Cynan Jones - The Dig

He carried her the four hundred yards to the house but then turned and laid her down in the barn. He thought she would be furious if he brought her bleeding into the house .

When the doctor came, her head was hemorrhaged into aubergine. The hoof had struck her with the force of a bowling ball traveling at eighty miles per hour and the right side of her cranium was crushed. An x-ray would have looked like broken plasterboard .

The old doctor persuaded him to come in to the house and they waited for the ambulance to come and take her body. He had known them both since they were children and had no small amount of grief and anger at this and they sat with a hopeless passivity at the thing which had happened .

The old doctor was at his desk when he received the coroner’s report a few days after. It said in empty scientific language how the hoof had fractured the skull casing and killed the brain. It also said at the bottom of the page that routine tests revealed that she was pregnant. The doctor fought with this information over and over .

He did not know that she had felt this change inside herself, as if she had felt this collision of genes and was sure she knew, had there with the horse that afternoon looked back at the farm and felt this impossible love for it and for her husband and the great rightness of it. He doesn’t need to know it now, she had decided, not with lambing coming up. I don’t need to test yet. I know. I am sure of it. But I will wait. He will get protective when he knows. Afterwards is better. And she felt girlish with the warm secret of it .

After the funeral in the little church above the farm the doctor carried this information, fighting hard not to just expel the poisonous knowledge of it. As a man of science he had long lived with a solid reverence to the facts. That they were unemotive objects that had to be navigated, as physical as debris in the road. To view them as this was the only way he could tell someone of cancer, of a blood clot near the brain, of infertility. Facts had to out. And so he went to Daniel with this information and with a need to get it from himself .

The doctor was in the living room with the older people and went through and found Daniel in the kitchen where most of the others were gathered. That soft magnetism of kitchens. He looked at Daniel. He saw a solidity and stubbornness in the man that worried him. There was a look something like wildness, as if he was in some long suspended moment of anger waiting to decide on what to bring it down. All this the old doctor saw with futility .

He doesn’t need to know, he thought. He doesn’t need to carry this. What good would it do?

The old doctor backed away from Daniel, and stood blankly and stared at his paper plate and squashed up the crumbs of sponge with his forefingers and swallowed them with the horrible fact back down .

It’s better that he doesn’t know. Why would he need that knowledge?

THERE HAD BEEN a shattering of rain on the roof of the dog shed but it had passed quickly. It was not yet light. Through the door and out through the run the big man could see inland the darkness beginning to thin and go powdery, but the darkness still had body, a closed-ness to it with the passing rain.

The dogs messed around, tumbling over each other as he took the feed bowls. Only Messie stood still and aloof, giving just the odd snap at the other dogs if they played into her space.

The big man looked at her with a kind of reverence, standing off the other dogs. This dominance came off her that was difficult to understand in a relatively small animal like that and he was very pleased of having bred the dog. Since they took them after his arrest he’d had to start from scratch.

He poured the dog biscuits that were like colorful chips of wood into the silver feed bowls and the other dogs rushed in around him. And Messie just trotted to one of the bowls and the dogs there made way for her. It wasn’t an aggressive thing she did. It was just natural dominance.

He poured a little of the boiled water into the mash and mixed it round and the steam roiled into the light of the single bare bulb that lit up the shed. Around the walls, too high for the dogs, he’d put up the last rats they’d caught. A single nail was through each skull and they hung as misshaped macabre pouches from the beam below the roof as if some giant shrike had its larder there.

He put down the bowl of mash and looked once more at the dog Messie. The man in his big coat was like some puffed-up bird. Ag, you’re a special one, he thought. Then he sloshed the leftover water through the door into the run and watched it carry a dog shit away with it in the fog of steam it made across the concrete.

Daniel had woken late and for a while lain there almost stupefied. His whole body felt beaten for a moment, as if his muscles were made of plaster, the way they could feel after the first day of haymaking, with the fatigue of some heavy and unusual sport. Only the mild reprimand he allowed himself for missing a shift drove him up, and once he was up he fell into the automaticness of it again.

He had been in a way reluctant to go to the shed for fear of facing some catastrophe being on the other shift would have averted. A lamb strangled in its own cord; a young ewe — her pelvis too narrow — prone and sloughing blood through inside tears, her lamb drowned in its own bag, the strange hernia of bag split and bulbing from the uterus, the dead lamb’s head magnified in the fluid of its failed birth. All these things he had readied himself for as he put on his boots, went to the shed. But all was well. There was a tiny new lamb just shakily on its feet and still greasy where its mother had licked it clean. He took the lamb and sprayed the umbilical stalk with iodine and made sure the ewe had milk, and then he sprayed the number on the lamb and the ewe.

The wind soughed through the baffle netting of the shed and every now and then threw a fine rain against the corrugated tin that pinged and tinkered and brought somehow a greater sense of warmth within the shed. Briefly, there were gapes of sunshine through the fast-shifting clouds, but they came and went like laughter provoked in a crying child.

He did the automatic thing of changing the water buckets and checking the pens and then he mustered energy and cleaned out the stalls, feeling his body loosen under the work and every now and then looked over to the newborn lamb to see that it was drinking.

He reached in to the empty stall with the rake, let it bite, and then rolled in the trampled, dirtied bedding which moved as a wad, like some foul turf. Those stalls that had not been occupied for long were fine, and the bed came up lighter and more haphazard, some of the dung witnessable as solid objects in the straw. But those that had longer occupation were variously filthy and had a silage heaviness. Some smelt Marmitey, others had the smell of piss and illness. He was convinced he could sense illness in the air in some medieval way and trusted this even in relation to his own body and his personal understanding of his health. I am just tired, he said to himself now, I am not ill. I would sense it, and I am not.

As the wind soughed through the baffles he felt the cords in his arms loosen, casting out the rake then grubbing in the wet straw and forking it over the pen into the barrow until the act became compulsive and he determined to take up every piece of loosened straw off the dark stony ground beneath.