Part 26 (2/2)
At this point I attempted for a second time to explain what form my day's inspection would take, but Mrs. Fox continued blithely. ”My great-uncle Beecham had the land adjoining Providence Farm and knew his grandfather really well. Old Mr. Purvis lived right up to his ninety-eighth birthday he did, without a day's illness didn't have the patience of his grandson when it came to bulls. My great-uncle Beecham always used to tell the tale which never fails to bring a smile to my lips.”
”What I hope to be doing today, Mrs. Fox' I tried again.
”His bull was called Caesar. He was a great, fat, pompous creature, no good at all except for breeding purposes. He looked like the emperor himself the way he strutted round the field and proceeded toer ... do his duty to the cows, as one might say. But he had a really vicious streak had Caesar, and many's the time Old Mr. Purvis stamped back to the farmhouse, cursing and swearing, and black and blue with bruises. The bull broke his arm a couple of times when he was trying to get hold of him. Anyway, when Young Mr. Purvis was about eleven, as the story goes, he rushed into the farmhouse kitchen one morning shouting blue murder. ”Grandfather! Grandfather!” he cries. ”Caesar's gone! He's not in his field! Somebody's stolen Caesar!” His grandfather didn't bat an eyelid but carried on drinking his tea. Then he nodded in the direction of the window. In the field beyond was poor old Caesar yoked to a plough pulling away down the furrows, with two of the farmhands flicking his haunches with sharp switches. Caesar snorted and bellowed and puffed and heaved and looked very hard done by. ”I'll show him that there's more to life than love-making!” said Old Mr. Purvis.” Mrs. Fox chuckled loudly, her body heaving and her eyes filling with tears of pleasure.
”What I hope to be doing today, Mrs. Fox' I attempted a third time.
”Did Mr. Purvis tell you about the incident when that poor young vet was called out to see to Samson?”
I took the bull firmly by the horns. ”Mrs. Fox, I really would like to make a start, if I may.”
”Why, of course you do, Mr. Phinn,” she replied smiling broadly. ”That's why you're here. Come along and I'll let you look through our planning doc.u.ments while the children arrive. I'll tell you about Samson, the vet and the bottle of liquid paraffin later, if you like.”
I thought it would be the last time that day that I would hear about bulls but sadly I was mistaken. In the junior cla.s.sroom later that morning, I joined two boys of about ten or eleven. Both were miniature versions of the farmers I had met at Providence Farm: plain, stocky individuals with st.u.r.dy legs, brown faces, tightly curled hair, short, sandy eyelashes and bright eyes. Neither was a very good reader but each tried hard and barked out the words with grim determination. The reading book depicted an idyllic town with sparkling shops, gleaming hotels, brightly painted houses with well-tended gardens and white gates, and a manicured park with a friendly, waving park-keeper standing at the entrance. There were no traces of litter or graffiti and not a sign of a public house, betting office, job centre or charity shop. Everyone in this Utopia looked happy and well dressed, from the jolly policeman to the beaming vicar to the smiling shoppers. The most exciting things that happened in the story were a walk round the lake to look at the ducks and a ride on the bus. It came as no surprise therefore to discover that it was called Merry town.
”Do you enjoy reading?” I asked one of the boys when he finished and had snapped the book shut with a vengeance.
He lifted a sandy eyebrow. ”No.”
”Do you read at home?”
”No.”
”Why is that?”
”Don't 'ave t'time.”
”Do you have any books at home?”
”A few.”
”And what are they about?”
”Tractors.”
”Do you like reading about tractors?”
”Not particularly.”
It was like extracting blood from a stone but I persisted and tried, by changing tack, to get him to open up a little.
”You live on a farm, do you?”
”I do.”
”I visited a farm on my way here this morning.”
”Oh, aye.” He appeared a little more interested.
”Providence Farm. Do you know it?”
”appen I do.”
The other boy looked up from his work at the mention of the farm. ”Did that see Samson?”
”I did indeed,” I replied.
”e's a champion beast is Samson, 'e is that.”
”Do you live on a farm as well?”
”Aye.”
”Do you have a bull?”
”Nay, only bull we 'ave on our farm is t'bull wit' bowler 'at.”
”Pardon?”
”AI man.”
”I'm sorry?”
The boy sighed and gave me such a world-weary look. Then, as a teacher might explain to a particularly slow child, he articulated, ”Artificial Inseminator. 'e comes round and sees to t'cows.”
”I see,” I said somewhat uncertainly.
”So, there's no need for t'bull.”
The first boy decided to contribute to the discussion. ”French sperm's best, tha knaws.”
”Really?” I sighed. ”And do you have a bull on your farm.?”
”Nay, we 'ave all our cows done, like on Roger's farm. We did 'ave two bulls but they're both dee ad now. One were called Eric, he were an 'olstein and tother were called Oscar and he were a Belgian Blue. Samson's a Limosan and not near as big.”
”You mean there are bulls which are bigger than Samson?” I gasped.
”Oh aye, Belgian Blues can weigh owl up to a ton and an 'arf. Double-muscled, that sees. Bred for their meat.” He was now quite animated. ”Yer Belgian Blue 'as muscles on muscles and is so big that can only deliver a calf through a Caesarean. Tha knaws what a Caesarean is, dust thaI do.”
”Can't gerrem out natural way, Belgian Blues. Vets just zip 'em op pen down t'belly.”
His companion added, ”If that was to cross 'em wi' a Fresian you'd 'ave a fair chance of a natural birth, Jacob.” He turned to me. ”Tha sees most Belgian Blue cows bred wi' another breed, so it meks it easier for 'em to calve.”
”Still large, though,” said the other seriously. ”Anyroad, we dun't bother wi' bulls any more. Best bull is t'bull out of a test tube.”
”What a pity,” I said. ”To think that those wonderful creatures, these great, snorting, bellowing beasts with their ma.s.sive bodies and sharp horns might not be seen again.”
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