Out of the Ashes

  You can’t smell the smoke of the fires here like you can at home. But the disease is here. I can feel it all around me and so can everyone. It’s like living in a ghost village, a plague village. No cars go up and down. No one’s out in the street. They’re all hiding behind their doors. And the birds don’t sing.

  There’s another reason I like Auntie Liz. She says what she really feels, and most people don’t. She says it’ll break Dad’s heart if we get foot and mouth. ‘Your dad really loves his animals,’ she said. ‘I mean they’re not just a business to him like with some farmers. They’re like family to him.’ Uncle Mark said she was upsetting me, but she wasn’t. She was only saying what I know already.

  I rang home this evening and asked Mum how things were. She sounded strange, a bit distant. She said she was missing me, they both were, that Dad had just come in from checking the animals and they were all fine. But the wind was still blowing the smoke from Mr Bailey’s farm all around the house. It was a good thing I was away, she said. Little Josh was fine. Ruby too. I wasn’t to worry about anything.

  Monday, March 12th

  I can’t put into words what I feel. There are no words black enough to say what I’ve got to say.

  We were having supper when the phone rang. Auntie Liz answered it. I knew right away something was wrong, and I knew from the moment she looked at me exactly what it was. She handed me the phone. Mum was trying not to cry as she told me. She hadn’t wanted to worry me about it yesterday, she said, but the vet had been called in yesterday morning. Dad had found blisters on the feet of one of our sows, Jessica, and was worried about a couple of sheep that were limping badly. Tests had confirmed it. We had foot and mouth disease on the farm. There was an ‘A’ notice on the farm gate which meant no one was allowed in or out except the vets and the slaughterers. The animals would be put down tomorrow. So I’d have to stay with Auntie Liz until it was all over. It would be the best place for me, she said.

  When I asked how Dad was, she said he was very calm, as if he’d been expecting it all along. She said she’d phone again tomorrow, and that she loved me. I don’t remember the last time she said that to me. She sounded almost like a different person.

  I’ve been sitting here on the bed in a daze ever since. Not crying. I can’t cry. It’s me who’s done this, it must be. I brought the infection back with me from Mr Bailey’s farm. Ruby or Bobs or me, but whichever of us it was, it had been my doing, my fault. I had sentenced our animals to death. Big Josh is sitting beside me holding my hand and he’s looking so sad. I feel like he’s taking the sadness out of me and into himself, leaving me numb inside. They’re going to kill them all – Jemima, Jessica, Hector, Primrose, all Dad’s cows, all his pigs, all his sheep, and Little Josh.

  P.S. Auntie Liz put on a video, to help take my mind off things, she said. Seven Days in Tibet with Brad Pitt. She’d chosen it specially because she knows how much I love Brad Pitt. I sat looking at the screen, but not seeing. All I could think of the whole way through was Little Josh, and tomorrow.

  I want tomorrow never to come. But tomorrow always comes.

  Tuesday, March 13th

  I’ll never be able to think of this date without thinking of the Angels of Death. So much has happened and all of it so fast and so final. Today began yesterday. Last night after I’d finished writing my diary, I made a decision. I was lying in my bed at Auntie Liz’s and thinking about Little Josh, and home and Mum and Dad. I just decided I had to go home, that I had caused this, that I had to be there with them.

  I waited till everyone was in bed and asleep. I left a letter on my pillow explaining everything to Auntie Liz, telling her I was going home. Then I got dressed, packed my things, and crept downstairs. I ran out of the village, up through the graveyard and on to the footpath – no one would see me if I went that way. I thought I’d find the way home easily – I’d done it hundreds of times before – but never in the dark. As it turned out, it was a good thing that I lost my way. The footpath should have brought me out on to the road right opposite our gate, but instead I came out on the road further up. I looked back down the road towards our farm gate and there was a police car parked right across the gateway, and a policeman standing by the car smoking a cigarette. I waited until he got back in the car, then sprinted across the road and up through Front Field and home.

  The lights were still on in the kitchen. Mum and Dad were sitting there at the table and talking over a cup of tea. I just walked in and told them everything. I told them that it was me who’d brought back the foot and mouth after I’d been riding on Mr Bailey’s farm. I told them I was staying home no matter what. I don’t know how much they understood of what I said because I was crying so much. But they under­stood enough. Dad held my hands and told me it was no one’s fault, not mine, not anyone’s. The foot and mouth disease could have come on the wind, in the smoke, on bird droppings, car tyres – a hundred different ways, he said. And Mum said I shouldn’t have run away like I did, but I knew they were both really pleased I had and that neither of them blamed me at all. I could tell that from the way they hugged me. It was a strange thing to be suddenly happy in the middle of all this, but I was.

  Today began again this morning. I was up early and went off to feed Little Josh, while Dad did the milking. Mum let all the ewes and lambs out into Front Field. We stood and watched them as they spread out over the field, the ewes at once busy at their grazing, the lambs springing and skipping, loving their sudden freedom, their last freedom. Neither of us said a word. We didn’t need to because we were both thinking the same thoughts. Little Josh wouldn’t stay with the others. He followed me home into the kitchen. So I fed him.

  But even when I’d fed him he wanted to stay by me.

  We saw the men in white – the slaughterers and the vets – walking up the farm lane as we finished our breakfast. Dad got up, pulled on his overalls, and went out without a word. Mum cried when he’d gone. I put my arms around her and tried to comfort her, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry because my mind was on other things and it was racing. I was looking down at Little Josh lying at my feet, and I was thinking. I was thinking about how I was going to hide him away, so that the men in white would never find him. I didn’t know where I would hide him, but I knew it had to be done. And it had to be soon, very soon. There wasn’t much time.

  My chance came when Mum got up from the table and said she just couldn’t sit there and let Dad do it on his own, that she had to go with him. The moment she’d gone, I scooped Josh up into my arms and ran upstairs. I cleared out everything I could from the bottom of my cupboard and laid down some newspaper.

  I sat on my bed and fed him again until he couldn’t drink another drop. I told him that he must be quiet, that he must go to sleep and keep quiet. He seemed happy enough – until I lifted him in and shut the cupboard door on him. Then he started, bleating on and on, like he’d never stop. It was muffled, but I could still hear him, and if I could hear him, so could they. So I put on my CD just loud enough to drown out his bleating and left him there. All I had to do now was to be sure that I kept my CD going.

  Later, more slaughtermen in white arrived – ‘Angels of Death’, Mum called them. She came in and told me the shooting would begin very soon, that I mustn’t on any account go outside from now on. She didn’t have to tell me. Nothing and no one could have made me go out and watch what they’d be doing. Just thinking of it was more than I could bear. I stayed in my room behind my closed curtains, cradled Little Josh on my lap, put on my earphones and turned up my CD so loud that I couldn’t hear the shooting, so that I couldn’t feel or know anything except the thunder of the music in my head.

  But then I had to change the CD. I took off my earphones without thinking. That was when I first heard the shooting, not loud, not near, but the crack of every shot told me that this was really happening. They were killing out there, killing Dad’s family of animals.

  Suddenly I thought of Ruby. She’d be fright­ened out of her m
ind at all the shooting. I put Little Josh back in the cupboard, turned up the CD, ran downstairs, and out across the yard to her stable.

  Ruby was in a real state by the time I got there, all lathered up and terrified. I went in with her, closed the top of the stable door and hugged her, smoothing her, calming her all I could. After a while when the shooting stopped, she relaxed a little and rested her head on my shoulder. Even then I could hear her heart pounding as if she’d been galloping.

  Then I opened the door. I wish I hadn’t. Dad was there. Mum was there, her arm round his shoulder. The men in white were there. There was blood on their overalls, blood on their boots. One of them was holding a clipboard and he was the one doing the talking. ‘There’s no mistake, Mr Morley,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve checked this list a dozen times now and we’ve counted the bodies. We’re one lamb missing, one ram lamb, a Suffolk.’

  It’s not their fault, I know, but if Mum and Dad hadn’t seen me in the stable at that moment, if they hadn’t looked at me like they did, no one would ever have guessed. Even Bobs was looking at me. Mum knew what I’d done the moment she caught my eye. She came over and explained that I had to give Little Josh up, had to say where he was, that every cloven-hoofed animal on the farm had to be killed. There couldn’t be any exceptions. I buried my face in Ruby’s neck. I was sobbing too much to say anything. I knew it was over, that it was hopeless, that sooner or later they would find him. So I told them I’d fetch him out myself. And that’s what I did. I carried him out. He didn’t struggle, just bleated a little as I handed him over. The man in white who took him off me had a face. It was Brad and his eyes were full of tears. ‘It’ll be very quick,’ he said. ‘He won’t know anything. He won’t feel anything.’ And he carried him away around the back of the shed. A few moments later there was a shot. I felt it like a knife in my heart.

  This evening the farm is still, is silent. The fields are empty, and it’s raining.

  Thursday, March 15th

  Our farm isn’t ours any more. People I don’t even know come and go everywhere. They’re all over the place, like ants. There’s been lorries coming in and out all day, bringing in railway sleepers and straw for the fire. And there’s diggers, two of them, digging the trench in Front Field. I can see them now from my window, waving their arms about like great yellow monsters, doing a hideous dance of death to the thunderous music of their engines.

  The phone rings all the time, but we don’t pick it up and we don’t answer messages unless we have to. Auntie Liz left a message, so did Jay, so did Gran, all saying how terrible it is, how sorry they are, how they’re thinking of us. Auntie Liz was in tears, and Jay says it was horrible of her to have quarrelled with me like she did that day (I’d forgotten all about it long ago) and she said how much she misses me. I miss her too – lots. Gran says she wishes she could be with us, to help us. But I’m glad she’s not. Three of us being silent, being so full of sadness is enough. She’d only make it worse. Besides, we can manage on our own.

  Mum sent me to the end of the lane to pick up the post and the milk this morning. The policeman was still there, still smoking. He said he was sorry too. Then he gave me a bit of a talking-to. I don’t remember much of what he said, something about a light at the end of the tunnel. He was trying to be nice. And I could see he was upset for us, really upset, not pretending.

  Mum says it’s the first time since she’s been married that she’s ever had to buy milk. The post is mostly cards, most with flowers on, the kind of cards people send when someone in the family has died. The cremation will be in Front Field as soon as they’ve built the funeral pyre.

  The burning can’t come too soon for any of us. There’s already a horrible stench about the place. Mum said I mustn’t go near the sheds where they killed the cows and the pigs, nor out into the Front Field where the sheep are lying. She doesn’t want me to see them. And I don’t want to see them either. Imagining them is bad enough. Most of the day Dad sits at his desk smoking and saying nothing. There’s no work for him to do any more. No milking. No feeding the animals. No cheesemaking. He hasn’t been back into his cheese store to check the cheese. I don’t think he can bear to look at them.

  Friday, March 16th

  Tonight when Dad didn’t come in for tea I was worried, and I went out to look for him. I heard him before I found him. He was in with the cows in the barn, sitting on a bale of hay, with his head in his hands. Hector was lying at his feet. Dad was talking to Grandad just like he had before. I remember exactly the words he said: ‘Tell me why, Pop. Tell me why. Will you tell me what I’ve done to deserve this?’

  His cows lay all about him, with their eyes staring, stiffened and swollen in death, and everywhere a terrible stillness.

  Mum was right. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have seen what I’ve seen. It’ll be locked in my head for ever.

  Monday, March 19th

  Yesterday evening they lit the fire at last. I looked out of my window and remembered the last bonfire we’d had on the farm, on Front Field in about the same place. It was Millennium night, and everyone had come and we’d had sausages and cake and cider. And Dad had sung ‘Danny Boy’, because everyone had asked him to. It’s his favourite song in the world. This is a very different sort of a fire. This one belches out clouds of horrible stinking smoke, and it will burn for days, they tell us. But then it’ll all be over. I’m longing for that, longing for the smoke and the smell to be gone, for us to be left alone, for the pain to be over.

  On the television there are always more and more cases, two more in the village, Barrow Farm and Fursdon. If it goes on like this there’ll be no farm animals left.

  It’s strange how you can get used to things though – even to a nightmare. We’ve been trapped on the farm, quarantined, forbidden to leave for nearly a week now, but I wouldn’t want to leave even if I could. I spend my days mostly with Ruby and Bobs. Except for the hens and the ducks, they’re the only animals left alive on the farm. I go riding along the water meadows as far as I can from the smoke, and from the men in white overalls.

  This morning I saw Mr Bailey down there doing some fencing. We waved at each other. I couldn’t hear what he said at first, but then he shouted it again. ‘I said, don’t you worry, girl. Things’ll look up, you’ll see.’ He’s been more friendly since foot and mouth than he ever was before. He’s sent a card, and he’s rung up too, offering to come over and give a hand. I told Mum and Dad about what Mr Bailey had said because I thought it might cheer them up a bit – I don’t think either of them even heard me. Living with Mum and Dad is like living with ghosts – sad, silent ghosts. Mum doesn’t cry any more. Dad does, not in front of me, but I hear him in the bedroom. I can hear him now as I’m writing this.

  Sunday, March 25th

  The fire is out, and the people are gone. It’s done. It’s over. I talked to Jay on the phone again today. She’s been ringing a lot in the last few days. It’s been really good to talk to her. She never talks about foot and mouth. She’s the only reminder I’ve got that there are other things happening out there. I’m still quarantined, still not allowed out, not allowed back at school. This morning she told me that everyone in my class has written to me and that, if I liked, she could bring the letters to the farm gate after school and hand them over.

  So we met up this afternoon at the end of the farm lane. She looked the same. I don’t know why, but I expected her to be different. We chatted for a long time. It was difficult at first, like we were strangers almost – even though we’ve spoken often on the phone. She gave me all the hot gossip. Apparently Sally Burton’s boast­ing that she’s going out with Peter Mitchum, who’s now got a Mohican haircut and fancies himself rotten, but Jay knows for a fact that Peter is already going out with Linda Morrish. I laughed, not just because she laughed, but because it sounded like news from another planet. Then she handed me this huge brown envelope with all the letters from school. She told me that Mrs Merton had been in tears when she heard about ou
r farm, and that she’d written a letter to me too. It was great seeing Jay again, hearing her voice. For a short time I was part of the world again, the world outside. I watched her cycle off until she disappeared round the corner, and then suddenly I felt very alone.

  I’ve been sitting on my bed reading the letters from school again and again. Some were written to all of us, to Mum and Dad and me, but most just to me.

  Mrs Merton wrote this: ‘It must all seem very grim and hopeless at the moment. But you mustn’t lose heart. You tell your family that we’re thinking of them, and that one day soon all this misery will be over. There’ll be animals on the farm, and life will be as it was once again. There will be a life for you all after foot and mouth, and a good life too.’

  The church bells are ringing. Someone else must be ringing Dad’s bell.

  Wednesday, March 28th

  I’ve never been ill, not seriously ill, just colds and toothache. But I think this is like being really ill, so ill you can’t forget it for a single moment. And the illness has changed everything. None of us can do what we used to do. Mum can’t go to work at her school, I still can’t go to my school nor see my friends, Dad can’t milk his cows nor make his cheese.

  Our fire may be out, but when I looked out of the window first thing this morning I could see the smoke from three fires drifting down the valley. It’s like the whole world is sick. And Dad is trying to wash it away. He’s out there from dawn to dusk working like a madman. Ever since the ministry told him that every building on the farm has to be cleared out and disinfected, he hasn’t stopped. He’s out there now – and it’s nearly nine o’clock at night – cleaning off the rafters in the lambing shed. He’s been at it all day. Mum has tried to stop him, to slow him down. But he won’t listen. I told Mum today how I’d heard him talking to Grandad in the cow barn. She looked very worried, but then she told me something that explained it a bit. Apparently it was in the cow barn that Grandad had died all those years before. He was feeding the cows one day and just dropped dead of a heart attack. Mum said it was the smell of the dead animals that upset Dad, that made him work like he was. He just wants to get rid of the smell.