by Tracy Garton
‘You didn’t deserve that, you know,’ I shouted from the safety of the right side of the fence.
With a flounce, I strode back towards my car. If he wanted to be left alone, he could have it that way. I sat in the driver’s seat getting my breath back before starting the ignition. Then, just as I was about to pull away, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror. My hair was frizzy from the rain, where my hood had slipped off as I’d darted back across the field. I had smears of mud across my face, and my cheeks were flushed from having run the fastest I’d run since cross-country in school.
Despite myself, I felt a smile creep across my face. What a shambles. Just wait until Steve hears about this, I thought. He’ll be rolling on the floor with laughter. I’d been feeling so sorry for that poor mule, and this was how he’d repaid me.
I made it to the video shop just in time to start work, and headed straight to the staff loo to clean myself up over the sink. I’d done the best I could with a tissue I’d found in my handbag, but the telltale smears of mud were still there. I didn’t fancy trying to explain this one to my mum. I already felt like a right idiot.
‘Are you all right to get on with a bit of stocktaking?’ my mum asked when I finally reappeared.
‘No problem,’ I said, brushing the last crumbs of drying mud off my jeans.
I’d got away with it. I spent the rest of the morning holed up in the back room, checking our VHS tapes off on a sheet. But still my mind kept drifting back to that blooming mule. He didn’t look too skinny or mistreated, I thought to myself. Just a bit muddy. I’d managed to get a better look while he was stood there munching away on my carrot, the cheeky git. Still, though, the idea of him there all alone was bothering me.
I wondered whether his field mate had been taken out for a ride, or a trip to the vet’s. Perhaps he wasn’t really alone. But then again, Steve reckoned he’d been all by himself the night before too. Or maybe he’d just been put in the field as a temporary measure until he went off to a proper home. I tried to make myself concentrate on the task at hand. Those videos wouldn’t count themselves.
By the end of my shift, in spite of myself, I’d nearly forgotten how cross I’d been when he tried to boot me over the fence. Instead, I was feeling sorry for him.
‘Did you meet the donkey then?’ Steve asked, as I slumped down on the sofa between him and Jenna, who was snoring away.
‘It’s a mule actually,’ I said, teasing him. ‘And he’s a proper nasty bugger.’
‘Couldn’t you tempt him with the carrot? Did he not fancy making friends?’ Steve asked.
‘Oh, he had the carrot all right,’ I said, and started recounting my morning.
Steve was in stitches as I described how I’d leaped over the fence, with seconds to spare. I started giggling too.
‘Seriously, though, he wasn’t happy by himself. Who do you reckon he belongs to?’ I said.
‘No idea. I’ll ask around, see if we can suss your horrible friend out.’
This time there would be no space to stash the mule away in a cosy box at the bottom of the wardrobe, but I’d already started hatching a rescue plan. There was something about him that had really found a place in my heart. I guess you could say I’d fallen for him. If no one else wanted him, I sure did.
2
Horsing Around
‘Hello again, you horrible thing,’ I said, with more than a hint of affection.
It was Sunday and, no surprise, I was back down at the field to see the mule. He was still pacing around, just as he had been the day before. However, as a small mercy, the previous night had been a clear one and the mud was starting to dry up. The dirt was flaking off his legs, and he looked scruffier than the last time I’d seen him. I could tell that his mood hadn’t improved either, as he fixed me with a stroppy gaze. It was as if he was thinking, Not you again.
I wasn’t taking any chances this time. There was no way I was getting back in that field. I’d brought backup too, in the form of Steve. If the mule decided to have a kick at us, at least there was only a fifty per cent chance it would be me that his filthy hooves struck.
‘I know what you mean, there’s something about him,’ Steve said thoughtfully, watching him stare us out.
‘It’s like he’s playing hard to get. He’s making it as difficult as he can for us to like him, but for some reason that only makes me like him more,’ I said.
‘I still wish I’d been here yesterday to see you in that field with him,’ Steve said, chuckling.
‘Yeah, I bet you do. Lob him that carrot then, and we’ll go and see what we can find out about him.’
He chucked it over into the field. Then, without taking his suspicious eyes off us, the mule stalked over and crunched it down. He might not have wanted to be our friend, but he certainly wasn’t shy about taking food from us. Not that I expected him to have any manners, after what I’d seen the day before.
‘Right, let’s start at the pub,’ Steve said with a grin.
Before long, we were perched at the bar in the Black Lion, with half a lager for me and a pint of bitter for Steve in front of us.
It sounds like a cliché, but the Black Lion really was the hub of the village. It has sadly closed down now, but back then it was the most popular drinking spot around. It was a traditional old inn, with a bar area and a separate lounge. Many a friendship had been made, broken and then mended over a pint in there. And, like any good landlord, Wilf behind the bar always had a handle on the latest comings and goings. It was only sensible that our search for the owner of the mule should start with him. If that happened to mean we’d buy a pint or two first, well, that was just a happy coincidence.
We were halfway through our drinks when a quiet lull at the bar gave us a chance to ask.
‘Here, Wilf, I don’t suppose you know anything about that mule down in Holme Pierrepont, do you?’ Steve asked.
‘Hmm, I noticed him a couple of days ago too,’ Wilf said, as he wiped down the wooden bar top. ‘Not sure who he belongs to, though, if that’s what you mean. Why, did you fancy buying him or something?’
Steve laughed, and I felt my cheeks flush. I hadn’t mentioned it to Steve yet, but that was exactly what I’d been thinking. Although I had a funny feeling that Steve might have been considering the same too.
‘I’m sure someone will know. I’ll ask around for you,’ the landlord said, before heading off to take some dirty glasses down to the kitchen.
We finished our pints and headed home for the evening, both in quiet contemplation. As my brain whirred, I couldn’t help but get ahead of myself. If we did buy the mule, where would we keep him? I wondered. Our garden would be no home for him. We had a carefully paved patio area, with a fairly small patch of lawn. Plus, I didn’t think our tortoises, Walter and Betty, would appreciate their peace being invaded by that moody animal. But I was sure I’d figure something out. Where there’s a will there’s always a way.
For the next few days I kept everything crossed that Wilf at the Black Lion would have some news for us. In the meantime, I was checking daily on our mule. I knew he didn’t actually belong to me and Steve, but already I was thinking of him as ours. By this point I was satisfied that he didn’t need any immediate help. He seemed healthy enough, and he had plenty of grass to eat. He couldn’t live on his own forever, though.
Then, one evening Steve popped in at the pub for a quick pint after work with a mate. He came home with a grin on his face, looking ever so pleased with himself.
‘I’ve got a phone number for our mule owner,’ he said, waving a scrap of paper. ‘Wilf managed to track him down for us. Apparently he does the donkey rides over at a beach in Lincolnshire somewhere.’
I glanced at the kitchen clock. Seven thirty p.m. It certainly wasn’t too late to give the bloke a ring.
‘Give it here then,’ I said, walking over to the corner of the kitchen where the phone was mounted on the wall.
I didn’t even pause to think about what
I was going to say if the man answered. I was too excited. It felt like an age before a grumpy voice on the other end snapped, ‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hi. I was wondering about that mule you’ve got down in Holme Pierrepont. It is yours, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘That miserable sod? Yes, he’s mine unfortunately. Why, do you want him?’ he replied.
The way he was describing the mule, I immediately knew we were talking about the same one. Surely there couldn’t be a second mule as badly tempered as ours. However, I was a bit taken aback. I was expecting to have to use a bit of persuasion to bring up the offer of a sale.
‘Well, maybe, are you selling?’ I said.
‘If you want him, you’re welcome to him. Some travellers passing through the area flogged him to me as a perfect seaside donkey. He’s ever so placid, they said. Well, I was well and truly conned,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘I tried him on the beach, but he was having none of it. He’d have happily killed a child. I was only putting him in that field until I found something else to do with him. He’s no use to me,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to pay me, though.’
It seemed almost laughable. Here was a bloke with a mule he didn’t even want, and I was potentially offering him a good home. Still, he wanted me to pay him, and at £250 the price was steep. If anything, he should have been offering to pay me for doing him a favour. I should have told him where to go, and put the phone down. Yet I couldn’t give up on my rescue plans at the first hurdle.
‘Give me a day or two, and I’ll call you back,’ I said.
I turned to Steve, who’d been hanging on every word of the phone call.
‘It’s his, but he wants two hundred and fifty pounds.’ I knew we didn’t have that kind of money to spare.
‘Let’s see what we can do then,’ Steve said.
In that instant, I knew I wasn’t going to have to sell Steve the idea of taking in the mule. He was almost as smitten with the idea as me. But first we had some planning to do.
There wasn’t much we could do about the financial situation. The simple fact was that we didn’t have £250 to spend. But fortunately, our families were generous. We made a few phone calls, explained the plan, and soon, by begging and borrowing, we had scraped together enough cash. I wrote out a cheque and popped it in the post to the owner, John Murphy, who lived out at Addlethorpe near Skegness.
The next immediate problem was where the mule would live. I’d already ruled out the garden, and we didn’t have any other land. However, I did know a farmer who owned some land in between Radcliffe-on-Trent and Holme Pierrepont and I managed to talk him into letting us put our new mule in with a herd of his cows. That way the mule would have some company, and one more mouth nibbling the grass wouldn’t put the farmer out.
We arranged to go and pick up the mule the next Saturday morning. I’d bought a brand-new head collar and a rope, ready for the job. There was just one more thing to sort out. We couldn’t keep calling him ‘him’. He needed a name. The owner already had that covered, though. When I phoned to double-check the handover arrangements I found out he was called Muffin.
‘What other name could there be for a mule?’ I said to Steve, laughing.
‘Sounds good to me,’ Steve agreed.
Neither Steve nor I had ever watched the original BBC children’s TV show starring the Muffin the Mule puppet. It ended in the 1950s, so a bit before our time. But we knew the character.
So that Saturday we set off to the field armed with the head collar, a name, and a packet of ginger biscuits. Just because Muffin was now ours didn’t mean he’d behave for us. I was ready to use bribes if we had to, and everyone knows that horses love a ginger snap. I was keeping my fingers crossed that our grouchy mule would too.
I took a deep breath for courage, and once again climbed over into the field. Steve and I had a plan. We’d get as close to Muffin as we could, then I’d scatter some chunks of biscuit for him to crunch on. We’d inch closer and closer, offering more biscuits along the way, until Steve could slip the head collar on. Then we’d lead Muffin out of the gate, down the road, and into the cow field where the farmer would be waiting for us. He’d trot off happily to enjoy his new home, and we’d be sitting back at the house with a cuppa and a biscuit before we knew it. It sounded so simple, but of course it didn’t prove to be that easy.
We weren’t surprised to find that Muffin was still his same old surly self. He fixed us with a mardy glare, and I was ready to make a run for it again. But Steve decided he wasn’t going to have any of his nonsense. He started to make his way across to the far side of the field, hiding the head collar behind his back, out of Muffin’s view. He hissed at me to follow with the biscuits. My heart was racing as I rustled a couple out of the packet, and threw them towards Muffin.
‘I’ve got some lovely biscuits for you, come on,’ I said soothingly.
Muffin looked less than impressed with our arrival. However, he couldn’t resist a delicious titbit. He took a few steps forward and crunched down a piece of biscuit in one gulp. Then he gave us a suspicious look, and I could have sworn he was wondering what the catch was. It was like he was thinking, Why are these awful people giving me such tasty treats? His belly won over his brain, though, and he came a bit closer to snaffle another ginger snap.
As he went in for the third bit of biscuit, I gave Steve a silent nod. This was our chance. I grabbed another biscuit and waved it in front of me to keep Muffin’s attention occupied. Meanwhile, Steve deftly swooped forward with the head collar.
For a moment I thought the job was done. But then Muffin tossed his head away just in the nick of time and let out an almighty ear-shattering bray, before cantering off to the furthest side of the field.
‘Bugger, we should have cornered him,’ Steve said.
‘It’s a good job I bought the large packet of biscuits,’ I added.
So we headed over to the other side of the field and began the whole performance again. We quickly realised that Muffin was only too happy to eat our biscuits, but he was damn sure we wouldn’t get our hands on him.
To cut to the chase, literally, we were stalking that flipping mule around the field for nearly two hours. Eventually, exhausted and thoroughly fed up, Steve managed to outsmart him. He pulled the head collar on, giving me the rope to hold to make sure we didn’t lose him. Muffin realised he’d been captured, and he was furious. He tried to bolt across the field, pulling me along with him. I was holding on to that rope for dear life, shouting at Steve for help. He got his hands on the rope too, and together we managed to tug Muffin over towards the gate.
After a quick breather, we started to lead Muffin down the lane still bucking and making a spectacle of himself. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him so Steve took the rope. The last thing we needed was him making a run for it. If we let him go, there wouldn’t be enough biscuits in the world to tempt him back. Steve’s poor arms were knackered from the effort by the time we made it to Muffin’s new home, where the farmer was waiting.
The field was absolutely huge, so there was plenty of room for one more despite the fifty or so cows already in there. The ground was covered with lush grass, and Muffin was tugging at the rope in an effort to get in there to enjoy himself.
‘Can you get the gate open?’ I said, calling ahead.
‘He looks like a lively one,’ the farmer said, frowning as he creaked the gate on its hinge. He didn’t know the half of it.
‘I think he’s just excited about making friends,’ I said. It was best the farmer was kept in the dark about how much trouble Muffin had already caused us. I’d promised he’d be as good as gold, and I was sure he’d settle down once he was in there with the cows.
Steve whipped off the head collar, and the farmer clicked the metal gate shut as Muffin trotted quite happily off towards the black and white herd. I breathed a sigh of relief. The rescue mission was complete and now I could relax.
We stood making conversation with the farme
r, watching to make sure Muffin was happy in his new home. For a few minutes he was. And then, without warning, he let out a tremendous screech. I winced from the noise; I’d never heard anything like it. By the looks of it, neither had the cows. They were completely spooked, and bolted in every direction.
I stood there gawping in shock as Muffin started chasing them around the field. It was like he thought it was a fantastic new game. He was having the time of his life, but the cows were terrified. With no escape route, they started jumping over the hedge into the road, and running away in both directions.
My stupor was interrupted as the farmer began shouting filthy obscenities about our Muffin.
‘You don’t want to know what I’m going to do with that sodding thing when I get my hands on him! Do something! Get him out of there, and move him into the next field! My sheep will show him he’s not the boss!’ he yelled, before hotfooting it down the lane after his herd.
The cows were long gone, and Steve and I were totally lost for words. Meanwhile, Muffin was still tormenting the few cows that were left in the field.
‘Well, that didn’t go to plan,’ I said, cringing with embarrassment at the chaos we’d caused.
‘I thought you said mules like to make friends? In fact, isn’t that why we’ve just shelled out two hundred and fifty pounds for him?’ Steve said.
‘Obviously not this one,’ I replied. I didn’t know what else to say. I was completely dumbfounded. Sure, Muffin hadn’t exactly taken to me or Steve. But still, I hadn’t expected this.
We climbed over the fence, and I groped in my pocket to find the couple of ginger biscuits we had left. I had this overwhelming sense of doom. It was like a bad déjà vu. Except we really had been here before, just half an hour earlier. I sighed as I realised I wouldn’t be enjoying that much-needed hot cup of coffee any time soon.