Cow Girl

by Kirsty Eyre

  Dad is standing, nose pressed against the window, when I get back.

  ‘How many did we lose?’ he says, taking a biscuit and waggling it at the field opposite.

  My stomach drops hard and fast. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The cows are all inside despite it being sunny, and the field is like a mud slide where things have been dragged across it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I fling my arms around his neck and dissolve into the little girl who spilt milk all over his antique mahogany desk at the age of seven. ‘It was the oak tree and there was an electrical storm and the cows had gone to shelter and the water soaked into the tree roots and I’ve read that sap coursing through trees makes a good conductor and … Three.’ My chin wobbles. ‘We lost three cows. I’m so sorry, Dad.’

  He cuddles me into his armpit and kisses the top of my head. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ He stares out of the window for what feels like an age. ‘And how did you …?’ He waves his chocolate digestive in a circle.

  ‘I found a fallen stock collection company in your notes.’

  He pulls me to his chest, his wedding band digging into my cheek. ‘I’ll be back in the driving seat soon, Bilberry. I promise.’

  I close my eyes and wish it were true.

  Dad and I spend the next hour on the sofa, Speedo lying across our laps like a duvet. On the television, an LGBT literary agent is being interviewed in the Channel 4 studios.

  ‘There’s a common misconception that straight people don’t want to watch, listen or read about gay or trans characters,’ he says. ‘It’s about time we put that right. Gay heroes are part of everyday life. Surely, they should be celebrated by everyone, and not simply shoehorned into an LGBT category?’

  The programme then cuts away to footage of last week’s London Pride, thousands marching through the streets of Piccadilly.

  I look at Dad, my brain ticking over. ‘What if we did a march?’

  ‘A march?’ he says.

  ‘Marches make headlines. What’s stopping us marching for better milk profit margins?’

  Dad blows his nose, the smell of eucalyptus wafting across the lounge. ‘We’re not exactly an eye-catching demographic like the LGBT lot, though, are we?’ he says.

  I look at the television screen, which screams colour, invention and vibrancy. He has a point.

  ‘Unless we took the cows with us?’ I say. ‘Cows are eye-catching. The government would have to sit up and take notice if a herd of cattle marched on Downing Street.’

  Grandma comes in with a washing basket of dried whites. ‘Iris Wiggins’ granddaughter tried all that and look where it got her: a broken femur and a night in the cells! The moment it’s Downing Street, you’ve got the London Metropolitan Police to deal with on top of all the others.’

  ‘Unless,’ I say, looking to Dad. ‘Unless we start with Sheffield town hall?’

  Dad drums his fingers on the wooden arm of the sofa. ‘You’d have to convince Wolfgang Huxley-Lipyeat.’

  ‘Our freeholder?’ I say.

  ‘He’s not just our freeholder,’ Dad says. ‘He runs both the local and national Dairy Farming Advisory Committee, which you’d have to go through to get the vote.’

  ‘Two words of advice,’ Grandma says, partnering socks and throwing them onto the sofa. ‘Good. Luck.’

  The Wolf didn’t seem too bad at the Country Fair. I resolve to roll up my sleeves and put it to the man himself.

  From: Maria

  Good luck at the committee meeting! Public speaking tips I learned at drama school: Project from your stomach. Use two mirrored hands to show roundness of character. Think less, feel more. You’ll kill it, Bilbo!

  Wolfgang Huxley-Lipyeat’s refusal to reply to either emails or telephone calls means that I’m forced to attend the monthly Dairy Farming Advisory Committee in Bakewell. The venue is a draughty community hall smelling of mildew. A broken piano sits on the stage, the corners of the room are littered with toys from an earlier playgroup session. Eight rows of seats are set up across a badminton court, divided by a narrow aisle, yet there must be only fifteen of us here, including the Wolf.

  He is even more gargantuan than I remember and, despite his wealth, a piece of rope is holding up his trousers. He sits at the table of paperwork perched on a stage usually reserved for the Bakewell Players’ bi-monthly performances of Jacobean tragedies, and ploughs through a plate of Jammie Dodgers, an overweight Labrador at his heel.

  ‘Two minutes before we make a start.’ He touches his mop of snow-white curly hair and consequently decorates the shoulders of his navy blazer with specks of dandruff. ‘Agendas are on your seats. Minutes of the previous meeting stapled to the back.’

  A purple caterpillar blurts out, ‘A is for apple. B is for bee. Let’s have fun as we learn our ABC’, as I take a seat next to a large man, who sits with his legs set so wide apart, there’s a suggestion he needs two hefty lads and a wheelbarrow to transport his testicles. His manspreading forces me to swivel my hips and dangle my legs into the aisle.

  ‘One minute!’ the Wolf announces.

  I help myself to an agenda.

  Dairy Farming Advisory Committee: Public meeting no. 17

  Agenda

  1. Call to order and opening remarks.

  2. Farmers in crisis: Market prices and Supply Chain Management.

  3. Dairy Product Price Support Programme.

  4. Any other business.

  I glance around the room and realize I’m the only woman, which doesn’t seem representative of farming, given the many women involved these days, and the various Women in Agriculture committees and support groups that I know Grandma is signed up to. I recognize a few faces. Paul Pickering sits on the front row. Today his waistcoat is brown suede. According to the minutes, he’s the inventor of the Paddock Poo-Picker, a wheelbarrow attachment revolutionizing the removal of manure using a double-scoop, multi-pronged pitchfork mechanism. The things you learn! I spot Graham ‘what a waste’ Pearce’s shiny head next to Tommy Marshall, a dairy farmer Dad went to school with.

  I nod hello to Graham and wonder whether he remembers that I used to sit in the boot of his Ford Cortina estate and play ‘truth or dare’ with his kids. It goes through my head that I should introduce myself to my well-endowed neighbour, but he’s immersed in conversation with a clean-cut chap who sits the other side, so I idly flick through the minutes from the previous meetings.

  Two things strike me. Firstly, there’s not a single reference to a woman in the pages and pages of minutes. Aside from the minutes-taker, it’s all mister this and master that. Secondly, every suggestion put forward by the committee has rejected written next to it.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the Wolf addresses the room, removing his wristwatch and positioning it alongside the plate of biscuit crumbs. He rolls up his sleeves and peers over half-moon glasses at his papers. ‘Thank you all for coming here today. I’ll cut to the chase with an opening remark about solidarity. You’ll have seen the articles in the press this week around Farmers in Crisis and I’m sure you’ll agree that a crisis is indeed upon us. Since we launched the #SaveOurDairy campaign, we’ve had a number of minor successes but nothing getting us over the hurdles we need to jump. I’d like to hear your thoughts on how we pull together as a community to protect our revenue stream and our lifeblood: milk. Let me open up the floor to suggestions.’

  Paul stands up, tugging his waistcoat down. ‘Global exports. Asia are importing more and more milk, year on year. We should be looking at foreign trade as well as domestic deals, so not just beyond Britain’s borders but beyond Europe’s.’

  ‘Very good,’ the Wolf says. ‘Can we get somebody to minute that?’ He turns to the room, eyes skimming the front row over his half-moon glasses, and stopping when they reach me. ‘Great. I see we’ve got a new secretary?’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. A radiator on the far wall starts to glug and for a moment I think it’s my stomach. ‘We met at the Country Show. I’m Billie. John Ol
iver’s daughter from Fernbrook Farm over in Baslow.’

  ‘Any good at shorthand, Billie?’ the Wolf says, clearly having no memory whatsoever of our encounter.

  ‘Pretty rubbish,’ I say.

  His eyes shift across his paperwork. ‘You’re not here to take minutes then? Bob’s wife normally comes but—’

  ‘No. I’m here as Dad. Well, as me but as Dad too. I’m running the farm for him.’

  ‘She’s the one that got me fired from the agency,’ a latecomer booms from the back of the hall.

  The room stills. Dust dances around the air vents and the evening sun shines through a stained-glass window, leaving a distorted kaleidoscope pattern in the tramlines of the badminton court. Nathan Fletcher, all motorbike leathers and padded trousers, sits himself down on a chair at the back of the hall and stretches his legs out over a shiny, grey helmet covered in Hell’s Angels stickers. My cheeks burn, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and all I want to do is leave.

  ‘Any ideas from anyone else?’ the Wolf says, as the room fidgets and coughs with unease.

  I can feel Nathan’s eyes boring into the back of me. I am a strong lesbian woman, who refuses to feel devalued by the ignorance of others. I wish Dad was here. He’d know what to do. I try to focus on the meeting, a man smelling of Lynx deodorant now holding court. He has bleached-blonde hair, a skinny tie, and wouldn’t look out of place presenting a celebrity quiz show.

  ‘Hamish Eccles from Ladybower,’ he says to me before addressing the room. ‘How about corporate sponsorship?’

  The Wolf frowns. ‘From who?’

  Hamish Eccles from Ladybower holds his ground. ‘Some of the big banks might be interested in sponsoring British Milk. It’d be good for their brand. Good for their reputation. You know, having their name associated with a worthy cause and a familiar product.’

  ‘We don’t want to come across as a charity, though, do we?’ the Wolf says. ‘Back in the glory days, we were the sponsor. Remember the Milk Cup? The Milk Marketing Board sponsored the football league for four years, for Pete’s sake. Let’s not forget we’re a business. Let’s not forget our consumers. Let’s not put ourselves down.’ He slams his fist on the table. ‘Unless you have a contact at one of the big banks?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Fat lot of good that is then!’ the Wolf says. ‘Case closed. Can somebody minute that?’ He glances around the room. ‘Come on, help me out here. We have a Farmers for Milk brand that is priced fairly; it would enable farmers to make a modest profit, but supermarkets aren’t stocking it and so consumers aren’t buying it. How do we get the message out there?’

  My arms hang limply at my sides. I want to stick my hand up, but I can’t. Not with Nathan here. He’ll only shoot me down in flames and make me look ridiculous. I cross and uncross my legs. From now on in, you will not be shamed. You will not be sullied. You will not be silenced. I clear my throat and straighten my back. Think less, feel more. My eye is drawn to the doodle of a pig with an oversized snout, which has taken up residence in the left-hand margin of Buster Gonad’s agenda and I can’t think straight.

  ‘Nobody? Anybody?’ the Wolf looks around the room. ‘On to the next agenda item then.’

  My hand finds its way up into the air. Fuck it, and fuck Nathan.

  Wolfgang Huxley-Lipyeat removes his glasses and points them at me. ‘The farmer’s daughter.’ The gold nib of his fountain pen glints with each rotation between his chubby fingers.

  ‘Maybe we could hold a dairy farmers’ march?’ I say, trying to take Maria’s public speaking tips on board and project from the stomach.

  Nathan’s laugh rumbles from the back of the room, aided by acoustics.

  ‘To gain publicity and spread awareness.’ I try using two mirrored hands but become aware it just looks like I’m massaging various sized breasts. Think less, feel more. ‘You know, get in the papers, get on the news and reach out to the public. Tell them that we can’t allow Premier Milk to drop the price of milk any further. And ask them to buy our Milk for Farmers brand.’

  The Wolf’s chair scrapes across the stage as he pushes it backwards to give himself legroom to turn and face me. ‘Do you really think anyone would be interested in a ragtag bunch of farmers in wellies and waxed jackets marching for justice?’

  The arches of my foot start to itch. ‘No.’ I clear my throat. ‘But they might if we unleash a hundred cows through the city centre.’

  A murmur spreads across the hall and the energy changes, repressed silence evolving into animated whispers.

  ‘It’d certainly bring traffic to a standstill,’ Tommy Marshall says.

  ‘It’d get people talking,’ the guy next to him agrees.

  ‘With your cows?’ Graham shouts over to me, the suggestion being that my cows are in some way inferior to everyone else’s.

  ‘Ours and others,’ I clarify.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much planning goes into these things?’ Huxley-Lipyeat clicks his neck from side to side, crunching cartilage. ‘Where did you say you’ve relocated from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘And were you a dairy farmer in London?’ He fingers his executive fountain pen.

  ‘A biochemist.’ My mouth goes dry.

  ‘Which qualifies you in what way exactly?’

  ‘No way whatsoever!’ Nathan heckles.

  Ignoring Nathan, I address Huxley-Lipyeat. ‘Look, I may be new to all this, but I figure with a bit of common sense and a lot of hard work, we could pull this off. If it’s any consolation, Margaret Thatcher started off as a research chemist and she ended up running the country!’

  ‘Into the ground!’ Buster Gonad shouts over a din of anti-Thatcher sentiment, the room coming to life in ardent disgruntlement. ‘Maggie Thatcher, school milk snatcher.’

  I loosen my collar. ‘OK, OK, I appreciate she wasn’t popular.’

  ‘Bit of a sore point around here, lassie,’ Huxley-Lipyeat snorts.

  ‘Careful if you sign up,’ Nathan hollers from the back. ‘She’ll probably sack you!’

  The room falls silent.

  I try to remain calm. ‘For the record, I think you’re a brilliant herdsman, Nathan, I just can’t tolerate your hatred of homosexuals. At the end of the day, I am a person, too.’

  The room fidgets uncomfortably. Throats are cleared. Chairs groan. Nathan picks up his helmet and stomps off, the door swinging behind him.

  The Wolf looks at me. ‘Tell you what, Bobby—’

  ‘Billie.’

  ‘Billie. You plan it, square it off with the police, agree it with the mayor, sort out warrants, insurance, transportation, marketing, social media, networking, press releases and whatnot and report back to this committee once you’ve got a date.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, glancing around the room. ‘Can somebody minute that?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GOING AGILE

  From: Maria

  Lesbian hen party conundrum #213. Bev’s mothers have contacted me saying they want to come on the hen party, but to keep it a surprise. Bev will lynch me! She’s still not forgiven them for flashing their tits in a Wolverhampton Burger King.

  From: Dave (work)

  They’ve recruited this Russian dude to cover your research. Billie Oliver he ain’t. Miss you x

  @SCIENCEMATTERS

  Youngest ever Pfizer Award winner – Bradford’s Meredith Little scoops gold, aged 25.

  Oh, piss off, Meredith Little. I bet you’re not running a 500-acre dairy farm.

  I vow to get back on the science wagon and at least read up on stuff, but every time I open my laptop, I find myself trawling the internet for Joely. I can’t help myself. It’s the same when I’m planning the farmers’ march. It’s like sitting next to freshly baked cake – the temptation is too great. It starts off with me looking at her Twitter profile. @MlleChevalier. Her profile picture has a dramatic warm filter, showing her wearing a feathered mask and studying herself in an antique hallway mirror. The conto
urs of her shoulders catch the light. She appears to be attaching a pearl droplet earring. I’ve been following her on Twitter ever since we met, but she has never followed me back.

  ‘The fact that she has over a thousand followers but only follows ten people says it all!’ Kat rages over the phone.

  The concept of phoning Kat every time I’m tempted to phone Joely almost works. On the one hand, she’s so vehemently anti-Joely, it soon quashes any amorous feelings I have towards her. On the flip side, she’s that brutal, it almost makes me rush to Joely’s defence.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, scrolling through Joely’s Instagram page and obsessing over each photo.

  ‘Having people follow you without following them back is like saying “you can be friends with me, but I won’t be friends with you.” It’s a control thing, Bill.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘What about Maroon McGinnis?’ I ask.

  ‘The weather girl?’

  ‘She’s got forty thousand followers and only follows ninety-nine.’

  ‘She’s famous. Celebrities don’t count.’ Her voice is loaded with annoyance. Kat and patience are not natural bedfellows. ‘Failed relationships are a sunken emotional cost, Bill. You’re tempted to throw more time and energy at it because “better the devil you know”, and all that bullshit. Plus, you want a return from your investment, but it will never pay the dividends. Quit while you’re ahead.’

  ‘I’m not sure I am ahead,’ I say on the exhale.

  ‘What are you doing online anyway? I thought you’d be up to your eyeballs scooping up manure or whatever it is you do up there?’

  ‘I’m planning a farmers’ march. You should see me, Kat. I’m drowning in spreadsheets.’

  ‘Spreadsheets?’ she says, her voice brightening.

  ‘One for transportation. One for managing the Press. One for marketing. One for—’

  ‘Send them over. You know I love a spreadsheet.’

  Within an hour, Kat has whipped my plans into one master spreadsheet with pivot table summaries on the front sheet and is calling me back.

  ‘When did you say the march is taking place?’ she says.