Ross Raisin - Gods Own Country

We went down one afternoon to have a check on the fence, and it seemed the sheep had the same idea for when we got there they were lined up in front of it, taking an inspection. Hello there, ladies. One of them twisted her neck to look at me along the top of her back. It’s quite a fence you’ve made — there’s no getting through now, she said. That’s right, ladies, there isn’t, it’s the end of your adventures, I’m afraid, you’ll just have to keep yourselves busy munching your cud and practice-humping each other. I looked down at her house. They’d learnt how to get the fire going, then: Churls of smoke were floating out the chimney, and I didn’t need my X-ray eyes to see them in their sitting room, the warmth slurping round them sat snug and fuddly in their seats. Chickenhead fluffed out, roosting. The dad smiling at a bookshelf, and the kid itching about on the rug. The girl was set off from the rest of them, upstairs. What did she want with sitting next to Chickenhead, the sour-faced cow? Likely she was at the magazines again, lying on her front on the bed, her feet rubbing in the air like a pair of swans twining necks. The room all neatly sorted — small, buckled boxes shelved up, full with a hundred types of trinkets, books and magazines about the place, and her school skirt and tights on the floor, folded, where she’d undressed.

I turned away from the house. Sal was off on a wander. The sheep were still by the fence, stooping for a bite of grass. One of them was set off from the rest, and I stepped toward her and stood in front until she marked me, lifted her head, the bottom half her mouth grinding slowly side to side.

Afternoon, I said. Then I walked back to the fence. I waited a moment, before stepping up to the sheep again. Hello. How you doing? She chewed on, looking blankly at me. Must’ve known you were coming past, somehow, I said. That’ll be the X-ray eyes, that will. I smiled, just a showing, then wider, so my lips parted. I paused. Must’ve known you were coming past, somehow. Probably think I’ve eyes in the back my head and all, do you?

The sheep bent down and ate.

If you want, I’ll show you what there is round here. I practised the smile again. There’s more to do than just picking mushrooms, you know.

A few of the other sheep glegged up. What the hell’s he braying on about? Hasn’t he a feed for us? Then they put their heads down again to tear at the grass.

♦

I left the tractor parked up and walked down the high street to the garage. I stood myself on the forecourt, outdoors of the shop, gawping at the newspapers. Well now, which one should I buy, I’ll just stand here and think on it a moment. I looked them over, each while a squint down the street toward the bus stop. I waited ten minutes, then I buggered off back to the tractor. I couldn’t likely spend all afternoon choosing a newspaper.

Next day, I came back, and I waited longer, but nothing happened still. Only folk I saw at all was the barman from the Tup, sneaking across the road for his paper. He didn’t take much of a ponder, he picked one straight off the display, paid, and went back in the Tup to look at the breasts.

Inside the shop, Mrs Applegarth watched me from behind the counter. She came out twice and fussed about on the forecourt, picking up leaves or checking the paper towels by the pumps.

I took to buying a paper, and that kept her indoors.

A fair pile started building up on my bedroom floor. I put my boots on top of them at first, so as it looked I was keeping the carpet from getting mucky, but when the pile got big enough Mum would mark something queer about it, I threw them out. I began thinking I’d got the hour muddled, so I came down different times, but there wasn’t sign of her still, and I knew I hadn’t much longer before Father smelt something suspect, me taking the tractor out each afternoon. I kept at practising my conversation, anyhow, so as I couldn’t be caught by surprise and forget it. Mrs Applegarth likely thought I’d flooded my banks, stood there each afternoon chuntering at the newpapers.

I got to know the world’s turnings, mind, reading The Valley News each day, never mind none of it mattered anything to me. The Blatherskites’ News is what they should’ve called it, for it was nobbut gossip-talk. Gossip-talk and, at the arse-end the paper — HATCH, MATCH, DISPATCH — a list of bairns, couplings and dead. For all Mrs Applegarth thought I was half-baked, I wasn’t near so half-baked as the folk who bought this. Roadwork dispute deepens. Local dog wins prize. And, course, the fuss over the Fat Betty. Three hundred and ninety people signed the petition, The News said, and the matter was under consideration by the local council. It was front page one day — BRAND THE BETTY? FAT CHANCE — and all sorts of folk had spoke their tuppence, saying what a scandal it was, the pub was the heart and soul of town and how could a place survive without a heart? But I marked toward the other end the paper, near the clog-poppers, there was an advert for a new bar in the town. Coming soon — comfort and class in the perfect countryside setting, with traditional ales and a comprehensive wine list . It didn’t have a name yet, but the address was certain familiar.

It was no use waiting in the garage the whole time if she wasn’t coming past, so I went to the Tup and framed up a new plan. I nodded at Seymour as I walked through, but he didn’t notice me, then I sat outdoors and turned it over, looking down the road toward the edge of town.

Just out of sight, round the corner, the private school bus would be dropping off soon, the rambler kids streaming out into a sudden hive of four-by-fours swarming round.

♦

I crouched behind the hedge, spying through the mesh of thorns at the hubbleshoo of small boys spewing out the bus. They were all over the road in an instant, squawking zigzags through the mass to clobber each other round the head with their bags. Next were the little girls, slower, mingled in with the big-belly boys who weren’t so partial on chasing about. And then the older ones. The girls kept separate from the lads, paired up tanding down the road with a snifter of talk kept close between the two as if all they had to say was secrets, meant for the hearing of nobbut themselves. I couldn’t spot her. There was a lad stepped off, looking back smiling into the bus, and I scoured through, pressing closer to the hedge, but it was another lad came off the bus talking to him. They walked on together and got in the back of a Land Rover.

Then I started thinking, maybe I’d imagined it up. Maybe she hadn’t talked to me at all, I’d just dreamt it, my brain had been flowtered by those gommerils in the car. I’d been drinking and all. Sod knows what came out the pipes in the Tup. Just take a look at Seymour.

I bristled along the hedge, but they couldn’t sense me, they were too busy with their secrets. There were two pairings of lasses who’d joined up at the back of the crowd, bundling close together as they walked toward town. I eyed them, checking I’d not missed her — girls weren’t marked so different from each other when they were wearing the same uniform and you were viewing them through a hedge. And these all had wet hair, too, damp straggles clung over their shoulder tops, showing dark against the white of their shirts. She wasn’t there.

There was a fair gap opening up between these last and the rest. They weren’t mooded for hurrying, they were having a fine time laughing about, until a car came past and they giddied off to the side the road, where I was creeping alongside.

Eeeuw! Not likely.

Yeah, imagine kissing him.

I scratched my ear trying to get a listen of what they were saying.

That beard. It’d be like kissing your dog, or something.