Bron-43

Continued from Chapter 42: Bron-42 | ABCtales

“So, how are you all enjoying Holyhead, Mrs…er, I don’t think we exchanged names on the train, did we?” said Grace. “Though I do know this is little Tommy.”

“It’s Marjorie. And this is my husband, Timmy. It’s quite nice, in its way. But it’s not really a resort, is it? That ad in Exchange & Mart was a bit misleading – only five minutes from the sea…”

“The sea being the ferry terminal,” Bron broke in. “Well, live and learn, I suppose.”

“There’s some nice beaches roundabout – Tray…Tray-Adur Bay, is it? But it’s a bit of trek on the bus, especially with a five-year-old.”

“We walked to South Stack yesterday,” said Timmy. “Now that IS spectacular; the lighthouse, the cliffs…”

“Yes, people do come from miles around to see it,” said Mam. “Bit of a hike though, all those steps…”

“And it’s nice for Tommy to see proper countryside. Sheep, cows, pigs … it’s all a new experience for him. Actually, I was wondering, is there a farm round here where you can go and meet the animals, say hello to them?”

“You mean a petting zoo?” said Grace.

“WH-AAT?” shrieked Bron. “People pay good money to go and stroke mangy old sheep and filthy pigs?”

“Oh yes,” said Grace. “It’s quite a popular thing down south, near London.”

“P’raps we could try that at Tan-y-Bryn. You’d get your entrance fee back if you survived ten minutes in the field with Bronco…”

“Well, you’re all welcome to come to Tan-y-Bryn and see the animals,” Mam interjected, quickly. “We’ve got pigs, and a few cows. And chickens – don’t forget the chickens.”

“Oh yes, how could we forget the chickens.”

“Would you like that, Tommy? Go and see the cows and pigs at the farm?”

“Wow! Cool! Any sheep?”

“Fraid not; too much trouble, kept breaking down the fences and wandering off,” said Mam. “Mind you, now that HE’s no longer in charge, maybe we could fix them up…Anyway, I think we can all squeeze into John-John’s van, it’d only be for a few minutes.”

 

 

“OK, Tommy,” said Bron. “Don’t go in the small field with the white fences. That’s where Bronco lives. He’ll kill you. And you see that hedge over there? Don’t go past it; that’s Huw Prytherch’s place. He’ll kill you too. Don’t get too close to the cows, unless I say it’s OK; they could trample you. And watch the pigs; they bite, especially that big brown one with the white stripe.”

“Can I ride a pig?”

“You can if they let you - but they won’t. Best not to even try. You know, there was a farmer once, somewhere in England. One day, he was feeding his pigs. He had a heart attack, collapsed in front of them, in the trough. And do you know that happened?”

Tommy shook his head slowly from side to side.

“The pigs ate him.”

“No-o-o! All of him? Even his teeths and his shoes?”

“Every little bit. Nothing left.”

“What happens when the animals get too old to go out? Do you have them in the house?”

“No, Tommy. When they’re big enough, say two years old, we take them to the butcher and he slaughters them.”

“What’s lorters?”

“He kills them. So we can make them into steaks and chops and…all sorts of things.”

“But that’s HOLLIBLE!”

“BRON!” said Grace; she’d been squelching across the farmyard in her borrowed, oversized wellies and had caught the last minute of the conversation. “He’s only five, for Godsake!”

“Got to learn the facts of life sometime. Tommy! What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“Cornflakes. And bay-con. An’ sossidges. And bread, and butter. Gran just had cornflakes. She’s on a date.”

“On a date? Bit old for that sort of thing, isn’t she? What does Timmy have to say about it?”

“I think he means diet.”

“Anyway, Tommy, where did you think that bacon and sausages came from? From pigs. And the chops you’ll have for your tea tonight, they’ll have come from a sheep.”

“How you know we’re havin’ chops tonight? Gran said we’re havin’ steak.”

“Whatever, steak comes from cows. So you see? We have to kill animals, so we can eat…”

“Oh Bron,” moaned Grace. “Do you have to always be so brutal?”

 

 

It was three o’clock. Timmy, Marjorie, Bron, Grace and Mam lounged on the sofas, mugs of tea in hand. Petouche hurtled through the front door; Tan-y-Bryn’s resident brown and white cat, Pork Chop was in close pursuit; they were followed by Jackie and her gaggle of the bantams, cackling and clucking as they staggered across the kitchen floor. Then Tommy, covered top to toe in slick brown farmyard muck, shrieking and laughing as he tried to keep pace with the fast moving furred and feathered throng. Then back out into the yard: cats, chickens and Tommy.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Marjorie. “It’s been a brilliant day. Best of the holiday. More than made up for the disappointments of Holyhead. Look how little Tommy’s come alive.”

Timmy nodded: “He’s a different boy.”

Bron turned to Grace. “It’s not just Tommy. Look at Petouche. She’s absolutely transformed. Having the time of her life.”

“Yes, isn’t she just?”

“You know, I haven’t the heart to take her back to London. This is where she belongs. At Tan-y-Bryn.”

Grace nodded.

“You know,” Bron continued. “Pork Chop hasn’t been done…”

“Done?”

“Neutered. I was thinking, if they got it together, perhaps some of the kittens might have Petouche’s killer instinct. If we needed a cat for a de-infestation job, we could take them back to London, just temporary, like. But this would be their real home.”

“So you plan to raise a breed of hunter-killer-cats. What’s Pork Chop’s mousing skills like?”

“Catches the odd one. Nothing special.”

“Does he fancy Petouche anyway?”

“Well, we could set them up with a date. See what happens.”

 

 

‘Just one look at you…’ Barry White intoned from the stereo, turned down to little more than a murmur. Two of Tan-y-Bryn’s softest, fluffiest cushions had been inserted inside the pink holdall, which had been covered with a blanket to deaden any extraneous sound. Only the table lamp illuminated the scene. ‘It’s gonna be, it’s gonna be a lovely day…”

“You sure Petouche is into Soul?” whispered Grace.

“Well, she seems comfortable enough, on those cushions. Seems to be enjoying it. Where’s Pork Chop?”

“Over here. Shall I grab him?”

“Yes, but gently. Don’t want to break that spell…”

Bron took Pork Chop from Grace’s outstretched arms and gently inserted his not inconsiderable bulk into the pink holdall. The two cats sniffed each other, cautiously, experimentally. Pork Chop pushed his pink nose into the bedding, before settling down on the biggest, plushest of the pair of cushions. His thunderous purr rumbled across the darkened kitchen. Petouche glared at Bron over Pork Chop’s rump. She’d be stuck there until such time as her bed-companion cared to bestir himself.

To be continued in Chapter 44: Bron-44 | ABCtales