Read by Alex Woodhall
I used to think that cows ate pigs.
Until I was five, I grew up on a farm. Herds of cows would stand and stare whilst I stood and stared back. What I noticed was that the pigs would try to escape: their pot bellies would start to show through, with their four little pink legs dangling down.
He knelt down and whispered in my ear, “Well, what do you think they plan on eating next?”
I ran back to the house. I could hear his laugh as I sprinted along the pebble-dashed paving stones and through the gate. I opened the front door, ran through the dining room and into the kitchen.
My Mum turned to face me as I burst through. My Dad, sat in the armchair, lowered the top of his newspaper and peered over.
“Joseph!” She looked startled at my entrance. “What’s wrong?”
I stumbled over and hugged her legs, burying my face in the front of her apron. She placed her hand on top of my head and brushed my hair back.
“What’s wrong Joseph?” she asked again. I slowly lifted my eyes till I could see her looking down, and her hand moved to my shoulder. With a mouthful of apron I muttered, “It’s the cows!”
At this point my Dad put down his newspaper.
“What about the cows?” he boomed. “Is Martin not doing his job again?”
I turned around. My Mum kept her hand at my shoulder.
“He told me why they stare.”
“Why what stare?”
“He told me why the cows always stare.”
My Dad said nothing. I looked at my feet.
Kneeling down, my Mum asked softly, “Why do you think they stare Joseph?” I gave her a worried look, my bottom lip trembling. “Because they want to eat me!” and I fell into her arms.
There was silence. I lay there, arms wrapped around my Mum’s neck. I questioned at the time whether they already knew. Is that why my Dad kept the cows locked in the field? I started to feel my Mum shudder and then a snort behind me. Looking back I saw my Dad bent over in a fit of silent, hysterical laughter.
I blinked, puzzled. I looked at my Mum. She instantly pursed her mouth shut.
“It’s not funny,” I whimpered. Then my Dad lost it. The kitchen echoed with the sound of his laughter, filling every crevice.
“It’s not funny!” I screamed.
“Honey!” my Mum cooed, bringing me closer to her chest. “Oh honey,” she repeated, stroking my hair. “They’re not going to eat you! Martin was … Martin was playing a little trick on you, that’s all! Cows don’t eat people!”
“But, why do they stare and why do they eat pigs?”
My Dad looked at me, incredulously. “Son,” he said. “Cows eat grass. Cows eat grass and we eat cows. Nothing eats us.”
I turned around slowly, facing my Dad again.
“We eat cows?”
“Yes, we eat cows.”
“But, the cows live in the field?”
“Yes, the cows live in the field.”
“Then we eat the cows?”
“Yes!”
“But … why?”
He looked at me, his brow buried deep.
“What do you think I do?” he asked me.
“I … you … you look after the cows.” I started to feel uncomfortable.
“John, maybe we shouldn’t now…” my Mum started to say.
“No Sarah. Go on son, what do you think I do?”
I looked to my Mum and then I looked to my Dad.
“You take care of the cows …?” He sighed. He folded his paper in half and placed it on the welsh dresser to his left. Getting up from the armchair he came towards me. The smell of manure grew stronger as he got closer. He knelt down and his face was in front of mine.
“I take care of the cows. I take care of the cows and when they are old enough I take them to a slaughterhouse. At the slaughterhouse the cows are killed. Mum puts them in the Aga and you get your Sunday dinner.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Do you understand?”
“John!”
He got up and walked towards the kitchen door. Picking up his flat cap resting on the arm of his chair, he secured it on his head.
“Just as well today is Sunday.” Then he left.
Neither my Mum nor I said a word. She held me and I started to feel her shudder. I knew this time it wasn’t from laughter.
“Well,” she exclaimed. “Well,” she said again, gathering herself together. “I think you must be tired after all that running around outside.”
I smiled.
“Will you read me a story?”
“A story?” she asked warmly, picking me up and slowly walking towards the door. She made her way through the hallway and up the stairs.
I always remember the way she smelled at that moment. A mixture of musty clothes, Vaseline moisturiser and a faint hint of perfume.
“Yes please,” I said. She put me down as we got to my room and let me run to my books.
“Just a short one.”
I stood in front of my bookshelf, looking at all the pictures and bright colours that looked back at me.
“This one!” I exclaimed, running over. She took it from my hand and smiled.
“I should have known.” I climbed into bed. “Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Then I’ll begin.
“There was an old woman who swallowed a fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly,
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old woman who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed the fly,
Perhaps she'll die.”
I lay there, letting the words wash over me, knowing each time which animal came next. Bird, cat, dog, goat, cow…
“There was an old woman who swallowed a horse…” I looked at my Mum.
“She’s dead - of course!” I finished for her.
My Mum looked at me as I lay in bed.
“You know I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
“Your father … your father loves you too.” I didn’t say anything.
She got up to tuck me in.
“Just a little nap before dinner,” she whispered, kissing my forehead. She was about to leave, but said one final thing before she did. “Whenever you feel scared Joseph, whenever you feel uncomfortable I want you to remember the last happy thing you can. OK?”
“OK,” I said.
Then she shut the door.
That Sunday evening we all gathered round the dinner table. Dad stood at the foot of the table and my Mum and I sat down opposite each other. A huge fillet of beef rested in front of him.
“And so we are here,” he said. “Here for our family meal, this Sunday.” My Mum and I sat there and didn’t say anything. I looked at the beef. This huge brown lump of meat. I’d never liked beef. I used to sit for hours chewing on the same mouthful. My Dad had once caught me taking it out of my mouth and putting it back on the plate. He’d made me sit there till every piece of food had gone.
He slowly began carving.
“My father use to do this exact same thing. Every Sunday, we would sit down and appreciate our food that we had in front of us. The food that my mother had cooked for us. The food that my father, on his farm, had bred, reared and slaughtered. Pass your plate, son.” I handed it over.
“And I see no reason why we should change that tradition. Sarah?” She handed over her plate and he presented another slice.
“For generations, we have reared cows. It runs deep in our blood. In your blood, Joseph.” I clenched my mouth shut.
“Cows are here for a purpose, a purpose that has been established long before any of us can remember. They are animals. A tool. Food.” He sat down and picked up his knife and fork.
“Let us begin.” My Mum glanced at me anxiously. I sat there and stared. What part of the cow is this from? A head, a leg, its stomach, its back?
My Dad was carefully cutting his meat, smearing the potato on top before placing it in his mouth. I watched his fat neck move as the food slid down.
“And one day, one day you will do the same as me, Joseph. The same thing my father did, and his father, and his father’s father. One day.” I looked up from my plate and met his gaze. What I said still shocks me.
“I don’t want to.”
He stopped. My Mum looked at me. My Dad glared.
“What did you say?” he said quietly. I didn’t reply.
“John ...”
“I think it’s time,” his voice was rising. “I think it’s time you came with me. When the cows are ready. To see, see where they go. See what gets served up on your plate. See how you’re fed.”
“John! Don’t talk to him like that!”
My Dad shot his eyes to her. I felt his snarl. “He’s so ungrateful!”
“He doesn’t have to!” my Mum was screaming. “He doesn’t have to become a farmer! He doesn’t have to help with the farm! He doesn’t have to slaughter the cows! He doesn’t have to eat the bloody beef!”
“Yes he does! He’s five years old! Five! He will do as he’s told! He will eat what he’s given!”
“Yes! He’s FIVE!”
“I never got the choice and you know why? Because I didn’t know what was best for me at that age! I didn’t and neither does he!”
I sat there. The shouting grew louder. Had it always been there?
I felt as though I was sinking under water. The voices got blurred the further I got. What was I doing? Was I singing?
There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.
“That is why, Sarah! That is why he will come with me!”
I don’t know why she swallowed the fly,
perhaps she’ll die.
“I won’t let you, John!”
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
“He has to learn! It’s food! He has to learn!”
Bird. Cat. Dog. Goat. Cow.
There was an old woman who swallowed a horse...
“Tomorrow! I’m going to take him tomorrow! So he can learn that this,” he brandished his fork with the beef, “is this!” He put the fork in his mouth and swallowed.
“She’s dead of course!” I screamed.
“Joseph?”
I looked at my Dad. My Mum looked too.
“John?”
His face went pale.
“John?”
He clutched his hands round his neck and spluttered.
“John!”
His face looked round, enlarged, bright red now. He emitted a sickly cry.
“JOHN!”
I sat and watched my Mum run. He placed his hands on the table, cheeks purple. Retching.
“JOHN, GET UP!” He stood. His plate went flying. Food went everywhere. Gravy dripped off the table.
“BREATHE JOHN, BREATHE!” He stepped back, but the chair was behind him. It fell. He fell. The side table was there. His legs gave way. His head came down. A loud smack. He lay there, legs over the chair, head on the floor. Eyes open.
There was silence.
A small pool of blood filled the stone flooring round my Dad’s head. It formed a perfect circle. A halo.
My Mum was screaming, but I couldn’t hear. I jumped off my chair and ran through the dining room. I opened the front door. I went through the gate, along the paving stones.
Then I stopped. I stopped outside the field and I looked at the cows. I looked at the cows and they looked at me.
(c) Chris Tucker, 2014
Chris Tucker grew up in Cumbria before leaving for London to study Sociology and Politics at Goldsmiths University. Within the year after graduating he took up writing for the first time. Currently about to make a break for it in Manchester, working in marketing and policy.
Alex Woodhall has worked in comedy for the last 14 years, on stage, TV and radio. He DJs extensively around the country in clubs, festivals and catamarans, and is half of The Coffin Dodgers' Disco. Interests include ballroom dancing, Native American art and internet trolling.
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