The Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  As we entered the estate we felt like we were in a war zone. Half of the houses were boarded up, with metal shutters over the windows; even the local shop where I stopped to buy mints had a mesh grille and a serving hatch that customers spoke through. There was no browsing to be done in this establishment: you told the assistant what you wanted, she got it and after you’d paid it would be shoved through the hatch. There were transit vans, half-built vardos and wandering dogs and horses everywhere, some tied up, some roaming free. Bomber told us later that every so often the estate would be raided and the council and the RSPCA would round up the horses and take them away. Magically, most of the horses would have been spirited away before officialdom arrived. Last time it happened, he said, there was one horse they couldn’t catch.

  ‘If they can git hod o’ that bugger they can ’ave it,’ he said.

  Everyone we passed eyed us with suspicion, even though we were in a beat-up Land Rover and horsebox. But the minute we asked for directions to Bomber’s house, the suspicious scowls disappeared.

  We drove slowly through groups of children playing in the road, and eventually pulled up outside a palatial-looking house with a large fountain on the front patio, a pair of stone Lurchers bordering the gateway, and the familiar flatbed truck parked on the pavement.

  ‘That ’as to be Bomber’s gaff,’ I said.

  He appeared at the door in his usual attire, vest and slippers, welcomed us, then yelled something unintelligible across the street and suddenly people appeared: a couple of blokes and some kids. He said to one of the kids with a mullet haircut, ‘Ga an’ fetch thi father.’

  Having rounded up his cronies, Bomber set off in his truck with us following close behind. We drove through a maze of backstreets, past deserted industrial areas, wastelands with little bits of rough open land between derelict units that once upon a time provided jobs and wages for people. Eventually Bomber pulled up at a gate just beyond the units. It fronted a real garden of Eden, hidden away between the shabby concrete and brick buildings, and scrubby patches of land. This was a small stretch of proper countryside, a lush field.

  We climbed the gate – for someone who made a living selling gates, this was a particularly bad example, rusting and broken, with what appeared to be a shelf from a fridge and part of a snapped advertising hoarding tied to one side. His retinue remained with the vehicles, listening to the radio and smoking while we strode out towards a line of trees, all the while Bomber giving us a running commentary:

  ‘It’s taken me a lifetime to amass these,’ he said.

  In the shadow of the trees was the most beautiful collection of coloured horses I’d ever seen. Stocky piebald mares and foals with flowing feather, their coats gleaming in the late summer sun, a world apart from the sad, broken-down nags that wandered the estate. Our eyes and mouths were open: this was truly a stunning collection of well-bred animals. Bomber was in his element as he detailed the breeding of his mares and how much time, money and devotion had gone into the accumulation of his outstanding herd.

  He was in full flow when from the direction of the gate behind us we could hear the beginnings of a ruckus.

  ‘What the f*** are yer doin’ in ma f***ing field?’ yelled a red-faced man, marching towards us purposefully, and not in an altogether friendly manner.

  He was threatening to kill us, Bomber included, and there was a presence about him that made me think he might just do it. It turned out that it wasn’t Bomber’s field and they weren’t Bomber’s horses. The real owner was one of a family of brothers, very well-known breeders of gypsy horses.

  Bomber never broke stroke, just said he was showing us the horses, and we might want to buy one. He was completely unfazed, simply saying he was doing the owner a favour, brokering a deal. In the end, after much bartering and discussion, we did fix on a horse to buy, a colt foal that we later called Monty. When the deal was done and a price agreed, Bomber shouted over to his lads.

  ‘Cum on, get this ’oss catched and into t’box.’

  I’d never seen anything like it. They surrounded the horse, and between them manhandled it towards the gate, then picked it up and put it in the trailer. Bomber wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about his make-believe tales and we never mentioned it: he just seemed pleased we’d had a good day out and done a bit of business. We’ve often wondered since if he would have dared sell us one of those horses, and what the consequences would have been when their owner found out . . .

  We kept the foal, Monty, as a stallion. We bred from him, and for a while we would charge a stud fee and people would bring mares to him. We’re aware with the horses, like the sheep, that we need to change the sire every so often, to prevent inbreeding, so we kept Monty, broke him to ride and drive, and then sold him when we were made an offer that we couldn’t refuse. Every year he returns to Appleby Fair, pulling a vardo, and only last year I was shown pictures of the owner’s granddaughter learning to drive him pulling a tub cart.

  We liked Bomber’s visits, he made us laugh and he told us tales. Sadly, he died of a heart attack a few years ago, and we only heard about it after his funeral. Apparently there was a big show of people at the funeral; he was a truly larger-than-life character and his coffin was carried by a horse-drawn hearse.

  We owed him money when he died, £130. He’d brought us a couple of gates one day when we weren’t around – and we knew he’d be back for it. We were really sad at the news of his death, but Clive couldn’t resist a smile that he’d died before collecting his money.

  ‘Just for yance, I’ve gotten one over on t’old bugger,’ he said.

  He didn’t enjoy the feeling for long. A couple of weeks later we got a letter from Gloria. Apparently Bomber had a little black book where he kept a record of what was owed to him. Who’d have thought it? He didn’t seem the type for keeping accounts. We sent her the cheque with a condolence card. We miss the old rogue.

  We always reckon that being friends with Bomber was one of the reasons we didn’t have any thieving from our yard. And the theory might be right because it wasn’t until after his death that our quad bike was stolen.

  Clive had been away all day tup crowning. The Swaledale Sheep Breeders Association, which has been going since 1919, was set up to maintain the breed, and set standards for what is a true Swaledale sheep. When it was formed, its aims, which remain the same today, were:

  The encouragement of the breeding of Swaledale sheep and the maintenance of their purity.

  The establishment and publication of a Flock Book [Clive’s most treasured possessions] of recognized and pure-bred sires, and the annual registration of the pedigrees of such sires as are proved to the satisfaction of the Council or Management.

  The investigation of doubtful and suspected pedigrees, and the general protection of the breed.

  The holding of shows and sales, the obtaining of classes and giving of prizes at shows, and the appointment and recommendation of the judges.

  So every year all the different tups that farmers have bred have to be inspected and approved as pure Swaledales. It’s called ‘tup crowning’, and different members of the association are chosen to go round all the Swaledale breeders and ‘crown’, or approve, the tups. It’s an honour to be chosen and Clive’s been selected a few times.

  It’s quite an event round here. Every farmer whose tups have been crowned follows the crowner on to the next farm. It’s very social, and everyone wants a good look at everyone else’s animals. We’re one of the last farms in the dale, so by the time they get here there’s a whole motorcade of Land Rovers coming up our road, a real entourage of farmers following the crowner, coming for a sneak preview of the tups. There are certain traits that they are all looking for, apart from the obvious of four good legs, a pair of testicles and a good solid frame. It is the colour and texture of hair on the faces and legs of the tups that really matter; certain small deviations from the perfect ideal are forgivable, but never the shade of black. It has to be right. If someone say
s to you, ‘That tup’s face is the colour of Cherry Blossom shoe polish black, like shiny,’ that’s bad. If they say, ‘That tup looks like a bloody great crow landed on it,’ that’s bad.

  Or if they say: ‘Ya tup was seriously off at black,’ that’s positively an insult.

  What you want is matt black. Any woman who’s tried to team a black dress with a separate black jacket knows that there are different shades of black: the Swaledale has to be the right matt shade. It’s definitely Fifty Shades of Black round here, not grey . . .

  If you go to the Swaledale tup sales or to shows then you will notice fully grown men apparently stroking the faces of the sheep. It is not that they are showing their softer side, but because they are feeling the hardness of the black hair; the harder the better. If you imagine a Brillo pad, then that’s what you want to feel.

  ‘That’s better than sex,’ one Swaledale breeder muttered to me and Clive as he stroked the brow of a good tup. Fortunately, Clive bit his tongue.

  One year when Clive was selected to do tup crowning he had to go to Derbyshire. Swaledales are bred in many different areas, not just Swaledale. I asked him, ‘Does ta know where thoo’s garn?’

  ‘Aye, Derbyshire,’ he said. ‘It’s just t’other side o’ Skipton.’

  Needless to say, it isn’t, and he had to set off very early in the morning as he had a lot of farms to visit and plenty of tups to inspect. I gave him assurances that I could handle everything on the farm, and that as it was going to be late when he returned, I – helped by the children – would get everything done. We did too: we were very proud of ourselves. Everything was sorted, lamb hoppers filled, stock checked, dogs fed. When Clive got back at 9 p.m. there was nothing more to be done, so we had a cup of tea, a chat and then went to bed.

  A storm had been forecast and it came sweeping in, hitting us at nightfall. Everything in the farmyard was banging and rattling, so it was a disturbed night, and somewhere in my half-asleep, half-awake state I remember seeing a flash of light across the bedroom window, but then drifted off again.

  The next morning I was up with the lark and busy alongside Raven filling bags with cake to put in the hoppers to feed the lambs. It was a wet, horrible morning; the river was in full spate, welling out and over its banks.

  ‘Ga round and fetch us t’bike,’ I said to Raven. It’s easier to transport the feed by bike than carrying it.

  ‘It’s not there,’ she said a few minutes later.

  ‘Course it is,’ I snapped impatiently. ‘Don’t be such a muppet.’

  Off she went again and then came back.

  ‘No, Mum, it’s not there, come and look.’

  Then I did that idiotic thing of looking everywhere for it even though I knew where I’d left it. I called Clive, who was having his breakfast. He came outside and he did exactly the same thing, refusing to believe it had gone until he had searched himself.

  ‘Someone’s nicked the bloody bike!’

  We rang the police. The only evidence that we could find was a discarded rubber glove, which was turned inside out, and some horrible half-chewed plastic wrapping from one of those nasty cheap sausage treats for dogs which cost about 30p in a supermarket. The thieves had obviously lobbed one to Bill, who was dozing in his kennel in the yard, and should have at least barked, if not ripped their legs off, but he’d clearly been bought off. We weren’t best pleased with him. We’d have hoped he would have held out for a better bung . . .

  It was still throwing it down with rain, so any forensic traces the thieves had left were well washed away by the time the police arrived, later that morning. There was nothing they could do other than commiserate with us, and give me a number for victim support. I realized in the cold light of miserable day that the beam I had seen cross our window in the night was most likely the headlights of the thieves’ vehicle: we sleep at the front of the house with our curtains open, and there is a moment when vehicles bump across the track by the ford that their headlights rake up across our window. The thieves must have quietly pushed the bike past the house and down over the bridge and loaded it into their van on the other side of the river.

  In some ways I’m relieved I didn’t wake up: a friend of ours, another farmer’s wife, said when thieves came into their farmyard and stole their pickup, trailer and quad bike she was just glad her husband didn’t realize what was happening or, ‘Someone would ’ave been dead in t’yard; he’d ’ave shot the buggers.’

  That’s the way you have to look at it: it was only a bike, and Clive would have probably been attacked if he’d tried to stop them. Anyway, we were insured. Or so we thought . . .

  We were certainly paying the premiums. But after a couple of hours searching for the papers, and talking to the insurance company, we realized we had actually been paying for our old bike: we’d never changed the policy over when we had part-exchanged it for a newer one. It was a blow, but we had no one to blame but ourselves. So that was a bad day at the office, and we were about £6,000 out of pocket for another quad. We also discovered, months later, when the first flush of summer grass came through, that the petrol strimmer had gone too: they must have noticed it sitting in the woodshed as they wheeled the bike away and made off with that as well. Worse things happen: nobody was hurt, nobody died.

  11

  Clive’s Big Break

  This is a tale of two tups and a stubborn man, my hubby Clive Owen, who turned down the chance to be a film star. And, much to my annoyance, proved to have made the right call.

  One of our old yows, ‘the crusties’ as we call them, who we keep on because they are good breeders, had been scanned for triplets: the older they are the more likely they are to have multiple births. It’s not good when they are having triplets, because it puts a lot of stress on their system carrying three lambs; far better that they have a big strong single lamb.

  We kept her with the other crusties for the first four months, and then for the last month of her pregnancy we separated her and brought her into the end stable. The pressure on her was immense and we were very worried about her – she wasn’t coping well at all. I fed her plenty of treacle, my panacea for all ills. I buy it in 1,000-litre drums and it provides a good energy boost, easy for yows like this one who had lost all her teeth. She was so enormously heavy with lambs that I had to help her to stand but I got her onto her feet every day and encouraged her to take some gentle exercise round the stable, as I know that once an animal becomes immobile it is pretty much doomed.

  One morning I was up at 4 a.m., because it was lambing time, and as Clive had done the night shift it was my turn on the early shift. I went in to check on her. She was ready, starting to lamb. I shot back to the house and shook Clive.

  ‘T’owd lass is on lambing,’ I said quietly, trying not to wake the children.

  He pulled on his wellies and leggings and came out to the stable. We knelt down with her and she gave birth to her first lamb, a decent-sized tup. Clive was beside himself. It was one helluva lamb. Next came a really good gimmer, fantastic. Clive was practically dancing round the stable, the good old girl had produced two wonderful lambs.

  Finally the third one slipped out. It was a tiny tup, a good sort, but a midget. We thought he was dead, he lay so quiet. I broke the sack over his face and squeezed his nose to clear away the mucus. He moved his head fractionally and gave a small gasp. Clive shook his head as he rose to his feet.

  ‘If thoo can mek that live, yer can ’ave it . . .’ he said. He thought it was a goner.

  I don’t ever like to give up on an animal, not without a fight. So I took the tiny little fella away. Clive left one of the triplets with the old yow and found another to adopt the other one: she was far too old to rear two.

  I wrapped the tiny one in a towel and put him in the warming oven of our black range, which is a perfect temperature for a fragile newborn, and began gently heating some colostrum from the freezer.

  He lived in the oven for a couple of days. I fed him frequently with little
amounts, got him looking a bit stronger. But although he could now lift his head, he was still very small, too tiny to stand up. Then Clive said, ‘I’ve brought a yow in who’s lost ’er lamb in a gutter. She’s a proper good mother. Do yer want ’er for t’lal’ fella?’

  It was important to adopt him on to a patient, good yow, because he was so small that one of the ratching, impatient yows would have just stomped him into the ground. But this was a sheep with a strong maternal instinct. We didn’t bother skinning her own dead lamb and making him an overcoat from the skin because it would have been far too big, we just rubbed the dead lamb all over the little one, put him on the straw in a pen, and let her in with him. She was a marvel, taking to him straight away. He couldn’t suckle because he couldn’t stand up so it was a real labour of love, with me milking her and giving him the milk or picking him up and letting him suckle himself. But she did the loving: nuzzling him, treating him as though he was the most precious thing in the world. On finer days I’d carry him out into the garden so the yow could have a bite of grass and then carry him back to the pen at teatime with his mother following. She was an absolute star.

  Gradually, over time, he gained more strength. I dosed him with vitamins and mineral drenches and when I had a quiet moment I would sit on the stone steps and give him my very own adapted-for-sheep version of a Reiki massage.

  Then, one day, I went to the stable and he was standing up, albeit in a wobbly manner. I yelled for Clive to come and see.

  ‘I’ve gotten a name for ’im, an’ all,’ I said. ‘He’s called Lazarus. After all, he almost rose from t’dead.’

  ‘Well, I cannae believe it, I nivver woulda thought he’d mek it,’ Clive said.

  We didn’t send Lazarus and his mother up to the moor like the other single lambs, because he was always small and had such a poor start in life. He needed as much chance as possible to catch up, so was kept in the greenest, grassiest fields we had. He did well and went from strength to strength but he was never going to be a big one: he was small but perfectly formed. I would tell Clive, ‘They don’t mek diamonds as big as bricks, thoo knows.’