Country Loving

by Cathy Woodman

  I’m tempted to wake him.

  ‘Leo?’ I whisper, but the snoring starts again, so I leave him to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Let the Cow See the Bull

  It’s a very early start, even for me, on the morning of the show. I wake feeling sick with excitement and I wonder how many other farmers are feeling the same. I help Cecil milk the cows; they are a little disgruntled at being kept indoors overnight because we thought we’d get through them quicker if we didn’t have to get them in from the field. Wily kicks out harder and with a better aim than usual, and the ones who are slow to let their milk down are slower than ever.

  ‘I think it was a mistake,’ I tell Cecil as we let them out across the drive into the field where they trot away, bucking, as if they’ve never seen grass before.

  ‘It had to be done, otherwise you wouldn’t have time to give Milly a brush before the class.’ Cecil shuts the gate behind the herd and ties it up with a piece of rope. ‘I expect you’ll see Ray at the show today. That’ll be the first time since you’ve been back, won’t it?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him on the phone. To be honest, I’m looking forward to seeing him again, but I’m also slightly apprehensive. I went to his wedding, I saw him at Mum’s funeral and we exchange Christmas cards and that’s about it. I wonder if we’ll feel like strangers.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Cecil says. ‘For all that happened, you never did seem to bear any resentment towards your brother.’

  ‘I resented the fact that he was a boy while I was only a girl, but he was always on my side,’ I point out. ‘He came to blows with Dad.’

  ‘I recall the fight. It was on the day you left the farm, and I had to break it up, if I remember rightly.’ Cecil touches the bridge of his nose. ‘Tom broke my hooter.’

  We return to the farmyard where Leo appears to be sleeping still, to bathe the heifer and load her and her show kit into the trailer.

  I check and recheck the gear we need: feed, hay, buckets; paperwork, including Milly’s passport without which she can’t travel; a leather head-collar and lead strap. Also Milly has her show box with her brushes, curry comb and spare towels, while I have a set of clean clothes including a white shirt, tie and dark trousers and clean shoes.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ Cecil asks.

  ‘I’m ready,’ I reply. ‘I’ll fetch Dad and Mary.’ They’re coming with us while Bear stays at home as guard dog. I wonder about waking Leo, and decide against it. I don’t think he’ll have to be at the show until later.

  Half an hour later, I’m driving the Land Rover and trailer into the showground, heading to the exhibitors’ parking. At the show, Milly has a pen of her own in the cattle barn, into which Cecil throws down a bale of fresh straw. My father, leaning on his crutches, supervises, while Mary is sent to buy coffee and bacon butties.

  ‘Watch out,’ says my father. ‘Here comes Guy Barnes with his shorthorns.’

  Guy turns up with his wild-eyed heifer and a dairy cow with her calf at foot. Georgia is with him too.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Reassured now I know that Uphill Farm’s going to take best heifer in show today,’ Guy says cheerfully. ‘I don’t know why you bothered to bring her really. I mean, she isn’t a bad specimen. She’s looking better than when I saw her last, but she isn’t going to beat Jessie J here.’

  I know it’s just gamesmanship on his part, but I can see my father is bristling with annoyance. Milly is in proportion, with a good top-line and shapely udder, and so is Jessie J.

  ‘You aren’t going to park your cattle next door?’ Dad grumbles.

  ‘Why, are you worried we’re going to show you up?’ Guy says, entering the pen beside ours.

  ‘Dad, I’ve left the brass polish in the Land Rover. Would you mind?’ I ask, aware it will take him a while to fetch it and keep him from starting a row with Guy.

  ‘Have you got the key, Stevie?’ he says.

  ‘It isn’t locked.’ I watch him go before turning to Guy and Georgia. ‘Hi, Georgia, I thought you’d be riding your horse.’

  ‘We’re showjumping later and Sophie’s doing the mounted games with her pony. Well, she’s reserve actually because Bracken isn’t very fast.’

  ‘Good luck. I’d better be getting on.’ I text Leo in case he’s forgotten to get up before I slip the leather head-collar on in place of the rope halter and apply a little hairspray along the hair on Milly’s back. The scent of beauty products almost overwhelms the sweet aroma of cow.

  ‘Let’s make you even more beautiful,’ I tell her, looking through the lotions and potions in the show box – ones my mum used to use, like Vaseline and an ancient pot of Oil of Olay. ‘Because you’re worth it,’ I say to Milly as I dab a tiny smear of it onto her shoulder to see if it adds a miracle shine. ‘I’m not sure quite what to do with it,’ I say to Cecil. ‘Can you remember?’

  ‘I wasn’t privy to your mother’s titivating,’ he says. ‘Are you sure that isn’t her make-up for when she went into the ring?’

  ‘Oh!’ I laugh out loud, releasing the tension. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I assumed it was for the cow.’

  Mary brings coffee and she and Cecil drift off to find my father, leaving me to continue to get ready.

  Jack Miller appears to say hello as I’m giving Milly’s coat a final brush.

  ‘Are you here for work or pleasure?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’m working. How are you?’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ I drop the brush back into the show box.

  ‘That heifer’s looking good,’ Jack says.

  ‘So she should be. I’ve been working on her for a couple of months now.’

  ‘I’m glad to see it.’ Jack moves closer. ‘I’m pleased we didn’t have to prosecute your father in the end. It was lucky you came back when you did.’

  ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ I’ll never forget the shame and embarrassment of seeing the cows in such a state and having to hear Leo’s opinion of my father’s lack of care.

  ‘I hear through the grapevine that you’re planning to create a petting zoo at Nettlebed Farm.’

  ‘You heard right, except it’s going to be more of a farm than a zoo, with sheep, goats, chickens, rabbits and guinea pigs, and maybe a donkey.’

  ‘There’s a lot of opposition to your plans,’ Jack observes, glancing towards Guy, who’s speaking with a man wearing a trilby and cricket whites. ‘That’s one of the local councillors. Guy’s been lobbying everyone, trying to influence the outcome of your planning application.’

  ‘I’m waiting for a decision, but there are all sorts of delays.’ I take out the plait at end of Milly’s tail so the hair looks crimped. ‘Guy won’t win. I will fight for it. And you needn’t worry about the animals – we’ll have the highest standards of welfare.’

  ‘Of course that will come under scrutiny because of the farm’s recent history. Considering the circumstances, I think it would be wise to involve Animal Welfare right from the beginning. That way, there’ll be no comeback,’ Jack smiles. ‘And it should help your cause with the locals.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. That’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘I figure it’s the best chance you have of saving the farm. It could also be good for Talyton Animal Rescue – which my fiancée Tessa and I are heavily involved with – if you sourced some of the animals from there. We have so many rescues and abandoned animals of all shapes and sizes that we don’t know what to do with them. The Sanctuary is filled to overflowing and we’re getting to the point where we can’t take any more. The last thing we want to do is to turn animals away.’ He pauses. ‘If you want rabbits, we have plenty.’

  ‘Do you have a donkey?’ I say lightly.

  ‘You would need to take on a pair,’ he says. ‘We don’t like to re-home them singly.’

  ‘If we get the planning permission for the project, I’d love to choose rescue animals.’ We could offer a donation and it would be good publi
city for both the Sanctuary and Nettlebed Farm. ‘The only thing is, they would have to be good to handle.’

  ‘Many of them are,’ Jack says. ‘Tessa is extremely careful about matching animals to their prospective owners because she doesn’t want them coming back if at all possible. Anyway, I’d better let you get on. Good luck, Stevie. Let the best heifer win!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I get changed and I’m ready to go. Guy is ready too and we lead the heifers out of the barn and along the grassy walkway to the main arena, where a team flying birds of prey in a display have lost one of their star performers, a Harris hawk.

  ‘He’s gone,’ says Cecil who’s come along to check I’m okay. ‘I think he got stage fright.’

  It’s true that the crowd in the grandstand and around the perimeter of the arena is large and noisy. In fact, the applause as we enter the ring unnerves Milly, and she tries to trot after Guy and Jessie J, rolling her eyes and holding her head high, tugging at the strap in my hand.

  ‘Steady there,’ I tell her. I keep half an eye out for Leo and Ray, and cast a glance across to the members’ area, catching sight of my father sitting in a chair with Mary beside him, but I’m too busy hanging on to Milly to worry about the rest of the audience. I walk clockwise around the ring, leading her from her left-hand side to show her off.

  The judge, in a baggy tweed suit, shirt and tie, wearing a badge and sporting a carnation in his buttonhole, stands in the centre of the arena with a steward, who calls us into a line according to the judge’s instructions. To my delight, Milly is called in first ahead of Jessie J. Guy frowns at me. I ignore him.

  ‘I remember your mother,’ says the judge.

  ‘I believe that’s favouritism,’ Guy mutters, and I think he isn’t doing himself any favours, criticising the judge.

  ‘Whichever animal wins, it will be fair and square,’ says the judge. ‘Are you casting aspersions? Only I’m an honourable man.’

  Guy falls silent, but his face is flushed and his fingers tense on his heifer’s strap.

  I lead Milly forwards and persuade her to stand properly with one hind foot in front of the other for the judge to study her closely, comparing her conformation with his interpretation of the breed standards. Milly fidgets at first, but she soon settles down. Jessie J is a reformed character too, and I sense the result is too close to call as we’re sent to walk around the ring again while the judge makes his final decision.

  As I walk, breathing the scent of bruised grass and fresh dung, my heart beats faster. Will we win? I didn’t realise how much I wanted it until now.

  ‘Stevie. Stevie!’ Guy is shouting at me. ‘They’re calling you. Dopey cow,’ he adds in a low voice when I realise Milly is being called in first in the final line-up. I try to remain cool, calm and professional when I’d rather be screaming and yelling with happiness. I’ve done it. I’ve done it for Nettlebed Farm and my father, but most of all I’ve done it for Mum.

  My eyes fill with tears as I stand beside Milly and scratch at her withers.

  ‘Congratulations,’ mutters Guy as Jessie J is pulled in second.

  ‘Thank you.’ I shake Guy’s hand and thank the judge when he awards me the winner’s rosette and silver shield.

  ‘You handle that heifer just like your mother used to,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  I frown just as the photographer who’s with Ally Jackson from the Chronicle takes a picture of me and the winning heifer.

  ‘I’m judging the championship,’ he explains, and I smile to myself as I realise that, as one of the first two in the class, I’m going to have to brave the ring all over again.

  Milly is in her element in the championship class, flirting with the top bulls in the show. They look pretty cool with their hair slicked up into quiffs with gel as they lumber around the arena with rings through their noses and two handlers each. Once again, Milly is the winner, the Supreme Champion in Show. This time, after she’s been awarded her rosette and sash and perpetual challenge trophy, she stands for her photo to be taken, but loses the plot when a group of ring stewards turn up with a tractor and trailer, bringing the poles and wings to make a course of showjumps for the next event in the main arena.

  As I lead her around on her lap of honour, the loudspeakers crackle into life and blast out some celebratory marching music, sending the cattle wild. Milly decides she’s had enough and gallops from one end to the other, towing me along on the end of the lead strap and starting a stampede of cattle towards the exit. The commentator appeals for calm as the crowd hold their breath. It’s a warm, sunny day anyway, and the sweat is trickling down the back of my neck as I run as fast as I can, trying to keep up.

  ‘Milly, come back,’ I yell when I have to let go and watch her disappearing off into the distance back towards the cattle barn.

  ‘Well, she didn’t win a prize for her manners,’ Guy says, still gamely hanging on to Jessie J. ‘And she can run faster than you, Stevie.’ He hesitates. ‘If I wasn’t such a busy man, I might just have gone and lodged an appeal.’

  ‘What would you want to do that for? You’re a poor loser, Guy.’

  ‘I reckon your father’s had a hand in nobbling the judge. I’m sure that was fixed.’

  ‘I wish you and Dad would settle this feud,’ I say, hurrying along beside him. It’s tedious.’

  ‘He started it,’ Guy says. ‘He has no regard for anyone else.’

  ‘There’s no need to carry it on though. He’s a sick man and he’s getting on a bit. Can’t you let it go?’

  ‘I don’t see why I should.’

  ‘Is it you who’s been spreading the gossip about our plans for the farm?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge,’ Guy responds. ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to, including the local councillor, is against it.’

  ‘I saw you talking to him. What did you offer him to vote against us?’ I ask lightly.

  “I should get after that heifer of yours, if I were you,” Guy says, sounding amused, and I turn my attention back to Milly. She and her fellow escapees have headed off into the horsebox parking, where they’re frightening some of the kids and their ponies. I grab Milly and tell her off, but she’s more interested in the grass now.

  ‘Hi there, Stevie. Let me give you a hand.’ I look up to find my brother Ray beside me, with his familiar lopsided smile. He looks heavier than before in his rugby shirt and cords. He’s shaved his head and grown a small beard, giving him the appearance of an old goat. ‘I’ve been looking out for you.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. ‘It’s great to see you at last. I should have tried to meet up with you before, but I’ve been working flat out.’

  ‘Same here.’ I smile back. I’ve been slightly miffed that my brother hasn’t shown much interest in saving Nettlebed Farm, but now we have a chance to catch up and chat about my plans. ‘Did you watch any of the cattle classes?’

  ‘I wasn’t watching, but I heard the results. Congratulations.’ He gazes down at his brogues and adds in a gravelly voice, ‘It reminds me of how Mum …’

  ‘I know.’ I reach out and touch his hand.

  ‘Let me help you get the heifer back to her pen,’ he says, collecting himself.

  ‘Thanks. I can manage her now. She didn’t like the noise in the arena,’ I say, but Ray clips a lead rope to the head-collar on the other side of Milly’s head.

  ‘Let’s go, sis,’ he says.

  ‘Ray, where are you going?’ calls a woman’s voice from one of the lorries. ‘We need you right here.’

  ‘I’ll be back in two secs,’ he calls back.

  ‘You’re still under the thumb, I see.’

  ‘Gabrielle likes to think she wears the trousers … How is it going?’ Ray asks as we walk Milly back to the cattle barn. ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘You should ask him yourself. He’s in the members’ enclosure with Mary.’

  ‘You know we don’t get along.’

  ‘Mum would knock your heads together if she knew you hadn’t spoken since the fune
ral.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t …’

  ‘In here,’ I say, directing Milly back into her pen.

  ‘I’d better get back.’ Ray wipes his palms on his cords. ‘The boss will be waiting for me. Why don’t you come along too? The girls would like to see you again. They’re competing in the next class in ring two.’

  ‘Why not?’ I wish I knew my nieces – Ray’s daughter and stepdaughter – better. They’re riding their show ponies and are dressed up in jackets and matching hats with ribbons in their hair. The ponies have diamond patterns brushed into the hair on their gleaming rumps and their hooves are shiny with oil.

  ‘Here’s Auntie Stevie,’ says Ray.

  ‘It’s the auntie with the boy’s name,’ says the older girl, who is a most precocious nine year old.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Ray. ‘Please apologise, Alisiana.’

  ‘I’m sorry you have such a funny name,’ she says seriously, which makes me laugh.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s short for Stephanie.’

  ‘Mummy doesn’t like us to shorten our names,’ the other girl, the equally precocious five-year-old Christiane, points out. ‘She says it’s common and if you’ve been given a beautiful name, you should use it.’

  ‘Are you two taking my name in vain?’ interrupts Gabrielle, the girls’ mother. Several years older than Ray, she’s dressed in a tweed suit and a hat with a purple ribbon, which matches the ones in the girls’ hair, and carries a short showing cane. ‘Hello, Stevie. It’s lovely to see you again.’

  She’s being polite, I think.

  ‘Ray, go and get their numbers,’ she orders as she dabs a little Vaseline around one of the pony’s nostrils. ‘And don’t forget to bring the goats’-hair brush this time. And have you got the lead rein, the leather one?’

  ‘If there’s a prize for the best turned-out mother, she’ll win it,’ Ray says to me as he runs off to do his errands, trotting along on tiptoe, pointing his feet. It’s comical.

  ‘Ray, I do believe you’re evolving into a show pony,’ I laugh when he returns.