Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes

by Rosie Boycott

  I go back to the car park to fetch some more parsley plants from the van and when I come back Charlie is talking to a couple about the value of sorrel: great as soup, brilliant in omelettes, grows all through the winter; he's got his sales patter down to a fine art. The woman is in her forties, pretty and vivacious, and she is laughing at something Charlie has said, her husband leaning forward across the table to join in the conversation. I look at her and I shudder. She is in a wheelchair and it is a serious wheelchair: not the kind I used to have, which was a one-size-fits-all model, the sort you have if you are unable to walk only on a temporary basis. This chair has been customised and fitted with a motor and gadgets to steer by.

  As the days approach the third anniversary of my accident, the second anniversary of when I finally put down the booze, I find myself thinking a great deal about the car accident and about how I very nearly became permanently disabled. I have no idea how I would have coped. I make myself busy at the far end of the stall, moving pots that don't need moving, keeping my hands occupied, acutely aware that I am standing upright, able to fetch parsley plants from the van. If you are given a diagnosis for any condition that is going to last a lifetime, you have to grieve for the future you will never have. I nearly had to face a future of never walking freely again, of never being able to carry a cup of coffee across a room or board a train without help or just walk down a street, blending in unnoticed with the crowds. People used to tell me that I was brave and I am sure that people tell the woman in the chair, who is counting out some money to hand to Charlie in return for a couple of basil plants, the same thing, over and over again. It is not about bravery though, because you literally have no choice but to keep pushing forward and making the best of things. Bravery is about doing something over which you exercise a choice, being the first one, so to speak, to charge over the barricades, or risk your employment in order to tell the truth, or standing up to the bullies in the school playground who are making another child's life a living hell. That's being brave.

  I now think that I was given an extraordinarily precious gift, that almost losing my leg, almost dying, has put beauty back in the heart of everyday life. To see my child grow up and blossom, to be able, in my fifties, to start a whole new life with a partner I love, is priceless. When I was a young woman in my twenties, inspired by the rallying cry of the 1960s that everything, in order to be anything, must be far out, extreme, on the edge, I rebelled against any notion of settling down and leading a life that was ordered, that had routine. Routine smacked of boredom and compromise. Knowing what time you would go to bed at night meant your life was dull and proscribed. I never for one moment dreamt that what I thought of as stultifyingly boring would, in years to come, become so extremely rich and satisfying. The woman in the wheelchair and Charlie are still laughing, turning a brief encounter into a moment of uncomplicated pleasure. I wonder what trials she has been through, how she has come to terms with her life of immobility. What is so clear from her merry deep laugh is that it is a life rich in things that matter: in human connection, relationships and nature.

  On my travels through recovery I met a young rabbi called Shalom. On the day before I was due to get the final verdict from my surgeon as to whether my leg would survive intact or face the chop, he sat with me in the garden at the clinic and said, 'Don't ever forget that the adventures of the mind are always far, far more rewarding than the adventures of the feet.' My experience was nothing compared with families facing a terminal sentence on one of their own, but my brief glimpse into the abyss of disability has made me truly thankful for so much we all take for granted. In my case, sometimes just the act of getting out of bed in the morning, unaided, unimpeded and, above all, without a hangover is enough to carry me happily through the day.

  Outside the tent, two men are performing the Chinese Lion dance inside a brightly coloured paper lion. They've come from the Lee Palace Chinese restaurant in Dorchester as part of a cultural initiative. Our neighbour in the tent, Angela, has been along to a cooking demonstration held in a local village hall earlier in the week. For £7.50 they were shown how to cook a range of Chinese dishes, which were then laid out as a multi-course banquet fit for a king. Only eight people showed up and they all got stuffed. The Hong Kong-born owner of the restaurant used to work in London's Chinatown. He moved to Dorchester six years ago and doing the Lion dance is now a regular, if bizarre, feature of West Country life. The lion shimmies its way between the rows of flags stretching from the flag-pole, between the kids and their hula-hoops, the black-suited members of the Langport Brass Band and the bagpipe players who have struck up a chorus of Auld Lang Syne. It should, I think, be utterly incongruous, but somehow it's not. The wind whips up the sides of the marquee tent, sending our hanging baskets, which aren't selling at all, banging against the canvas walls. The surface of the river breaks up into flurries and the yellow rape that grows in profusion on the far bank weaves and bends against the sudden gusts. A springer spaniel hauls itself out of the water, dripping wet and wagging its tail. It rushes, barking, into the middle of the pipers, scattering water on nine pairs of thick white socks. Overhead, the clouds gather and part, threatening a downpour which never quite materialises. As we pack up to go, Charlie and I count up our takings: £164.50, of which probably less than £50 is pure profit. As an hourly rate it leaves much to be desired: three of us have been on the stall for over four hours, which means we've each earned roughly £4.20 an hour. But as a way to spend a day, it's been priceless.

  On 10 May there is an acrimonious meeting of the town council. Fifty protesters storm out shouting 'resign the lot of you' after the councillors block a discussion on whether to reexamine the one-way decision. Four of the thirteen councillors backed a motion calling for the council's rule book - the standing orders - to be suspended, a necessary move in order to allow discussion of the same item twice in a six-month period. But Councillor Adam Kennedy led the decision to overrule the motion, suggesting that the council simply take note of the public's position. Norman Campbell, the mayor who was so sympathetic to Bryan, Mike and myself at our recent meeting, chooses this moment to tender his resignation as mayor, citing his unhappiness at the councillors' decision not to re-open the debate.

  Now all efforts are being focused on the last-ditch attempt to make the council reconsider the planned one-way system at a meeting that will take place at Dillington House on 30 May. Relations between the town council and the Chamber of Commerce have reached such a low point that a new organisation has been formed called the Ilminster Democracy Action Group. The IDAG is led by Dave Bailey, an ex-shop steward at the local Glacier Metals company. In 1995, Dave and his wife Jennifer organised Ilminster's own special millennium celebrations, which recalled that in 995 the town had been ceded to the abbots at nearby Muchelny Abbey, by order of King Ethelred the Unready. At a meeting at Christchurch, Canterbury, three bishops, two dukes, five abbots, five thanes and the shepherd of Sherborne, one I. Wulfsige, signed a charter which gifted the town - and all its taxes - to the Muchelny abbots. The charter survives to this present day, stored in the records office in Taunton, the oldest such document in the British Isles. I have a copy of it beside me as I write. It begins, 'In the name of the gracious one who thunders and rules in perpetuity, who guides and governs the kingdom and the three fold mechanism of the entire universe, the lofty height of the heavens and the deepest depth of the flowing ocean, everything in the heights and depths, with the power of his majesty, now and for ever more.' During the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII gifted Muchelny to his wife Jane Seymour. The document disappeared, but in the late nineteenth century it was discovered at the now ruined abbey and was moved to Taunton, where, in the early 1990's and with the help of the vicar's Latin primer, Jennifer began the task of translating the Anglo-Carolingian script into modern English. At the celebrations in 1995 the document, which hadn't been seen for a thousand years, was brought to Ilminster and displayed in the minster. Dressed as a monk, Dave carr
ied it up the aisle during Sunday morning service while a libretto Jennifer had written about the Canterbury meeting was sung by the choir. They seem to me to be the perfect couple to help spearhead this last protest.

  On 19 May, Dave organises a meeting of the IDAG in the Parish Hall. One hundred and fifty people pack the room to capacity. In his opening speech he sets out the arguments: 'Bus fares will have to increase, some taxi fares will more than double. One of my concerns is the environment. Over the last week I have been doing a survey of the traffic passing through the north end of Ditton Street. Currently, I reckon a one-way system would increase the mileages driven within Ilminster by at least 6,800 miles per week. That's over a quarter of the way around the world! Think of the pollution and global warming.'

  Opinion is canvassed as to whether there should be a march from the town centre to Dillington House for the next meeting. The idea is quickly abandoned out of worry that older people, who won't be at work at that time, might not manage to get up over the hill, and that the march would end up being poorly attended and thus fuel to members of the local council who support the one-way scheme. Jennifer and Dave have printed posters for the shop windows advertising the next meeting and urging as many as possible to attend. Over a cup of tea in our garden, she tells me that she fears the break-up of the community if Tesco is allowed to have everything its own way and the shops in Silver Street start going broke. I ask her how she defines community and she immediately says, 'There wouldn't be a Christmas shopping evening if we didn't have the small shops. And I wouldn't be able to go out to the shops, discover I'd left my purse at home and still be able to come home with food for supper.'

  Politicians like to eulogise the importance of communities but do little to maintain them. The separation between those who make decisions and those who bear the impact of them is one of the most destructive aspects of corporate globalisation. The board members at Tesco head office don't give a fig about whether Bryan Ferris and Clinton Bonner go broke; their decisions are taken purely to maximise corporate profit, without any sense of who will be affected. Over in Chard, Colin Rolfe and his fellow workers at Hygrade are now only days away from their factory being shut. Again, the footprint of Tesco is stamped all over a decision that will have disastrous implications for a local community. There is something hugely reassuring and quite irreplaceable about doing business with your neighbours and with others who have a vested interest in the community. Communities aren't created by anyone single thing and they can't be created overnight, as planners and politicians fondly imagine every time they sign off the plans for a new 'dormitory' town. Communities grow out of people stopping at the teashop or the pub for a beer, getting advice from the grocer about how long to cook the new potatoes, or ideas for a recipe from the butcher, from comparing opinions with other customers at the baker's and nodding hello to an acquaintance in the chemist's. They grow out of shared interests and concerns: how's your daughter doing, did your dad get his hip operation, how was the holiday? Individually each exchange is trivial, but added together they weave themselves into something unique. The sum of all those casual encounters creates a feeling of respect and trust, a resource in times of personal or neighbourhood need.

  'Can you imagine,' I say to Jennifer, 'going into Tesco and saying that you've left your bag at home, and can you have tonight's dinner on credit?' We laugh together, but it isn't a laughing matter. The global economic system under which we function shatters communities in its wake and, once shattered, it is almost impossible to glue things back together. Profit has become the sole pursuit of our society and it has overthrown morality as a way of deciding the validity of a decision. That makes it all right for three hundred men to be chucked out of work in Chard, because it will make more money for Tulip and Tesco, and all right for Tesco to move into Ilminster and change the traffic flow, because it will make more money for the head office. It is considered sissy to be concerned about the worries of little people, as though a politician would be seen as less powerful and macho if he said that there needs to be a limit on economic progress. But study after study has proved that once basic needs are met, money does not enhance the happiness quotient of humankind.

  Still, there's no denying that there is a lively sense of involvement and anticipation in Ilminster. The shops are all displaying protest signs and leaflets with the times of the next town meeting. In preparation for the meeting a Battle Bus has been hired, which will leave the town square at one o'clock to take anyone without transport out to Dillington House in time for the meeting. Tickets are on sale for £5, but that sum will be refunded when you get on board. On the way to Mr Rendell's I bump into Mr B senior, a clutch of leaflets in his hand and an undeniable spring in his step. There is much talk about 'last­ditch efforts' and 'final stands' and 'now is the time to be counted'.

  Sometime during her first night with Robinson, Babe digs a hole under the fence between his run and the sows' woodland home and escapes, virginity intact, back to the safety of life among the girls. 'Typical woman,' David says dryly. 'She's going to give in sooner or later.'

  Just after lunch on 23 May, Bramble goes peacefully into labour, lying on her side on a thick bed of straw, breathing deeply and evenly until the moment when she gives a shudder and a loud grunt, flexes her hind leg upwards, and out slither the wet little piglets, sometimes nose first, sometimes feet first. With the umbilical cord firmly attached and a coating of mucus all over their bodies, the little pigs sneeze and cough to catch their first breaths. But within seconds they are up on their feet, struggling to find purchase on the straw, groping their way round Bramble's fat back legs towards her teats. Josh and I, who've never seen piglets being born before, crouch on the straw and rub Bramble behind the ears. By nightfall she's given birth to ten.

  Even though they are Robinson's babies and he's a pure-breed saddleback, they all look like Gloucester Old Spots, pink and spotty and naked, with silky ears lying flat against their heads. While Bramble is deep in labour, David notices Guinness shoving her shoulders against the gate into Robinson's run, trying to get in where Babe has just broken out. Wondering if she is on heat, he opens the gate and Guinness shoots through. Robinson is instantly aboard. They stay locked together for a full twenty minutes, not moving, staring straight ahead, looking bored and disinterested, barely exchanging a grunt. When Robinson has finished he lies down under a tree and goes to sleep while, a few feet away, the first Mrs Robinson puffs and pants and brings his first ten children smoothly into the world.

  11

  The Midsummer Pig Roast

  Six days before the Dillington meeting Bryan assembles the towns' traders to decide how best to structure the face-to-face encounter with the councillors. Thirty minutes will be allocated to the public and no one individual is allowed to speak for more than two minutes. Bryan suggests that those who wish to speak should have specific points to make, not general objections based on future fears. However well-founded these might turn out to be, he knows that this isn't going to cut the mustard with the councillors. To date, 4,344 people have signed the petition objecting to the one-way system and the names have been sent to the town council. Bryan also said that he's sent two letters to Terry Leahy, asking for Tesco's comments on the impact of the one-way, but so far the superstore's CEO hasn't bothered to reply.

  Richard Westworth, owner of Sarah's Dairy, the cheese shop on the site where David's uncle once ran his butcher's shop, reports on the impact of a recently implemented one­way system in nearby Tiverton, where he has a branch of the dairy. Although a bigger town, Tiverton echoes Ilminster's current predicament because the one-way system was implemented to accommodate increased traffic following the opening of a Tesco superstore. His business is down 30 percent, and a local wine merchant, The Jolly Vinter, has suffered 25 percent losses. Richard thinks several shops might close before the end of the year. David Bailey reiterates his environmental concerns about the extra miles cars will be travelling. The question of the emergency services
and the increased distances they would have to travel is also discussed.

  Sitting behind me in the Minster Rooms beside the church, Councillor Adam Kennedy mutters his objections to every point. 'All these issues have been discussed when the planning was originally approved,' he announces. There are angry murmurs around the room.

  Bryan ploughs on with the central point of the meeting. It is important, he says, that the issue of the road is kept separate from the issue of the supermarket. But, as it becomes apparent just what has happened, that is clearly impossible. Under the arcane methods by which planning works in this country, the decision to build a supermarket couldn't be granted until the traffic flow was changed. But at the time that the town considered the traffic flow, no one knew which supermarket was bidding to come to Ilminster, or how big it was going to be. Additionally, at the time of the road decision, everyone understood that the car park would remain where it was, and the store would be built further out of the town. Now the situation is radically different: the supermarket is going to be built in the car park, the car park is being pushed out into the fields, and the store that is coming is Tesco, the biggest and probably the most ruthless of the big four.

  David has seen a cable TV programme about a couple with a farm in Devon: they've got pigs and sheep and cows but their real money comes from city folk who want to work on the farm and pay £200 a week for the privilege.

  'That's quality, what a deal . . .' he keeps saying, as we're walking round the nursery working out when the different vegetables will be edible. 'We could buy a caravan and park it over here.' He points to the area under the corner of the walls, at the end of the rows of herbaceous plants. 'To think they'll pay us to work here.'