5

  ‘I’VE COME TO SHOOT THE BRUTE’

  WE ROSE early on Monday morning and hurried through our jobs. Cathy and I walked up to the Firs to feed the ponies; because the parents aren’t keen on the younger ones wandering about the roads in the dark, they did the home jobs.

  When we got back Penny reported that the bantams had been very indignant at having to eat by the light of a hurricane lantern and had returned to bed, or rather perch, after a few mouthfuls. The ponies had raised no objections; they’re only indignant when we’re late.

  Rory had so far failed to melt Mummy’s opposition, but at breakfast, which luckily we were having before Dad got back from his early morning rounds – we didn’t want to draw his attention to the fact that we were going to Charlbury on the same day as Carmen – Rory suddenly burst into floods of tears and refused to be consoled by promises that he should unpack the Christmas decorations or make paper chains or mince pies. At the crucial moment, just as Mummy’s nerves reached breaking point, Cathy said, ‘Oh let him come; I’ll look after him.’

  ‘After all, he is eight,’ added Penny, as though that were the age of discretion.

  Mummy looked as though she might be weakening.

  ‘Well, if he is coming,’ I said in deliberately disinterested tones, ‘he’d better hurry up and change. The bus goes in half an hour.’ I had exaggerated a bit for there was the post office to visit on our way.

  Mummy gave in and while she was making Cathy promise ‘faithfully’ not to let go of Rory’s hand whatever happened, he dashed upstairs to change into something slightly more respectable than his worst shorts. When he reappeared, trousered and duffle-coated like the rest of us, we told Mummy that we’d eat sandwiches and chocolate at the bus café and come home on the one-thirty bus or, if we missed it, the four-thirty, and then we rushed out of the house, with instructions to be careful and not to let Rory or Andrew get run over following us down the lane.

  Mrs. Dent had our money ready and we signed Douglas Charles, Catherine Mary, Penelope Jane, Andrew John and Rory Ricardo Conway as rapidly as we could. Cathy said that I was to carry all twenty-one pounds and when I protested the others supported her. They said that (a) I was the eldest, (b) I had a wallet, (c) I had an inside pocket to my coat, so with a small groan at so much responsibility, I took the money and then we dashed out to wait for the bus which was now due.

  It was late, but not much, and luckily there were very few passengers and the front seats were empty so Penny and Rory, who are inclined to feel sick, were able to sit behind the driver, which seems to be the least sick-making spot. Cathy and I sat behind them and Andrew sat next to the door. All the buses in our part of the country are small single-deckers and the driver sells you your ticket as well as driving the bus, so Andrew was able to assume the job of opening and shutting the door and helping the passengers in and out.

  It was a long, but interesting drive to Charlbury. Instead of staying on the main road as one does if one goes by car with one’s parents, the bus wanders round the remote villages to either side of the road. On one side they stand amid the watery hedge-bound flatness of the vale and on the other, where narrow lanes climb and fall steeply, you come upon villages suddenly; farmhouses and thatched cottages, tight-packed in the clefts and hollows, and above them the bare line of the downs.

  We amused ourselves by looking out and drawing each other’s attention to horses, donkeys, Jersey herds and particularly nice houses, until at last we saw the steel grey of Charlbury cathedral’s spire cutting the lighter grey of the winter sky.

  ‘We’re there,’ cried Rory excitedly. But of course we weren’t, it took ages to get through the narrow streets and as the bus waited in queues at traffic lights, I began to have cold feet about the whole business.

  The irresponsibility of allowing one’s younger brothers and sisters to deceive the parents and take their money out of the post office to buy a cow grew more and more obvious. If only someone would buy Carmen for thirty pounds, I thought, then we could visit the shops, find our parents some extra Christmas present, go home on the one-thirty bus and forget the whole thing. Or would we, I wondered? Perhaps we’d be haunted for ever by visions of a poor old cow limping to the slaughterhouse after all those years of service to Charnworth.

  And if we do buy her, I thought. And instantly a whole host of complications loomed up. We’d got to get her home to the Firs, we’d got to milk her night and morning, feed her, keep her secret until Cathy’s good country home materialised; go on and on and on telling elaborate lies to our parents.

  I was just going to suggest to Cathy that we called the whole thing off when she dug me in the ribs and said, ‘We’re there.’

  We emerged into the bustle of the bus terminal and, not being sure of the way to the market, asked our driver. Then we set off, as directed, down a very seedy street and turning left at the bottom found ourselves in Abattoir Road. We turned in horror to gaze on the street sign.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Rory.

  ‘It’s French,’ said Cathy evasively.

  But Penny didn’t mince matters. ‘Slaughterhouse, of course,’ she told him.

  ‘Oh, I do hope we’ve got enough money,’ said Andrew anxiously. And my doubts began to leave me. It couldn’t, I thought, be all that irresponsible to save cows from slaughter when whole societies existed to save horses. Jersey cows aren’t like beef cattle, they’re more intelligent and Carmen was an old and faithful friend. I felt for my wallet; it was still there and comfortingly fat. ‘Well, if we can’t afford her, we can’t,’ I told Andrew, ‘but at least we shall have done our best, and if she goes for more than twenty pounds it may be to someone who realises the value of her breeding and thinks she’ll be good for a calf or two yet. We must try and see who’s bidding for her, because we don’t want to bid against a good country home.’

  From Abattoir Road a side entrance led into the market and we found ourselves in a huge covered building; on one side of us were auctioneers’ offices and a café and on the other acres and acres of concrete and tubular steel pens. The auctioneer’s office had a notice saying that catalogues were available so we availed ourselves of one and then went on past some pens where young calves of no particular breed waited for buyers. Andrew and Rory stopped and gazed miserably. ‘They’ll be bought in a minute,’ I said, ‘and reared for beef, but there’s no need to feel sorry for them, they’ll have four lovely summers stuffing in water meadows before they’re eaten.’ I was hoping that we wouldn’t see any Jersey bull calves on their way to becoming dogs’ meat; Carmen was going to be quite enough to take home. We looked into the main hall of the market where a horse sale was just about to begin and then we found our way to the ring where the Jersey sale was to take place. In all the pens around us now were smart little golden cattle. The cows were matronly with huge udders, the heifers pretty and agile, more like deer. There were solid-looking bulls with powerful chests and shoulders and muscles rippling under golden coats, gay young bulls, older bulls with angry eyes and sinister-looking bulls with very black faces. And everywhere there were white-coated herdsmen, leaning on pens or giving their charges a last polish.

  ‘Carmen’s in quite good company,’ I observed. Suddenly Cathy, who’d been reading the catalogue, said, ‘They’ve got Charnworth Chieftain down here. Look!’ He was there all right. ‘The property of D. F. Smithson Esq.,’ the catalogue read and there was the date on which Chieftain was calved and the details of his pedigree and the prizes which he and his relations had won.

  We all stood looking at each other in horror.

  ‘The point is, who’s come in with him?’ I said. You don’t send a valuable bull to a sale alone. Usually Dad or Bill Martin comes as well as one of the other men.

  ‘Oh gosh, I hope it’s not Dad.’ Andrew sounded apprehensive.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Mummy would have suggested that he gave us a lift,’ observed Cathy.

  ‘Unless she thought Dad would be too gloomy about Carmen to want to be bothered by us,’ I pointed out.

  ‘But why are they selling Chieftain?’ asked Rory in miserable tones.

  ‘Well, you have to sell some of your bulls,’ I told him. ‘Otherwise your herd becomes inbred. After all, they’ve got Cardinal and Crusader and then there’s supposed to be a terribly good young one, isn’t there? Isn’t he the best they’ve ever bred?’

  ‘Yes,’ Penny answered. ‘Dad wanted to call him Charnworth Crusoe, but Bill Martin said it wasn’t a grand enough name for a future Supreme Champion, so he’s called Churchill.’

  ‘It’s quite different from selling Carmen,’ I told Rory, who still looked miserable. ‘Chieftain’s young and valuable, he’ll go to some posh herd and have dozens of glamorous wives. He’s probably glad to get away from all his relations.’

  ‘I’ve found Carmen,’ said Cathy who was still reading the catalogue. ‘She’s at the end under Late Entries and Miscellaneous.’

  We all looked at Carmen’s brief particulars and the damning fact of her age, and then we tried to decide what to do. ‘We’d better find Chieftain and Carmen and see who is with them,’ suggested Penny.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ I said as a rush of people to the ring told us that the sale had begun. ‘There’ll only be one person looking after him now and with any luck it won’t be Dad or Bill Martin; if they’re here, they’ll be studying prices at the ringside.’

  ‘Chieftain is number fourteen,’ announced Cathy. ‘Well, for goodness’ sake let’s go and find them,’ said Penny, who was tired of standing about.

  ‘Not all of us,’ I objected, ‘it’s too obvious.’

  Cathy said she’d stay with Andrew and Rory so Penny and I set off in search of the Charnworth contingent. We found them quite easily and George White – one of the under cowmen – seemed to be in charge. We decided to be bold and, making out that we were on a shopping expedition and had just come into the sale for a look, asked him if Dad or Mr. Martin were there.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘’tis only me. Your Dad’s got his hands full, with Mr. Smithson and Bill wouldn’t come on account of Carmen being sold.’

  ‘Are you staying to lead her in?’ I asked as the awful thought struck me.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘If Chieftain fetches his reserve I’m going straight back with the driver, ’e’s waiting till then. I’ve arranged with one of the lads to take Carmen in. She won’t fetch much. She’s ricked that leg of ’ers in the lorry and she can ’ardly ’obble, poor old cow. There’s no reserve on ’er; she’s going for what she’ll fetch.’

  We all looked at Carmen and sighed. Then Penny and I agreed, rather falsely, that we must get back to our shopping. We said good-bye and went to find the others.

  ‘It all seems to be working out quite well,’ observed Cathy, when we told them what George White had said.

  ‘Except that Carmen doesn’t come in for absolutely hours,’ grumbled Penny.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid we’ve had the half past one bus,’ I agreed gloomily, wondering what reason we could give to Mummy for missing it.

  ‘Let’s go and look at the sale,’ suggested Rory. ‘It’s jolly boring here.’

  The bidding was brisk and the prices seemed to us terrific. ‘We’re never going to be able to afford Carmen,’ said Cathy.

  ‘These are all up and coming,’ I reminded her. ‘Carmen’s a has-been. Anyway, you don’t go for dogs’ meat at this sort of price.’

  We watched cow after cow sold and it became unbearably stuffy in the crowd round the sale ring. Soon Rory began to complain that he couldn’t see.

  ‘Only two more before Chieftain,’ Cathy told him. Then Andrew announced that he was feeling ‘funny’ and he certainly looked green; we hastily removed him from the crowd and sat him down on a convenient bale of straw. We didn’t see Chieftain sold, but we heard the bidding go up and up until he was knocked down for four hundred and eighty guineas.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Andrew, reviving now that he was out of the crush, ‘the F.W. will be richer than ever.’

  ‘It’ll probably go in super tax,’ I told him.

  Penny was fidgeting again. ‘What on earth are we going to do now?’ she demanded. ‘We can’t just wait here for hours and hours.’

  It was Cathy who suggested a visit to the horse sale and we set off with Rory and Penny in the lead and me toiling behind trying to calculate how long it would take for the auctioneer to get to Carmen if he was selling a cow every six minutes. It worked out at about half past one.

  The horse sale was rather depressing. The horses were mostly old with hollow backs or else they had things wrong with them. We decided that we’d never seen so many capped hocks, big knees, windgalls and bowed tendons under one roof. The ponies weren’t so dilapidated, but a lot of them were Harlequin’s type, cobby with large heads and small eyes, and they all looked either dejected or anxious. When we’d inspected all the horses and ponies, both the sold and the still to be sold, we had a look at the saddlery and then decided to go and keep Carmen company. The sight of doughnuts in the market café window reminded us that it was nearly lunch-time and we stopped to count our money. We couldn’t spend any of the twenty-one pounds until Carmen’s fate was decided but we made a collection of everything else – it was mostly pennies and halfpennies. We all seemed broke, me especially for I had already borrowed next week’s pocket money from Mummy to pay Andrew back and for my bus fare.

  We managed to raise just enough money for five doughnuts, I think there was a penny halfpenny over, and then, munching hungrily we went to see Carmen. She seemed very perturbed by her situation. She was straining at her halter rope and mooing indignantly, but she didn’t seem to find any consolation in our pats and soothing words. Chieftain was still in a near-by pen, but he was being watched over by a stranger so we decided that George White had gone. As the moment of buying Carmen drew nearer, I began to have cold feet again. Rory was getting bored and tormenting Andrew by putting bits of straw down his neck; Penny was fidgeting, and seeing that the crowd round the sale ring had thinned I suggested that we went back to watch.

  The best animals had evidently been sold, for the ones that remained were fetching much lower prices. I studied the methods of bidding. Some people seemed to manage with a twitch of an eyebrow or a nod of the head, but they were old hands, I decided. When it came to Carmen I was going to make sure that I was noticed and a firm wave of the catalogue seemed to be the recognised method. I had taken out my wallet and was counting the notes to make absolutely sure we had twenty-one pounds, when a tremendous commotion broke out in the yard outside where the cattle trucks load and unload. There were shouts and yells and a tremendous crash and more shouting – it sounded as though something terrific was happening. ‘Here, hold this a sec,’ I said to Cathy, handing her the catalogue and wallet, ‘I’m just going to see.’ I sprinted through a crowd of people all rushing for the main door and met another crowd in retreat. ‘Look out,’ they cried, ‘there’s a bull got away.’

  I wanted to see for myself so I pressed on and emerged to see a Jersey bull out on the tarmac between the sheep pens and the cattle trucks. He was looking round him belligerently and a circle of men armed with sticks and pitchforks advanced slowly. Suddenly I realised that it was Charnworth Chieftain. ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ I said, hurrying to join his would-be capturers. ‘He’s quiet.’

  ‘Ah, they’re all quiet until they put someone in hospital,’ said an elderly farmer beside me. ‘They tried to hurry this one and he didn’t like it. The chap who was leading him into the lorry, his bullstaff broke and the bull fell back over the side of the ramp. Now he’s had enough. Let him quieten down,’ he called to the pitchfork brigade.

  Everyone seemed to be giving advice. ‘Drive ’im into a sheep pen’; ‘Get him into a corner and back the lorry up to him.’ ‘Wait a minute.’ ‘Hurry up before ’e has time to get any ideas in ’is head.’

  ‘Can’t we just catch him?’ I suggested, wishing that George White were still there to cope. But at that moment Chieftain lowered his head and gave a terrible roaring bellow. He pawed the ground angrily, bellowed again and then charged. The circle of men held steady for a moment, then it wavered and, as Chieftain came on relentlessly, broke. ‘Shut the gates,’ yelled someone. But it was too late, Chieftain had also seen the open gates leading into Station Road and his charge slowing to a rapid trot, he went through. With the pitchfork and stick brigade I ran in pursuit.

  Unfortunately Chieftain hadn’t turned towards the station where we might have cornered him in the goods yard or car park; he’d turned right-handed and was trotting quickly in the direction of the town.

  Station Road was practically empty. One or two passers­by waved their arms and shouted ‘Shoo’, but when Chieftain lowered his head and bellowed threateningly they took refuge in the nearest doorway and let him go on. No one seemed to have a plan. We just ran after Chieftain breathlessly, hoping that some method of capture would present itself. One cattle-truck driver stopped at the first telephone kiosk saying that he’d ring the police and the rest of us ran on. Station Road comes out in Victoria Place and a choice of four roads presented itself. Chieftain kept straight on and took Church Street, which brought a loud groan from the pursuers. ‘Straight down into the town,’ said someone. Then they began to shout, trying to attract the attention of people farther down the street. ‘Turn ’im back, mate,’ they were calling, and ‘Don’t let ’im get down into the town.’ But it was easier said than done, I thought, and the passers­by seemed to agree. Most of them were sheltering in door­ways, behind trees or parked cars; they peered out with horrified faces as we swept by. Only one brave old lady stepped off the pavement and out into the road. ‘Shoo, shoo,’ she cried in a high, cracked voice and she waved her shopping bag and umbrella, but the crowd behind Chieftain was much more formidable than one old lady ahead, and lowering his head he gave a menacing bellow and increased his speed. The old lady stuck it to the very last moment and by then the crowd around me were shouting at her to get out of the way. She tried to, stumbled and fell. Chieftain slowed up and eyed her small, brittle-looking body, wondering whether to gore and crush his enemy. I longed for a pitch­fork in my hands and we all ran faster, shouting. Chieftain trotted on. About six people stopped to pick up the old lady who lay with a sad mess of smashed eggs and spilt shopping in the road; the rest of us ran on. Some of the older and portlier farmers and truck drivers were getting left behind. There were new faces beside me, less countrified ones and I noticed with foreboding that we were nearly all unarmed. Church Street descended steeply and below I could see the Broadway, Charlbury’s chief shopping street; the road was jammed with cars and buses, the pavements crammed with people Christmas shopping. It would be murder, I thought, if Chieftain got down there. I looked around desperately, seeking some way of stopping him, but short of a road block it seemed that nothing would. I looked down again at the people shopping quite unaware of the danger drawing near. I felt myself growing cold with fear as I thought of the carnage Chieftain would cause in that crammed street.