COUNTRY LOVING
A calving crisis on the farm leads to a sticky situation for Imogen Green
Rural life isn’t always idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…
“HOW,” I ASKED MY SISTER-IN-LAW, SHYLY, “do you get someone to – well – kiss you?”
“By ‘someone’, I assume you mean our gorgeous neighbour, Matthew,” she said, and started laughing. We were in the yard waiting for her daughter, Freddie, who was picking her up.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve started going up regularly after milking to where Matthew keeps pigs, and having long chats with him about animals, children – even bereavement. My heart turns over each time we meet, but I think he might just see me as a friend.
Freddie’s car appeared and I avoided her eye. She’s been urging me to buy a ticket for Country Living’s Ploughing and Feasting event [see right] on a farm in Somerset because she thinks it’ll be a great place for me to meet a man. I’m very tempted – I’ve heard there’ll be Shire horses there – but, when it comes to men, Matthew is the only one I’m thinking about. “Don’t worry,” my sister-in-law said, kindly. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Sometimes the first kiss happens when you least expect it.”
When I’d washed my hair and put on a clingy summer dress – ready for the pigs – I made a quick detour to the shed to check on the cows that were calving. One we’re all fond of, Treacle, was in the far corner, struggling to her feet. From her rear end it looked as if a calf was on its way. My late husband used to say that if something’s wrong with a cow, you can see it in her eyes. I’d never understood it before, but now, looking into Treacle’s, I knew she was in pain. So I postponed meeting Matthew and waited, recalling last summer when Treacle taught herself to lick the switches in the dairy, turning the machines on and off – giving us such a mischievous look that we always forgave her. Her companions cuddled softly around us in the sun-dappled shed and, after an hour, I saw what I’d been dreading: a small, dark tail emerging. It was a breech birth – I knew I couldn’t handle it, so I rang the vet.
Barely 20 minutes later, a Subaru drew up. Inside was Sean Cary, the vet who’d flirted with me briefly last spring. He was cool and professional as he examined Treacle, his blonde hair flopping over narrow green eyes. Holding her head, I wondered why I’d ever fancied him – he seemed so young and brash now, compared to Matthew. “It’s a massive calf,” he said, removing a plastic glove. “I’ll never get it out. She’ll have to have a Caesarean.” Treacle was given an epidural and a local anaesthetic, and, as she waited calmly, head down, Sean washed her and cut her open. It all happened quickly, the speed almost brutal. Sean rummaged for the calf ’s back legs, pulled them free and got me to hold them as he slid the rest of the body out.
The calf was beautiful. He steamed slightly as I cleaned his face and poked a piece of straw into one nostril. This might seem unkind, but it’s the simplest way to get a newborn to breathe. The calf wrinkled his nose and sneezed, very much alive, and, as always, every time there’s a birth on the farm, my eyes welled up. I dragged him round to Treacle’s head and she began licking him with her rough tongue.
Sean finished stitching the wound and stood beside me. “Isn’t that the best sight in the world?” he said.
“It’s amazing, what you did,” I said, turning towards him. And he kissed me. There was a moment when I responded (I couldn’t help it – he’s really attractive) before I leapt back. “Sorry,” he said, grinning. “I couldn’t resist.”
The patch of sunlight we were standing in moved, and I heard fast footsteps walking away across the yard. Matthew!
‘Dairymaid seeks man who can read the look in her eyes’