Honey's Farm by Iris Gower Page B

catastrophe.
    The milk, Jamie insisted, was infected with the sickness, and, in contrast to what other farmers in his situation would do, he ordered that the milk not taken by the calf was to be poured away. It ran, in a white river, into the ditch, much to the disgust of old Gary and the wide-eyed disbelief evinced by Tom.
    As a precaution, the big black bull was taken from the vicinity of the farmyard, and tethered high on the hill, away from the infected cows, for to lose his prize bull would be a more bitter blow to Jamie than losing the herd.
    Fon was allowed to take no part in any handling of the sick animals; Jamie was set against it. He had his reasons, and Fon understood them well enough. Jamie had lost one wife, he didn’t want to lose another.
    So Fon’s days were easier, but with no animals to milk in the mornings, the first early daylight hours seemed to drag. Fon tried to fill her time with baking good meals for the menfolk and looking after Patrick, but her mind was obsessed with worries about Jamie, fearing that he would wear himself out on what seemed to be a battle he could not win. The only sign of progress so far was that at least one of the cows had dried up, the bad milk having ceased to flow.
    These quiet mornings, Patrick could sleep in for as long as he liked, and this gave Fon the opportunity to gather in the eggs from under the hens without the small boy’s probing fingers frightening the birds, sending them flying to the ceiling of the hut with raucous cries.
    â€˜Good girl, Celia.’ Fon’s voice hung softly in the quietness of the hen-house. The contented clucking of the birds was soothing as she extracted the still warm egg from under an obedient hen and placed it carefully with the others in the basket.
    She straightened, thinking she heard a noise in the yard. Surely Patrick hadn’t come down from bed and wandered outside?
    She hurried out of the hen-house, fastening the door behind her almost absent-mindedly. Head bent, she was half-way across the stretch of dried earth flanking the farmhouse when she became aware of the black bull standing only a few feet away from her. She took a sharp, indrawn breath; the beast was a solid, dangerous barrier between herself and the farmhouse.
    Fon froze in her tracks, not knowing whether to back into the hen-house or try to skirt the huge animal and make for the safety of the house.
    She measured the distance with her eyes and saw that there was little chance of outrunning the beast; her only alternative was the hen-house, a frail enough structure which would surely collapse should the bull decide to charge.
    The creature lowered his great head and began pawing the ground. As if in a nightmare, Fon saw the dust spurt up in small clouds beneath the angry hooves; the beast was not called the Black Devil for nothing. She swallowed hard, knowing she must think clearly. Any sudden movement on her part would only anger the bull.
    Slowly, she began to back up, inch by inch, watching the bull every second. The animal sniffed the air, as if scenting her fear, and moved a few paces towards her, seemingly still uncertain whether to charge or not.
    Fon took another step back, caught her heel in her skirt and to her horror found herself falling in a flurry of petticoats. She hit the ground so hard that the breath was knocked from her body, the basket fell from her hand, scattering eggs across the dry ground. Fon stifled a scream and edged away from the towering creature.
    There was an evil look in the animal’s eye as the bull continued to paw the ground. At any moment now, the creature would charge, and she would be at the mercy of those cruel horns.
    Quickly, Fon slipped her skirt over her hips. As she tried to clamber to her feet, she waved the skirt threateningly at the bull.
    â€˜Get away!’ she shouted, climbing to her knees. ‘Go on, shoo!’ The act served only to enrage the animal, and with a snort of seeming contempt