|
 This
short story was published in June 2003
in the New Fiction
Book 'A Moment in Time'
The
Cows and The Bees
by Peter Asher
Poorly
Boy couldn’t reach the tap,
so in that silent language he
often used to talk with
friends, he asked Nelly to get
him a drink, sitting her on
the wet draining board to
assist her in this.
He’d
been a nuisance all morning.
‘Poorly Boy you’ve been a
nuisance all morning,’ said
Mum emphatically, still
patient under the
circumstances. Sue realised
what long days they were for a
five year old too ill to go to
school. And what long hours
for a mum with him under her
feet!
‘Nelly’s
bum’s wet Mum. Isn’t she
silly sitting in the silver
water.’
‘No
Poorly Boy, she’d doing what
you told her I suspect. And
getting you a drink isn’t as
important as getting her
bottom wet for its nuisance
value, by sitting her on the
soaking drainer, is it?’
Mum
with Nelly in one hand and
clothes pegs for the pink
elephant’s ears in the other
was going into the yard. Nelly
waved her trunk and feet at
Poorly Boy from the washing
line where she seemed to be
enjoying herself swinging to
and fro. He pulled faces at
her idly through the kitchen
window while standing on the
chair he shouldn’t stand on
but might as well, Mum’s
back being turned to him at
the far end of the garden.
He
was just about to split his
chin open, the chair tilted at
that angle chairs enjoy
splitting chins open at.
Instead, the chair stopped
what it was planning at the
precise moment Poorly Boy’s
tongue stopped full length
away from his face, facing
Nelly. Poorly Boy’s eyes
were almost as far away from
his face as his tongue.
A
vision of blue and white
loveliness had appeared on top
of the fence between his
garden and next door’s. Mum
had seen it too and was only
prevented from reaching it
first, being just a few steps
away from the fence, by her
having to pick Poorly Boy up
from tripping over in his
haste to get to the vision
first.
‘It’s
Buttercup, and she’s for the
church fête tomorrow so don’t
you go trying to beg her off
me,’ Joan warned Poorly Boy,
passing the soft toy cow to
Sue to hand down to him. ‘You’ve
had too many of my little ones
already one time or another,’
continued the old lady next
door who was a specialist at
handicrafts and occasional
cuddly toys for church events
and good causes. Many of these
good causes had been called
Poorly Boy, who in turn had
passed them on to children he’d
made his own good causes while
out shopping down town. Mum at
first had tried stopping him,
saying how Joan wouldn’t
like him giving toys away she’d
given him. Poorly Boy pointed
out Father Christmas gave all
his toys away as a boy and
went on doing it even now as
an old man. Mum had wearied of
telling him it was Father
Christmas’ job, when Poorly
Boy simply replied it was his
job too since Father
Christmas, Jesus, Pat and The
Rest Of Them had saved his
life in hospital.
Poorly
Boy was silently admiring
Buttercup, holding her his
side of the fence. All three
of them had been silent a
while; Mum apprehensively,
Joan, lovingly watching Poorly
Boy’s rapt expression.
Joan
spoke first. ‘I heard you
having a bad time earlier, so
I thought I’d distract
Poorly Boy, give you a break.’
‘Thanks
Joan,’ said Sue, feeling
about as grateful as if she’d
had the wrong tooth extracted
but managing not to show it.
She knew what was coming and
was irritated Joan could
nicely set them both up for
it.
Slowly,
theatrically, as if giving
over to safe hands the child
of his own womb as the ship
sank and he was about to drown
- Buttercup was placed in the
uncertain hands of his mother
by her crafty son. Buttercup,
resplendent in apron, golden
earrings and with huge
eyelashes over the dumbest
looking eyes ever, smiled
daftly at them from the fence
top again. This is it,
thought Sue, as Poorly Boy
started his attack.
‘I’m
pleased Buttercup is going to
have new church feet, I just
wish Mr Crumble Bee could have
seen the cow he should have
married if you’d let him.
Seen her for a few minutes;
that’s all, before Buttercup
who would have made a
beautiful Mrs Crumble Cow,
leaves him forever. I’m sad
she’d rather have new feet
instead of being a mummy, as a
mummy needs a good bee to be a
daddy with.’ He paused for
fresh breath and inspiration.
‘Maybe if they were together
for a few minutes they’d
fall in love and Crumble Cow
wouldn’t want the church
feet any more as much as she
wanted Crumble Bee.’ The
best bit - or decisive punch
if you were called Sue - came
last. ‘They could have been
just like you and Mr Joan when
he was alive: always together.’
Mum’s
angry eyes glared upon her son
and missed the tears in Joan’s.
‘Buttercup is not going
to the shed, and what’s more
you and Nelly can go tell that
purple thing he’s lucky to
be allowed to live in
the shed let alone have a
wife!’ Sue unpegged Nelly
roughly, giving Poorly Boy a
shove in the direction of the
shed. ‘Here, the two of you
clear off!’ she added
uncharitably.
‘No,
wait,’ came Joan’s tiny
voice. ‘Here, Poorly Boy -
just for a couple of minutes
now. And don’t you go
getting Buttercup or Mrs Cow
Crumble, whatever - dirty. I’ve
got to be leaving soon for the
fête.’
‘Joan!’
remonstrated Mum. ‘You’ll
regret this, you know what he
is!’
‘I
in’t anything Mummy,’ said
Poorly Boy, downcast, in a
hurt tone which belayed the
sparkle of his eyes. ‘And Mr
Crumble Bee is not a
thing. He’s an imminent toy
surgeon and famous all over
the yard for his good work
saving poorly toys and even
their church feet. He might
even do Crumble Cow’s feet
for her right now and then she
could stay with him all
afternoon and not have to go
to church.’
‘Not
long I said!’ laughed Joan,
calling as he ran round the
rear of the house towards his
beloved Garden Shed Infirmary.
Mr
Crumble Bee was ‘chilling
out’. Uncle Peter had told
Poorly Boy that when the
surgeon sat on the onion pile
in the corner after operations
- he was relaxing or ‘chilling
out’. He’d been so
chilling all morning waiting
for Poorly Boy to come play
with him - or, better still,
bring a few patients to cut
up.
Nelly
burst in as the half-open door
that never closed properly let
the hand holding her through.
There was just half an arm and
Nelly visible, the rest of
Poorly Boy remained hidden
behind the door. ‘We’ve
got somebody to see you Purple
Head,’ she said in her
affectionately insulting way.
Crumble
Bee, in his slow, stately
drawl asked who that might be.
Little
Sheeps had been rummaging
around looking for nails, of
which he had a fine collection
as he was usually to be found
somewhere about on the shed
floor when not occupied as a
nurse or general sheep’s
dogsbody doing odd jobs for
the hospital. ‘It’s
probably your long-lost mum,
Crumble Bee, come to take you
to explain to your dad where
you’ve been all this time.
You once told me Mr Bumble
Purple had a real temper,’
said Little Sheeps.
‘Oh
shut up!’ snapped Nelly. ‘Leave
Crumble Bee alone and stop
pulling his leg.’
‘All
of them?’ enquired Little
Sheeps. ‘Anyway - why are
you so nice to him suddenly?’
he rounded on Nelly.
She
didn’t answer, simply
remarking there wasn’t much
time.
Poorly
Boy stepped fully inside now,
with Crumble Cow held
prominently in front of him.
‘This is your next wife
Crumble Bee,’ he proclaimed
grandly. ‘In’t she nice?’
Crumble
Bee stared at her from the
onions. ‘She’s a cow,’
he drawled, more matter of
fact than astonished.
‘You
didn’t really expect a bee,
did you?’ sneered Little
Sheeps.
‘But
from my experience,’ he
continued sagely, ‘cows and
bees do not make good
marriages. It’s against
nature.’
‘No
it isn’t!’ snapped Poorly
Boy.
‘What
about the children, think of
them,’ Little Sheeps
observed with great feeling.
‘If
you can have cowboys, there’s
no reason why you can’t have
cow-bees,’ Poorly Boy
pointed out impatiently.
During
all this, Nelly had remained
silent, watching Crumble Bee
and Crumble Cow watching one
another.
‘Are
you two in love yet?’ asked
Poorly Boy getting more
impatient still. ‘Time’s
not got all day.’
No
reply.
He
pressed on, ‘Do you want to
marry each other?’
Nelly
spoke for them. ‘No, they
don’t want to be married.
She thinks he’s ugly.’
‘How
do you know that?’ Little
Sheeps added in awe.
‘Because
she and me are women and we
understand these things. She
just told me she doesn’t
like him.’
‘We
didn’t hear her,’ Poorly
Boy and the sheep said
together.
‘Us
ladies have a silent language
non-ladies can’t hear.’
‘Well,’
replied Little Sheeps, ‘if
that’s so, Crumble Bee is
telling me right now she’s
the most horrible cow he’s
ever seen and you can’t hear
him as you’re a woman.’
Poorly
Boy stepped between the
over-heating soft toys, both
shaping up for a fight and on
the verge of punching each
other. ‘You’re going to
punch each other if I don’t
break you up,’ he giggled.
‘You
keep out,’ Nelly flared at
him. ‘You’re as
sheep-headed and unfeeling as
he is,’ came the accusation.
Poorly Boy just smiled and
shrugged his shoulders. The
irony of the situation wasn’t
lost on him however - what
with Crumble Cow/Buttercup and
Crumble Bee staring anything
but lovingly into one another’s
eyes, and Nelly and Little
Sheeps about the wrestle on
the floor of Garden Shed
Infirmary. A fine day’s
work, all in all, for a place
of peace and healing!
The
world of Poorly Boy was a
place of child magic and the
quick shifts of scene
imagination demands of its
youngest spell makers, who are
quiet grown-up when alone and
surprisingly child-like with
adult company. A short time
later, Joan and Sue watched
Poorly Boy and Nelly skip
merrily off once more towards
the shed-hospital.
‘He’s
growing up,’ Joan observed,
wistfully, almost sad. ‘He
did that with so little fuss
and quite genuinely.’
‘No
he didn’t,’ Sue said
firmly. Cynically. ‘He wants
you to think he’s being a
good boy and returning
Buttercup without fuss. That
way he thinks you might give
her to him.’
‘Oh
don’t be cynical,’ the old
lady reproached. ‘He doesn’t
want me to be late for the
fête, that’s why. He’s
beginning to develop
consideration for others.’
Mum’s
eyes narrowed and said more
than she did. She was puzzled
why there hadn’t been a
scene. Why Poorly Boy had
thanked Joan so nicely for
lending Buttercup to him - and
then wished Joan and the toy
cow all the best with the new
feet!
‘You’re
the most stupid sheep I’ve
ever nursed.’ Nelly was
finishing bandaging Little
Sheeps’ right front paw with
Poorly Boy’s dirty
handkerchief.
‘I’m
the only sheep you’ve ever
nursed,’ he replied dryly.
‘Shut
up, you . . . you ignormous!’
Nelly screamed at Little
Sheeps.
‘That’s
not quite the right word,’
offered Poorly Boy trying to
be helpful. ‘Uncle Peter
uses big words - and . . . let’s
see . . . there’s one lot
like what you used, but not
what you used.’
‘It’ll
do,’ snapped Nelly, who
really was in a bad mood. ‘We
get back here after getting
rid of that awful cow, and
what do we find? Hm? You who’ve
been insulting Mr Crumble Bee
a short while before; poking
nasty fun at him - are now
begging him to take a nail out
your silly foot. You haven’t
even brains to gather nails
without treading on one - and
you’ve the nerve to call Mr
Crumble Bee thick! If I was
him I’d tell you to clear
off and get Baby Kenneth to
pull it out.’ She was
thoroughly enjoying herself.
Poorly
Boy, taking this in intently,
caught Little Sheeps’ eye.
The sheep looked glum, but he
wasn’t beaten. He whispered
something to Poorly Boy who’d
bent down to hear when he’d
seen Little Sheeps wished to
say something in private.
Nelly was incensed and angrily
enquired what was going on.
‘He
says you’re only being nice
to Crumble Bee because you’re
pleased - even thankful - he
didn’t get married. That way
you still think you stand a
chance of one day becoming Mrs
Nelly Bee.’
Nelly
- already dyed naturally pink
at the factory of her birth -
went livid red. A beautiful
shade of deeply embarrassed
pillar box. ‘I never!’ she
wailed.
‘Go
on,’ taunted Poorly Boy. ‘As
Uncle Peter says sometimes -
you ‘fancy him’, don’t
you?’
Poor
Nelly was in tears. ‘Oh you
naughty boy, Poorly Boy. I’m
going to tell your mum of you,’
she sobbed.
Little
Sheeps and Poorly Boy were too
busy falling about laughing to
be concerned or even hear her
threat. So while Nelly
continued sobbing - Poorly Boy
and Little Sheeps continued
rolling around until both
tired and exhausted from all
this fun at the poor little
pink elephant’s expense, lay
together in a smug heap
propped up against the leg of
the work bench come operating
table. Poorly Boy wiped his
laughter-teared face with the
dirty handkerchief before
tying it back round Little
Sheeps’ foot. The bleeding,
of course, had long since
stopped.
And poor
Nelly? She left this uncaring
and unfeeling twosome to it,
covered in straw and dirt on
the floor, when accepting Mr
Crumble Bee’s kind
invitation, she turned her
back upon her horrid
tormentors - to go join him,
chilling out amongst the
onions.
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