Of Love and Slaughter

by Angela Huth

From the long pause that followed his question, George knew that Nell tussled in her mind whether to accept his offer.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Thanks all the same. Soon as Prodge is home we’ll have a bowl of soup and go to bed.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be over tomorrow. Why don’t I ring the Ministry for you first thing? Tell him to get a vet to you as soon as possible? You’ll have enough on your hands.’

  ‘That would be kind,’ said Nell.

  Before he slept he thought of her. He was tired out but wakeful, dreading the morning. He knew her childhood bedroom was unchanged – sparse, narrow, chipped. Shelves filled with books about ponies, stuffed toys on the bed. Nell slept with a toy cat, she once told George, that he had given her on her eighth birthday (bought and wrapped up by his mother). In many ways she was still childlike. Unexposed to the world beyond the farm, her naivety if, sometimes, astonishing was not surprising.

  George felt the confusion many people experience when regarding someone they have known all their lives. Proximity blurs the changes over the years, then suddenly a new figure emerges – surprising, almost shocking. Here, suddenly, was Nell, as she had been for several years, grown-up, capable, original: the eager-to-please, fearless child now an adult of formidable energy and good sense. The sweetness of her nature had never changed, but intriguing contradictions, so plain in her childhood, had developed within her: she was both the demure spinner of home-dyed wool, and the lover of coarse jokes. She was both touching in her friendliness, and yet capable of harshness. At variance with the modern world, whose ways held no appeal for her, she was a young woman whose goodness was not properly rewarded – not that she herself would ever think in terms of reward for charity.

  And I love her, thought George, sensing the ache in his heart that always came when he reflected on the diverse parts of Nell’s character. Her innocently exposed feelings, her blushes, the small frowns that flew across a face devoid of artifice, touched his heart. Many times he had wanted to put a protective arm round her. But it would be hard ever to think of her as anything but Nell, always there, the sister he had never had. Even if Lily never returned, it would be hard to reroute such ingrained sentiments, George thought, sleep nudging him at last. But not impossible …

  13

  Over the next two years forty-seven thousand farmers in England and Wales gave up the work that had been their life. Those who remained struggled to survive on the lowest incomes, down by seventy per cent, for three generations. Many of them were forced to exist on two thousand pounds a year.

  The devastation to farming life caused by BSE and the other gathering ills of the country united the small, mixed farmers in sympathy. (The farmers rich from East Anglian grain, although affected by the fall in subsidies and the rising pound, continued to thrive in their big-business way) From the West Country, Cumbria and Wales came stories of extraordinary help among neighbouring farmers, all equal in their despair. Some, no prospect of hope left, gave up not just their business, but their lives. The number of suicides among farmers became shocking.

  But united in their anger and anxiety though they were, every farmer’s prime concern was to fight for the survival of his own family, animals and land. George, thanks to his wisely invested capital, was still able to pay Saul and Ben and keep up with all the costs required by the farm. This lack of financial worry, while most of those in his part of the country were suffering, caused him daily guilt. Surreptitiously he delivered anonymous sums of cash to several neighbouring farmers and paid off the feed bill of a supplier who had threatened to stop delivering to an old, widowed tenant farmer. As Prodge had discovered when he had tried to increase his overdraft, only tenant farmers lucky enough to have a sympathetic bank manager could get a decent loan, for security came only from owning land and buildings. A tenant farmer’s only asset was his stock. With the outbreak of BSE this became almost valueless. In the event, George bought six of Prodge’s milk cows – which he did not want or need – on the grounds that he’d like to add prize cattle to his herd, and feared his friend was not convinced by his story. Prodge was evidently desperate enough to want to believe him, but he still would not consider an interest-free loan or any other help that George offered.

  Seven of Prodge’s cows had gone down with BSE. With the slaughter of each one his spirits sank further. He made no attempt, as Nell did, to assume an optimistic face. His days passed in a robotic trance – feeding, milking, ploughing as always, but scarcely speaking. The young, cheerful, dynamic man, so full of plans for an ever more successful farm and a powerful motorbike, had been replaced by one grown prematurely old: grey-skinned, jaw muscles constantly moving, eyes dragged down with fatigue. George, anxious about his friend, now went over to his farm every day.

  One October afternoon the men stood side by side looking at a pen of bull calves to be sold at the market the following day.

  ‘Funny to think a gallon of bloody petrol costs more than you get for one of these.’ Prodge’s taut hands were clawed to the top bar of the railing. ‘Can’t afford to drive them to market, anyway,’ he added. ‘Can’t afford to drive bloody anywhere. Day’ll come I’ll have to shoot them myself. There’s others doing that.’ The chalky bones of his knuckles agitated beneath the weathered skin. George remembered Prodge’s quality of stillness. He would stand for ages leaning against the side of a shed, or a gate, expounding his plans, fine body making no movement, eyes lit in anticipation. These days, there were always restive parts of him. Turbulent bone and muscle rippling the skin betrayed the despair within.

  ‘So happens,’ said George, ‘I’ve plenty of room in my lorry tomorrow. I’ll pick them up for you.’

  There was a long silence in which Prodge wavered.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually.

  On another occasion George ran into Prodge on the hill road that ran towards the ‘farm’ now owned by the Cardiff businessman. George pulled up and asked Prodge if he wanted a lift.

  ‘I can walk a mile,’ was the terse reply.

  ‘Where’re you headed?’

  Prodge looked away, over the hills.

  ‘If you must know, a bit of moonlighting. Squire Cardiff wants his privet trimmed. Heard I was good at hedging.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s what we’re reduced to – municipal gardeners. But got to do something if we’re not to starve.’

  Prodge was half turned from George, who saw the bone wings of shoulder blades pointing through his jacket. In the last six months Prodge must have lost over a stone.

  ‘You can go another day if you want,’ said George. ‘But today you’re coming down to the pub with me for a bit of lunch. I was on my way there anyway. Come on. Get in.’

  Prodge was still turned away from George. He did not move for a long time, kept his silence. Then he got into the Land Rover. George saw that he was near to cracking, dared not speak. They drove with no word to the village.

  There was a sharp autumn wind that day, even in the valley. In the Bell the wood fire warmed the few farmers who had gathered for a single pint and a plate of pork crackling: few of them could afford a proper lunch these days. George chose a table near the window, then went to the bar for two pints of beer. He saw Prodge give an involuntary shiver as the fire’s heat reached him. He saw his friend tip back his head, shut his eyes for a moment, then spread his hands on the table to still their shaking. George felt his innards clench with worry. Prodge’s state was profoundly disturbing.

  At the bar, waiting for the drinks, George found himself next to Simon, the vet, who gave a small nod in the direction of Prodge. By now Prodge had opened his eyes and was looking blankly out of the window.

  ‘We’ve been asked,’ he said quietly to George, ‘to keep a lookout, on our rounds, for cases potentially disturbing …’ He paused, scratched his cheek. ‘I’ve been up to Prodge and Nell’s several times recently. Have to say I’m concerned about your friend. Think we should keep a close eye. Nell says his moods come and go, and it’s hardly unreasonable any farm
er should feel the world is against him right now. But I have to say I’m worried. I’m wondering whether I should report—’

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘I’m just as worried. I go up every day. If Nell or I see any further deterioration, we’ll take action at once. Of course. But to send some counsellor up to “talk things through” – I tell you, he’d shoot them on the spot along with the bull calves he’s now threatening to shoot himself.’

  The vet gave a grim smile. ‘Let’s keep in touch,’ he said.

  George ordered two large steaks, baked potatoes, peas and carrots. The speed and eagerness with which Prodge ate suggested that this was not normal hunger after a hard morning’s physical labour, but a deeper hunger that had built up over several months. George watched silently. By the time Prodge had finished two helpings of bread-and-butter pudding, colour had spread across his cheeks. The rigidity of his thin body had relaxed.

  ‘That was good,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. (There had been much celebration at his giving up some years ago. His firm resolution had been broken after Bessie died.) He coughed. George said nothing. ‘Nell does her best,’ Prodge went on. ‘We feed mostly off stuff in the garden. Not much left in the freezer. I needed that steak. Thanks.’

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, watched the slow spin of smoke into the warm air muggy with the smell of food and burning cherry boughs. The weather outside was in more cheerful mood, too. In a bright blue sky there was a crowd of very curly clouds, sharp-edged as cauliflowers. They nudged each other, but their edges did not blur. Prodge leant back in his chair.

  ‘Shit, George,’ he said, ‘the whole thing’s a bloody disaster. Sometimes I feel it’s all going to be OK, we might get back to normal. One day BSE’ll be over, exports’ll start up again, back to a decent living. Some days I believe that and I’m fine. Other times, I don’t know. I wake up thinking there’s no point in anything, not in a bloody thing. All my working life on the farm, and what for? This. No money, no future, the endless misery of seeing my cows go through agonies before they’re slaughtered. I’d give it all up for two pins. I keep thinking that. Then on good days I tell myself not to be a bloody fool.’ He paused. ‘Bad days, I find it hard to move my legs, they’re so heavy. Whole body seems heavy, won’t respond. I carry on with the work, but mechanically. Something seems wrong in my mind: it won’t turn over properly. I told all this to Nell the other day. She said she wasn’t surprised and I ought to go to the doctor. Not bloody likely, I said. He’s putting a lot of them round here on anti-depressants. I’ve scarcely taken a pill in my life, have I? So when it gets really bad I walk up over the hill, look down at the fields I’ve been ploughing and sowing all these years, think to myself how lucky I am to have had the opportunity to live here … can’t really imagine anything else. That cheers me up for a bit. That makes me think I’ll not give up. Not for anything. But then I see a letter from the bank saying no more credit, and Nell confesses we’re behind with the rent, and the black comes down again. If it wasn’t for you and Nell, honestly, George, I don’t know …’

  George nodded.

  ‘Nell’s unbelievable,’ Prodge went on after a while. ‘No matter what, she manages to smile. And she’s nothing much to smile about. With village shops for miles round now closed down there’s nowhere left to sell her few jumpers. Anyway she’s lost the heart to go on with them. It’s just work, work, work for her: hasn’t bought herself a new piece of clothing in three years. Hasn’t even replaced her split boots, mud coming in. Us going anywhere for a drink, a film – those days are over. The petrol.

  ‘We have a dream sometimes, Nell ‘n me,’ Prodge continued. ‘A few days off. Nowhere very fancy. Just somewhere we can get a few good nights’ sleep and three meals a day and drink. No worries for a few days. That’d restore us like nothing else. Nell says, believe me, it’ll happen one day. We’ll have a holiday. There are others worse off than us, she says. Barry Fenton, over Dulverton way, he’s just sold off his herd for next to nothing and signed up for a course in plumbing, like old Peter Friel was planning to do. So for three years he’ll not be earning a penny, and at the end of it he’ll be stuck in a job he hates in order to keep his family. Barry Fenton,’ Prodge added, ‘is fifty-three. Third generation farm. Known nothing but farming all his life. His son, who should have inherited, flatly refused to have anything to do with the place. He’s gone off to earn a fortune in some computer firm in Bristol. “I’m buggered if I’m going to go through what you’ve gone through, Dad,” he said to Barry. And I suppose you can’t blame him.’

  Their talk turned to the disaster of the high pound, the stranglehold of Brussels, the hatred among farmers of EU directives – subjects that all over the country others were dismally mulling over to no effect. In the warmth of their agreement, and no longer hungry, Prodge found his spirits rising. The hour after lunch, by the pub fire, flew by: suddenly it was milking time and Nell was coping on her own. Guilt-ridden, but stronger, he rose hurriedly to go. George drove him home. He enquired about the gardening job. By now, Prodge was able to smile.

  ‘Only from time to time,’ he said. ‘All helps. In fact he’s not a bad chap. Doesn’t know the difference between a robin and a crow, but loves his clock golf course. All he wants me to do is trim his prissy hedge, or water his hanging geraniums, or stick in annuals by the front door – doesn’t pay by the hour, just slips me twenty quid no matter if I’ve only been there an hour. So I suppose he knows what farmers are going through. There’s a lot of talk against these incomers. Well, of course they’re ridiculous when they begin complaining about mud on the road: they get their view of the country from pictures in glossy magazines. But I’m not all against them. Some of them provide a bit of casual labour, contribute a bit to the community. I could never support the second-home syndrome when there are locals unable to buy houses, but they’re not all bad, the townies. At least they’ve the money to save some of the rotten old buildings. Can’t say I’ve anything against Squire Cardiff himself. We just don’t see eye to eye when it comes to what’s a garden. Nell refuses even to go and look. Says the sight of his suburban marigolds would make her sick.’ Prodge laughed. ‘She’s a snob, Nell, sometimes. An outright snob.’

  They found her coming out of the house. The cows were all in, she said: she was about to begin milking. Prodge apologised for being late. Nell gave him one of her most exuberant smiles. She saw the colour in her brother’s cheeks and guessed he had been in the pub with George. God knows he deserved an hour or two off, a mite of pleasure. If George had managed to cheer Prodge, then she was cheered too.

  George noticed that Nell’s baggy dungarees could not disguise her loss of weight. Like Prodge, an ashy paleness showed beneath the copper of her cheeks like the traces of an old picture beneath the surface colour. But she still walked jauntily, was bright-eyed. She still gave the appearance that all was manageable. In her support of her brother she was, George thought, infinitely strong. His admiration and love for her, as it so often did now, reverberated through him.

  For the last year Nell had taken to visiting George far less frequently, and he missed her. But he understood. Since the advent of BSE, and the introduction of a passport for each cow, paperwork had doubled for all owners of cattle, and she had no help with that. Juggling their small income was her responsibility: the worry of the rent, which she tried to keep from Prodge, and dealing in general with their financial straits. On top of that she helped as always on the farm, grew her few vegetables, cooked and kept house. This, George had observed lately, was the area to which she attached least importance. The place was muddier, dustier, colder, more chaotic than it had ever been, revealing more than anything the state she was fighting. Her horses – her one indulgence and endless pleasure – had long been sold, and she had little time or energy to walk the land over which she used to ride. The frequent flashes of light and laughter had mostly gone from her, too. Her priorities now were to survive the farming crisis and to carry on as best she could, sup
porting her brother, into some easier future she could not precisely imagine.

  By now, George had almost given up any hope of Lily returning, and wondered if Nell knew this. They never talked about her these days. They never speculated about what she might do. George had once thought that her absence would be no longer than a year. But almost three years had passed. During that time she had, as she promised, kept in touch. Postcards arrived erratically: sometimes three in a month, then nothing for six weeks. Their object, George grimly understood, was to assure him she was safe and well, but they didn’t convey the sort of information he craved. Usually she only wrote a line or two and – infuriatingly, George began to find – it mostly concerned some exhibition she had been to: a sharp observation about Utrillo or Van Gogh or Rembrandt’s drawings, or ‘the piercing green of Matisse, like the grass in Top Meadow’. Often George would write a card back – a few lines to convey the loss and sadness he felt, hoping to assuage it. But this it did not do, and he had quite a stack of these replies by now: messages she would never receive.

  But after a year’s teaching in Norwich Lily evidently flew about in an unplanned way. Cards came from Perpignan, Mexico, New York, Perugia. They were piled up, these cards, on a shelf in the kitchen, telling George nothing. Several times he had thought of burning the lot of them, then resisted. When hope drained from him – as increasingly it did – the number of missives was of some comfort: and to think she had not had a single word from him. Sometimes he wondered if, as Prodge and Nell advised, he should disobey her wishes and try to find her. But over the years he had abandoned this idea each time, believing she would not want him to, and fearing that if he did he might endanger the faint chance that was still left.

  In the house, so many signs of Lily were still there: her arrangement of things, the tablecloths she had bought, her straw hats on hooks in the hall, her boots, the books by her side of the bed. Every time he came into the kitchen George felt the absence of her. He longed for her. He thought of her, he dreamt of her, and always he puzzled over whether it was something he had done that caused her the crisis of no-feeling that was so traumatising she had to leave him. Of late he had felt himself a little stronger – able to cope with the problems of his neighbours and Nell and Prodge, able to keep up with the paperwork and the endless physical labour on the farm. But he still felt dull, empty, unfired, and was resigned to the fact that this heaviness of being might remain with him for ever unless Lily returned. ‘I’m a half-man,’ he said once to Nell, back in the days when they still sometimes mentioned her. Like Prodge, though for different reasons, he lived and worked mechanically.