Part 27 (1/2)
”They don't 'ave 'orns,” Jacob told me bluntly.
”They don't? But I thought all bulls have horns?”
”They 'ave 'em tekken off after three month. You de-bud 'em. Burn off their 'orns. Bulls are bad enough wi'out 'orns on. Tha dun't go lookin' fer trouble. It'sard enough gerrin' 'em in from t'fields as it is. Old Samson's a devil. Belgian Blues are placid usually, but your Limosan, they can be reight frisky. Toss you up in t'air or b.u.t.t thee as soon as look at thee.”
”And that's talkin' money,” interrupted Roger. ”Best o' breed at Fettlesham Show this year, Pride o' Brussels 'e were called, fetched fotty thousand quid. Serious money is that, tha knaws. And o' course, if owl 'appens to 'em like if they 'ad an accident or come down wi sum mat and tek badly, then they're no good to man nor beast.”
”That's what 'appened wi' Oscar and Eric, weren't it, Jacob?”
”Aye,” replied the boy sagely.
”What sort of accident did they have?” I enquired innocently.
”Well, Eric were feeling a bit lively like and made a move for cows in t'next field, 'e went through a thick aw thorn 'edge, a dry stone wall and two gates afore mi dad blocked him witractor. Anyroad, Eric charged tractor and bust a few bones. Got an infection and had to be put down.”
”I thought the idea was for the bull to get to the cows?” I commented.
Both boys looked at me with disdainful expressions. ”We're talkin' big bulls 'ere. A ton and an 'arf-'ed have brok every cow's back.”
”I see,” I said feebly. ”Well, shall we look at your books?”
”In olden days, when Mr. Purvis's granddad up at Providence Farm had Caesar, he used to dig a pit, put t'cow in it and lower t'bull on with two reight big, thick leather straps.”
”I see,” I said weakly. ”Could you get your English books out, please?”
”Nowadays it's all mechanised,” the boy continued regardless. ”They put t'bull in a serving cage and lower him on and lift him off, lower him on and lift him off.”
”My granddad says it's not a bad old life,” remarked Roger, echoing the comments I had heard earlier that morning at Providence Farm.
I tried again to move the conversation away from what was becoming an increasingly embarra.s.sing conversation. ”So what have you been doing in English this week?”
”Now, tother bull, Oscar, 'e went and 'ad t'accident.”
”What accident was that?” I asked somewhat stupidly.
”Accident what Belgian Blues 'ave.”
”And what is that?”
”Tha knaws,” said the boy, eyeing me seriously.
”I don't.”
”Tha' does.”
”Really I don't. What accident did he have?”
The boy gave his companion another knowing look, the tired, long-suffering look of the expert attempting to explain a simple concept to an ignoramus. ”Well, Mester Phinn, sometimes when a bull gets to t'Just cow, he's very keen .. .” At this point I wished I had stayed with the fantasy world of Merrytown and its cardboard inhabitants, for I antic.i.p.ated that what was to follow would be as blunt as a sump hammer. ”And 'e gets a bit carried away like and sometimes 'e overdoes it and 'is w.i.l.l.y snaps.” I could hear my great in-drawing of breath and feel a red flush creeping up my neck.
I retreated to the cla.s.sroom window and stared at the view outside, attempting to regain my composure. I felt decidedly weak at the knees and was entirely at a loss for words. A flood of sunlight poured into the room, slanting in long bars across the dusty air. All was still. Through the window the vast, green rolling fells s.h.i.+mmered in the bright light, the narrow road curled endlessly between the fields, and far off an invisible bird called plaintively from the sun-warmed gra.s.s. I was brought back to reality by Jacob, who tapped me gently on the arm and looked up with a twinkle in his bright eyes.
”It's all reight, Mester Phinn,” he said winking, 'it only 'appens wi' bulls!”
I was in love. Since the first moment I had set eyes on Christine, appearing round the side of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School like some vision, with those deep blue eyes and the soft ma.s.s of golden hair, I had been smitten. Over the twenty-one months I had known her, that love had become so powerful that it felt like a wearying sickness. She was always in my thoughts. I was like a love-lorn schoolboy, day-dreaming at the back of the cla.s.sroom during a rather tedious lesson and staring vacantly out of the window whilst thinking of Christine. In the middle of meetings at the Education Office, my thoughts would inevitably drift to a picture of her smiling or laughing or humming to herself as she frequently did. On a course, the words of the speaker would flow over me as my mind would be fixed on Christine, visualising her sitting in the middle of a group of happy infants, sharing a book with them or reading a poem or singing a nursery rhyme in that soft, hypnotic voice. And people were beginning to notice.
Late one afternoon towards the end of the Summer term I stopped focusing on the report I was supposed to be reading and began to dream of the woman I loved.
”Gervase!” snapped Sidney. ”Are you entirely with us this afternoon? You look as if you are wired up to a brick!”
”Pardon?”
”I have just asked you an important question and, rather than do me the courtesy of responding, you completely ignored me and continued to peer into the middle distance like Macbeth upon seeing the ghost of Banquo.”
”I'm sorry, Sidney, I was miles away.”
”Indeed you were. Now, what do you think?”
”What do I think about what?”
Sidney gave a great heaving sigh. ”I was asking about the arrangements for the Creative Arts Course in Oxford next weekend.”
”Well, what about them?”
”Give me strength!”
Following her visit to the Staff Development Centre last December, Miss de la Mare had written to say how impressed she had been with the training and had invited Sidney and me to be tutors on a Ministry of Education course the weekend before the end of the Summer term. We had both been very flattered to have been asked and readily agreed. It had seemed so far ahead then that I had put it to the back of my mind. Now the course was about to happen, I realised that I had not given a single thought to it. Help! My mind was completely occupied with higher thoughts.
”I said that it would be a sensible idea if we both travelled down to Oxford together.”
”Pardon?”
”What is the matter with you? Are you sickening for something? I asked if we should travel down to Oxford together?”
”Yes, that's fine, Sidney.”
”It would be better, I think, if we went in your old Volvo estate. I will have to take all my materials, easels and equipment, display boards and, of course, the stuffed animals.”
David, who had been working quietly until this point, raised his head slowly like a weary tortoise, peered over the top of his spectacles and said, ”You are not taking those wretched stuffed animals with you, are you, Sidney?”
”Of course! They are the next best thing to first-hand experience. I always take my stuffed animals with me when I run a course. I would be lost without them.”
David shook his head. ”Well, I'm glad I'm not travelling down to Oxford with you and a car full of flea-ridden, dead creatures glaring and snarling out of the window.”
”I never glare and snarl out of windows,” said Sidney calmly. ”Anyway, I don't hear Gervase complaining.” He turned to me. ”You have no problem with my stuffed animals, do you, Gervase? Gervase!” Once again, I was only half-listening to the office chatter. ”I said you don't have a problem, do you?”
”Who said I had a problem?”
”I give up,” sighed Sidney. ”We will talk about this when you emerge from the catatonic trance.”
”You are unusually un forthcoming this afternoon, Gervase,” remarked David. ”Not your old self at all. Is there something on your mind?”