by Amanda Owen
‘Nowt like a sooked ’un,’ farmers say.
Only on the one occasion had I been left red-faced. I was walking down a street, minding my own business, feeding the baby as I went along. If I have a baby in the front papoose it is possible to shuffle her into a feeding position, leaving my hands free to lug shopping bags or push a trolley or wheelbarrow. A lady, who I assume was a tourist, stopped me and began to talk: ‘Ooooh, it is you,’ she said. ‘The lady off the TV, an’ you’ve got another baby.’
Before I had a chance to say anything she reached forward, pulling the edge of the papoose back, and peered in.
‘I love babies,’ she went on, then stroked what she thought was the baby’s head. ‘No hair?’ she said. ‘A baldy.’
‘Not quite,’ I said, pulling away and shoving my booby back into my shirt.
The conference was in full swing, Annas was quiet and I was on tenterhooks awaiting my curtain call. Suddenly the lights dimmed and a big screen lit up on the stage behind the lady presenting the event. Dramatic music thumped through the loudspeakers, then my own face appeared up on the screen. From out of nowhere had sprung a cameraman, camera on shoulder pointing right at me and wielding a fluffy microphone that he thrust in my direction. I half-smiled, half-grimaced, then all went quiet.
‘Here we have Amanda Owen,’ said the presenter. ‘Can you come up onto the stage, Amanda?’
The camera followed me, projecting my image, complete with audio, onto the big screen for the audience’s enjoyment. To my embarrassment, very loud suckling noises were broadcast across the packed room. Sitting myself on the couch on the stage ready for a brief interview, I managed to get Annas unplugged. Her little goldfish-like mouth was still sucking, but now just fresh air, as she emerged blinking from under my scarf.
I did my little talk, calming down a bit. Annas even began to enjoy the limelight, giving big animated smiles. Then it was time for the next guest to come on stage. I sat still while the ‘mystery guest’ got a great build-up.
‘We have a special VIP guest, who we are so lucky to have with us today,’ said the presenter. ‘He’s known to millions . . . a familiar face to us all.’ She babbled on, enthusiastically.
Onto the stage strode the nondescript man in the maroon tie who I’d met in the green room. Riotous applause filled the room. I frowned – known by millions, but not to me . . . I stood up, beamed and shook hands with him while struggling to identify him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the deputy prime minister, Nick Clegg,’ said the host.
I was mortified. I’d been trapped in a room with the deputy prime minister, and I didn’t even know it. I’ve never taken much interest in politics, although there are certain faces I’d know: Eric Pickles – no idea about his policies but I’d know his mush if I saw it; Boris Johnson – I’d know his hair anywhere; and our local MP, William Hague – I’d know his lack of hair anywhere. I once stood on a balcony alongside him and lamented the proposed loss of our nearest maternity unit. It still closed, but at least we tried to save it. I remember looking at the sea of people in front of the county hall and commenting that there were a few placards bearing anti-Hague slogans among the crowd. Stupidly I then mentioned a grassy knoll, and before I knew it burly security men had jostled into position between William and the crowd, presumably ready to take the bullet. I decided from then on to keep my mouth shut and steer away from all things political.
I didn’t hang about after the conference. I was off my home turf, which always unsettles me, so after picking up the bare necessities in Harrogate I was soon back en route to Ravenseat. Not long after, the pickup went to the garage for some running repairs: the oil remained in the footwell.
‘Weell, look on’t bright side – it’ll nivver rust, Mand,’ said Clive.
On my next foray into civilization, after little Clemmie was born, I decided to take Clive with me, in the Land Rover this time. Clive hates the Land Rover almost as much as he hates shopping, but on this occasion it was vital he came along, as he needed some new jeans before the Christmas parish party. Typically, once again the cow that we’d been watching intently as she warmed to calve had decided today was the day, so after doing the bullocking up around the yard we oversaw the birth and then set off with Sidney, Annas and Clemmie on the back seat. Clive complained for the entire hour-long journey to Kendal.
‘No cup holders in here, Mand,’ he said.
‘Yep, I know that,’ I said. ‘But it’s not like we’ve gotta cup to put in one.’
That was just the start of the complaints.
‘Air conditioning,’ he said, pulling the knob on the front vent that opened an exterior flap. ‘Bit basic, in’t it?’
‘I like simple and basic,’ I retorted. ‘After all, I like thee.’
Once we were on the busier main road he muttered, ‘I can’t ’ear meself think. Can’t you go into a higher gear?’
‘Yer what?’ I said.
We were later than we’d planned, and Kendal was busy. I hadn’t been for years and, flummoxed by the traffic, I looked in vain for a parking space.
‘Multistorey,’ said Clive, pointing to the left. ‘Yer need to change lanes.’
A motorist flashed his lights and let me in; I indicated left, and edged forward towards a slip road and the multistorey. It was another tight turn to the left, and then into the building – or it would have been, if the Land Rover had fitted. As we went under the overhead barrier I actually ducked, even though I was in the driver’s seat. There was a loud bang, and when Clive got out to assess the situation, the long yellow-and-black-striped bar was still swinging back and forth from the impact.
‘Just keep gaan’,’ he said.
‘I’m not gaan’ any farther, I’m gonna be scrapin’ t’roof if I do,’ I said. ‘It’ll be like a blinkin’ dodgems, there’ll be sparks flyin’ all roads if I go in.’
‘Well, do summat,’ he said, aware that there was a sizeable queue of cars now lined up behind. ‘Mebbe if I let some wind outta t’tyres . . .’
‘Aye, an’ then what?’ I said. We were in danger of having a full-scale domestic right there in the middle of the road.
I backed up, and so did everybody else, as they had to let me out. Finally we decided that we’d park at a supermarket and walk into town. It didn’t take long to get Clive kitted up: he was very focused, knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t dally. I told him that I’d go and get us all a drink from the coffee shop on the high street.
‘I’ll stay ’ere an’ watch the world ga by,’ he said. ‘An’ bring us a sausage roll, an’ all.’
He settled himself on a bench in a pedestrianized area with the children. Sidney and Annas just messed about, getting in the way of shoppers and pressing their faces up to the shop windows, everything new and intriguing to them. Clemmie was fast asleep in the papoose, so I handed her over to Clive without her waking up and she lay quietly, nestled securely in his arms. Clive doesn’t mind looking after the children, positively revelling in the attention it brings him. Just leave him with a couple of the children and a baby, and women flock to him in droves.
‘It’s just like a stampede of coos comin’ at me,’ he says by way of feeble apology when I return to find him surrounded by a squadron of ladies.
‘Once that babby bawls out like a calf then they all come, I couldn’t hope to fend ’em off.’
As it happens, he never did get the coffee, as I got waylaid: distracted by a junk shop, set back from the main street, with a display of glazed chimney pots and stone troughs outside on the pavement. Peering through the mullioned windows, I could see an array of miscellaneous objects ranging from slightly unusual to the downright weird – military hats; a very large case of stuffed sea birds; oil paintings; and what I thought was spiked leather fetish gear, although it turned out to be pairs of old-style mountaineering crampons, all strapped together. (Clive said this showed how my mind works.) Among the ephemera were two large iron wheels which had perhaps once been par
t of a horse-drawn hay rake, or maybe even a shepherd’s hut. I had to buy them: Reuben would love them, they’d likely come in useful one day, and in the meantime they’d look nice on display in the farmyard. We haggled a bit, and eventually a deal was struck. Then I discovered just how heavy the wheels were, and remembered how far away the Land Rover was. At least, as they were wheels, I could roll them – and by a combination of lifting, pushing and guiding them in the right direction, I was soon back at the precinct. I swear I saw Clive groan as he spotted me coming.
‘A roll,’ he said. ‘I wanted a sausage roll, not a pair o’ wheels to roll.’
Sidney liked the wheels, and even Clive admitted to liking them – but not until very much later that day. We were both sweating by the time we got them back to the supermarket car park. I picked up the Christmas essentials with the children dancing their way up the aisles, full of excitement at the impending visit from Father Christmas, while Clive recovered from the ordeal in the cafe.
One year I asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and the answer was ‘Pet rabbits.’ I was amazed. There are hundreds of rabbits in the fields, easily spotted lolloping around at dusk, eating our precious grass. Forget Watership Down and Bright Eyes: Clive actively encourages the terriers, Chalky and Pippen, to try to catch themselves a furry feast. We’ve occasionally caught them ourselves, and I’ve made them into pies.
I need more animals to care for like I need a hole in the head, but I knew the children would be super pleased if we got them, so I wrestled momentarily with the dilemma: ‘Shall I be curmudgeonly, horrid mum, and say no, or should I just go with it?’ I’d spent my childhood asking for all manner of pets, and being turned down flat almost every time. As a result, I was guilty of letting my heart rule my head when it came to taking on unsuitable or impractical animals once I’d moved away from home and had my own little cottage at Crosby Ravensworth. I’d had pet lambs that cost me a fortune to rear on powdered lamb milk (when I hardly had enough money to feed myself) and a billy goat who smelt terrible, and who frequently broke free from his tether and ate people’s washing.
So it came to be that our barn loft became home to seven very sweet Dutch rabbits. The children brought them down into the house to play with them, which perplexed Chalky and Pippen, who had to be corralled safely away. One minute Clive was telling the dogs to see off the rabbits, the next the children were stroking and cuddling them . . . what’s a terrier to make of it?
It must have been during one of these playtimes that the Ravenseat rabbit-breeding programme was inaugurated. One morning Reuben rushed into the kitchen and announced: ‘You know them two boy rabbits that Miley and meself ’as?’
I guessed where this was going. ‘Barry and Gary?’ I said.
‘Aye. Well, there’s two baby rabbits in t’hutch with ’em this morning.’ He was bursting with excitement.
Clive, who was leaning against the Rayburn warming his hand round a mug of tea, smiled wryly as he looked at my swelling belly.
‘Aye, they say they breed like ’umans . . .’
In December even the barns look festive, with holly hanging from the rafters and beams above the cow byres – although this is the old-fashioned way to ward off ringworm, rather than welcome Santa.
The annual parish Christmas party is a chance for the children to let their hair down, take part in riotous games with other children and meet the great man himself, Santa. Getting eight excited children into their party clothes and to the church hall is a feat in itself and I’m ashamed to say that this year we were a little late and missed the start of the party. This had nearly disastrous consequences when, as I pulled up outside the hall, the beam of my headlights caught a startled half-dressed Santa. He was hopping about on one leg, his red trousers around his ankles as he struggled to pull them up over his jeans and wellies. He was last seen trying to regain some composure, realigning the beard and hair ensemble before he lurched off into the darkness behind the church wall. I quickly switched my headlights off, but I feared it was too late, the damage already done. Santa’s cover was blown.
‘Wasn’t that Matthew frae’t Hoggarths?’ said a perplexed Reuben.
‘Shut up,’ I hissed at him while Raven laughed uncontrollably.
Nothing more was mentioned about Santa or his alter ego and the children spent the evening stuffing themselves with party food that folks from up and down the dale produced. I go to great lengths to make sure that our edible offerings are up to the mark. There’s nothing more depressing than loading your uneaten cakes and buns back into the tin afterwards, or hearing my children trying to persuade their friends to eat our food. There have been times when I’ve overheard the children’s conversations and it’s all sounded very cheffy.
‘Trifle was nowt,’ one of my brood will say, as they bounce about in the Land Rover on the way back home.
‘They can’t slother thi’ trifle in booze like we do,’ I’ll say. Maybe I should be worried that they’ve got a taste for the finer things in life . . .
On Christmas Eve it’s off to our friend Elenor’s house for the Christmas carol service. Then home, the remainder of the day spent with the children frantically rewriting Christmas wish lists and sending them up the chimney in some last-ditch attempts to communicate with Santa. Then before bed they try bribery, with the ceremonial setting-out of mince pies, booze, carrots and a hay net for Santa and the reindeer. After every bedstead has a stocking tied to it, it’s time for sleep – but it can be a long time before the excited chatter from upstairs dies down.
Every year, the final instruction is the same: ‘Wake us at midnight so we can go to t’stables.’
Sometimes I do, other times I alter the kitchen clock so that we can get to bed at a reasonable time. I always like walking across to the stables on a clear, crisp night, the yard illuminated by the moon and the night sky a mass of twinkling stars. The little ones are invariably asleep by the time we call them, but the big ones, wrapped up well with kitles over their pyjamas, hats down over their ears, always hope to find the horses kneeling in honour of He who was of a stable born.
We try to get to the stables without alerting the horses, to catch them unawares so that they don’t feel the night’s cold after the warmth of their beds. Only once have we managed to get to the stable door without their super-sensitive ears hearing us approach. Once the first nicker is sounded, there’s a chorus of neighs to welcome us. The story is the same, every year. The young horses turn their heads and shoot us supercilious looks, questioning why we are invading their warm and peaceful stable. Little Joe, the veteran Shetland, who is now partially deaf, will be standing with his legs locked, his head bowed whilst dozing. Dreaming of what? I’m not sure, but I believe horses, like dogs, dream. I used to watch Deefa, my very first sheepdog, curled up amongst the cushions beside the fire, dozing when she felt relaxed and safe. After a while she’d emit little yelps and her tail would feebly half-wag while her legs pistoned back and forth, dreaming of chasing sheep or rabbits. The horses, who also have memories, may dream of the heady scents of summer meadow grass, or perhaps the tantalizing sweetness of a freshly picked apple.
I am overwhelmed with feelings of loss and grief when I see one of the stables, Meg’s, standing empty. Her blanket still hangs from the beam, gathering dust; her feed bucket still sits in the corner, an indentation in the side where she’d impatiently kick it. Her bridle, saddle, breastplate, numnahs, brushes, fringes, every mortal thing that a horse could ever want, though likely never needed, still sit in the porch. All of our horses have their foibles and idiosyncrasies, and Meg was no exception. She pulled contorted faces every morning, furling her lips right back, particularly if she caught sight of her arch-enemy and nemesis, Queenie. Meg was a character, strong-backed, sturdy and sweet-natured (Queenie would beg to differ on this), and we conquered everything together. We’d shown and won championships, and it was always a two-way thing: two hard-headed women (literally hard-headed in my case, after she bolted a
nd I fell off her). She was as happy to shepherd the sheep as she was in the show ring. I trusted her implicitly and she never wavered, never let me down.
This was what I thought about when, after spending almost twenty years together, I looked for the glint and flash in her eye and saw instead dullness and pain. She’d survived when the odds were stacked against her, enjoying one last summer at Ravenseat, wandering wherever her heart desired – usually through the best hay meadows, much to Clive’s annoyance.
Seeing this finest of horses fading away in front of my eyes was very painful, and the time eventually came to call an end to her silent suffering. I tried to talk myself out of it, but knew that I’d explored every avenue. Old age, illness and infirmity had caught up with my beloved Meg, and she needed me to give her the dignified end that she so deserved. We buried her on the hill overlooking the farm, her name etched in stone, forever preserved.
‘Meg, a finer nivver lifted leg.’ That’s her epitaph.
There’s no time to be maudlin. The cycle of life continues, and we now have Meg’s daughter Josie and granddaughter Della with us at Ravenseat.
Jobs need to be done on Christmas Day just the same as on any other day. We don’t mind: for us and farmers everywhere, the work goes on, and the children are used to this. It doesn’t mean that we don’t have fun, and Santa, of course, visits all the animals in the farmyard: the cows in the byre, the sheep in the shed and the dogs in the kennel. The dogs get a Christmas dinner from the turkey carcass, but maybe not for a few days, as the supersize mutant turkey takes a bit of wading through.
The cows get salt licks, and they happily spend many hours curling their long, abrasive tongues round the jagged pinky-white lumps until they are as smooth as pebbles. The sheep also enjoy mineral feed blocks, which come in two sizes: small rectangular ones for smaller flocks, or giant, heavy round ones for where there’s a lot of sheep and a lot of competition. We’re keen to give sheep an extra boost through the hardest winter months, and feed blocks seem to be the answer. We put them out on the heafs and they encourage the yows to stay in the vicinity, which helps us when we check on where they are.