Don't Kill Esther

When my father came in, with that sadness in his eyes and that
oldness in his sigh, I knew that something was wrong.

Foot and mouth. We'd dreaded it, we'd crossed our fingers against it,
we'd thought it couldn't, hoped it wouldn't happen to us.

And now it had. I could tell even before he told us.

My older sister Ruth cried, because she wouldn't be able to leave the
farm, because the land would be filled with smoke and death, and for
many other reasons besides. My father cried, because things were bad
enough, because of the poor state we were in already, because he didn't
know how much more bad luck we could take, and for many other reasons
besides. My mother cried for all of those reasons, and many of her own
besides.

And I cried. I cried louder and harder than all of them, because I was
young, only ten, and I couldn't hide my feelings like they could.

But I cried for only one reason, and that reason was Esther.

Esther, my pet pig that was much more than just a pet, my faithful
companion and friend.

I closed my eyes and heard her dying squeal, I saw her limp body lying
on the ground, I saw her corpse tossed onto the flames with the rest,
like a worthless rag, like a mere container of pork. But this pig had a
name, she was mine and she mattered. In my mind I saw her burning on
the heap, the smoke rising from her blackened skin, and I cried because
I couldn't bear her leaving me that way.

They tried to comfort me: 'It'll pass, Freddie, don't worry, we'll get
through it, we'll survive, love."
I cursed them under my breath. How could they forget Esther? Esther
wouldn't survive, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

I was seven when I met my pig.

My parents had always told me not to go down to the barn at that time
of year. They told me it would upset me. Dad told me that it still
upset him sometimes. The time of year when they killed the pigs.

I went down there anyway, in an act of childish rebellion for I can't
remember what.

The barn was dark and smelled of manure and hay. There wasn't a human
voice to be heard. My dad and the farm hands had taken a break for
lunch. I was alone with the pigs.

They stamped impatiently in their cells, tail brushing snout, side
brushing side, the barn was filled with their squeals. Screaming as one
as if they knew their fate, and were calling for mercy. I walked past
them, trying to ignore their pleas.

"Sorry," I whispered. "Sorry pigs."

Soon I began to gaze at them as I passed, grunting and scratching and
squealing. They paid no heed to me, just a small boy in their world of
pigs, I meant nothing to them.

I became numb to their plight, I walked with a lighter heart. They
didn't heed me, I might as well not heed them either. What did I care
about a few pigs?

"Squeal all you like," I whispered savagely, "won't save you now.
Should've eaten less, you fat things."

I laughed.

A pair of accusing beady eyes met mine. It was as if she'd understood
what I said. Being only seven I wasn't entirely sure she hadn't.

Esther.

She stared at me. I stared back with my insides squirming.

"Sorry!" I whispered, "Sorry pig!"

I kept expecting her to look away or start squealing like the others,
but she didn't. She just gazed at me quietly.

I went up to the pen and put my hand through the bars. She snuffled
into it, looking for food. I scratched her behind the ears and she
grunted appreciatively.

"Esther," I said. It just seemed to fit.

Her eyes met mine. I heard the sharp crack of the gun, I saw her limp
body lying on the ground. I knew what I had to do.

I fumbled with the catch on the pen. It was stiff and hard for small
hands to move, but eventually it opened with a clang.
She heard the noise and immediately barged through the gate.

"Clever Esther," I said.

Other pigs tried to follow, but I shut the gate on them, pushing
against them with all my might. They squealed indignantly.

"Sorry!" I said, "Sorry pigs!"

I turned and saw Esther watching me. Once she knew I could see her she
started trotting towards the door of the barn.

I followed.

My father stepped through the door.

He saw Esther. He blinked.

"What the-"

He saw me and his face fell.

"?Oh no."

I looked at him steadily.

"Don't kill Esther," I said.

* * *

Their answers were all the same: government? rules? regulations?

"You know, lots of pigs are going to die," said my dad eventually,
hesitantly, "surely one more won't?" he broke off when he saw my
face.

"She hasn't even got Foot and Mouth," I said.

"I know, but they have to make sure?"

"You can always get another pig, once this is all over," said Ruth,
putting a hand on my shoulder in a way she thought was
comforting.

Another pig? Another pig? I stared at her in horror. I could feel more
tears filling my eyes.

"? or not?" Ruth bit her lip.

"They can't kill Esther," I said. I could hear my voice harsh in my
ears, each word short, angry. "I won't let them kill her."

"There's nothing you can do," said my mum, "you know that. There's
nothing any of us can do.'

I turned my back on them then. I ran to my room and slammed the
door.

"They can't kill Esther, they won't kill Esther," I hissed under my
breath. I paced the room, back and forth, back and forth. "Can't kill,
won't kill, can't don't won't let them kill?"

I looked out of the window, at the pigsty in the garden.

"?Esther." I said.

I'm not sure why what happened next, happened. All I know is I didn't
plan and I didn't think. I just acted.

First, I locked my door. Then I ran to the window.

It came open with a loud scrape, I looked fearfully at the door- but it
stayed still and silent.

I stuck my head out of the window. It was a still, humid evening and no
wind ruffled my hair. I looked down, hoping ridiculously for any sort
of plant that might have grown up my wall overnight, to help me. No
such thing. The wall was bare and flat, and it was a long way
down?

But I wasn't thinking and I wasn't planning. I climbed onto my
windowsill and sat there, my feet dangling in mid-air. I felt a bit
dizzy.

'Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump,' my brain chanted.

I looked down again, at the ground far below, at the brambles and the
stinging nettles, at the rose bush that I might just land in? The sharp
thorns?

I closed my eyes.

'Jump ,jump jump jump!'

I jumped, slipping off the windowsill carelessly, my stomach lurched
and I felt a jolt of fear.

I landed in the rose bush.

"Ahhhrrrgh!"

Thorns like knives came from all sides, wrenching at my skin.

I blundered my way out to the sound of twigs cracking and branches
crunching. Looked fearfully at the house. Luckily, all of the windows
that I could see stayed dark. I imagined my family huddled in the
sitting room, the TV blaring, and sighed in relief.

I ran towards the pig sty wincing at every step. Thanks to the rose
bush I was as prickly as a cactus, and my backside was one big
bruise.

"Esther!" I called.

She came. She always came when I called.

* * *

The bucket of pigfeed rattled beside me as I jogged. Esther followed at
my heels, grunting. I was surprised by her faithfulness? the pigfeed
might have had something to do with it.

The oncoming roar of a car. I threw myself into the trees at the side
of the road. Pigfeed scattered around me. Esther lumbered towards it,
grunting hungrily. She was getting the biggest piggy work out of her
life. Looking back on it, I think we must have run for about a mile
already. Esther had never run more than the length of the garden.

I threw myself on the damp ground, shivering. I hadn't thought, I
hadn't planned. Now I wished I had, it was early in June, and
supposedly quite warm, but my trainers were sodden from running through
puddles and there had been plenty of dew on the rosebush, so that I was
soaked through. I knew it was going to get colder later. Where would I
sleep?

I stood up stiffly and looked around. Esther's eyes were fixed on me
expectantly.
I sighed, and dismissed the question from my mind.

"Come on Esther." I picked up the pig feed, and turned away from the
road. If people saw me they would surely know something was up, even
without Esther there. My Jeans had specks of blood on them from the
rose thorns, which had been scratching at me ever since I'd left the
farm, and I was covered in mud. What was a ten year old boy doing out
alone at night, in the middle of nowhere, with a pig, of all
things?

I was mad, I told myself, stark raving mad.

Aside from that, I couldn't remember the way back home. I'd run blindly
this far, cutting across several fields in the process. It was dark.
There was no turning back now.

If I'd been in an ordinary state of mind, I would have sat down in the
mud and cried, but I wasn't thinking.

I jogged on, ducking branches. 'Tom, Tom, the pipers Son' ran through
my head over and over again in irritating repetition.

I looked down at the bucket, it was empty now. But Esther still
followed.

* * *

Pale light, loud birdsong echoing in my ears, the first singers had
woken up for the dawn chorus. I opened my eyes and realised that my
cheek was pressed into the ground. A beetle scuttled away from my face.
I looked up and saw the tree-branches swaying above me against a purple
sky.

That was funny, I couldn't even remember lying down.

I lifted my head weakly. Mud plastered to my hair and face. I could
even feel it cold and wet inside my ear from where I'd been resting my
head in it.

I was so cold! I sat up, groaning.

I looked wearily at my watch. 3.50 am. My head was pounding.

I tried to stand up. Pain exploded from my feet upwards. I collapsed on
my hands and knees.

"Aaaow?"

I rocked gently, massaging my legs, trying to get some feeling back
into them. I looked around me.

And realised something with a jolt inside me.

"Esther?"

She was nowhere to be seen.

"Esther!" I called.

No answering grunt.

She always came when I called her!

"ESTHER! ESTHER!" I cried.

And then I could see nothing through the tears that filled my eyes and
streamed down my face. I shook with sobs and called her name, and cried
even harder when she still didn't come.

Gone!

"Esther!"

My pet pig that was much more than a pet, my friend, my faithful
companion.

Lost!

"Esther!"

My voice echoed mournfully. And I had no energy left to speak through
my tears.

* * *

I'm not sure how I found my way back to the farm. But it wasn't as far
as I thought, I must have gone around in circles, I was too numb to
really care. It wasn't yet six o clock when I stumbled through the
front door.

I looked wearily at the clean, smooth paving stones, then at my
mud-caked trainers and socks.

I pulled them off wincing. My feet seemed to have swollen to twice
their normal size and were itching furiously. Chillblains, the worst
I'd ever had.

Ignoring the aches of my feet on the hard flagstones, I stumped my way
through the kitchen, and up the stairs. I no longer cared how much
noise I made. I had lost my pig. What else could possibly matter?

My bedroom door, at last, I turned the handle.

The door wouldn't budge.

I kicked the door, clutched my foot, hopped up and down in agony. It
didn't move.

Locked! It was still locked!

I stared at it. Rattled the handle. Stared at it again in shock. How
could I have been so stupid?

I staggered into the bathroom, undressed in a daze, locked the door and
fell asleep in the bath.

* * *

My family found out of course. I told them as soon as they started
hammering on the bathroom door. At first they didn't believe me, but
when they saw me plastered in mud, and tried to open my bedroom door,
and went out to the pigsty and found Esther gone? they had to believe
me.

They were angry and shocked and sad and afraid all at once, and hugged
me and cried over me and shouted at me in turn, and I was ashamed of
the pain I'd caused them.

That day lots of men came, to fill the land with smoke and death, and
they rounded up all the pigs without knowing that one was missing,
because nobody told them about Esther.

And they carried on the next day. And still nobody told them about
Esther.

And the next day came, and the next.

But there was still no sign of Esther.

"She'll have to get caught soon," said my dad. "She'll head towards
houses, it's instinct. She knows where the food is."

"We should have told the authorities," said my mum.

"She didn't have Foot and Mouth," I said firmly.

"You can't be sure! I think we should tell them-"

"Don't!"

"But Freddie-"

"Don't! Don't kill Esther!"

And they didn't tell anyone. Nobody could refuse me when I said it like
that. They would have been murderers in my eyes, and they knew it. They
could kill all the pigs they wanted, any pig as long as it wasn't
Esther.

* * *

It was a week after I'd lost Esther. The farm was still closed and the
disinfectant was still everywhere, strangely quiet without the sounds
of animals and tractors, and none of us could leave. It was depressing
at the best of times. But the men had gone and we began to relax.

I wandered downstairs, listening for the sound of the horses neighing
in the field and feeling a pang of strangeness when I heard
nothing.

I put the bread into the toaster and set the dial to 2. The kitchen was
filled with the warm smell of toast.

I reached into the fridge for some butter.

Grunt.

I froze. I listened.

Snort? grunt.

The butter hit the floor.

"Esther?"

The toast popped up in the toaster with a clang.

Grunt. Snort grunt!

Could it be?

I ran to the back door, fumbled with the catch, my heart thundering in
my chest. I flung it open.

A pair of beady eyes met mine.

"Esther!"