind rose and howled loudly. Towards dawn it reached an absolute pitch of fury, shrieking and whistling wildly. People awoke and got up, unable to sleep again as tiles and slates flew off roofs, garage doors banged and blew in, dustbin lids clashed and clanged in back yards, and fences collapsed like broken matchboxes.

  The cricket pavilion was lifted over the hedge and whirled into the pond of the next field. Two of the Vicarage chimney pots were toppled off. Lights were switched on one by one, then went off simultaneously as a line was blown down and the power failed.

  Mr Baggs went round his farm to see that all the animals were safe. Last of all he called into Pig House to visit Tamworth, who was wide awake, staring out of his window at the wild storm-tossed world outside.

  ‘The wind’s not doing your trees any good, Tamworth. Branches are falling everywhere. There’ll be a lot of damage by morning.’

  Tamworth turned to Farmer Baggs and sighed.

  ‘It’s a sad sight, a sad sight.’

  ‘You all right, then, Tamworth?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m all right. Thank you for calling to see me.’

  He turned back to the window.

  ‘Lost a bit of weight, ’ee ’ave, Tamworth,’ Farmer Baggs said, eyeing him.

  ‘Yes, I have. I am somewhat smaller round my middle, I regret to say.’

  ‘I’ll send ’ee a fresh lot of cabbages, tomorrow. We can’t ’ave ’ee getting thin. ’T would never do.’

  ‘Thank you, kind friend. I do seem to have lost my appetite lately.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon back ’
ee up. Try and get some sleep, now, mind. Goodnight, Tamworth.’

  ‘Goodnight, Farmer Baggs.’

  The farmer closed the door behind him and the wind blew louder than ever.

  ‘Summat’s wrong with that pig,’ he muttered to himself as he staggered back to the house, buffeted and beaten by wayward gusts, blowing from all directions.

  *

  In his bed, Thomas wrapped Num carefully around Hedgecock and Mr Rab. They had all been awake for a long time. Mr Rab trembled pitifully as he listened to the ferocious roar.

  ‘I keep imagining that raggetty men pretending to be leaves are dancing with the wind,’ he wailed. ‘They’ve got mean, pointed faces and they’re coming to fetch me, to take me into the cold, dark night and I’m afraid.’

  He hid his nose, pale with terror, in Num’s soft folds.

  ‘Raggetty stuffed vegetables! All we have to worry about is if the roof blows off,’ Hedgecock snapped.

  Mr Rab wailed again.

  ‘I do hope my friend the Welsh Rabbit is safe. Fancy being in a wood on a night like this.’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. They’re used to roughing it out there. Come on, let’s recite a few multiplication tables to cheer ourselves up. There’s nothing like the seven times to give one a bit of comfort.’

  Once more Mr Rab wailed.

  ‘Oh no, I can’t think of anything less comfortable than the seven times table except the eighth or the ninth.’

  But Thomas also thought tables a good idea and he and Hedgecock had reached eleven times nine is ninety-nine when Mummy opened the door, bearing a candle in an old brass candlestick. She straightened the bed and tucked them all in.

  ‘I’ll leave the candle on the chest. It’s quite safe and it’s a pretty light. I think the wind will die down soon.’

  At that moment, the most tremendous noise of all was heard, like ten trains crashing. Every window in the house rattled and Mr Rab shot right down the bed to Thomas’s feet in terror.

  ‘What was that?’ Blossom cried, rushing in.

  She had slept soundly up to then, to be awoken by this most monstrous of sounds.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mummy said.

  Daddy loomed large in the doorway.

  ‘I think it’s the elm tree in the village fallen at last. I thought it would, one day. Elm trees have shallow roots and often fall in gales. One tree you couldn’t save, Thomas.’

  ‘Now off to sleep, everyone. I’m pretty sure the worst is over,’ Mummy added.

  *

  Everyone went to see the tree the next day. It had fallen at an angle down the road, and fortunately no houses were damaged. It looked defenceless with its roots snatched out of the ground.

  ‘Poor tree,’ Blossom said.

  Later, with the branches lopped off and the trunk sawn up, it made a huge bonfire for Guy Fawkes Night. Blossom and Thomas were not very keen on November the Fifth, because all their animal friends hated it so. However, this year, they went to watch the tree burn in a tremendous fire in a field loaned by Farmer Baggs.

  At school, pictures were painted and poems written about the fire. Blossom’s picture, all black and scarlet and yellow, went up on the wall. Thomas’s poem was read out to his class.

  ‘Tree growing to the sky,

  Flames flowing to the sky,

  So did it live,

  So did it die.’

  ‘Very good,’ commented Mr Starling, their teacher, who was keen on poetry.

  Thomas did not tell him that Mr Rab had made it up in bed the night before the bonfire.

  Lurcher Dench’s work was read out too, for the first time ever.

  ‘I like to see the big bonfire

  I like to see the rockets.

  Mrs Twitchie says we mustn’t

  Have bangers in our pockets.’

  Blossom heard all the Denches read in the dinner-hour now. Led by a determined Lurcher, they would appear with their reading books. After she had listened to them read, she would tell them one of her own stories. They listened to every word, the Denches now being as fiercely keen on reading as on fighting.

  A strange quiet hung over the school, in fact. Christopher Robin, spotty as ever, walked around with Gwendolyn Twitchie. Only occasionally did Thomas, peacefully racing cars with his friend Henry, regret the old warfare, the joy of battle.

  ‘We’re getting soppy,’ he complained to Tamworth.

  ‘And a good thing too, dear boy. Violence is always to be deplored.’

  ‘What’s deplored?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I deplore Hedgecock,’ Mr Rab said.

  ‘Not half as much as I deplore you,’ Hedgecock snarled, kicking him hard.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A jumble sale was to be held in the School Hall for the Save the Trees campaign funds. Tamworth was going to be there so that people could guess his weight, and a huge cake was the prize for the most accurate estimate. Blossom had promised to help Mummy at a stall, selling old coats, hats and suits.

  Thomas went with them most reluctantly. He loathed Jumble Sales, hating everything about them, the smell of old clothes, the frantic rush bearing down on the stalls when the doors opened, the Vicar speaking to him, and Mummy and Blossom gossiping to people he could hardly bear to be in the same room with.

  A boy in Blossom’s class was disposing of his Matchbox series of cars, so he bought as many of these as he could afford, then mooched around the hall, hands stuffed in pockets, face scowling. He purchased a toffee apple, but could not finish it, so he threw it away behind the piano, and looked up to find the Vicar towering over him. He picked it up hastily, contemplated the dust it had now acquired and walked round trying to find a place to dump it.

  ‘Humph. Fancy, with all this rotten old rubbish everywhere, you can’t even get rid of a toffee apple,’ he muttered.

  Finally, he dropped it in his mother’s shopping basket. She looked up.

  ‘Thomas, please stay and help at this stall for a moment. I simply must speak to the Vicar’s wife. I shan’t be long.’

  ‘What do I do?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Just take the money they give you for the clothes and put it in this tin. Blossom will help you with the change.’

  ‘I can do it better than she can, the stupid, fat nit.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ll only be a moment. Oh, and do watch your language, Thomas. People don’t always like your rude way of talking.’

  ‘I shan’t speak at all then,’ he grumbled.

  He noticed, crossly, that Mrs Twitchie and Gwendolyn were selling cakes at the next stall.

  ‘Bet that lot are poisonous,’ he thought aloud.

  People came to the stall, picked up garments and handed him money. He put it in the tin. It grew very hot, so he took off his anorak. Mummy seemed to be gone a long time, but he was doing quite well. One or two people were obviously pleased with their bargains. He was getting into the swing of it when Mummy appeared.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas. I’m sorry I was so long.’

  ‘I did very well. I got fifty pence for one coat. Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes. Tell Daddy I’ll be coming soon.’

  He had almost reached the door, encountering a crowd of new arrivals, when a clear voice rang out.

  ‘That woman is wearing my coat!’

  It was a voice accustomed to command, the voice of Mrs Twitchie. Thomas watched her run across the hall and seize the arm of a large woman wearing a blue sheepskin coat. It looked familiar, somehow.

  ‘I’ve just bought it,’ came the equally loud voice of Mrs Dench, also accustomed to instant obedience.

  All the fighting Denches took after her, not Dad, who was small and silent, and never worked.

  ‘You can’t have done. It’s not for sale. I only took it off for a moment. Give it to me.’

  ‘Yes, it was. I gave fifty pence for it. That’s a lot at a Jumble Sale, but it’s a good coat.’

  ‘Of course it is. I gave fifty pounds for it,’ Mrs Twitchie cried.
>
  People began to gather round. This was very interesting. Then Thomas remembered suddenly and clearly. His bargain! He’d sold the coat to Mrs Dench. He tried to edge his way through the throng to escape outside.

  ‘I bought it from the stall. I paid for it and I’m keeping it.’

  By now the Denches had all gathered round their Mum. She drew herself up to her full height, looming over Mrs Twitchie, who was going red down her neck with fury. She leaned forward and started to undo the buttons, which only just fastened anyway. Mrs Dench pulled the edges together again.

  ‘And that’s my duffle,’ Gwendolyn shrieked, pointing at Lurcher, who certainly looked smarter than usual.

  The Vicar and his wife now came forward.

  ‘I’m sure we can solve this problem. Is this Mrs Twitchie’s coat, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Mrs Twitchie bellowed.

  She was not used to having her word doubted. The Vicar patted her arm. She pushed him off.

  ‘You’ve got to do something,’ she snapped.

  ‘Mrs Dench, you must see that this is all a mistake. We’ll gladly refund the money. Which stall was it?’

  The Vicar was trying hard to keep the peace.

  ‘Mrs Thingummy’s,’ Mrs Dench said, pointing at Mummy’s stall. ‘That small boy Timothy sold it to me.’

  She could never remember her own children’s names, let alone anyone else’s.

  Silence fell as heads turned to the stall, then searched round the hall for Thomas. Frantically he tried to push his way out. Mummy had gone very pink.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left Thomas here. He must have sold it.’

  Blossom, weeping, flung her arms round her.

  ‘It’s not my Mummy’s fault,’ she cried.