Cow Girl

by Kirsty Eyre

  McDonald’s is every bit as dirty as I want it to be. I’ve never been mad-keen on junk food but never has a spicy chicken burger tasted so good. It also feels good to be able to wander round shops, walk alongside people and feel part of the human race. I potter into Waterstones and am leafing through Caitlin Moran’s latest paperback when Maria calls.

  ‘Bilbo!’

  ‘Hello, stranger!’ I say. God knows why as I hate it when people address me like that.

  ‘How are you getting on up there?’

  ‘Good,’ I say, putting the book back on the shelf. ‘Well, good if you discount tired, worried and sore.’

  ‘How long do you think you’ll be up there for?’

  My whole body tightens, as if it’s been asked to shrink a dress size. ‘Who knows,’ I say, short of breath. ‘He hasn’t even had the operation yet.’

  ‘Sorry, Bilbo,’ she says softly.

  ‘Don’t be nice to me,’ I say, making my way over to non-fiction. ‘I’ll cry if you’re nice to me.’

  ‘OK,’ she says, her voice sharpening. ‘I’ll be nothing short of a heartless cunt.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I say. Another celebrity cookbook.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but a guy from my theatre group is staying in your room just for a few weeks while you’re away. You know, to pay the rent.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I thought it might help both of us out.’

  I know it makes sense, but it still feels a little bit like I’ve been evicted, not only from my home but also from my own life. From my friends, from my flat, from my job, from gaily gadding about Soho in the company of kindred spirits to Peak District purgatory.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘As long as he doesn’t smoke and has control of his bladder.’

  ‘He’s nice.’ She sounds coy and evasive, neither of which is in keeping with her personality.

  ‘What sort of nice?’ I say, moving over to the Lifestyle section, where several bookshelves are dedicated to Agriculture. I move swiftly onto Music.

  ‘Just nice.’

  I recognize this tone of hers. ‘You’ve slept with him, haven’t you?’

  ‘How did you know?’ she says quickly.

  ‘I have known you for six years, Maz! So, what’s he like?’

  ‘He’s called Darius and he’s a swimwear model.’ Do swimwear models called Darius exist outside of Jilly Cooper books? ‘You’d like him, Bilbo. He’s really down to earth.’

  She lists the various things Darius has going for him and I make a mental note to disinfect everything when I get my room back. If I get my room back.

  On my way out of Waterstones, I get a message from Joely.

  From: Joely (future wife) Chevalier

  Bonjour de Seoul! Thanks for the birthday messages. I’m having the best time ever – we went Mario Go-Karting – check out the photos! How’s it going on the farm? How’s your dad? I miss you too. Gros bisous.

  It stings – Joely spending her birthday on the other side of the world with her ex-boyfriend, who is clearly still besotted with her. The best time ever. My stomach flops over itself. I open the attachments: Joely in a Power Ranger-type suit, helmet under arm, about to step into a souped-up go-kart against a backdrop of skyscrapers. Joely sitting in a go-kart giving the thumbs up. Joely and Christophe Concordel, arms around each other’s waists in matching outfits. His, a masculine steel grey. Hers, hot pink. Can’t he just fuck off to one of his yachts and get shipwrecked?

  Surely, she must know this would hurt me. Were the shoe on the other foot, I certainly wouldn’t be sending her photos of me and Neve, all pally the other side of the world. I know he’s her boss but still, an ex is an ex and, to him, she’ll always be the one that got away. I bristle at the thought of their bodies touching. Her hand on his shoulder. His arm around her waist. It’s the little things that hurt.

  To: Joely (future wife) Chevalier

  Great stuff! Glad you had fun. All OK here. Ridgecroft Country Fair tomorrow so I have to dress up again – this time as a cow! Have a fantastic evening and speak tomorrow xxx

  CHAPTER TEN

  MADEMOISELLE

  From: Maria

  Lesbian hen party conundrum #121. One of the girls mailed me saying she’s got pulsating vulva straws and vulva ice-cube moulds. PULSATING VULVA STRAWS, Bilbo!!!! Please tell me that’s not a thing. How fucking hideous!!

  @SCIENCE MATTERS

  DNA. The Internet. Antibiotics. Medical Imaging. Artificial Intelligence. What will be YOUR scientific discovery?

  From: Dad

  Loved the photo of you and Speedo but he does look like he’s porked up a bit. Go easy on the dog biscuits and make sure the pair of you do the village on foot!

  From: Rachel Fletcher

  Hi Billie. Sorry my dad won’t let me help on the farm

  I’ll still do the pantomime race with you though. C U @ Ridgecroft @ 12

  Ridgecroft is an immaculate patchwork of unframed fields maintained by roving Swaledale sheep. I drive up to the west wing of the sort of country mansion you’d find in a high-budget British period drama, Grandma attempting the cryptic crossword in the passenger seat as the Land Rover vibrates over cattle grids. Inside the grounds, a large man trussed up in tweed directs us to the overspill car park, where row upon row of four-by-fours unleash families, buggies, picnic blankets, wheelchairs, West Highland white terriers in tartan coats and Chihuahuas in waterproof onesies; every man and his dog.

  Grandma rummages in the boot, glass tinkling as she rearranges homemade jam into a large Tupperware box. ‘I thought I’d try and offload some gooseberry jelly,’ she says, wiping her hands down her coat. ‘God knows, we could do with an extra bob or two.’

  We join the procession, Speedo snuffling at a pile of banana skins overflowing from a bin that hasn’t been emptied since yesterday’s show. A bugle honks over the hillside and a 1960s BBC-type voice booms over the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of the former Cressbrookdale Master of Foxhounds, here to sell off the remainder of his retired pack of dogs. A man in a pristine red felt blazer with shiny gold buttons appears on horseback, surrounded by a dozen or so high-energy, sniffing, yelping beagles. On the other side of the car park, a ragtag bunch of students brandish posters of half-dead foxes.

  ‘For fox sake, keep the ban!’ they chant.

  Country pomp is my idea of hell, but there’s no way out of it; I’ve become part of the mass influx of visitors heading towards the Grand Ring. We drop Grandma’s gooseberry jelly off with two ladies sitting at a table with their legs too wide apart, moaning about having no change. A ‘rodent race’ is about to start next to them, involving a man in a turquoise tracksuit shoving a ferret down a transparent tube, while a weasel sits licking his balls. Grandma sidles up to me just as a rat is being bribed into another pipe with a Cadbury’s Brunch Bar.

  ‘They’re asking if it’s organic!’ she harrumphs.

  ‘The Cadbury’s Brunch Bar?’ I say.

  ‘The jam!’ She shuffles to the next stall to rummage through bric-a-brac.

  Speedo follows the scent of roast duck to a catering van. We’ve got a whole two hours to kill until the pantomime cow race, which is due to follow a medieval jousting display in the Grand Ring, and I’m already hungry.

  ‘Fancy a butty?’ I shout over the scream of jets as the Red Arrows fly overhead in triangle formation.

  Grandma lifts her foot away from a ferret on a lead. ‘Not if it’s on cheer-whatsit!’

  ‘Ciabatta?’ I say.

  ‘Full of holes and plays havoc with your fillings.’ She squints at the fluffy blue vapour trails blotting the sky.

  The rodent race is declared a draw and money is refunded as none of the animals makes it to the finishing line. Grandma gets sucked into a conversation about mint sauce with one of the jam ladies, so I wander over to the AGA Rangemaster cookery theatre marquee, where a girl in leather trousers is handing out organic plain puffed-rice samples.

  ‘Were they roasted in an Aga?
’ I say, Speedo yanking me in the opposite direction.

  ‘No.’ She avoids eye contact and fiddles with her apron.

  ‘OK.’ I conclude our conversational cul-de-sac and make to leave, but then see Lorna and Guy, hovering at the entrance to the marquee in matching Parsons-Bonneville polo shirts.

  I attempt to resuscitate the culinary chat with the Aga girl. ‘I’ll take a packet!’

  ‘Billie!’ Lorna waves a packet of smoked ostrich biltong at me.

  My chest feels hot and grainy. It’s one thing having to interact with Lorna at the farm on matters strictly veterinarian, but it’s an altogether different proposition when it’s out of hours and Guy is involved. I crouch down to feign interest in a bottle of flaxseed oil until Lorna’s elongated shadow looms over me, the peak of her baseball cap disproportionately large, her arms as long as ladders, her fingers like those of Edward Scissorhands.

  ‘Hi, Billie!’ she beams, all freckles and chapped lips.

  I put the flaxseed oil back and look up. Guy’s cheeks are smothered in fluorescent pink sunblock, despite it being not quite warm enough for a T-shirt. He smells of the sort of aftershave you’d win in a tombola, and wears zip-off-leg trousers converted to knee-length shorts.

  ‘How do?’ he says.

  ‘Not bad.’ I can’t stop staring at their matching polo shirts.

  Guy lights up a cigarette and is immediately asked to move outside.

  ‘Any news on your dad’s operation?’ Lorna pulls her cap down over her forehead.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say, raking my top teeth over my bottom lip. It’s been four weeks, but it feels as if we’ve been waiting forever for this operation. God knows what it must feel like for Dad, especially having been told twice that it’s going to happen, only to be gazumped by patients in more urgent need.

  She reaches for my knee and then thinks better of it, placing her hand safely back in her pocket.

  A loud whirr above the marquee becomes a deafening thump, thump, thump and the people around me hang onto their hats, bags and hair as an enormous gust of wind lifts the sides of the marquee, sending organic plain puffed rice flying. It feels like we’re about to take off, people clutching their belongings, hands pressed over ears as they make their way outside. Anoraks inflate, leaflets dance, and grass is swept to one side by the force of the wind as a giant set of gleaming propeller blades slice through the air. A shiny blue helicopter with the words ‘Huxley-Lipyeat’ emblazoned across the side hovers over the Grand Ring. Speedo squeaks, burying his nose into my legs. A huge man pours out of the helicopter, shirt billowing. Wolfgang Huxley-Lipyeat has landed.

  ‘I’d better say hello!’ Guy straightens his shirt collar and accelerates in the direction of the Distinctly British Elite tent.

  ‘The Wolf!’ Lorna pops a small strip of biltong into her mouth.

  I nod. ‘My dad’s landlord.’

  ‘Though I think all the foofaraw today is about Mademoiselle,’ she says, mistaking my private analysis of the word ‘foofaraw’ for a look of intrigue. ‘Come on, she’ll be with him. You have to meet her.’

  My gut instinct is to pretend I need the loo, buy myself a large slab of chocolate-coated flapjack, and hide under a tree until I have to do the pantomime cow race, but I need to check out this brute who is holding my dad’s future to ransom with the freehold.

  I follow her into a crowded marquee, where a proud man in a brown suit pins a winner’s rosette to a Tamworth pig alongside a line-up of British saddlebacks. Sheep bleat and shears buzz as a lesson in wool-weaving gets underway in the corner. At the back, a group of people hang around a makeshift stage.

  ‘There she is!’ Lorna points to a nervy woman in ribbed tights, who leads a cow into the marquee. ‘A thoroughbred Holstein Friesian worth just shy of a million.’

  ‘Mademoiselle is the cow?’ I say.

  ‘Not any old cow. The most perfectly proportioned cow on earth. Perfect udder size, perfect teats, perfect genes.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I didn’t know they did Miss World for cows.’

  The energy in the room changes when a huge man blusters through the crowd, the medals pinned to his enormous chest clinking against each other like miniature cymbals. He has a chocolate Labrador at his heel and smiles and nods as he makes his way to the stage, shaking hands and patting shoulders.

  Lorna leans towards me, her breath oaky with hickory. ‘The Wolf!’

  He takes to the stage, the microphone lost in his chubby fingers. His smile is open and friendly, his cheeks rosy and his hair is a mess of white curls; he’d make a great Father Christmas, if he wasn’t holding farmers and their farms to ransom. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he addresses the room. ‘May I introduce the World Dairy Exposition’s Supreme Grand Champion of All Breeds! I give you: Mademoiselle.’

  A steady ripple of applause fills the marquee.

  ‘Farmers are bidding thousands for her embryos.’ Lorna folds her arms over her chest conspiratorially. ‘He makes hundreds of thousands each time she calves.’

  I weigh him up, this mountain of a man. He must be thirty stone. Pound for pound, I’m probably the weight of one of his legs. The microphone zings and crackles. Out of breath and huffing through his chins, the Wolf taps at it with frustration. ‘Lovely to see so many of you here today! I love hosting the Country Show. It’s one of the best events of the year. Be happy, be merry, have fun!’ He salutes everyone before handing Mademoiselle and the microphone back to the lady in the green tights and joining his friends for a pint of locally brewed cider.

  I pull at my eyebrow, bristling with unease. This is the man who has got my family over a barrel with the freehold and who owns most of the land around here. He has too much authority, telling people what they can and can’t do, and yet he seems perfectly approachable. Now is a good a time as any, I decide.

  I wander over and introduce myself. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello.’ He gives me his full attention.

  ‘I’m Billie Oliver, John Oliver’s daughter.’

  ‘Who?’ He shakes my hand and studies my face like he’s trying to recall it.

  ‘My dad owns Fernbrook Farm.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘It would be great to talk about the freehold sometime,’ I blurt.

  A group of middle-aged men in wax jackets approach him with a huge silver trophy and lots of handshakes. He turns back to me. ‘You should talk to my lawyer, love. Here.’ He hands me a card and turns away again.

  Slowly I retreat, feeling like I did when I was five and Auntie June slapped my hand hard for trying to pinch a marzipan robin off the Christmas cake before it had been cut.

  Lorna looks at me, eyes wide.

  ‘I’d better get off to the cow race,’ I say.

  ‘Me too,’ Lorna says. ‘I’m judging you!’

  Is this legal? I’ve spent the best part of my life being judged by Lorna Parsons.

  To: Rachel Fletcher

  Hi Rach. Not seen you here yet so I’ll meet you at the paddock in 10

  It’s raining heavily by the time the pantomime cow race is due to start. Everyone’s either fucked off home or scarpered under the tarpaulin canopies of burger vans the other side of the car park. Half a dozen die-hard OAPs from Grandma’s bridge club crowd around a flask of coffee with outstretched hands, wielding polystyrene cups, but that’s it in the way of an audience. The paddock is set up with dog-eventing obstacles that we, as two-man cows, are supposedly going to jump, swerve, tilt, push and rotate over and around before crossing the finishing line, which has been washed away by the rain. The earth is churned up with ankle-breaking divots from the jousting. According to the betting stakes board, I am tipped to win 3–1, though God knows why. I look around for Rachel.

  To: Rachel Fletcher

  Rach, where are you? We’re due to start. Just getting into the cow costume. B

  The cow-print costume smells stale and musty. I pull it over my ankles and zip myself into the back end, Grandma giving me gyp for getting the tail
all wonky. What is it about me and dressing up at the moment? The material is thick and itchy.

  Three ‘cows’ line up: two brown and one white. I am ‘Cow Pat’, one of two Holstein Friesians, the other making its way out of the gents’ Portaloo.

  ‘Ready?’ Lorna shouts over a megaphone from the other side of the paddock.

  ‘No!’ I shout, my waist lost in baggy stomach chamber. ‘I’m one man down!’

  Three pantomime cows become four as the other Holstein Friesian squelches through the mud into the Grand Ring. From the look of it, Lorna and Guy are having a ding-dong, handing the megaphone back and forth to each other. Eventually, Guy takes the megaphone and steps onto the winner’s podium whilst Lorna strides through the muddy paddock towards me. I assume she’s going to reprimand me, until she gestures for the cow’s head.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say, scanning the field for Rachel.

  Silently, she steps into the front of the cow costume. Unlike the hind legs, the front legs are elasticated at the ankle. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t get them over her wellingtons, so she’s forced to remove each boot, one at a time, leaning first on Grandma and then on me for support. Awkwardly, her hands grasp my shoulders, the cow’s body twisted back on itself in almost a figure of eight. She then becomes aware that she’s touching my bra strap through my T-shirt and shuffles her hands out wide but doesn’t have enough shoulder to grip onto and promptly loses balance, her socked foot plunging into the mud. Her face looks like Maria’s did when she got into the unheated lido in February; a kind of wide-eyed, wide-mouthed plasticine face of horror.