Part 26 (1/2)
Beneath a vast, blank curve of blue there stretched the brilliant greens of the pastureland, rolling and billowing up to the richer, darker hues of the far-off fells. Fat, creamy sheep grazed lazily behind the white-silvered limestone walls in fields, while their lambs frisked and raced. In the still, windless sky a wedge of birds moved slowly south, high above a trembling kestrel. There was the heady scent of may blossom and b.u.t.tercups blending with the smells of earth and gra.s.s. I returned to the map and followed with my finger the route which I had taken from Fettlesham earlier that morning: the straight road to Hawksrill, over b.u.t.terwick Fell, through Whisterton, by Castle Crags, past the United States Air force Base at Ribbon Bank, into War-grave village, on to the Thresherton road, to arrive at the first enigmatic crossroads. I leaned back in the hot seat, the sun on my face, wiped my brow and sighed aloud. ”Where, in heaven's name, am I?”.
I realised that it would have been far more sensible if I had stopped to ask directions at the pub a couple of miles back or at a house close to the road. Now, with time ticking on, I was in the middle of nowhere. I sighed and wondered what to do next. Across the road an ancient millstone announced the entrance to Providence Farm and a long, narrow, pot-holed track led to a distant cl.u.s.ter of buildings. If only I had brought the Ordnance Survey map with me; it would have surely shown the farm and pinpointed my whereabouts. The road atlas was useless. There's nothing for it, I thought, I will have to ask. The track looked good only for tractors and jeeps so I decided to walk.
The muddy track seemed endless, and it was a long, hot trek to the farm. In a field beside the track, a herd of black and white cows stared with elaborate indifference as I pa.s.sed, and continued to swish their tails slowly and chew methodically. In the field on the other side, standing alone, was a huge, square-bodied bull with a bra.s.s ring through its nose. It looked like a box on legs. The creature regarded me with utmost suspicion as I came closer and when I was level it bellowed loudly and lengthily. On closer examination it looked abnormally large. Its back was as wide as a trestle table and its neck as thick as the sentinel chestnut tree which cast a shadow over the farmhouse. As I approached the cattle grid and the buildings, I became aware I was being observed. Two men were standing at the entrance to a barn watching me as bright-eyed cats might watch a mouse. The older of the two had a stern, weathered face the colour of bruised parchment, grizzled, smoky-grey hair and a sharp beak of a nose. He was dressed in a clean, long-sleeved, collarless s.h.i.+rt, open waistcoat and ancient Wellington boots. His companion was a fair, thick-set young man with an equally weathered face and tight, wiry hair. He was dressed in a T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts but, incongruously, he wore large heavy military-style boots. His arms and legs were wind-burned to the colour of copper.
”Can't that read?” demanded the older of the men.
”Pardon?”
”Sign on t'gate. Can't that read? Feed reps only by appointment.”
”I'm not a rep,” I panted. ”I'm a school inspector.”
”Well, that'll not find any sc oil up 'ere and that's for sure.”
”I gather that,” I said, getting my breath, 'but I'm well and truly lost.”
The younger man screwed up his face, surveyed the sky, empty apart from skimming swallows, and sucked in his breath.
”What sc oil are that looking fer?”
”Scarthorpe Primary School. Do you know where it is?”
”appen I do.”
”Well, would you be so kind as to tell me?”
The young man pointed across the fields. ”See yonder spire. That's t'church. Scoil's next door.”
”Tha'r a bit on t'early side to go a-visitin',” said the older man. ”It's just past eight. There'll be n.o.b'dy theer at this time.”
”Well, I always set off early to make certain I get there.” There was no reply, just a couple of slow nods of the head. ”As you might have guessed, I'm not too good at directions and, I have to say, the road signs around here are very confusing.”
”Been t'same since time o' t'Vikings. They had difficulty finding their way around this part o' t'dale, I'll be bound. We don't go advertisin' ourselves up here, tha knaws.”
”Nay,” agreed his young companion. ”We don't want rooad full o' caravans!”
”And coaches.”
”And ramblers climbin' ower t'walls and knockin' 'em down.”
I felt it politic to make a hasty retreat. ”Well, thank you for your help. I'll be on my way. Just head in the direction of the church, you say?”
”Nay, it's not quite as easy as that,” explained the older man. ”Rooad comes back on it sen at t'bottom o' yonder 'ill. When that gets to t'crossroads, tek sign for Whisterton, and you pa.s.s Thresherton Hall on yer right. Turn left at Holloway Farm, stay on t'rooad and you'll get to t'scoil.”
”Thank you,” I said, trying to memo rise the instructions and turning to go.
”old on,” said the older man, 'we'll walk to t'gate withee and see thee off t'premises.” I was thus accompanied by the two farmers, in silence, down the long muddy track which seemed to stretch endlessly to the road. Our pace was leisurely to say the least and they kept their eyes suspiciously on me from the start.
The farmer stopped when we came level with the fearsome bull. The beast eyed us malevolently, sc.r.a.ped and stamped the ground with a cudgel of a hoof, snorted contemptuously and filled the air with loud and mournful bellowing.
”Telling us who's t'boss,” announced the older man, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up with pleasure. ”Showing off for t'benefit o' t'cows.” All the cows I could see in the fields surrounding us ceased their swis.h.i.+ng and chewing and stared in the direction of the bull. ”Leads a life of owd Riley, does Samson. Spends all t'winter inside in t'warm, eatin' and drinkin' and sleepin', and all summer in t' field, in t'sun, eatin' and drinkin' and sleepin' and mekkin love. Not a bad old life, is it?”
”I could imagine worse,” I agreed.
”Mind you,” commented the younger man, 'many a bull niwer gets t'chance of any o' that, eh, Dad?”
”They don't,” agreed his father seriously. ”Most of 'em get castrated and end up as beefburgers.”
”Really,” I said.
”Tha'd beard pushed to imagine owl worse than that, wun't that?”
”You would,” I agreed, with feeling.
”Gerrin castrated and endin' up beefburgered. But that's the way o' things. Aye, that's the way o' things.”
”How many cows do you have?” I asked, attempting to get on to less delicate ground.
”Near on three un dred replied the older man as we set off down the track again.
”And do you have sheep?”
”We do. Up on t'felk'
”And pigs?”
”No, we don't keep pigs. Not a lot o'money in pigs these days. Not a lot o'money in owl, if truth be told. Poor relations are yer farmers. Hardly worth keeping livestock what wi price o'feed.”
”And how many acres have you?”
”I can see that'r an inspector,” said the farmer stopping in his tracks. ”Tha'r full o' b.l.o.o.d.y questions, aren't tha?”
We walked on without another word. Howeverafter a minute or two, I found the silence rather embarra.s.sing so I commented cheerfully, ”The farm's a fair old distance from the road.”
”Aye, it is that,” agreed the older man.
”Yes, quite a distance,” I said, not expecting a reply.
”That's what t'local MP said when he comes up 'ere a-canva.s.sin' last year. ”Aye,” I said to 'im, ”it is a fair distance, but if it were any shorter it wun't reach, would it?”
At getting on for a quarter to nine, I finally arrived at Scarthorpe Primary School. The small stone building was tucked away behind the ancient Norman church and half-hidden by a huge, stunted oak tree, its twisted roots grasping the thin soil like arthritic fingers. The school was further obscured by the overhanging branches of laurel and sycamore. Mrs. Fox, the Headteacher, was a vast andj oily woman with a shock of streaky curls and large friendly eyes behind enormous coloured frames. She wore a bright tartan smock, a rope of large, blue gla.s.s beads and yellow dangly earrings. Mrs. Fox had the sort of voice which would penetrate bricks and mortar.
”My goodness, Mr. Phinn, you are the early bird,” she chortled. I explained that I would have arrived even earlier had I not taken so many wrong turnings at the mysterious crossroads. I was also foolish enough to mention that I had broken my journey at Providence Farm and related the conversation with the two farmers about the bull.
”Oh, you met Mr. Purvis and his son, Jack, did you? I was at school with the one and taught the other. Both are real characters, aren't they?”
”They are indeed,” I agreed. ”Well, Mrs. Fox, what I intend to do this morning'
”He dotes on that bull of his. Soft as a brush when it comes to Samson. We often take the children up to Providence Farm as part of our environmental studies work.”