‘Oh yeah?’
What on earth are ‘diversionary tactics’? I thought.
‘What we require,’ said Stinky Billy, ‘is for one of us to create an enormous disturbance on one side of the wood, while the rest of us slip quietly away out of the other side.’
‘Well done, mate,’ I said. ‘You’re right. That was exactly my plan. I was just getting round to explaining that bit when you interrupted.’ (Well, I would have thought of it, if he hadn’t insulted my pedigree. He got me all edgy.)
‘Now,’ I said firmly, taking control. I mean, I was leader of the pack, not him. ‘We just have to decide who’s going to create the diver… diver… diver… you know … noise and stuff.’
‘I would have though that was obvious,’ said Stinky Billy.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Indeed. The task should fall to the one amongst us who is most noticeable.’
We all turned and stared at the chicken.
Chapter Thirteen
Diversionary Tactics
There was one big problem: that bird’s brain was tiny. Trying to get her to understand my plan was real hard. And there was no way she was going to go down to the edge of the wood on her own. When I tried to persuade her, she went bananas – flapping her wings and swinging her head from side to side.
‘P… P… P… P… Petrified!’ she squawked. She was getting herself in a right old state.
‘Perhaps the bird requires support,’ said Stinky Billy.
‘P… P… P… P… Please?’ The chicken looked at me with these big, pleading eyes.
‘Support…’ I said slowly. ‘Yeah… OK…’ I didn’t know what he meant. The chicken looked sturdy enough to me.
‘Maybe we should split up,’ Stinky Billy carried on. ‘Hoofed animals one way, smaller-brained animals the other.’
I knew he was talking about the chicken, but even so, it was really irritating. And the woollybacks were doing that blink, blink, flutter, flutter thing at Stinky Billy. Well, I sure wasn’t going to let him lead them anywhere. Not without me – that creature wasn’t to be trusted.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘We’re a pack. We stick together.’
The woollybacks looked at the ground.
I cleared my throat. ‘I think it’s time we all remembered who set us free in the first place, don’t you?’
That did the trick. The girls looked real sheepish.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Yes, sir!’ they bleated, meek as lambs.
Like I said, they were bright girls. Respectful of my pedigree. Not like some.
‘Ah well…’ Stinky Billy sighed. ‘I concede there might be strength in numbers…’
I didn’t have a clue what ‘concede’ meant, but I knew I’d won the argument. Quite right, too.
So in the end we all went down to the edge of the wood with the chicken. She didn’t want to be seperated from the rest of us until the very last moment. I reckoned we could all hide in what was left of the bushes while the chicken did her stuff. Once she was safely away we could double back through the wood and make a break for it.
‘Look,’ I said to the chicken for the millionth time as we squelched through the muddy remains of the undergrowth. ‘All you’ve got to do is go out there and flap around a bit. Get them to follow you, see? Lead them away. Then you can outrun them and catch up with us later, OK?’
The chicken looked at me with her big, scared eyes. Poor bird was beside herself. But she went out into the open anyway, brave girl, and as soon as she’d set foot out there she went totally bonkers. I could hear her flapping around all over the place. She was doing a real thorough job of attracting attention. I couldn’t resist having a quick look to see if my plan was working. But when I stuck my head out, I got the shock of my life.
The Shiny-Boot Brigade had vanished.
There was just one muddy truck, two mean-looking men and this strange, scary, yowling noise. Made my bristles stand on end, it did.
The chicken’s neck was swaying like she was caught in a force ten gale. ‘P… P… P… P…’ she started. It was like she was trying to tell me something. ‘P… P… P… P…’ But she couldn’t get the words out. ‘P… P… P… P…’ she went on and on. ‘P… P… P… P…’ And at last she screeched, ‘P… P… P… P… PUPPIES!’
I thought the old bird had really lost it this time. Dropped each and every one of her marbles.
But then those men opened the back of the truck. There was a whole bunch of them. And my last horrified thought was, they sure aren’t puppies! Then I was running for my life.
They’d sent in the dogs.
• • •
You can imagine the effect a pack of slavering hounds had on the chicken. First of all she stuck her head down a rabbit hole. Tried to hide. Then, when one of them brushed past her, she fainted clean away. Slumped into a giant, mangled, feathery heap.
Me and the girls just ran for it. I guess Stinky Billy followed too. Judging by the smell, he must have been there somewhere.
I didn’t know where we were headed. We just had to get away.
Away from those teeth. Those slashing, ripping, tearing teeth.
We ran right through the wood. Fled for our lives. Terrified. It didn’t occur to me that those dogs were herding us – driving us ahead of them – into a trap.
We broke out of the other side of the wood real fast. And that’s where all the Shiny-Boot Brigade were lurking – bunched together like a load of sheep. We ran straight into them.
Lights exploded left, right and centre. Cameras were going off all over the place. Something sharp hit me. Like a jab. But I couldn’t see a vet close by. Once. Then again, twice more. I squealed like a stuck pig. And all of a sudden my legs went weak and wobbly and I fell over. Just like that. Crashed down on my side. Someone was waving a fluffy thing over my head. I wonder if that tastes good? I thought.
There was a clean pair of boots right next to my head, and a woman’s voice was saying, ‘We’re coming live from the woods where Terence the Tamworth boar has just broken cover. Veterinary experts have darted him with tranquillisers. Here he lies, the pig of impeccable pedigree, who has captured the hearts and minds of animal lovers all over the world…’
‘Impeccable pedigree… Impeccable pedigree…’ The words echoed round and round my head. Then everything went black.
Chapter Fourteen
An Australian Star
When I woke up, I was lying on a bed of soft clean straw in my very own sty. Tamsin was scratching behind my ears. It was heaven. I thought for a minute I’d dreamt the whole thing. That none of it had happened.
‘Dad! Dad! He’s coming round!’ Tamsin was calling for the Waiter, and he appeared in no time at all. He came scurrying across that yard like his wellington boots had been oiled. What’s more he was carrying not one, not even two, but three buckets of swill. He emptied them into my trough. All my favourite things. Baked beans and boiled potatoes and stewed apples and whole bananas in their skins and slices of toast. And one whole bucket of warm lumpy custard. He must have made it ’specially. The Waiter poured it all over everything else. Marvellous. (You know, you can forgive someone a lot if they give you a whole bucket of custard.) It was heaven. Pure heaven.
After I’d finished it, Tamsin scratched my back. She listened properly to where the itchy bits were – ‘left a bit, down a bit, across a bit.’ And while she scratched, Tamsin told me the whole story.
I’m a celebrity. Somebody had filmed me trotting down the street in that town. And my little gallop through Pig Heaven had been caught on the security cameras. So my great escape made it onto the local news. I’d been on television. After that, seems everyone got interested – every news channel in the entire world, plus the newspapers. They all sent reporters to stand outside the wood. I was even on Blue Peter. I mean, how much more famous can you get? All those news people treated me like I was a hero – a porcine Robin Hood, or something – outwit
ting my enemies, evading capture, rescuing defenceless creatures from certain death. Which is all true, of course. So now I’m not only practically porcine royalty, I’m your genuine megastar too. The Waiter’s even made a new sign for my sty. I knew I wasn’t born with film-star looks for nothing.
Tamsin says I won’t have to get on that lorry again. Not ever. The Waiter made a whole pile of money from selling my story. And you can’t do away with a celebrity pig, can you? I can stay here. I’m a bona fide Number One Tourist Attraction, me. All the crowds and crowds of admiring visitors who want to see me now have to pay for the privilege. The Waiter’s put up a new shed by the farm gate so he can relieve my fans of their cash. (Course, it wobbles a bit, but I guess it’ll do the job.) It should keep me in baked beans and custard for ever. And the visitors will show a proper respect for my pedigree, now that I’m famous.
What’s more the woollybacks and the chicken are allowed to stay too. They’ve got their own field right next to my sty. Molly, Holly and Dolly can hear about my family history every single day, lucky girls. They haven’t said much – still speechless, I guess – but I reckon they’re real delighted.
The Waiter’s even made room for Stinky Billy. Hurf! Well I guess I can put up with him for a while. We’re a pack, see? They called us ‘The Birmingham Six’.
Once Tamsin had finished scratching, I lay down in my straw to enjoy the sunshine.
100% happy.
100% pig.
About the Author
Tanya Landman was born in Gravesend, Kent, and now lives near the sea in North Devon with her husband and two children. Before she became a writer, she had many different jobs. At one time Tanya worked in a bookshop, where she was allowed to read all the books before she sold them, and so developed a passion for children’s literature.
Later on, she worked in a zoo and because she has always loved animals was very happy to cuddle red-kneed spiders and tickle hissing cockroaches. She also discovered that Brazilian tapirs go cross-eyed and roll over with happiness if you scratch them between the shoulder blades – just like pigs.
As well as writing books, Tanya also works with the Storybox Theatre company in Bristol.
About 100% Pig, Tanya Landman writes:
In 1998, two Tamworth pigs escaped from a sausage factory. They made the news headlines and became famous all over the world.
I thought the idea of a pig on the run was a great starting point for a book. I’d kept a pet pig for years – a lovely Vietnamese Pot Bellied sow called Tilly – so I knew a fair bit about how they behave and think: Porcine Perceptions!
I was thinking about the character of a pig, and started to wonder how a Tamworth might sound – what his voice might be like…
One night Terence – a custard-swilling boar with a fine Australian accent – rootled his way into my dreams and started talking about his impeccable pedigree. 100% Pig is the result.
Text copyright © 2005 Tanya Landman
Illustrations copyright © 2005 Judy Brown
First published 2005 by A & C Black
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square,
London, WC1B 3DP
www.bloomsbury.com
This electronic edition published in March 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing
The rights of Tanya Landman and Judy Brown to be identified as author and illustrator of this work respectively have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN 978-1-4081-6353-5
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