I finally emerged into the sunshine looking more like a Large White than a ginger Tamworth. But I didn’t have time to worry about spoiling my movie-star complexion. I sped away as fast as my legs could carry me. Pretty soon I was back in the countryside, pelting up a twisty little lane.
Eventually the hedges stopped. I’d reached a stretch of open moorland, so I got off the road and onto the grass, which was much easier on my poor sore trotters. When I got far enough away I stopped for a rest. I found another nice big muddy puddle to have a wallow in, and I was sitting there quite happily, elbow-deep in water, when I heard that trip-trapping noise again, and this time it was real close.
That’s when I realised that I’d been followed.
Chapter Nine
Fugitives
There were five of them.
Three woollybacks.
One stinky old billy goat.
And the weirdest-looking chicken I’d ever seen.
She was massive – taller than the Waiter, I reckon, with this spookily long neck and bald legs. Bet she lays big eggs, I thought. Wouldn’t mind one of those for my breakfast.
When I’d escaped from my lorry, and was crashing around in that yard I’d smashed through a few pens, see? I’d let all that lot out by mistake. They were covered in flour from Pig Heaven. It was amazing. They’d followed me the whole way. And now the woollybacks were looking at me with big adoring eyes, like I was a hero.
But company was the very last thing I needed. I mean, I was a fugitive. I needed to lie low. Stay out of sight. Move under cover of darkness. I couldn’t do that with a six-foot chicken following me.
So I said, ‘Scram!’
They just stared at me. All of them. Without saying anything.
‘Go away!’ I said.
They didn’t budge, so I heaved myself out of my wallow and turned and walked a few steps. They followed, like a bunch of blooming sheep.
I said, ‘GO AWAY! CLEAR OFF! SCARPER!’
But then one of the woollybacks took a step forward. She cleared her throat and said – real polite – ‘Actually, sir, if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather stay with you. Please, sir.’
And the other two bleated, ‘Please, sir! Please, sir!’ Like we were in a cave and they were the echo.
And I thought, If it’s all the same to me? If it’s all the same to me? Of course it’s not all the same to me! On the other hand, I rather liked the sound of that ‘sir’. Showed proper respect, if you know what I mean. I’d had precious little of that lately.
It was like the woollyback sensed I was softening up a bit.
‘We’re just sheep, you see, sir. We’re not clever animals. Not like yourself, sir. Oh the brilliance, the cunning, the sheer audacity of your escape!’
I didn’t know what ‘audacity’ meant, but I got the general picture. I mean, I could tell from her expression that she was bowled over by my bravery. There was no stopping her.
‘Your kind heartedness, your generosity in freeing such ignorant beasts as ourselves. Oh, sir, we’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if you’ll let us.’
‘Let us!’
‘Let us!’
You know, I always thought woollybacks were stupid, but these three seemed like bright girls. I thought to myself, well OK, maybe I could use a little company. But I’m not sure about him.
I took a good long look at the billy goat. He was chomping on an old plastic bag that he’d pulled out of the grass. He stared back with those horrible slitty goaty eyes. I mean their pupils go the wrong way – side to side instead of up and down. It gives them a real mad, bad look. Once he’d swallowed the bag, he hoiked and spat on the grass.
Hurf! People say pigs have got no manners. They’ve never met a billy goat is all I can say. I mean they are disgusting! And in the breeding season … phew! They smell foul. Rank. Like sweaty cheese. Sour milk. Rancid butter. Real nasty. And they never stop widdling. Drip, drip, drip. Like a leaky water trough. He was doing it then – while he found an empty crisp packet and started to eat it. He was gross.
But before I got a chance to say anything, the chicken went bonkers.
‘P… P… P… P…’ She couldn’t seem to get the words out. She was flapping her wings and waggling her head from side to side. That’s the problem with chickens. Small heads. No room for a proper brain in there.
‘P… P… P… P…’
We were all staring at her, thinking she was going to have a seizure. Maybe the excitement had been too much for her, that the poor girl was going to drop dead there and then.
But she finally got the word out.
‘P… P… P… P… PEOPLE!’
She was right. There was a line of people stretching across the horizon. The Waiter was there. Mr Blue-Suit. And Prod man. Plus a few others from that horrible building with their blood-stained aprons. And – which was really weird – there were a couple of people with cameras. (I’d had enough visitors pointing cameras up my snout back at the farm to know what they were.)
All we could do was run.
Chapter Ten
Leader of the Pack
That chicken could shift, I’ll say that for her. She was over the hill before the rest of us were half-way up. Then the stupid bird came back. Like I said, there wasn’t much of a brain in there. She didn’t like being out ahead on her own, but she couldn’t slow herself down either, she was in such a flap. So she just kept running round us in great big circles. So much for lying low. We couldn’t have stood out more if we’d tried.
Still, by the time we got to the top of the hill, the people were quite a way behind. Two legs just don’t go as quick as four. (Not unless you’re a giant chicken.) So I had time to get a bit of a look at the countryside. In the distance – not too far away – was a nice big patch of woodland. No one was going to be able to catch us there. Even if they followed us in, it would be dead easy to give them the slip. It was the perfect hiding place.
And that was where we ran, as fast as our legs could carry us.
We stopped running as soon as we got into the trees. There was too much undergrowth to go flat out, but we were well hidden so I wasn’t too bothered about going fast any more. We had to keep stopping for the chicken in any case. She was so tall she kept banging her head on branches. And every time she did, the thing kept shrieking, ‘P… P… P… PANIC!’
She was getting herself in a right old flutter. Poor bird was a complete nervous wreck.
There was a big, grassy clearing right in the middle of the woods. We stopped for a rest and a bit of tucker. Grass for the woollybacks, bit of vegetation for the chicken, and an old wellington boot for Stinky Billy.
I had a good rootle around and came up with all sorts of stuff. I had bits of plant and bugs and slugs and a few fat worms. It was OK. In fact it was quite nice for a while. Made a change. But then I started dreaming about buckets of warm baked beans and custard, followed by a good thorough back scratch from Tamsin. And as it started to get dark, I had a pang of homesickness so bad I had to sit down.
It was just as well the woollybacks were there. Molly, Holly and Dolly, their names were. They kept my mind off things. They were real good company. Bright girls. Dead interested in my pedigree.
We sat in that clearing like cowboys round a camp fire. (Only we didn’t have a camp fire, obviously. I’m not that clever.) Even the chicken managed to sit down and relax for a bit.
I told them about all my ancestors, starting with my Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandad. Now he was a pig of character. He led the family emigration to Australia. We were needed out there, see, on account of us not getting sunburnt like those wimpy dinky-pinky Babe types. He was a real outback pig. A rough tough rugged porker pioneer.
I filled those girls in on all my relatives, all the way back to the Stone Age. It took a little while, but they kept nodding, and bleating, ‘Maa, maaa, maaarvellous.’ So I knew they were real fascinated.
Of course Stinky Billy kept spi
tting every time I got to a good bit. It was like he wasn’t interested in my family history. Can you believe any creature could be so uncultured? I mean, I’m aristocracy, me. Plus I’m the hero that saved his life. And all I got from him were those slitty-eyed looks and a smattering of spit every now and then. Hurf! That creature is a waste of space.
By the time the moon came up everyone was flat out and fast asleep in that clearing. Everyone but me. I lay there and looked up at the stars feeling real sorry for myself. Because I knew that whatever happened next, I was never, ever going to be able to go back to my nice warm sty.
Chapter Eleven
Wild and Free
That living-in-the-wild business isn’t nearly as great as it sounds, believe me. It wasn’t a patch on my home comforts. It was cold, it was wet, and I had to rootle around all day to get enough tucker. From sunrise to sunset it was dig, dig, dig. Exhausting. My snout got real sore after the first day.
Of course it wouldn’t have been so bad if we could have got out of the wood. After that first night in the clearing, we tried to move on to pastures new. I led the woollybacks and the chicken down to the edge of the wood. Stinky Billy followed along behind, snatching at old scraps of paper and plastic.
But when I poked my head out from behind a bush there were a load of blinding flashes, and the deafening clicks of cameras. It was worse than a bank holiday at the farm.
‘Back, girls!’ I shouted. ‘Get back!’
We all retreated to the safety of the clearing.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Looks like we’ll have to stay here then. I guess we can manage…’
The woollybacks nodded. They were real happy to have a quality pig in charge. Stinky Billy just stood staring at me all slitty-eyed, saying nothing. He was eating a long piece of material – it looked like he’d managed to rip the end off someone’s coat before we’d bolted back to the clearing.
I started to grub around for my breakfast, but I’ve got to admit I was worried. Something mighty strange was going on. I’d got a bit of a look at those people outside the wood. There was a whole bunch of new ones who were smart looking, with shiny, unused boots and clean white raincoats – just like the vet. They had flashy cars too – cars that weren’t used to being driven across muddy fields. And it wasn’t as if they were trying to round us up. They never even tried to come in. They were just out there. Surrounding the wood. Watching. Waiting. It was weird.
• • •
Later that morning, the Waiter tried to catch me. At least, I think that’s what he was up to. He walked into the woods rattling a bucket of pig nuts. I reckon he thought I might follow him out like a dog. Well I’m an intelligent animal, me. I wasn’t going to walk into the trap. Not this time. Not now I knew what he was capable of. I sneaked after him through the undergrowth. I thought I could ambush him – knock him down and swallow the pig nuts real quick. But before I had a chance to carry out my plan, he emptied the whole lot out, gave me a huge wink and walked away. It was like he wasn’t trying.
He did exactly the same the next day. And the next. And the next. Four mornings on the trot he crashed around in the undergrowth and then emptied out a load of pig nuts. And one afternoon I was rootling around in the bushes when I heard the Waiter talking to the Shiny-Boot Brigade outside the wood. Going on about how fond he was of me, and how he’d only done what he did because he didn’t have any choice. I didn’t have a clue what was going on.
• • •
Like I said, it wasn’t comfortable in that wood and by day four the place was starting to look more like a battlefield than a woodland. The woollybacks and the chicken had eaten every single blade of grass. Stinky Billy had cleared out every ounce of rubbish. He’d started on the vegetation in sheer desperation. Stripped it bare of everything reachable. And me – I’d turned over every square inch of earth looking for food. Seemed there wasn’t a single worm, bug or beetle left in the whole wood.
On the fifth morning, the Waiter sneaked into the clearing at the crack of dawn. Frightened the life out of me, he did. I mean it wasn’t even light. Everyone else was fast asleep, but I woke up to find the Waiter sitting there on a tree stump right next to me. I leapt to my feet, prepared to run for my life, but all he did was tip a huge bucket of swill on the ground.
Then he sat there, talking to me while I scoffed the lot.
It wasn’t his usual grumble, grumble, grumble either. Something funny was going on, because the Waiter sounded cheerful.
‘They love you, Terence!’ he said. ‘It’s astonishing. They’re all desperate for your story. You could get us all out of deep water. If you carry on like this, you’ll get the bank off my back. Who knows? We might even end up rolling in it! That would be nice, wouldn’t it, old chap?’
Didn’t the Waiter ever talk sense? I mean, as far as I could see there wasn’t anything on his back, let alone a bank. And there sure wasn’t any deep water in sight. As for rolling in it… Rolling in what? I thought. I’m not rolling in anything with you, mate. Not after what you did.
After I’d finished my swill, he said, ‘Better get back, I suppose. Don’t want anyone to see me, do I? Don’t want the press to suspect that I’m aiding and abetting you…’ He made this strange noise at the back of his throat. I’d never heard him do that before and it gave me quite a shock – the Waiter was laughing – he was chuckling to himself.
Then he stood up and gave me a bit of a scratch between my shoulder blades. It had been so long since anyone scratched me that I shut my eyes and heaved a deep sigh. It was heaven.
Before he left he said, ‘Just another day or so, that’s all. Then I’ll keep you in clover for the rest of your days. That’s a promise, old son.’
Clover? Clover?! Who wants to be in clover? Like I said, he never talks any sense.
• • •
Later on that day, I was grubbing around in the bushes desperately looking for bugs, when I heard some of the Shiny-Boot Brigade talking to each other.
‘Farmer can’t seem to lure his pig back, can he?’ one said.
‘No…’ said another. ‘I hear the owner of the wood is getting impatient.’
‘Yes,’ said the first one. ‘I gather he’s got plans to flush them all out.’
I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Chapter Twelve
Mud Bath
On day six we woke up and realised we were completely out of tucker. It was desperate. I was going mad with hunger. My belly was rumbling and aching something terrible. I was ravenous.
We sat there in what had been the clearing, and which was now a muddy mess. Stinky Billy had chewed the tail feathers off the chicken during the night. Her rear end looked really tasty. Now I don’t usually go for uncooked tucker. I’m more of a warm beans and custard sort of a pig. But like I say, I was desperate. I licked my lips. But then the chicken stood up and I had a good look at those long bald legs of hers. Mighty powerful kick, she had. Tackling her would be real tricky…
So I looked at the woollybacks. They were smaller than me. Defenceless. My mouth started to water. They must have noticed the hungry gleam in my eye because they kind of huddled together nervously, and then Molly said, ‘With all due respect, sir…’
‘Respect, sir…’
‘Respect, sir…’ echoed Holly and Dolly.
That brought me back to my senses. Respect. What was I thinking of? I mean these girls were depending on me. I was the leader of the pack. I had responsibilities. I gave my head a shake and tried to listen.
‘We wondered if maybe … possibly … well, you know best of course, sir… But we wondered if we ought to think about moving on…’
‘Moving on…’
‘Moving on…’
‘Exactly,’ I said decisively. ‘That was exactly my plan… Clever of you to guess, girls. Well done.’
Molly, Holly and Dolly were all attention. (So was the chicken, but I didn’t look at her. I was trying hard to ignore that appetising rump steak.) I ignored Sti
nky Billy too, for obvious reasons. That creature hadn’t said a single word the whole time we’d been trapped in the wood. Just spat and widdled and chewed endlessly. He was getting on my nerves.
‘Right, girls,’ I said. ‘We’re going to have to break out of here. We’ll wait until it’s dark. And then … then we’ll run for it.’
The girls were all nodding eagerly, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, sir.’
But Stinky Billy burped loudly (like I said, that creature has no manners), then spat (disgusting!) and said, ‘That’s it, is it? Your plan?’
Well being as those were the first words he’d bothered with in five days, you’d think he’d have come up with something a little more helpful. He had one of those toffy British accents that are really irritating.
He spat again, ‘Is that the best you can do? A pig of your pedigree?’
That got right up my snout. I walked up to him, looked him in the horrible slitty eyes, and growled, ‘Have you got a better idea?’
He spat again. (Where did it all come from? How could any animal have so much liquid in it?)
‘Might have,’ he said.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes!’
‘Yeah?’
‘YES!’
‘Well, what is it then?’ I demanded.
That stopped him. For a minute, at any rate. He lifted a hoof and scratched his ear, considering. Then he hoiked and spat on the ground.
‘When I was regimental mascot for the 17th Royal Fusiliers…’ he began.
‘You were in the army?’
‘Yes indeed.’
I noticed the woollybacks looking at Stinky Billy. They had started to do that weird thing with their eyes – just like Jolene. Blink, blink, blink. Flutter, flutter, flutter.
Stinky Billy didn’t react. ‘My old sergeant major was a great believer in diversionary tactics,’ he continued.
100% Pig Page 3