The Birth of Barley-boy
(and the effects of time-saving agricultural devices)
TWG Fraser
Copyright 2013 TWG Fraser
It would have been a rustic view had it not been for the lumbering pink Harvester-Dryer-Baler, which the agricultural community managed to call, with its strict little sense of humour, a Hardfryer. The barley (it also had a name: Pandora) swayed, as one would expect, in a golden haze. The hedgerows twittered expectantly, and the sun pierced the blue ceiling as only a late afternoon sun should.
A horn sounded, a light flashed, the pink monster seemed to throb, but nothing happened; it carried on cutting and sorting and drying and baling. The horn sounded again, the light flashed brighter. Only the apron of black tyres kept their natural colour.
From the far corner of the field came a puny cough and a little blue tractor appeared from behind the hedge, heaving and tugging a large orange trailer, high-sided and almost twice its length. It bounced in and out of the ruts at the gateway and then skittled down the broad path cut by the Hardfryer, keeping to one side of the large bale deposits left steaming. The little tractor had only just caught up when the Hardfryer reached the end of the field. Round came the impatient machine, completely ignoring the piteous drone of the little worker as it had to skip out of the way of a couple of bales as they rolled away. For a second, like a panting retriever, the tractor stopped, but not for long. Soon it was off again, chasing its mistress' heels. In the middle of the field they met again and the horn and the flashing finally stopped as the two moved side by side. A pink arm swung out from the Hardfryer as if to clout the overshadowed tractor but, instead, corn poured out from its mouth and tractor wiggled its trailer nervously to catch every last head of barley. In a few minutes the tractor was gone and the field left to the hungry mouthfuls of the harvester-baler and its large round droppings.
Apart from the noise of the harvester as it ate its way up the field and the sizzling of the heated bales, the only other odd, though not unnatural, sound came from a sandwich.
The farm labourer ruminated noisily. The sandwich he held never moved more than a few inches from his mouth. This was the Cowman.
He had a straw hat and a waistcoat but, alas, he did not have any string round the shins of his trousers: that would have to wait until he was acknowledged a Grandfather. He had had his hat for nearly twenty years, with as many children, though a good few were now dead. But today he was not thinking of hierarchy or agricultural fashion. For once, today, at tea-time, leaning on an old wooden fence that was being enveloped by a timeless hedge, a tandem bicycle with an open satchel at his feet, he was watching a naked couple being romantic, indeed rather physical, amongst the uncut Pandora.
The girl giggled as the Cowman took another bite. The tractor reappeared. His teeth ground the bread into a grey pulp as he watched, with scientific interest, the amorous pair. He had watched his cows since he was four, it was they that had taught him to count; he had counted his children many times. But this was different, this couple had never seen a cow breed before. He took a bite and shrugged his shoulders. The wife would not like this.
Plop! Another bale rolled away. The field was no longer covered in its yellow growth. The pink Hardfryer had crept further along the field. The little tractor was gone again. Inside a green glass box, high up the side of the machine, was a reclining man. Surrounding him were an array of switches that controlled the pumping entrails beneath him. He pulled a thermos of cold tea out and had a drink. Little lights flickered on and off and the knobs turned themselves. He was very bored as this was the thirteenth field he had cut this autumn and he had another twenty-one to go.
The sun shone unhindered, though tinted, through the green glass, forcing the young man to squint. Apart from steering every now and then, he had little to do except look forward to doing the Triangular Field the next morning. The shadows lengthened below him so that the areas of weather beaten corn disappeared into patches of darkness. This was one of the Cowman's twenty children. Once the fourth, now he was the eldest, named Quart. There were five younger than him who were dead too, leaving twelve children at the kitchen table. But now, being the eldest, life for Quart, was quite good. It meant that he had a room to himself and that he drove machines like the Hardfryer. Also, thought Quart slightly ashamed of himself to admit it, life was much pleasanter since his elder brother Pute had died. The last of the bastards.
Pute had never believed the smell had come from him until one day he found his right arm going green. The thing was, he had put a pitchfork through his toe a year before. It had taken a whole year for the gangrene to spread. But that was all over, and the house no longer smelled, or smelled so bad anyway.
Quart looked across the field and saw his father by the fence. Being the eldest son he reckoned he was now able to laugh at his father, it was the sort of privilege he liked. So Quart laughed. He remembered when his father had tried to explain why his mother was pregnant. He had been taken to the paddock to watch the cows. How he had laughed.
Quart was mechanically minded, he fiddled with electrical motors and drove the farm machinery. He had an electric air pump for his goldfish so he knew how to make babies already as he had watched his fish. He laughed again, his father was always wrong. Quart decided to think about his money instead. What would he do with his pay this week? Now he was twenty-one he got five pounds a week! Sometimes people questioned him about why he and the rest of the family had so little money, but for three generations, since great-grandfather Cowman's time, the family had kept the secret to themselves. Quart had often wanted to tell people, especially Jenny. Quart smiled to himself for he was twenty-one and that meant things. His thoughts raced down various goldfish-inspired lanes but the Hardfryer started to beep so he turned the wheel in front of him and then settled down to think about money again. Last month he had bought four pineapples, but they had gone rotten so he had filled them with papier-mâché for his sisters to wear if they wanted to, but they had had to keep them in his room as he rather liked them. Still unsure what to do with his money, Quart's silence was broken by another beep of the machine. He turned into the last stretch.
The Cowman reached down into the satchel of the tandem and rummaged around finding some cheese and grapes. He munched away slowly, his full attention on the earthy romance. The noises are right, he thought, but that position is extraordinary. The groans sped up. But why was he saying: 'No! No!' and she going: 'Yes! Yes!'? As if cows ever said anything. He hoped they would come back next week so he could bring his wife, and maybe Gill, she was of age and he was worried about the fruit-tainted influence Quart had over her.
He reckoned the couple had nearly finished They were both shouting a great deal. The Cowman looked on and tried to catch what they saying but it was very difficult. The naked man opened his mouth but it was drowned out beneath the massive wheel of the harvester that pulled them in, in their climax. The Cowman swore as he watched the red bale fall out the back of the Hardfryer.
'I never heard what he bloody well said.'
With a look of disappointment and maybe even disgust, he took another bite of the cheese and watched his son jumping around inside the green box. The Hardfryer turned itself off at the end of the field and the door opened slowly. In a flash Quart squeezed through and fell fifteen feet to the ground. As he lay on the barley stubble moaning, little strips of metal slid out from the side of the machine and formed a ladder. Quart scowled at his father.
'Don't ask me if I want a sandwich.' he said.
'Wasn't.' replied his father.
'Well, how are they?' Quart asked.
'Those two? They're bale
d.'
Quart shrieked and jumped up.
'They can't be.' He looked at his father.
'Well and proper.'
Quart ran round the back of the Hardfryer and stopped by the steaming red bale.
'But they should have gone out at the stone remover.' He stamped his foot.
'But they aren't stone, son, are they?' said Quart's father. 'Probably, thought they were a stringy bit of straw. Almost as smelly as Pute aren't they?'
Quart kicked the bale. The Cowman was actually quite worried about the situation but he wanted his son to calm down and go and get his money first. After a quick couple of pats on the shoulder Quart walked off, heading towards the farm buildings about a mile away, leaving his father to roll the bale towards the gate where a flat-bed trailer had been left.
'Bloody townies anyway. Got no sense.' Muttered the Cowman. He was worried that Quart might be asked to pay some money to someone. There might be Enquiries. They might even want to know The Secret.
He pushed the bale, it rolled quite easily, but he stopped when he saw something underneath. There was a small white puddle, a thick milky substance, very like what he had seen the vet put into a neighbour's cow once, an A I injection it had been called. It seemed the vet thought himself a bull. The Cowman had not liked that idea.
In the middle of the puddle he saw something moving, it was small but definitely alive. The Cowman picked it up and put it in his pocket with the rest of the cheese. He'd have a look at it later. He'd better get the bale down to the police station first.
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About the author:
T W G Fraser has been writing short stories since he was 16. Now he is 49 and hopes to publish a story a month for the next 12 months. Something I doubt he is going to achieve.
Can I also say that I that I do not like the copyright notice on the first page. I tried to add the following but story kept getting rejected so here is what I really want to say:
Thank you for buying this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your
friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes.
Thank you for your support.
The next story is a black comedy (sorry if these descriptions mislead) entitled: Market Forces,
to be published in April.
For more infomation visit https://topiaryistorture.blogspot.co.uk/
or https://www.flopyrecpords.co.uk