Chapter Twenty Six

26


Dave Land drives past on a tractor


It didn’t occur to me until my stomach rumbled mid-afternoon that I were duty bound to make Fergus Blaine lunch. I led him downstairs to the fridge and tempted him with homemade organic vegetable soup and organic wholemeal toast, which he turned his nose up at. I let him stick that nose in the fridge. And in the pantry. I duly gave him directions to the Cragmoor Grocers, Sweet Merchants, Post Office and Tea Rooms for a mince pasty. When I heard his little Toyota sewing machine red line out the drive I sagged into a chair. Baring major catastrophe in the slippery mud, pheasant and rabbit-filled gullies between here and Cragmoor, I estimated I had a good forty minutes of solitude; to take deep breaths, think positive, eat in peace and ensure I did not secrete any knives about my person in his absence.

No sooner had I sat and savoured the prospects for this deliciously unencumbered time than Dave Land drove past on a tractor. I couldn’t get outside fast enough.

Fortunately this was plenty fast enough to cut him off at the pass. He opened a tractor door from on high and leant out. ‘Hi, Bailey.’

‘Hi, Dave,' I said craning my neck up at him. 'Hey, look, how much would it cost to rent the side paddock?’ I pointed at it.

‘That paddock?’

‘Yes, that paddock! How many paddocks am I pointing at?’

He grinned. ‘Just the one.’

‘And how much would it cost to rent?’

‘That depends how long you want to rent it for.’

‘Indefinitely. I want to rent it ongoing.’

‘Right,' he said. 'Well then, that would be a hundred pounds a year.’

I nearly wet myself with delight. ‘Is that all?’

‘Is that too cheap? I could make it more if you’d like.’

‘No! That’s absolutely fine.’ I set myself. ‘Okay. I want to rent that side paddock indefinitely. And I want to buy the two bullocks. The lame ones.’

He gave me a puzzled sideways glance from head to toe. ‘What for?’

The words formed like healing sores on my lips. I had nothing to hide from Dave Land. Not after the gate, and the wheelbarrow, and the ‘charging’ bullocks. Something was stirring in me – something rich and pure – the need to be me, the need to be honest with myself no matter how ridiculous that honesty came across to a butchery-hardened North Yorkshire beef farmer. I had to ‘come out’ as a proud animal loving city boy making good in the country…I had to.

‘I’m…going to… you know, b-butcher them for our own use.’

He chuckled. ‘Tesco steak not good enough for you? What are you going to do with two great big animals like that?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Freeze them.’

He laughed. ‘You’ll need a bloody big freezer! Anyway, you can’t butcher cattle like that anymore. Not since foot and mouth. They still have to go t’abattoir.’

‘That’s fine. They can go when I’m ready to, you know…send them.’

‘Right,’ he said, grinning and sucking through his teeth. He settled back in his seat, sighed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’re a bit late, lad. For those two anyway. I sent them this morning.’

Something akin to an electric shock zapped me from my tailbone to the top of my neck. ‘What?’ It came out overtly plaintive.

‘I sent them. To auction mart. Before you were even awake. Made about five quid for the pair of them for six months work. But that’s the way it goes. They’ll be well on their way to abattoir by now.’

‘No. You’ve got to stop them!’

‘I can’t, lad! I don’t even know where they’ve gone! They could be on their way to France for all I know.’ He saw my face, which I suspect conveyed far more anguish than would be expected of someone who’d just missed out on some bulk meat. ‘Sorry, Bailey. I’ll see if I can find you a couple more.’

Then off he drove.

I stood and stared at the ground where his tractor had been, paralysed, brain struggling to process the mixed signals of disbelief, despair and self loathing I was sending it into a coherent response I could act upon. When I added denial to the mix, we settled on blind hope.

I ran down to the paddock where Duncan and Archie had spent their slow unsteady days, threw myself at that gate and peered about. The paddock was empty. Just long grass and drystone walls and my pile of clippings, flattened and decomposing like a manure pizza with extra flies. I went into the paddock and wandered aimlessly, knelt beside cow pats and stared at them like framed photos plucked from the remnants of a house fire. I was gutted.

By nightfall so would Duncan and Archie be.

Unless they were on a truck to France. Crammed in like Jews, eyes that had grown to trust mine staring through slats, maybe a bobby calf running a hoof across its throat a mile out of their final destination. I felt sick. I felt more than sick. I rang Gabriel on her mobile, had a howl and felt ever so slightly better. Whatever I did about Fergus Blaine, she was on her way home.