The Various

by Steve Augarde

  This was impossible – the whole thing was just mad and impossible. She would have to get help. Tears of frustration blurred her vision as she made her way to the door. She couldn’t pull the lever back by herself, and she had no way of lifting the machine. It was as heavy as a car. And nobody could lift . . . she suddenly remembered the bottle jack.

  Midge knew what it was, and what it was for. She had once earned two pounds just for watching someone use one. The bottle jack, the bottle jack. She stood and looked at it, trying to remember what she had seen.

  Her mum had left for rehearsals one morning, and then had run back into the flat two minutes later. ‘Damn!’ she said, slamming the front door. ‘Got a flat tyre.’

  ‘Can’t you fix it?’ said Midge.

  ‘Got no thingamajig.’ said her mum. ‘No jack. The idiot who sold me the car forgot to give it to me.’

  ‘Phone the AA then.’

  ‘No time for that. They could take ages – it’s hardly an emergency. I’m supposed to be at rehearsal in twenty minutes. Rats! I’m going to have to ask Colin Bond. Aaaaaaghhh!’ she screamed.

  Colin Bond lived two floors up, and her mum could never get away from him. She reckoned he fancied her. He was a pest. But he could fix things.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if I ask Colin to come and change the wheel, then you’ve got to come with me. I’ll give you a pound, two pounds, to stay with me until it’s done.’

  ‘OK,’ said Midge, who would have watched anyway. And so Colin had come down, delighted to be needed, and he had brought his bottle jack with him. ‘Bottle jack,’ he had said to Midge, though she hadn’t asked. It was a silvery-blue thing. Mum had hovered around the car, subjected to Colin’s dull running commentary, and continually glancing at her watch. Midge had sat on the garden wall watching – and earning herself two pounds for being Mum’s chaperone.

  The car was a Citroen, small but quite high up off the ground, and Colin had to find a brick to put under the jack so that it would reach. Midge had hung around, dutifully, but vaguely interested nevertheless.

  ‘Screw in this little knob here, see, shove this handle in here, see, and pump it up and down. And . . . up she rises – easy peasy.’ He had changed the wheel and then said, ‘Course, when you’re ready, and you want ’er to come back down again, you just unscrew yer little knob, see, and down she blows.’ The whole thing sounded quite nautical.

  ‘Thanks, Colin,’ her mum had said. ‘You’re brilliant.’ She glanced at Midge and raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘My hero.’

  So Midge looked at the bottle jack, much bigger than the one Colin had used, and knew what it was for. But where was the handle? She found it, eventually, under the front axle of the tractor – which was probably where the jack would have been last used, the front tyre being flat. She worked out how the handle fitted into the jack, and tested it out. This time she would think before acting. No more stupid mistakes. She pumped the handle up and down, noting with satisfaction how the centre of the jack rose up. The freshly exposed metal tube, that slowly appeared as she worked the handle, was shiny and clean – in contrast to the blackened greasy outer casing of the object. It was a bit like a bottle, she supposed. She saw that by twisting the little tap-shaped thing on the side of the casing, the central tube could be slowly pushed back down again. And she blessed Colin Bond for that piece of information. She doubted that she would have figured it out for herself. Satisfied, then, that she knew how the thing worked, she dragged the heavy object over to the raking machine, and paused to consider where best to put it.

  It wasn’t going to be easy – but after walking around the machine a couple of times, she thought that she could see which part of the frame the jack should be placed under in order to rise the spiky wheels. She had to make a platform out of concrete blocks for the jack to stand on, and it was a struggle to then lift the heavy object and manoeuvre it into place – but she got it there somehow in the end, and found that it now just fitted beneath the frame. Good. She stood back, panting a little, and thought for a moment, trying to get it right. OK, then. The half-blocks made a firm base on the concrete floor, and the jack stood squarely on top of them. The centre of the jack was just below the corner of the frame. It all seemed right. Now she was ready. She looked at the poor animal, lying so still beneath the spiked wheels. Later. She would think of that later. ‘Well, here goes,’ she whispered.

  She fitted the jack handle into position and gingerly began to pump it up and down. The centre of the jack wasn’t moving. Something was wrong. Then she remembered the little tap thing on the side. She’d forgotten to screw it back up. She tightened it as much as she could, and started pumping again. This time it worked. The centre of the jack rose up smoothly and locked beneath the frame. Midge pumped some more and the frame began to lift. It was like a miracle! The frame creaked with every action of the handle, and Midge kept stopping to check that nothing bad was happening. She left the jack, cautiously, and bent down to look at the spiked wheel that had pierced the horse’s wing. It had moved. It had definitely moved. The spikes were no longer so deeply embedded. She pumped the handle again and again, till eventually the whole of the front end of the huge raking machine was well off the ground. She crouched down once more to look at the horse, and saw that the spikes were no longer even touching it. There was a clear space between the machine and the creature beneath it. It had worked! It had really worked! She stepped back, amazed at herself. It was easily, easily, the cleverest thing she had ever done.

  Now she had to somehow drag the horse from under the raking machine, and out into the open space of the barn floor, where she could look at it properly. She looked at the floor. It was filthy. And in thinking this, she suddenly realized that she was filthy too. Her dungarees were black with muck and grease, her hands and arms were ingrained with the same oily mixture. Her watch, new for her birthday, was in a similar state and . . . what? . . . was that really the time? A quarter to four? She couldn’t believe it was so late. Uncle Brian would be wondering where she could be. He would come looking for her perhaps and oh, this was terrible! But she couldn’t go back to the farm in this state – and anyway, what about the horse? There was so much to do yet! Think. Thinkthinkthink. She had her phone. She could phone the farm and say . . . what could she say? . . . that she wanted to stay out a bit longer? No better plan occurred to her, and at least Uncle Brian wouldn’t come looking for her then. She wiped her hands on the seat of her dungarees, walked outside the barn, and reached in her pocket for the mobile.

  The ringing tone went on for a long time.

  ‘Hullo?’ Uncle Brian’s voice sounded bleary. He’d probably been asleep, after all.

  ‘Uncle Brian, it’s Midge.’

  ‘Midge? Where . . . where are you? Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m up at the Summer . . . the pig-barn.’

  ‘The pig-barn?’ He was obviously struggling to comprehend.

  ‘Yes. I came here for a picnic, remember?’ Some picnic. ‘Uncle Brian, I’m having such a lovely time . . . exploring and everything. Do you mind if I stay a bit longer? I’m absolutely fine. It’s just that I’m having such a lovely time.’ She thought of the winged horse, injured, dying perhaps, and it felt so weird to be talking to Uncle Brian.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re safe, I suppose . . . I’ll, um, just do a bit of salad and ham or whatever for tea, and, uh, well that’ll be OK, then. Er, will it?’ Poor old Uncle Brian. It had obviously been a long crib game.

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Brian. Don’t worry if I’m a bit late. I’m not very hungry, and I’m absolutely fine. I’m only playing in the barn.’

  ‘ ’Kay, then. If you’re sure you’re all right. See you when I see you. Keep safe.’

  ‘I will. Bye.’ Right, then. To work.

  Midge took the large wooden rake and raked away as much of the muck from the barn floor as was possible. Then she broke open one of the musty straw-bales, using the jack handle to lever off the binder twine, and spread the str
aw around on the dirty concrete. She scuffed it and kicked it about with her trainers in an effort to dry the floor off as best she could. Grabbing the wooden rake once more, she scraped the wet dirty straw away. Now the floor looked much better.

  All the time she was thinking, thinking. Her first idea had been to drag the horse out on to some clean straw. But then she wondered if she could unfold the blue polythene sheeting and put that on top of a bed of straw instead, making a kind of mattress. It might be easier to tend to the animal’s wounds if it was on top of a polythene sheet, rather than half covered in dusty old straw. She was pleased with that idea. So she took armfuls of the grey, frowsty smelling straw and spread it liberally over the concrete floor, the dust making her sneeze. The heavy polythene sheet wasn’t so easy to spread out. It had been folded for so long that it really didn’t want to be unfolded ever again. After a few minutes of hopeless struggling, Midge hauled it outside, where there was more room to manhandle and coax it into becoming a sheet once more, rather than a solid block of plastic. She trampled the crackling material into submission, finally, and then dragged it back into the barn, where she was able to arrange it over the thick carpet of straw. It was heavily creased and lumpy, but it was a big improvement on what had been there before. At last she was ready. She looked at her watch. Ten to five. She could risk another hour, maybe, before going home. Suddenly she was starving. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Maybe she should have a sandwich. It seemed wrong, somehow, to be eating at such a time – but she could think and plan while she ate, and that might help her to do the right thing.

  Her picnic bag was still by the barn door, and she was about to delve into it when she caught sight of her blackened hands once more. The tap. The dripping tap at the side of the building – she could wash her hands there. The water didn’t remove much of the oil and grease but it did at least wash the dung off. Her hands were stinging from cuts and splinters, but there was little she could do about that. She grabbed a broken sandwich from the carrier bag and munched at it as she stepped back inside the barn. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness once more and she stood by the horse, astonished all over again by what was happening to her and what she had achieved. For the first time today she began to think seriously about what this animal could be, and how it could be. Such things simply did not exist. And yet they existed in books – sort of. Flying horses. Angels. Mermaids. Unicorns. Fairies. Had they all been real, once? Was this an ancient survivor from another time? Or was it just a freak thing, escaped from some mad zoo or laboratory? Yes, maybe it was an experiment. Maybe it had been bred in a secret lab somewhere, a weird cloning thing. That was possible. That seemed very possible. She finished her sandwich and thought about how she would get the animal on to the polythene mattress.

  Moving the poor creature wasn’t as difficult as she had imagined it might be. It was so light. She began by carefully folding its wings up into what seemed like their natural position – but oh, how strange they were to her touch. They were velvety and warm, yet bony at the same time. She didn’t like it at first – it was just too weird – but her initial repulsion turned to curiosity and then amazement at how delicately constructed they were. They were more bat-like than bird-like, but they also reminded her of paper fans or Chinese lanterns somehow, the way the pattern of quill-like bones could clearly be seen beneath the skin, and the way in which they folded up so neatly. The blood around the gaping holes in the damaged wing had congealed and turned dark. Midge was as gentle as she could be.

  Next, she brought the edge of the polythene sheet right up close to the horse and tucked it under both front legs and back. The legs were so slim that she was able to grasp the front pair with one hand and the back pair with the other, as she knelt on the polythene sheet. Then she simply pulled the little animal from under the raking machine and towards her, edged backwards a bit, pulled some more, and so gradually slid it on to the polythene. She hauled the unconscious creature in this fashion to the centre of the mattress, where the straw underneath was thickest. A damp smear of blood and muck had been left as a trail from the edge of the blue sheet to the middle. But at least the poor thing was on a dry and comfortable bed.

  Twenty past five. She could allow herself another half-hour or so to try and clean the patient up. But what was she to use? The sacking was going to be a blanket. The scrubbing brush? Too harsh, she thought. She was wearing a T-shirt, but she could hardly turn up at the farmhouse without a top on. Knickers and socks were the only other possibilities. She decided on her socks. But two small white summer socks would hardly do to wash a horse down with – even a miniature horse. Finally, she reasoned that it was only the wounds that were really important. If she could wash the dirt away from them, then the rest could wait.

  She ran round to the outside tap, carrying the battered pail, and half filled it with water. Back in the barn she pulled off her shoes and socks, put her shoes straight back on again, and carried the bucket unsteadily to the centre of the mattress where the horse lay. Putting her hand into one of the socks, she dipped it in the cold water. Then, using her free hand to gently extend the damaged wing, she carefully began to bathe the wounds. The sock quickly became stained pink, but Midge kept rinsing it in the bucket and applying clean water to the torn skin until all the muck and grit had gone. The wounds opened up again and fresh blood began to appear, but Midge felt that this was preferable to the filth that had been there before. When it was as clean as she could make it, she used her other sock to dab the area dry and then gently let the wing fold into a natural and, she hoped, comfortable position. When that was done, she ran round to the tap once more, tipped the dirty water away and refilled the bucket. She rinsed the dirty socks under the running tap. There was just time to wash the horse’s face, and then she would have to go.

  The animal was alive, she knew that. Gently sponging around the closed eyes and blood-spattered mouth, Midge was aware of the fast shallow breathing of the unconscious creature. It was still alive, and she would keep it alive. She would not let it go. She would pour strength and healing from her fingertips, she would wash away the pain. Unblinking, in a trance almost, she dipped her hand into the cool water again and again. Every movement she made was filled with care.

  Finally there was no more she could do. It was six o’clock. She had to go. The heavy old potato sack made a perfect horse-blanket, as she had known it would, and she draped it across the fragile and vulnerable creature as a shield against the long night ahead. As a last thought, she drank some of the orange squash from her plastic Coke bottle, tipped the rest away, and re-filled it with clean water from the tap. Kneeling by the horse, she gently tipped a little water from the bottle into its mouth. There was no swallowing reaction, as she had hoped there might be. A slight movement of the tongue, a twitch of the small delicate nostrils perhaps, but nothing more. Midge stayed a few moments longer, stroking the backs of her fingers against the horse’s cheek, then said, ‘I’ll be here in the morning, I promise,’ and left.

  She could hear the sound of a woodpecker, echoing from high up in the Royal Forest, as she walked quickly back down the hill towards Mill Farm

  Outside the farmhouse, Midge paused and listened. The noise of the television came through the open window of the downstairs sitting room. With a bit of luck she might be able to sneak in, and dash upstairs to the shower without Uncle Brian seeing her. She crept in through the front door and walked a little way along the corridor. The sitting room door was slightly ajar.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Brian!’ she called, in as cheerful and normal a voice as she could manage.

  ‘Midge! I was just beginning to wonder about you – I’m in the sitting room. Come and look at this.’

  ‘I’m just going to have a shower. Back in a bit!’

  ‘What?’

  But Midge had fled upstairs.

  She scrubbed and scrubbed, but ordinary shower gel made hard work of the oil and grease on her hands. They still looked pretty black, and the cuts
and scratches stung like anything. Washing-up liquid might do the trick she thought, but that would have to wait until she was back downstairs again. She gave her hair a quick blow with the hairdryer, changed straight into her pyjamas, and screwed her dirty clothes into a bundle. So far, so good. Now she had to get her clothes into the washing machine. She crept down the stairs and padded barefoot across the flagstone hall, through the kitchen and into the little washroom. She’d just managed to get the dirty bundle into the machine as Uncle Brian walked into the kitchen.

  ‘You there, Midge?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just washing some clothes.’ Midge had used the washing machine before, and now she quickly rotated the programme switch and pulled it towards her. The machine came on with a click and a hum. Uncle Brian stuck his head round the washroom door and looked at her guilty face.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘I think I can guess what’s going on here.’

  Midge looked horrified.

  ‘Yeeess,’ continued Uncle Brian. ‘This looks like a girl who has fallen into a ditch, rolled in umpteen cow-pats, sat in a pond, and then thought she could get away with it undetected. I do have children of my own you know,’ he added. He wasn’t really angry, she could tell. ‘Anyway, as long as you’re not hur . . . Good God, girl! Look at your hands! Let me see them. What have you been doing?’