and on the way picked a bunch of catkins. Our mother liked to have these in a brown jug in the hall as a reminder to hang on because spring was on the way.
Near Turner’s Farm we clambered over a dilapidated gate and noticed, across the field, a cow acting strangely. As we drew closer we saw that the cow, a young one, had its head stuck in a disused plough that had been left rusting near a gateway. Every few moments the cow would struggle and pull and her feet would scramble and churn underneath her but she’d stay stuck.
‘If I could just turn her head slightly,’ said my sister, ‘it would come out.’
And that seemed true, for the cow wasn’t as stuck as she thought. A slight turn and she’d be free.
We stayed quiet a while thinking and I saw the lush, herby grass the cow had been trying to reach under the plough, strands of it hanging from her muzzle. She struggled and churned again, stopped and let out a low moan.
‘Help me,’ said my sister. ‘Let’s try and get her out.’
My sister approached but the cow immediately became distressed and we decided to go to the farm instead and get Farmer Turner – who would reassure the cow before releasing her. We ran to the farmhouse three fields away, pelted into the yard and rapped on the door. A grim-looking potato-faced woman with one enormous hairy eyebrow stood with one side of her lip up and listened to our tale and sent us to a barn where the farmer stood winding wire around something. Sunlight was slipping sideways through the planked wall and he looked quite romantic with bare forearms on such a cold day. My sister told him about the young cow.
‘If you could just turn her head to a thirty-degree angle,’ said my sister, who knew her maths, ‘she’d be right as rain.’
‘It’s number 81,’ my sister called after him as he jumped into his Land Rover, ‘the cow is number 81.’ Because like me, in the still moments, she’d noticed the aluminium tag on the cow’s ear.
Farmer Turner bumped and jolted out of the mucky yard and we ran behind, pleased with ourselves. In my happy little head I put Farmer Turner to the top of the Man List and smiled, thinking how thrilled he would be to swap the one-browed, potato-faced woman at the door for our sexy mother with her bone structure and see-through blouses. I jogged along with thoughts about a possible new life with this capable man at the helm – all the lambs for my sister and tractor rides for Jack and a happy family for me and Debbie. And number 81, tame and probably mine.
Breathless, we caught up, leant on the gate and waited to see some expert remedying followed by number 81 cantering away, indignant, mooing.
My sister turned to me. ‘Man at the helm?’ she said.
‘He’d be perfect,’ I said.
‘I was thinking we could write to him …’ my sister began, ‘and ask him for advice on manure …’ But before she couldfinish, we were rocked by the unbelievably loud crack of his rifle. I felt the noise through the metal gate, right up to my eyeballs.
The cow flopped immediately and hung by her head from the rusty metal trap. Only then did the farmer twist her head the necessary thirty degrees and let it drop. For a moment she looked like a dead stag in some old painting with oversized dentures and folded over neck. The farmer kicked it straight and a clearish liquid poured from the cow’s open mouth, ran down the hard mud and made a tiny steaming lake where our catkins lay.
We trudged home in silence. I tried to speak to my sister to say, ‘How awful!’ or something, but all she would say was, ‘Look out for catkins, Lizzie.’
And then, having picked a new bunch close to home, I held them out for her to inspect. She took them and looked at them and then flung them down and walked quickly on. I didn’t catch up because seeing someone try not to cry is one of the saddest things to see. I lagged behind and looked for catkins.
Our mother kept Dr Kaufmann’s little pills with her
Near Turner’s Farm we clambered over a dilapidated gate and noticed, across the field, a cow acting strangely. As we drew closer we saw that the cow, a young one, had its head stuck in a disused plough that had been left rusting near a gateway. Every few moments the cow would struggle and pull and her feet would scramble and churn underneath her but she’d stay stuck.
‘If I could just turn her head slightly,’ said my sister, ‘it would come out.’
And that seemed true, for the cow wasn’t as stuck as she thought. A slight turn and she’d be free.
We stayed quiet a while thinking and I saw the lush, herby grass the cow had been trying to reach under the plough, strands of it hanging from her muzzle. She struggled and churned again, stopped and let out a low moan.
‘Help me,’ said my sister. ‘Let’s try and get her out.’
My sister approached but the cow immediately became distressed and we decided to go to the farm instead and get Farmer Turner – who would reassure the cow before releasing her. We ran to the farmhouse three fields away, pelted into the yard and rapped on the door. A grim-looking potato-faced woman with one enormous hairy eyebrow stood with one side of her lip up and listened to our tale and sent us to a barn where the farmer stood winding wire around something. Sunlight was slipping sideways through the planked wall and he looked quite romantic with bare forearms on such a cold day. My sister told him about the young cow.
‘If you could just turn her head to a thirty-degree angle,’ said my sister, who knew her maths, ‘she’d be right as rain.’
‘It’s number 81,’ my sister called after him as he jumped into his Land Rover, ‘the cow is number 81.’ Because like me, in the still moments, she’d noticed the aluminium tag on the cow’s ear.
Farmer Turner bumped and jolted out of the mucky yard and we ran behind, pleased with ourselves. In my happy little head I put Farmer Turner to the top of the Man List and smiled, thinking how thrilled he would be to swap the one-browed, potato-faced woman at the door for our sexy mother with her bone structure and see-through blouses. I jogged along with thoughts about a possible new life with this capable man at the helm – all the lambs for my sister and tractor rides for Jack and a happy family for me and Debbie. And number 81, tame and probably mine.
Breathless, we caught up, leant on the gate and waited to see some expert remedying followed by number 81 cantering away, indignant, mooing.
My sister turned to me. ‘Man at the helm?’ she said.
‘He’d be perfect,’ I said.
‘I was thinking we could write to him …’ my sister began, ‘and ask him for advice on manure …’ But before she couldfinish, we were rocked by the unbelievably loud crack of his rifle. I felt the noise through the metal gate, right up to my eyeballs.
The cow flopped immediately and hung by her head from the rusty metal trap. Only then did the farmer twist her head the necessary thirty degrees and let it drop. For a moment she looked like a dead stag in some old painting with oversized dentures and folded over neck. The farmer kicked it straight and a clearish liquid poured from the cow’s open mouth, ran down the hard mud and made a tiny steaming lake where our catkins lay.
We trudged home in silence. I tried to speak to my sister to say, ‘How awful!’ or something, but all she would say was, ‘Look out for catkins, Lizzie.’
And then, having picked a new bunch close to home, I held them out for her to inspect. She took them and looked at them and then flung them down and walked quickly on. I didn’t catch up because seeing someone try not to cry is one of the saddest things to see. I lagged behind and looked for catkins.
Our mother kept Dr Kaufmann’s little pills with her
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