Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [48]
As it turned out, I was thankful for those directions. The Rymans’ smallholding was in the next village along from Ashton, one called Chawcombe. It wasn’t so much a village as a straggle of houses along a busy road that ran parallel to the north side of the Downs and from which numerous lanes ran off into the countryside. I’d have run off several had it not been for Beryl’s red-inked map with Natt’s Lane clearly marked and an asterisk next to Downside Cottage – a bit of a misnomer, as I discovered, since the cottage was several miles away from the Downs and wasn’t a cottage but a bungalow. One from the 1950s, built of plain, red brick with concrete roof tiles to which a 1970s, flat-roofed loft extension had been added, hung-tiled in a mismatch of dark brown. As I drove on to the tarmac drive and rounded the corner of the bungalow, I half expected to see a conservatory. And yes, there it was – a white UPVC bubble of glass stuck to the back like a blob of used chewing gum; and from it strode a woman, followed closely by a boy of about eight and a girl who looked a year or so younger.
‘Jill Ryman,’ she said, introducing herself with the shake of a hand. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, thin as fuse wire, breasts flat as paper, wearing grubby overalls and wellington boots. ‘And this is Emily and Joshua. Say hello to Mr …?’
‘Paul Mitchell.’
Emily looked up at me through metal-rimmed glasses and smiled shyly, exposing two missing front teeth, but it was Joshua who spoke. ‘Miss Piggy’s having babies.’ He studied me through a mop of tousled brown hair, his dark eyes unflinching.
‘Yes, well … so I understand,’ I said, somewhat unnerved by the intensity of the lad’s expression. I lifted out my black bag. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t need too much help.’
Emily suddenly found her voice. ‘Is that for the babies?’ she lisped, pointing.
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I replied with a chuckle, conjuring up a picture of a bag stuffed full of piglets.
She giggled. Joshua remained silent, his lips curled down – clearly it was no laughing matter for this young man.
‘Now, Emily, don’t let’s distract the doctor too much,’ said Jill and proceeded to do just that as the four of us crossed to a large, wooden-slatted barn fronting a concrete yard, picking our way through a flock of bantams, hens and ducks. Throughout the short walk I was given a potted history of Miss Piggy, and how the Saddleback had arrived as a thin, weedy piglet, the runt of the litter, the unlucky thirteenth. It had been Alex’s intention to fatten her up for the table but somehow that time never arrived. And you wouldn’t believe it, but he often took her for walks on a lead. Could I imagine it? A pig on a lead? People were amazed. And she was so well behaved; trotted to heel just like a dog. Much better than their dog, in fact – a Jack Russell: she was a bit of a handful. Nipped ankles.
Oh no, I thought … not another Chico.
‘No, don’t worry,’ Jill went on seeing me look round anxiously. ‘I’ve shut Trisha in the house for now.’
As we reached the barn door, Emily pulled at Jill’s sleeve. ‘Can we watch?’
Jill looked at me, eyebrows raised.
‘Don’t see why not,’ I said. So we all trooped in.
Miss Piggy was in a makeshift farrowing crate – a DIY job of wooden pallets tied together.
‘I’m definitely not happy about her,’ stated Jill, leaning over the top while Joshua and Emily peered through the gaps.
‘She doesn’t go “Oink” any more,’ said Joshua, solemnly.
‘No,’ agreed Jill. ‘She’s gone very quiet. It’s not at all like her.’
‘Oink, oink,’ murmured Emily, pushing her arm through and poking Miss Piggy’s belly.
‘Now then, Emily, don’t,’ said Jill, pulling her away. ‘Miss Piggy’s not feeling well. You mustn’t upset her.’
Tears welled up in the little girl’s eyes. ‘I’m only trying to make her feel better,’ she sobbed.
‘That’s for the doctor to do.’
Yes, indeed, if possible, I thought, scrambling over the pallet wall and jumping down next to the pig, flat out in a bed of straw. When I say ‘flat’, she was lying there motionless