We didn’t need to step out of the Beetle to smell the change in the air. A rich, earthy aroma pervaded. Not quite an elephants’ lavatory but getting there. Jamie Peters was well-trained. He opened the passenger door and tilted the front seat so that I might exit. Man unfolded himself like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Beneath our bare feet, the mud squelched, oozing pleasantly between our toes.
“Should have brought my wellies,” said Jamie Peters unhappy with what the ground was doing to his sandals. “This way.”
We followed him to a wide gate across the track, which he opened and made sure to secure again once we had passed through. “Always follow the country code,” he said.
“Man prefer Law of Jungle.”
The path broadened as it reached a courtyard between large buildings. Cavernous sheds with corrugated roves dwarfed everything. Beside them were huge feed bins, the ground around them littered with pellet-shaped morsels. Funny; I’d always thought cows were herbivorous... To one side was the more ordered farmhouse and garden, but for the most part it was a dirty, filthy place. The ground was pitted with the passage of countless hooves. Cow dung was present everywhere, left to lie where it landed rather than being collected for the precious resource it really was. One could fertilise one’s garden or one could build an entire village with what was lying around unwanted.
“Milking sheds,” Jamie Peters gestured to the largest buildings. “It’s no longer done by hand on a farm this size. Quicker to get machines to do it.”
Man didn’t seem perturbed by the advent of mechanisation. His query was with the nature of drinking the milk of another species at all. Jamie Peters shrugged.
“It’s a cultural thing, I suppose. Long history of it in Western civilisation. I don’t partake, myself. Allergic to lactose.”
Man glanced at his sandaled feet. “Jamie Peters not lack toes.”
We all laughed at this. My Man is hilarious, you may have realised.
“Cow milk for cow baby. People take cow milk. What cow baby drink?”
“Ah, well, you see, this is where it gets a bit, you know... ”
We assured him we did not know and that is why Man asked.
“Hoi!” The cry heralded the arrival of a man in overalls and rubber boots. “What are you lot doing here? This ain’t no nudist camp.”
“Hello, Gary,” said Jamie Peters.
The man’s expression softened a little but he continued to look Man and me up and down.
“Oh, it’s you, Jamie. Brung some more kiddies, have you?”
“Not quite,” the social worker grinned. “These are friends of mine. Man, your ladyship, this is Gary. He’s the farm manager.”
“Your ladyship?” the farm manager’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cloth cap. “Charmed, I’m sure. And you,” he nodded to Man, “if you’re looking for work, we could do with a big strong fella like you. You ever worked with a bull before?”
“Bull elephant,” said Man. “Went rogue.”
“I knew you were circus folk as soon as I sid you,” the farm manager seemed pleased with himself. “Well, what can I do for you nice people?”
“Where baby cow?” said Man, looking the fellow directly in the eye. Gary rubbed his unshaven chin.
“There are no baby cows - we call them ‘calves’ in the trade. If it’s a nice bit of veal you’re after... ”
“Man want understand,” Man continued. “Cow need baby or make no milk.”
“Well, yes, you’re right there,” said Gary. “If you want milk, the farm shop opens at ten. Can do you a good deal on a bit of cheese and all.”
“We’re not on a shopping expedition, Mr, um, Gary,” I said.
“Then I haven’t got time to waste. Got half the herd to inoculate. So if that’s all?”
“Cheers, thanks, Gary, nice one.” Jamie Peters nodded back at the gate for us to follow. “See you soon, yeah.”
We arrived back at the Beetle with more questions than we had started with.
Man and I got back into the car without thinking and I apologised for our muddy feet.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Jamie Peters, putting the car into reverse. The wheels spun around but we were going nowhere. “We’re stuck,” he wailed. He sent Man a hopeful look. Man nodded and got out.
Seconds later we were on our way. Man’s chest and arms were now coated with spatterings of mud from lifting the rear of the Beetle from a deep puddle.
“Do you remember that fellow who fell foul of the quicksand?” I nudged him. “And you wouldn’t let him out until he relinquished his elephant gun?”
Man grunted.
“I’ll drop you back and then it’s straight to the car-wash for me,” said Jamie Peters. “Sorry that little excursion wasn’t more informative.”
Man shrugged. “Milk bad.”
“You’re probably right, darling.”
“Mjomba’s hose,” he said, meeting Jamie Peters’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“What do you mean by that?”
“My husband is saying there is no need for you to go to the car-wash, Jamie Peters. Uncle Mjomba will have your Beetle gleaming like a new pin in no time.”
“Oh well, if you’re sure... ”
“Jamie Peters talk more,” said Man. “Farms.”
“If you like.”
We spent the rest of the journey in silence, watching the greenery give way to industrial and residential buildings, some of them side by side. I tried to imagine what Dedley may have been like in the past, when the castle was new and whole and there was just a small settlement huddled around its walls, and people fended for themselves, or helped each other to farm the land, and the animals they reared they knew personally. How different it must have been? Would Man have found that way of life more acceptable? Or, as I feared was happening now, would he reject it?
I was worried for my husband. He seemed to have come to terms with the zoo - although I am sure he would prefer if it did not exist at all - but now he was turning his attention to the everyday details of living in this world and he was finding them confusing and not to his liking. Was it a question of adjustment, of just getting on with it like everyone else? Of turning his back on the inherent cruelty and inequality that kept this way of life ticking over? Could he do that? Should he do that?
And what would happen to us if he could not?
***
Uncle Mjomba obliged us with his hose. Then, while he sluiced off Jamie Peters’s Beetle, we sat around the kitchen table and Jamie Peters showed us a device like a television screen that he carried around in his satchel.
“Can I use your wi-fi?” he asked. Man put a protective arm around me.
“Lady Man wifey.”
“Never mind,” said Jamie Peters with a chuckle. “I’ll see if I can glom onto your neighbours’.” He swiped and tapped the screen with his fingers. “You should get wi-fi, you know. It’ll help Sonny with his homework.”
“The next time I’m at the supermarket,” I assured him, “and don’t worry, darling,” I stroked my husband’s cheek, “I shan’t buy any more of that horrid milk.”
“Here, look,” Jamie Peters turned the screen so that we might see it. “There’s these people called Vegans who are like vegetarians but they go a lot further. No milk, no eggs, and you wouldn’t get away with that antelope bikini, your ladyship.”
“It’s gazelle,” I pointed out. “Should I take it off?”
“Not on my account,” said Jamie Peters. “I don’t climb that side of the ladder.”
This remark baffled us most of all. Uncle Mjomba giggled. Man whispered in my ear.
“Oh,” I looked at Jamie Peters with fresh eyes. “I see. Well, we’re all Nature’s children, I suppose.”
“Anyway...” Jamie Peters was bl
ushing. He drew our attention back to his screen. “You can see what the Vegans believe on this website. See how they live, what they eat and what they wear. See if it helps, you know, helps you to be more at ease with things here.”
I reached across and squeezed the social worker’s hands. Man nodded.
“Thank you, Jamie Peters. For all your efforts. We shall look into it, won’t we, darling?” Man nodded again. “Do they sell these screens at the supermarket?”
“What don’t they sell?” said Jamie Peters. “Any road, I’d better call in at the office. Show willing. You’ll let me know how Sonny’s first day went?”
“Gladly,” I said.
Uncle Mjomba was about to show him to the door when Mrs Lyons appeared wearing a customary scowl. Honestly, I think Mjomba’s mask changed its expression more than she did.
“Had a phone call,” she said bitterly. “I wish you people would get your own telephone.”
“As soon as I get to the supermarket,” I said.
“It was the school. There’s been trouble. I knew there’d be trouble.”
“Baby!” I stood in horror. I clutched at Man for support. “What’s happened?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” Mrs Lyons retreated. She muttered over her shoulder, something about weirdos and locking up.
“Oh, darling!” I was close to tears.
Jamie Peters waved his car keys. “I’ll drop you off,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
In which Baby recounts his day and Mjomba makes a stand
The sign outside Baby’s school may have said ‘academy’ but let me tell you, it was nothing like my alma mater. The Finesse Academy at which I was lucky enough to be incarcerated, had ivy-covered walls, stained glass windows, and was steeped in history and tradition. This modern monstrosity was an agglomeration of concrete and glass. Brutalist, I think you could call it. I spent five seconds looking at it and was horrified. Imagine what spending a whole day within its confines might do to a young and malleable mind.
Regrettably, Jamie Peters had to leave us to it. We promised to bring him up-to-date and I assured him I would acquire a telephone of some description as soon as I possibly could. My shopping list was filling up: telephone, one of those screen things, wi-fi, no milk...
Our attire - or lack thereof - was attracting attention from the children who pressed their faces against windows as we walked to the main entrance. Teachers appeared behind them to call them back to their lessons, only to remain there themselves, gawping at our approach.
A woman behind the reception window performed a perfect double take when I told her who I was. She instructed us to take a seat and then picked up a telephone receiver.
“Headmaster, some... parents to see you,” she said. “Yes. Those ones.”
Man and I sat. The reception area was pleasant, with potted plants and paintings by the children. A cabinet was brimming with trophies celebrating sporting achievement.
“It won’t be long before they’re engraving Baby’s name on all of those, darling,” I said.
Man grunted. He was thinking what I was thinking: Baby may not be at the school long enough to write his name on the bathroom wall.
Rebecca Lyons appeared. “Hello, Man, your ladyship,” she sounded abashed. There was no ‘woo-hoo’ this time.
“Hello, dear. What’s happened? Where’s Baby?”
“Come with me,” she said, avoiding eye contact. My stomach churned with misgivings.
Man put his arm around me and we followed the Lyons girl in her pretty summer dress to the Headmaster’s office.
***
Rebecca knocked on a featureless door bearing only an engraved plate that read ‘Head’.
“Come!” we heard a voice intone from the other side.
She opened the door to admit us. How very different from the office of old Miss Frink, headmistress of Finesse! Where was the wood panelling? The portraits in oils of predecessors or the school’s founder? Where were the shelves bowing under the weight of leather-bound tomes? Here, it was all filing cabinets and low, shapeless upholstery. A coffee table. Behind a desk that could have double as a wallpapering table, sat a bald man with a grand moustache. He stood when we entered. Baby was sitting across the desk. He looked over his shoulder.
“Mother!” he cried, and joy twinkled in his tear-sodden eyes.
“Judge,” said the bald man.
“Well, the furniture’s rubbish and the carpet is horrid,” I told him.
“No, Mother,” Baby said in a stage whisper. “This is Mr Judge, the Headmaster.”
I extended my hand. Mr Judge ignored it. He gave my husband and me a quick, cold appraisal.
“I am sorry,” he said, oozing sarcasm, “to call you away from your sun beds but your son here gave me no alternative.”
“Mr Judge,” I said in my most clipped tones. “We are worried sick. Please tell us what has happened.”
He waved a hand in an invitation for us to sit. We pulled up chairs and flanked our son, creating a defensive wall of parenthood on either side. The head seemed to notice that Rebecca Lyons was still present.
“That will be all, girl,” he dismissed her.
“Rebecca is our neighbour,” I told him. “She has been most useful in assisting us with the transition into our new home. I would like her to stay, if at all possible.”
“I didn’t realise you would need an interpreter,” the moustache twitched. Mr Judge was clearly a man who amused himself.
Man pointed at Mr Judge’s hairless pate and then back at the door. “Head,” he said.
“Yes, darling. Very good.”
Mr Judge decided to address all further remarks to me. “Madam,” he began.
“Your ladyship will do,” I smiled thinly.
“Your ladyship, in all my years in education, I have never encountered a student like your son.”
I beamed with pride and squeezed Baby’s hand.
“What Judge mean?” said Man, narrowing his eyes. The Head’s gaze flickered in my husband’s direction but he continued to address his remarks to me alone.
“There has been an incident,” he said, “One of those regrettable incidents in which pupils new to the school invariably find themselves embroiled.”
“Son fight,” was Man’s translation.
Judge ignored him. “When incidents of this nature occur, it is school practice and policy to have those involved produce a written account of their side of events. The other boys have provided their testimony here.” He held up three grubby sheets of paper on which a few lines were scrawled. “And here, by contrast, is your son’s.” He held up a heavy pile of papers - there must have been half a ream there, all covered with Baby’s distinctive and decorative copperplate hand.
“Well done, Baby!” I said, perhaps a little prematurely.
“Your ladyship, the literary merits of your son’s account aside - and it is the most fantastical thing I have read since Edgar Rice Burroughs kept me entertained as a boy - if there is a grain of truth in it, there are some very serious implications indeed.”
“What Son write?” Man asked, nodding at the papers.
“I did tell the truth. Honestly, I did. Dad! Mother!”
“Of course you did, darling.” I put a maternal arm across his shoulders. It was only then that I became aware of the dirt on his brand new blazer.
“I think it best you read the boy’s story for yourself,” Mr Judge smiled like someone about to play a nasty practical joke. “I shall leave you to it and afterwards we can discuss your son’s future at this academy.”
He went out. Behind his back, Rebecca stuck out her tongue.
“Now, now, dear;” I reprimanded her gently, “Just because one person is odious does not mean we have to lower ourselves.�
��
“Sorry, your ladyship.”
“Read!” Man urged.
“Is there anything you’d like to say, Baby?”
Baby looked defeated, confused and frustrated all at once. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I really don’t,” he said, making me want to scoop him up in my arms and carry him as far away from this school, and Dedley and England right that very minute.
“Read!” said Man. He picked up the papers and thrust them at me.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Baby said sadly.
“Let’s see if you have anything to be sorry about first,” I smiled. I read the papers, every last word. I reproduce them all for you here now.
***
How can I describe my feelings as I walked to school for the first time? Nervous excitement, to be sure, and no little amount of trepidation were vying for dominance within my breast like alpha male gorillas in a leadership contest. But there was also some physical discomfort, unaccustomed as I am to wearing clothing and completely alien to the concept of footwear. I tugged at my new clothes and scratched myself with every step. I could not imagine how the dozens of others I saw heading in the same direction, all clad exactly the same, could bear it.
“What’s up?” asked Rebecca Lyons, my escort and neighbour.
I had to sit on the nearest kerb and pull off my shoes and socks. The relief was palpable.
“You can’t!” But my friend’s admonishment meant nothing to me. With my feet released from confinement, I was able to hurry along and I soon left her behind.
“Come on!” I laughed over my shoulder. “Remember that cupboard!”
I slowed to let her catch up. It gave me a chance to enjoy the spectacle. “Just look at them all,” I breathed in awe. “Herding like wildebeest. All sharing a single purpose, all moving as one mind.”
“One brain cell, more like,” muttered Rebecca. Her face fell. “Uh-oh,” she said. I asked what was wrong. “If that lot’s the wildebeest, here come the hyenas.”
I could scarcely believe it. “Really? Where?”
I felt her nudge my side. Three older boys were moving against the tide, making their way towards us. “Friends of yours?” I asked.
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