Once a day, Tom and I would sit down with a great pile of potatoes, carrots, turnips and mangolds in front of us and carefully chop them up into small pieces which we would put in a sack. Then Tom would haul himself to his bunioned feet, hoist the sack on to his back and lumber off to feed the tapirs. They would greet his appearance with cries of joy, a piping noise like somebody rubbing a wet thumb over a balloon, a strangely bird-like noise for such stolid animals. To see old Tom with his swooping eagle nose, his bow legs and his shambling gait, moving round the paddock with the tapirs in hot pursuit always used to amuse me, for if Mr Cole looked like the camels which were his pride and joy, old Tom looked like nothing more or less than a red-faced tapir.
In the forests of South America the tapir appears to have only three enemies: man, the great snakes and the jaguar. Lydekker says,
. . . they are much sought after by the native South American hunters for the sake of their flesh and hide. The flesh is said to be juicy and well-flavoured, and both in appearance and taste resembles beef. The skin, which is of great thickness and strength, is cut into long thongs, which, after being rounded and treated with fat, are used for reins and bridles. It is, however, unsuited for shoe-leather, as it becomes very hard and unyielding when dry, and very soft and spongy when wetted. The hairs, hooves, and certain other parts are used by the natives as medicine; the hooves being sometimes hung round the neck as charms, and in other cases ground to powder and taken internally . . . Next to man, the worst foes of the tapir are the larger cats; the jaguar preying largely on the American species, and the tiger attacking its Malayan cousin. It is said that when an American tapir is attacked by a jaguar, it immediately rushes into the thickest cover in the hope of dislodging its assailant, which from the thickness of the animal’s hide is unable to obtain a firm hold on its back. It is further reported that the tapir is not unfrequently successful; and, in any case, many of these animals are killed with the marks of jaguar’s claws on their backs.
Although our tapirs never displayed any signs of bad temper, after I had learnt that they could, in moments of stress, knock you down, trample on you with their sharp hooves, and rip bits off you with their great teeth, I treated them with a certain amount of circumspection and gave up slapping their behinds with quite such exuberant familiarity when I went into the paddock with them.
The other creatures on the section were our great herd of yaks and these were rather charming animals. The yak is a very curious member of the ox family both in shape, with his very high shoulders sloping down to his tail, and the fact that the bulk of his fur grows underneath. If you look at a yak you will see that its legs, belly and the lower part of its tail are covered by a thick shawl of fur while the fur on its back and neck is comparatively short. The pure, wild yak is black or a very dark chocolate, and we had some of these, though the majority of our herd was spotted with white, cream, ash-grey and black, a sign of their long domestication.
What the camel is to the deserts, the yak is to the high places of the world. They have limited intelligence but enormous stubborn tenacity, rather like professional soldiers, and their great strength and determination will get them to the most extraordinary places over terrain that could not be covered by any other animal. They appear to be utterly impervious to cold and, in Tibet, choose partly-frozen muddy pot-holes by the edge of icy torrents as their wallows. The paddock in which we kept our herd had a large pond in it and now that winter was upon us it was necessary to go twice a day and break the ice on this. It was one of the first and most unpleasant jobs in the morning. The reason for this was that, if the ice grew too thick, the baby yaks would venture out on to it, to be followed by the adults; the combined weights would probably break the ice and the yaks would fall in and drown. When we went to perform this duty the yaks would come galloping over the snow to greet us, bounding curvaceously, swishing their tails like stock-whips and occasionally, in a fit of exuberance, standing on their heads and kicking their heels in the air. The breath would squirt out of their nostrils in great white plumes of steam and the snow would squeak, rustle and whisper musically under their hooves.
You would spear a bale of hay on the tines of your pitchfork, haul it up on to your back with a quick wriggle and twist, like an expert wrestler throwing an opponent, and then march steadily through the field, up to your knees in snow, while the yaks surrounded you in a great furry, sweet-smelling avalanche of good-will, rubbing themselves up against you and occasionally trying to steal a mouthful of hay from the bale on your back; the resulting tug would, if you were not careful, pull you flat on your back. When you got near the pond you would remove the wires from the bale and scatter the hay in bunches over the snow and the great beasts would gather round it munching mouthfuls with tremendous satisfaction.
As you approached the edge of the pond with your spade, all the baby yaks would follow you, gambolling round you like enormous puppies. As you broke the rim of ice round the pond into a jigsaw of shattering ice pieces the baby yaks would plunge their muzzles in and drink thirstily. Then they would get down into the water and roll, splintering and scrunching the ice under their bodies. If you were not quick enough in beating a retreat at this point, you would find half a dozen baby yaks would get to their feet and shake themselves simultaneously, with the result that you would be drenched to the skin with icy water.
It was curious that, although the yaks were almost as big as the North American buffalo and certainly as potentially lethal, one never got the feeling that they were ill-disposed, and I took liberties with them that I would never have done with any of the other large ungulates in the park. The babies loved to be played with and when the snow was deep and soft I would launch myself at a passing baby and grab hold of his great plume-like tail. The animal would rush off at top speed and if you clung on and relaxed he would drag you across the surface of the snow like a sledge. Eventually you would let go and immediately the yak would stop and look round at you in astonishment that you should so easily give up such an excellent game.
After you had mucked out their shed and done the other chores your hands would be scarlet and blue and frozen stiff; then was the time to approach one of the larger yaks as it fed placidly and plunge your hands into the thick fur over its ribs where the warmth was like that of a furnace.
General Kinloch, writing in the 1800s of the yaks in Tibet observes,
. . . Yak seem to wander about a good deal. In summer the cows are generally to be found in herds varying in numbers from ten to one hundred; while the old bulls are for the most part solitary or in small parties of three or four. They feed at night and early in the morning, and usually betake themselves to some steep and barren hillside during the day, lying sometimes for hours in the same spot. Old bulls in particular seem to rejoice in choosing a commanding situation for their resting-place and their tracks may be found on the tops of the steepest hills, above the highest traces of vegetation. The yak is not apparently a very sharp-sighted beast, but its sense of smell is extremely keen, and this is the chief danger to guard against in stalking it. In the high valleys of Tibet where so many glens intersect one another, and where the temperature is continually changing, the wind is equally variable. It will sometimes shift to every point of the compass in the course of a few minutes, and the best-planned stalk may be utterly spoiled.
The fact that winter, with its attendant miseries, was now with us did nothing to improve my feelings about having to live in the bothy. The trouble was that, when I arrived and took up residence with the Baileys, I had been spoiled. I doubt whether anybody has ever been as cosseted as I was on my first job away from home. The Baileys had given me a tremendous warmth and affection and had accepted me as a son, but in the nicest and most unrestricted sort of way Charlie would encourage me to show off by telling him long stories of my family and my brief past life. He would laugh, probably not believing, and then repeat the salient points to himself silently, beaming quietly. Meanwhile, Mrs Bailey would guide me on the ster
ner things of life.
‘Have another helping . . . Are your shoes clean? . . . Is she a nice girl? . . . Don’t stay out too late. Remember, your mother wouldn’t like it . . . Have another helping . . . No, if you want to drink don’t go to the pub, dear. Bring it over here, it’s more comfy. But no more than two pints mind.’
Those lovely bickerings over me . . .
‘Leave the boy alone, dear. Why shouldn’t he have a pint?’
‘It’s not the pint I mind, Charlie, as well you know, but if he starts going over there, well, what would his mother say?’
‘His mother’d say he wants a pint.’
‘If he brings it back here it is much more comfy and we all know where we are. But not more than two pints, dear, it’s almost time for bed.’
Now all this was gone and the drabness of my life in the bothy had to be experienced to be believed.
With the white mist pressing like a huge muffling paw over the countryside, I would be glad to see the blurred nimbus of orange light that seemed to pulse in the shifting veils. With face and hands aching with cold, one was glad of any shelter, even such as was offered by the bothy.
The hall would be only a degree warmer than outside and by peering in the dim light at the row of pegs arranged in a rack along the walls I could ascertain who was in and who was not. Some evenings I was first; Joe’s battered mackintosh was absent together with his greasy cap, Fred’s thick, dusty blanket coat and Roy’s nondescript piece of clothing which might once have been a good Burberry.
Whether it was a good thing to arrive first for tea was rather a moot point. There were only two ways: arrive first and have to sit making inane conversation with Mrs Austin, or arrive late and eat half-cold food and drink lukewarm tea with an ill-disguised expression of disgust. I generally braved the former, but even then there were snags.
A blast of heat would greet me in the kitchen where we had our meals. Mrs Austin would be preparing our tea and the strong smell would tell me that it was fish again. Resigning myself to my fate, I would sit down at the table. Mrs Austin, who was extremely deaf, would be oblivious to my arrival and would continue cutting and buttering bread.
She was a short woman with a curious malformation of the jaw, which gave her Cockney speech a slushy and sometimes incomprehensible overtone. Her eyes were small and dark, and she screwed them up in a manner which argued defective eyesight. Her hair was an extraordinary forest of tufts and tails, never tidy for the simple reason that it was not thick or long enough to be managed successfully, so it hung limply round her head. I had realised, fatalistically, that it was only a matter of time before I found a portion of it in my food.
I would sit there trying not to pay any attention to her method of preparing the food, but it had a macabre fascination. On the table would lie a loaf of bread. She would pick it up and hold it against her apron so that she could cut a slice. The slice thus produced was grasped in one hand, while with the other she slapped the butter on and smoothed it over the surface. During this process some of the butter would attach itself to her thumb. She would suck it off noisily and then grasp the bread again, wrapping her saliva-covered thumb around it affectionately as she continued with the job. Having counted the slices lying on the cloth, she would proceed to the larder for a plate to put them on. Returning, she would notice me for the first time. A bright smile would distort her features.
‘You back?’ she would inquire.
I would smile and nod.
‘You back?’ she would repeat, twisting her head on one side, as if listening.
This time I would not reply as it was unnecessary. She continuously repeated herself.
She would wipe the dust off the plate with a gaily coloured towel hanging behind the door. At least it had been at one time gaily coloured, but as it had hung there for a fortnight and had been used continuously for dishes and hands, some of its finer points were obscured. The bread would be piled on to the plate and she would shuffle over to the stove, talking squelchily over her shoulder to me.
‘Tea won’t be long. I’ve been to Luton. I’ve been out . . . out to Luton. Only just got in. Only been in five minutes.’
‘Have you?’ I would inquire disinterestedly, watching while she removed the lid from the saucepan and released a cloud of steam heavily laden with fishy odours. She would sniff into the bubbling interior.
‘Fish,’ she would point out brightly, replacing the lid. ‘Do you like it?’
As we had had fish for tea for the last two or three months it was difficult to reply to this question.
The rattle of the door handle would herald the approach of someone who could take my attention from her food preparation. Joe. He would stand in the doorway smiling gently, his lean, handsome face red with cold and the fine hairs on his cheek bones gleaming like copper in the light.
‘Good evening, Joseph,’ I would salute him.
‘Good evening,’ he would smile and advance into the kitchen, his large boots scrunching and squeaking on the tiles. He would sit down heavily and survey the table.
‘Christ! Fish again,’ he would state rather than ask.
‘Yes,’ I would answer glumly, stirring the remains on my plate with the fork. ‘We’ll be growing tails soon.’
Joe would give one of his wheezy, subterranean chuckles.
Mrs Austin would place the haddock before Joe, smiling at him. ‘Fish,’ she would explain, pointing.
‘Aye,’ Joe would reply, ‘I can see that.’
‘You’re home early,’ she would prattle on. ‘Been working hard?’
‘Aye,’ Joe would shout, his eyes gleaming amusedly, and then to me in a lower tone, ‘I haven’t done a damn bloody thing all day. Too bloody cold.’
We would chew in silence for a few moments. Then Joe would wash down a mouthful of haddock with tea and belch gently. ‘Where’s t’boy?’
‘Roy? He’s not in yet. Neither’s Fred.’
‘Fred’s working too hard to come back for his tay,’ Joe would observe, and give a husky laugh.
Presently, Roy would appear, a pale, quiet, shy youth who was incapable of raising his voice sufficiently for Mrs Austin to understand him easily. He would sit down and smile nervously at Joe and me. Mealtime was a source of considerable embarrassment to him. Mrs Austin he could not talk to; Joe he was frightened of; and so he would turn to me, sensing in some way my sympathy for his embarrassment.
‘Ooh!’ Mrs Austin would exclaim, having just perceived him. ‘You in?’
Roy would give a perfunctory nod and gaze at the table. For the third time Mrs Austin would inform us that the fish we were enjoying was fish. In particular, she would inform Roy, who would receive the news with complete expressionlessness. We would all sit silently, with the exception of the lady, who would champ and suck her food noisily.
The fog would press damply on the windows. Monotonously, the clock would tick on the dresser, the kettle would snore gently on the fire, and above this cacophonous symphony one could hear the steady squelch, squelch of Mrs Austin’s dentures tearing and squeezing the fish into a pulp. She would pause occasionally to gulp noisily at her tea.
‘Fred’s late,’ she would observe. ‘Working on the pump, he is.’
‘Aye,’ Joe would say, then add as an aside, ‘That’s why we’ve got no bloody water.’
Roy would giggle nervously. Mrs Austin would smile uncomprehendingly,
‘They do have their little joke, eh?’ she would say to me archly.
‘Rather,’ I would bellow.
A noise in the hall, and the master of the bothy, Fred himself, would appear. He was a shuffling, humourless, round-shouldered individual with flat, close-set eyes, set in his lined face. I have never met anybody who was so consistently right about everything; whatever the subject, Fred knew best and would tell you so.
‘Ah,’ he would say by way of greeting, shambling to his seat.
‘Evening, Fred,’ Joe would say, his eyes twinkling maliciously. ‘Been working
overtime?’
‘No,’ Fred would say. ‘Them buggers lost the screws. I told ’em not to touch them – would they listen? Ho no.’
Fred always had a clear globule of liquid suspended from his long nose. I would watch fascinated while it quivered and trembled with his movements, clinging with precarious tenacity to its hairy perch. Its owner would survey the plate placed before him.
‘’Addock,’ he would say, with pride in his discovery.
‘Fish,’ his wife would correct him. ‘You like a bit of fish, don’t you?’
‘Yus,’ Fred would say, and slice it delicately.
His movements were careful and so slow as to be almost reptilian. He would shovel the food into his mouth and munch it with that supreme indifference that you see in a cud-chewing cow. His cheeks would bulge and roll like two bolsters with the movement of his jaws. He would breathe heavily through his nose.
Joe would lean back and light his pipe, sending thick wreaths of chest-constricting smoke across the table. Roy would be still struggling with his haddock. Mrs Austin would be lost in some tiny thought that had percolated into her numb brain.
‘You going out tonight?’ Fred would ask me.
‘No.’
I always spoke monosyllabically to Fred, as it helped to still the flood of dull reminiscences which lurked continuously behind his most casual utterance, only awaiting the right cue to be brought forth for everyone’s boredom.
‘Ho,’ he would ruminate, ‘so you’ll be in then, eh?’
Fred’s logic was good but rudimentary. He liked to make sure of his points.
I would nod.
‘Whassamatter?’ he would inquire, ‘don’t she love you no more?’
‘Oh yes, but she’s going out with somebody else’s husband,’ I would joke.
They would all laugh, including Mrs Austin, who would not have heard but would not want to be left out.