Best Mates

  Then, silently, as I slept one night, it snowed outside. It snowed on the farm, on the trees, on the frozen loch. I took bread crusts with me the next morning, just in case, and hurried down to the loch. As I came out of the woods I saw the fox’s paw prints in the snow. They were leading down towards the loch.

  I was running, stumbling through the drifts, dreading all along what I might find.

  The fox was stalking around the nest. My silver swan was standing her ground over her young, neck lowered in attack, her wings beating the air frantically, furiously. I shouted. I screamed. But I was too late and too far away to help.

  Quick as a flash the fox darted in, had her by the wing and was dragging her away. I ran out on to the ice. I felt it crack and give suddenly beneath me. I was knee-deep in the loch then, still screaming, but the fox would not be put off. I could see the blood, red, bright red, on the snow. The five cygnets were scattering in their terror. My silver swan was still fighting. But she was losing, and there was nothing I could do.

  I heard the sudden singing of wings above me. The cob! The cob flying in, diving to attack. The fox took one look upwards, released her victim, and scampered off over the ice, chased all the way by the cob.

  For some moments I thought my silver swan was dead. She lay so still on the snow. But then she was on her feet and limping back to her island, one wing flapping feebly, the other trailing, covered in blood and useless. She was gathering her cygnets about her. They were all there. She was enfolding them, loving them, when the cob came flying back to her, landing awkwardly on the ice.

  He stood over her all that day and would not leave her side. He knew she was dying. So, by then, did I. I had nothing but revenge and murder in my heart. Time and again, as I sat there at the lochside, I thought of taking my father’s gun and going into the woods to hunt down the killer fox. But then I would think of her cubs and would know that she was only doing what a mother fox had to do.

  For days I kept my cold sad vigil by the loch. The cob was sheltering the cygnets now, my silver swan sleeping nearby, her head tucked under her wing. She scarcely ever moved.

  I wasn’t there, but I knew the precise moment she died. I knew it because she sang it. It’s quite true what they say about swans singing only when they die. I was at home. I had been sent out to fetch logs for the fire before I went up to bed. The world about me was crisp and bright under the moon. The song was clearer and sweeter than any human voice, than any birdsong, I had ever heard before. So sang my silver swan and died.

  I expected to see her lying dead on the island the next morning. But she was not there. The cob was sitting still as a statue on his nest, his five cygnets around him.

  I went looking for her. I picked up the trail of feathers and blood at the lochside, and followed where I knew it must lead, up through the woods. I approached silently. The fox cubs were frolicking fat and furry in the sunshine, their mother close by intent on her grooming. There was a terrible wreath of white feathers nearby, and telltale feathers too on her snout. She was trying to shake them off. How I hated her.

  I ran at her. I picked up stones. I hurled them. I screamed at her. The foxes vanished into the undergrowth and left me alone in the woods. I picked up a silver feather, and cried tears of such raw grief, such fierce anger.

  Spring came at long last the next day, and melted the ice. The cob and his five cygnets were safe. After that I came less and less to the loch. It wasn’t quite the same without my silver swan. I went there only now and again, just to see how he was doing, how they were all doing.

  At first, to my great relief, it seemed as if he was managing well enough on his own. Then one day I noticed there were only four cygnets swimming alongside him, the four bigger ones. I don’t know what happened to the smaller one. He just wasn’t there. Not so lucky, after all.

  The cob would sometimes bring his cygnets to the lochside to see me. I would feed them when he came, but then after a while he just stopped coming.

  The weeks passed and the months passed, and the cygnets grew and flew. The cob scarcely left his island now. He stayed on the very spot I had last seen my silver swan. He did not swim; he did not feed; he did not preen himself. Day by day it became clearer that he was pining for her, dying for her.

  Now my vigil at the lochside was almost constant again. I had to be with him; I had to see him through. It was what my silver swan would have wanted, I thought.

  So I was there when it happened. A swan flew in from nowhere one day, down on to the glassy stillness of the loch. She landed right in front of him. He walked down into the loch, settled into the water and swam out to meet her. I watched them look each other over for just a few minutes. When they drank, they dipped their necks together, as one. When they flew, their wings beat together, as one.

  Five years on and they’re still together. Five years on and I still have the feather from my silver swan. I take it with me wherever I go. I always will.

  Open one eye.

  Same old basket, same old kitchen.

  Another day.

  Ear’s itching.

  Have a good scratch.

  Lovely.

  Have a good stretch.

  Here comes Lula.

  “Morning, Russ,” she says.

  “Do you know what day it is today?”

  Silly question! Course I do!

  It’s the day after yesterday

  and the day before tomorrow.

  Out I go. Smarty’s barking his ‘good morning’ at

  me from across the valley.

  Good old Smarty. Best friend I’ve got, except

  Lula of course.

  I bark mine back.

  I can’t hang about. Got to get the cows in.

  There they are.

  Lula’s dad likes me to

  have them ready for milking

  by the time he gets there.

  Better watch that one with the new calf.

  She’s a bit skippy.

  Lie down, nose in the grass.

  Give her the hard eye.

  There she goes, in amongst the rest.

  And here comes Lula’s dad singing his way down

  to the dairy.

  “Good dog,” he says.

  I wag my tail. He likes that.

  He gives me another ‘good dog’.

  I get my milk. Lovely.

  Off back up to the house.

  Well, I don’t want to miss my breakfast, do I?

  Lula’s already scoffing her bacon and eggs.

  I sit down next to her

  and give her my

  very best begging look.

  It always works.

  Two bacon rinds in secret under the table,

  and all her toast crusts too. Lovely.

  There’s good pickings

  under the baby’s chair this morning.

  I hoover it all up. Lovely.

  Lula always likes me to go with her

  to the end of the lane.

  She loves a bit of a cuddle, and

  a lick or two before the school bus comes.

  “Oh, Russ,” she whispers. “A horse.

  It’s all I want for my birthday.”

  And I’m thinking, ’Scuse me, what’s so great

  about a horse?

  Isn’t a dog good enough?

  Then along comes the bus and on she gets.

  “See you,” she says.

  Lula’s dad is whistling for me.

  “Where are you, you old rascal you?”

  I’m coming.

  I’m coming.

  Back up the lane,

  through the hedge,

  over the gate.

  “Don’t just sit there, Russ.

  I want those sheep in for shearing.”

  And all the while he keeps on

  with his whistling and whooping.

  I mean, does he think

  I haven’t done this before?

  Doesn’t he know

  this is what I
’m made for?

  Hare down the hill.

  Leap the stream.

  Get right around behind them.

  Keep low. Don’t rush them. That’s good.

  They’re all going now. The whole flock of them

  are trotting along nicely.

  And I’m slinking along behind, my eye on every

  one of them,

  my bark and my bite deep inside their heads.

  “Good dog,” I get. Third one today. Not bad.

  I watch the shearing

  from the top of the haybarn.

  Good place to sleep, this.

  Tigger’s somewhere here.

  I can smell her.

  There she is, up on the rafter,

  waving her tail at me.

  She’s teasing me. I’ll show her.

  Later, I’ll do it later.

  Sleep now. Lovely.

  “Russ! Where are you, Russ?

  I want these sheep out.

  Now! Move yourself.”

  All right, all right.

  Down I go, and out they go,

  all in a great muddle

  bleating at each other,

  bopping one another.

  They don’t recognise each other without their

  clothes on.

  Not very bright, that’s the trouble with sheep.

  Will you look at that!

  There’s hundreds of crows out in my corn field.

  Well, I’m not having that, am I?

  After them! Show them who’s boss!

  Thirsty work, this.

  What’s this? Fox!

  I can smell him.

  I follow him down

  through the bluebell wood to his den.

  He’s down there, deep down.

  Can’t get at him. Pity.

  Need a drink.

  Shake myself dry in the sun.

  Time for another sleep.

  Lovely.

  Smarty wakes me.

  I know what he’s thinking.

  How about

  a Tigger hunt?

  We find her soon enough.

  We’re after her.

  We’re catching her up.

  Closer. Closer.

  Right on her tail.

  That’s not fair.

  She’s found a tree.

  Up she goes.

  We can’t climb trees, so we bark our heads off.

  Ah well, you can’t win them all.

  “Russ, where were you, Russ?”

  Lula’s dad. Shouting for me again.

  “Get those calves out in the field.

  What’s the point in keeping a dog

  and barking myself?”

  Nothing worse than trying to move young calves.

  They’re all tippy-toed and skippy.

  Pretty things.

  Pity they get so big and lumpy when they get

  older.

  There, done it. Well done, me!

  Back to the end of the lane to meet Lula.

  I’m a bit late. She’s there already,

  swinging her bag and singing.

  “Happy birthday to me,

  happy birthday to me.

  Happy birthday, dear Lula,

  happy birthday to me!”

  For tea there’s a big cake with candles on it,

  and they’re singing that song again.

  Will you look at them

  tucking into that cake!

  And never a thought for me.

  Lula’s so busy unwrapping her presents

  that she doesn’t even notice I’m there,

  not even when I put my head on her knee.

  Car! Car coming up my lane, and not one I know.

  I’m out of the house in a flash.

  I’m not just a farm dog, you know, I’m a guard

  dog too.

  “Russ! Stop that barking, will you?”

  That’s all the thanks I get.

  I’m telling you, it’s a dog’s life.

  Looks like a horse to me.

  Give him a sniff.

  Yes, definitely a horse.

  Lula goes mad.

  She’s hugging the horse

  just like she hugs me, only for longer.

  A lot longer.

  “He’s beautiful,” she’s saying.

  “Just what I wanted.”

  Well, I’m not staying where I’m not wanted.

  I haven’t had any of that cake,

  and they’re not watching.

  Nip back inside. Jump on a chair.

  I’m a champion chomper.

  Ooops.

  The plate’s fallen off the table.

  I’m in trouble now.

  They all come running in.

  I look dead innocent.

  Doesn’t fool them though.

  “You rascal, you. Out you go!”

  I don’t care. It was worth it.

  I go and sit at the top of the hill

  and tell Smarty all about it.

  He barks back, “Good on you!

  Who wants to be a good dog, anyway?”

  Then Lula’s sitting down beside me.

  “I really love my horse,” she says,

  “but I love you more, Russ. Promise.”

  Give her a good lick. Make her giggle.

  I like it when she giggles.

  Lick her again.

  Lovely.

  I have been teaching for over twenty years now, mostly around Hoxton, in north London. After all that time I am no longer at all sentimental about children. I don’t think you could be. Twenty years at the chalk face of education gives you a big dose of reality.

  I was sentimental to start with, I’m sure. I am still an idealist, though not as zealous perhaps as I used to be, but the fire’s still there. You could say that I have given my life to it – I’ve never had children of my own. I’m headmistress at the school now and I believe more than ever we should be creating the best of all possible worlds for our children, giving every one of them the best possible chance to thrive. That’s why every year for at least the past ten years I’ve been taking the children down to a farm in Devon, a place called Nethercott.

  It takes six long hours by coach from London and there, in a large Victorian manor house with views over to distant Dartmoor, we all live together, all forty of us, teachers and children. We eat three good hot meals a day, sing songs and tell stories around the fire at night, and we sleep like logs. By day we work. And that’s the joy of it, to see the children working hard and purposefully out on the farm, feeding calves, moving sheep, grooming Hebe the Haflinger horse who everyone loves, mucking out stables and sheds, collecting eggs and logs, and apples too. The children do it all, and they love it – mostly, anyway. They work alongside real farmers, get to feel like real farmers, know that everything they are doing is useful and important to the farm, that they and their work are appreciated.

  Every year we come back to school and the whole place is buzzing. In the playground and in the staffroom all the different stories of our week down on the farm are told again and again. The magic moments – a calf being born, the glimpse of a fox or a deer in Bluebell Wood; the little disasters – Mandy’s welly sucked off in the mud, Jemal being chased by the goose. The children write a lot about it, paint pictures of it, and I know they dream about it too, as I do.

  But something so extraordinary happened on one of these visits that I too felt compelled to write it down, just as it happened, so that I should never forget it – and because I know that in years to come, as memory fades, it is going to be difficult to believe. I’ve always found miracles hard to believe, and this really was a kind of miracle.

  The boys and girls at our school, St Francis, come from every corner of the earth, so we are quite used to children who can speak little or no English. But until Ho arrived we never had a child who didn’t speak at all – he’d have been about seven when he joined us. In the three years he’d been with us he had never uttered a w
ord. As a result he had few friends, and spent much of his time on his own. We would see him sitting by himself reading. He read and he wrote in correct and fluent English, more fluent than many of his classmates who’d been born just down the street. He excelled in maths too, but never put his hand up in class, was never able to volunteer an answer or ask a question. He just put it all down on paper, and it was usually right. None of us ever saw him smile at school, not once. His expression seemed set in stone, fixed in a permanent frown.

  We had all given up trying to get him to talk. Any effort to do so had only one effect – he’d simply run off, out into the playground, or all the way home if he could. The educational psychologist, who had not got a word out of him either, told us it was best simply to let him be, and do whatever we could to encourage him, to give him confidence, but without making demands on him to speak. He wasn’t sure whether Ho was choosing not to speak or whether he simply couldn’t.

  All we knew about him was that ever since he’d arrived in England he’d been living with his adoptive parents. In all that time he hadn’t spoken to them either, not a word. We knew from them that Ho was one of the Boat People, that as the war in Vietnam was coming to an end he had managed to escape somehow. There were a lot of Boat People coming to England in those days, mostly via refugee camps in Hong Kong, which was still British then. Other than that, he was a mystery to us all.

  When we arrived at the farm I asked Michael –he was the farm school manager at Nethercott, and, after all these years, an old friend – to be a little bit careful how he treated Ho, to go easy on him. Michael could be blunt with the children, pointing at them, firing direct questions in a way that demanded answers. Michael was fine about it. The truth was that everyone down there on the farm was fascinated by this silent little boy from Vietnam, mostly because they’d all heard about the suffering of the Vietnamese Boat People and this was the first time they’d ever met one of them.

  Ho had an aura of stillness about him that set him apart. Even sweeping down the parlour after milking, he would be working alone, intent on the task in hand – methodically, seriously, never satisfied until the job was done perfectly.

  He particularly loved to touch the animals, I remember that. Looking wasn’t enough. He showed no fear as he eased his hand under a sitting hen to find a new-laid egg. When she pecked at him he didn’t mind. He just stroked her, calmed her down. Moving the cows out after milking he showed no sign of fear, as many of the other children did. He stomped about in his wellies, clapping his hands at them, driving them on as if he’d been doing it all his life. He seemed to have an easiness around animals, an affinity with the cows in particular, I noticed. I could see that he was totally immersed in this new life in the country, loving every moment of every day. The shadow that seemed to hang over him back at school was lifting; the frown had gone.