The tractor jerked to a stop and I leant out of the trailer to see what was happening. "What's up?" I called, spotting a mass of people milling around the farm gate. My heart sank when I saw the figure of Miss Pinchard clutching a placard, her mouth the same grim thin line it had been the last time we'd met.
Uncle Hobart stuck his head out of the tractor. "Get out o' the way, yer bleedin' morons," he shouted. "Some o' us 'ave work ter do, even if yer ain't."
The crowd stirred restlessly and as we drew nearer, individual voices could be heard.
"Shame on you!"
"How can you be so cruel?"
"It's the likes of you that need shutting up in small crates, not poor innocent animals."
"Need ruddy hanging your lot does."
I groaned, reading the blood-red letters printed on the placards. 'BAN LIVE EXPORTS', they read.
"What's up with yer, yer bleedin' cretins?" Uncle Hobart shouted back at the crowd. "We don't export live animals, we never bleedin' 'ave done."
I could tell he was beginning to loose his cool.
"You rear them though, don't you?" Miss Pinchard's voice rose above the others. "And the people who buy them from you certainly export them, don't they?"
Uncle Hobart stuck his middle finger in the air, stamping his foot on the accelerator. "Go sit on this yer frigid old bat!" he shouted, driving the tractor straight at her.
As Uncle Hobart bore down on them, the crowd hurriedly parted and we crashed through our farm gates as though they didn't exist, churning up the muddy track. As we thundered passed the crowd they showered us with missiles: rotten eggs, tomatoes, apples, bags of flour, even buckets of water and because I was sitting in an open trailer, unlike Uncle Hobart safely tucked away in the tractor cab, I took the full force of the barrage. By the time we reached the safety of the house, I looked like an oven ready deep-pan pizza.
Uncle Hobart surveyed the mess the crowd had made of his prized tractor, now covered with all sorts of rubbish and disgusting slime. "Stupid buggers, what the 'ell's got inter 'em!" he ranted. "What they picking on us fer? We ain't done nothing."
"It's that bloody Pinchard woman," I said, wiping some egg off my face. "She's behind all this. She's been looking for a way to get back at us, ever since that business with the geese."
"Well it ain't bleedin' good enough," Uncle Hobart raved, stomping across the yard in a temper.
I tidied myself up and followed Uncle Hobart into the house, just in time to witness him slamming down the telephone. I raised an eyebrow.
"Fat lot o' bleedin' good them lot are," he complained. "Always the same, ain't it? When yer wants a copper there's never one about, but just yer drop an empty beer can on the pavement and watch 'em come crawling out o' the drains."
"I take it they're not coming over to sort it out, then?" I guessed.
"Too bleedin' busy supping tea!" Uncle Hobart announced. "Call us back if they damage any of your property, Mr Tuttershed. Fat lot o' bleedin' good ringing 'em up after the damage's done ain't it?" He reached behind the door for his shotgun, plonking his cloth cap on his head. "Come on," he ordered, "we'll 'ave ter sort 'em out ourselves."
"Hang on a minute," I shouted, stopping him before he'd opened the door. "For God's sake, you're already waiting a court appearance for using that thing." Uncle Hobart shrugged me off and I followed him out as he disappeared through the front door, just in time to knock his shotgun upwards as he fired at the crowd. The noise of the blast set my ears ringing, and the birds in a nearby rookery reeling into the sky. As one, the crowd turned, staring at us in a stunned silence.
"Sling yer bleedin' 'ooks, the lot o' yer!" Uncle Hobart shouted at them, raising his shotgun again.
"Will you pack it in," I pleaded, wrestling the gun from his him. "You'll get us both bloody arrested, you silly old sod. You can't just go around shooting at people whenever you feel like it!"
"It's only loaded with rice, yer silly sod. It won't do no 'arm, will it?"
As I took the gun from him, Uncle Hobart stuck his hands in his pockets, muttering something I didn't catch, sulkily clicking his dentures before flouncing off back to the house.
I thought I'd better try and calm things down a bit, so resting the barrel of the shotgun over my shoulder, I made my way towards the demonstrators, still gathered in a tight knot, talking excitedly and gesturing at the house. I'd walked perhaps twenty feet when a police car roared up the lane, slithering to a stop in the yard, showering me with mud. As the driver's door flew open, a shadowy figure jumped out and crouched down behind it.
I groaned. I'd been here before.
"Okay Barns," a voice bellowed at me. "Drop that weapon now and get down on the ground."
"But..."
"NOW!" The wind from a bullet ruffled my hair and without further argument, I threw myself flat on my stomach, burrowing my way into the thick mud in case any more lead came flying my way.
Footsteps squelched level with my head and I squinted up at Detective Inspector Grunt. He stood over me with an enormous smile spread across his face. "Well, well, well, and what have we here?" Bending over, he picked up the shotgun, examining it happily. "I've got you bang to rights this time, you little turd. Going armed with intent. Shooting at members of the public. Causing an affray. Shall I continue?" His smile grew even wider as he contemplated my future. I hoped it would continue to grow, until it met at the back of his neck and the top his head fell off. But it was a forlorn hope and I was soon brought back to reality. "This time I'm going to lock you up and throw the damned key away," he crowed.
"But..." I said.
"Shooter, get over here and give me a hand," Grunt ordered, grabbing me by my shirtfront, pulling me to my feet. Any further protest was cut off, along with my ability to breathe, as the collar of my shirt dug deeply into my neck. "Cuff him and get him down to the station while I have a word with that other Neanderthal that lives here."
"But..." I said.
Sergeant Shooter gently tugged at the crook of my arm. "Come on mate, its no use trying to talk your way out of this one. You've gone much too far this time."
"But..." I said.
Shooter put his hand on the top off my head, guiding me into the back of the police car.
"But..." I said.
The car door slammed with a solid thunk and we roared off up the lane towards Ealford police station.
"But... I didn't do anything, " I finally managed, in a small, hurt, voice.
"That's what they all say, mate," the police driver informed me over his shoulder, flicking on the siren before putting his boot to the floor and acting out his fantasy of being a formula-one racing driver.
*
The flashes of blue light around the edge of the milking-parlour door reminded me of the other flashing blue light that had started my present predicament, and that didn't help my already frayed temper one little bit. Shading my eyes from the welding arc, I opened the door and went inside. Sitting on a bail of straw, I pulled off my shoe and rubbed my foot. It was damned sore, which was no surprise as I'd been forced to walk home from Ealford Police Station, Grunt having flatly refused to arrange a lift for me.
Uncle Hobart flipped up his welding mask as I sat down and nodded at me. "So where yer been then?" he asked. "I were getting kind o' worried." I resisted the temptation of barbecuing him with his own welding torch, smiling patiently instead. "Well?" he prompted after a few moments.
Sighing, I rubbed my hand over my hair. "At the police station, as you well know," I answered. "Shooter explained how you told him it was you who fired the gun, that you'd dropped it and it had gone off by accident." I coughed out a disbelieving half-laugh. "He said that you hadn't realised that it was loaded. That you were just trying to frighten the crowd away because they were damaging our fences. That you were very sorry and that it wouldn't happen again."
Uncle Hobart nodded vigorously, smiling broadly. "Yeah," he agreed, clicking his dentures excitedly, "and the silly bugger believed me too!" He chuckled lightly at his own cleverness.
"Yeah, well don't be so sure about that," I warned him. "He reckons that Grunt's got it in for us and is just biding his time. Seems he's still trying to live down the embarrassment of having to explain to his Chief Constable what he was doing in Hardons Massage Parlour the other month."
Uncle Hobart grunted, flipping down his welding mask again. I shaded my eyes as he carried on welding a section of steel pipe.
"What're you doing anyway?" I asked him when he came up for air again.
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Uncle Hobart nodded at a pile of beer cans on the workbench. "Thirsty work this 'ere welding, that's fer sure."
I cracked open a can and passed it to him. Taking a long pull from it, he sighed contentedly.
"Well?" I prompted.
Burping loudly, he indicated the pipe he'd just finished welding with a tilt of the can. "Making an automatic milking machine, ain't I?"
"An automatic milking machine?" I repeated uncomprehendingly.
He nodded. "Yeah. Read about it in one o' them farming magazines a few weeks ago. Seems as it's the latest thing in Auzzie Land. Milks and feeds the cows fer yer, automatic like. Costs thousands o' pounds ter buy one o' course. So I thought I'd get some bits and pieces tergether and knock us one up, like."
"You thought you'd get some bits and pieces together and knock us one up," I repeated in an incredulous tone, stunned by his audacity. "A machine that costs thousands of pounds to develop and build, that brings together years of skill and research in computer technology and liquid flow theory. And you just thought you'd get some bits and pieces together and knock us one up."
Uncle Hobart looked offended. "Aye," he said, nodding vigorously.
"What the hell do you know about automatic milking machines for Christ's sake?" My body began shaking with helpless laughter. "Sometimes I think you live on a different planet to the rest of us, do you know that."
"I know about them kind o' things," Uncle Hobart protested. "Anyway, it's a bleedin' milking machine, ain't it? Not some spaceship or some'at." He turned back to his welding in a huff and I could tell from the set of his shoulders that I'd really upset him. I sat watching silently as he banged and crashed about the barn, attaching various bits and bobs to the machine he was building. Finally, he bolted the last piece in place and stood back proudly. "Finished it," he told me in a defiant tone.
I ignored his challenge and nodded at him. "Right," I answered.
He headed for the door. "Yer coming or what?" he called over his shoulder.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I assured him sardonically.
Outside Uncle Hobart led the way to a small paddock he had fenced off. It was shaped like a long funnel, with the narrow end opening onto a new door cut into the side of the milking parlour. Striding over to a black box bolted onto the post of the paddock gate, he tapped it with a grimy finger. "Right then," he said, "I've been teaching the cows ter come in fer milking when this 'ere bell rings, right?"
I nodded slowly. "Right," I agreed." I'd been wondering what that was all about but had been too wary to ask, in case it spelt more trouble.
Throwing out his chest, Uncle Hobart proudly slipped his thumbs behind his braces, taking up the stance of a college lecturer. "Well this is 'ow it's done, yer see. He nodded at the box. "It's a time switch and it rings the bell, morning and night."
"Clever!" I observed, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Uncle Hobart sighed heavily. "Do yer 'ave ter take the piss like that?" he demanded, pressing a button on the side of the box. This started the bell ringing and a few moments later the first of the cattle began drifting down the field towards us. "Watch this," he said proudly as the nearest animal wandered into the mouth of the tunnel. "See, it's trodden on the pressure switch that starts things up." When the cow tripped the switch, a hook-shaped metal arm swung out over its back, another doing the same beneath its belly, and as the arms gently guided the cow into the milking parlour, Uncle Hobart followed along behind like a proud father whose small child had won some school prize. "Come on then, get a move on or you;ll miss it," he shouted at me over his shoulder.
I trailed along after them into the barn. The air inside was heavy with a warm mist, caused by a machine spraying water over the cow as it was guided along. Next, four whirling brushes popped out of a recess in the wall and began scrubbing the animal vigorously from head to tail. It cudded contentedly, obviously enjoying every minute of the treatment.
Uncle Hobart nodded at the whirling brushes. "Got the idea from the car wash in Ken's Garage," he explained.
Pursing my lips, I watched in silent fascination as the cow was taken through into the next section. Here warm air was blasted over the animal and a stiff-bristled brush combed out the tangled coat. By now the cow's hide was gleaming brightly in the overhead lights. Finally, guided into a stall, it waited patiently as a measured amount of food dropped from an overhead hopper into a trough. As it tucked into the feed, a milking cluster swung out, clamping itself to the cow's bulging udder. With a hiss of compressed air, the pumps started up and with a soft chug, chug, began extracting the milk.
I turned to Uncle Hobart with a look of wide-eyed wonderment. "Good God Uncle Hobart," I said, "you've actually done it. You've built an automatic milking machine, and it works!"
*
There was a honking and hooting, and a flapping and a hissing, and I was aware that Detective Inspector Grunt was close behind me, his webbed feet splatting in the mud as he waved his feathered arms over my head. I started to bog down in the sticky goo and he gained ground on me, his hissing breath stirring the hairs on the back of my neck. I glanced back over my shoulder, screaming in terror as his mouth extended into a long, hard, beak, which then clamped onto the end of my nose with a force that left my eyes watering. As I struggled desperately to release it, the beak twisted this way and that, causing tears to flow down my cheeks.
Snapping awake, I blinked my eyes and the patterns on the bedroom wallpaper came into focus. I was lying with my head thrown back, my nose caught between the metal bars of the old fashioned bed-head, staring up at the wall. Gingerly extracted myself from the metalwork, I sat up, heaving a shuddering sigh of relief that it had only been a dream. Fluffing up my pillows, I closed my eyes and tried to settle down to sleep again, but just as I’d reached that delightful stage between sleep and wakefulness, where troubles cease to exist, I heard a goose honk loudly. Pulling the sheet further over my head, I tried to ignore it, but a short while later it came again. Griselda must be having her own nightmares, I thought.
The next honk was louder, with that special edge she used whenever a stranger was about. Swearing, I threw off the covers and sat up. A beam of light flashed across the bedroom ceiling and I hurried to the window to see what was going on. As I looked out, I spotted two black-clad figures creeping about in the front yard. I watched them for a moment then ran lightly across the landing, throwing open Uncle Hobart's bedroom door.
"Hey. Hey, wake up," I ordered, shaking Uncle Hobart, clamping my hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t shout out in alarm, I shook him again. "Come on," I whispered urgently. His eyes slowly opened as he struggled upright, reaching for the bedside light. I slapped his hand away. "No, don't do that. Come on, over here."
As Uncle Hobart joined me at the window, I pointed out the two figures sneaking about below. "What the 'ell're they up to?" he mumbled sleepily.
I shrugged. "I don't know, and I'm not hanging around to find out. You put your teeth in and keep an eye on them while I go and phone the police."
Uncle Hobart shook his head in protest. "Fat lot o' bleedin' good them lot'll do," he protested. "Come on, we'll take care o' this ourselves." Grabbing his gun from behind the bedroom door, he clicked the safety catch off and ran down the stairs. I kept close behind him as he ran along the hall and out the front door into the moonlight. "Oy, you two!" he shouted at the intruders, "What're yer sneaking around 'ere for?"
They froze as soon as they heard Uncle Hobart’s voice, but I could sense they were about to bolt. Before they did, Uncle Hobart let loose with a charge of buckshot. The ground puffed up around their feet and they took off like a couple of frightened rabbits, straight into the cone shaped paddock. As they pounded across the pressure switch that started the automatic milking machine, metal arms shot out and grabbed them; one by the hair, the other between the legs, and they were dragged, kicking and screaming, into the milking-parlour.
Running through the main door, I turned on the overhead lighting. "Quick, turn off the machine," I called.
"Yer bleedin' joking," Uncle Hobart growled, shaking his head vigorously, a determined look in his eyes.
The intruders were sprayed with hot, sudsy water, then scrubbed by two sets of stiff bristled brushes. The first set ripped off most of their clothing and the second quickly finished the job, leaving two very sorry looking, very naked, individuals.
"Get this thing off me!" Detective Inspector Grunt screamed as the last of his clothing disappeared into the maw of the whirring machinery. His companion, Miss Pinchard, said nothing, just whimpered quietly as the shiny, chrome-plated milking cluster clamped itself onto her sagging breasts and began pulsating in time with the powerful milking pumps. Another set wavered around Grunt's nether regions, where it hesitated for a moment, as though searching for the best place to strike. Making up its mind, it finally flung itself at his genitalia with a loud slurping noise.
"Uncle Hobart, tell me something." I said as we turned out the lights and left the milking-parlour.
"What's that, Peter boy?" he answered with a soft smile.
"How long does the milking cycle take?"
"About fifteen minutes, I reckon."
I chuckled quietly. "Well, in that case, I sure hope that surgeon used really strong cotton to sew Grunt's dick back on after his accident with the geese."