From the squeals emanating from Uncle Hobart's car, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the contents of the local piggery were stuffed inside. "You haven't driven all the way from Stanthorpe with those poor pigs stuck in the boot of your car, have you?" I asked him.
Tipping his cloth-cap onto the back of his head, he clicked his dentures at me. "Afore yer get too bleedin' sentimental, Peter boy, yer'd best take a look inside the car," he suggested.
Sticking my head through the open window, I gasped. The interior looked like an extremely large, extremely hungry animal had been eating it. There were chunks bitten out of the plastic door trims, the dashboard, the passenger seats, and most of the backseat covers were missing as well. Even the little plastic knobs on the ends of the window winders had been chewed off.
"What the hell happened?" I demanded.
Uncle Hobart popped the boot and stood to one side so that I could see the two black, Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs tied up inside. They squealed at me belligerently, kicking against the rough ropes binding them together.
"Bleedin' things started going berserk as soon as I put 'em in the back o' the car," he explained. "By the time I'd reached the village, they'd started on the roof covering, so I got old George at the Duck and Anvil ter give us a 'and getting 'em in ter the boot. And a good job I did too, or there'd be no car left at all by now. It were a right struggle, I can tell yer." Holding up his arm, he showed me his tattered sleeve. "Bleedin' things even started 'aving a go at me!"
"Well, I did tell you it was a stupid idea, didn't I?" I said self-righteously.
"But it ain't a stupid idea, Peter boy. You'll see. Them toffs up in London'll pay a fortune fer these as pets. Just like it says in that magazine I were reading t'other day. Yer see if they don't."
*
"Quick, there 'e goes, the little bugger!" Uncle Hobart stumbled in the long grass, falling onto his knees. "Damn!" he exclaimed, his face twisting in anger.
Slithering to a stop beside him, I gasped for breath. "It's... no... use," I complained, "We'll... never... catch… the… little… sod. Not this way." With long faces, we watched as one of our new pot-bellied pigs disappeared underneath the fence, heading off in the direction of Ealford Village
"Come on," I said, helping Uncle Hobart to his feet, "let's go home and have a couple of beers."
As we made our way back home across the field, I decided not to harangue Uncle Hobart about the pig's escape, even though it was his fault. A fine bloody job he'd made of fixing the fences, I thought to myself, sighing deeply. Uncle Hobart tutted. I ignored him. He tutted again. "What?" I asked sharply.
"Yer really should 'ave fixed them fences, yer know," he told me. "We can't afford ter go loosing stock like that."
Stopping dead in my tracks, I faced him, dumbfounded at his words. "Do what!" I yelled. I could feel the blood flushing my face.
He nodded slowly to himself, a picture of reasonableness. "Well I did tell yer yesterday that they was getting a bit dodgy, didn't I?"
"You really are the... the..." But words failed me, so I just shook my head at his gall instead.
*
We were dagging sheep, a job I really, really hated - well you tell me what's nice about cutting crap-laden fleece from a sheep's backside on a hot summer's day - when a voice hailed us from the top track.
Uncle Hobart glanced up, groaning. "Oh bleedin' 'ell. What's she want?"
Standing alongside Miss Pinchard, was a tall, rather thin looking man.
"Afternoon," Uncle Hobart greeted them.
Miss Pinchard sniffed pointedly, dabbing delicately at her nose with a handkerchief. "This is Mr Kneeler, our Sexton," she introduced the stranger.
Uncle Hobart raised an eyebrow as Mr Kneeler moved closer. "What'cher want then?" he asked.
As he neared Uncle Hobart, Mr Kneeler's nostrils flared and he took a hasty step backwards. "Somebody's been desecrating the graveyard," he informed us in a stern tone.
"Well I 'ope yer ain't accusing me," Uncle Hobart rumbled, picking sheep dung from under his finger nails and flicking it over his shoulder, "because if'n yer are..." he left the sentence unfinished.
"No of course he isn't," Miss Pinchard assured Uncle Hobart in her prissy voice. "We think it's the work of Satanists, don't we Mr Kneeler?
As the tip of the Sexton's tongue slid wetly between his thin lips, an excited brightness entered his eyes. "Oh yes, Miss Pinchard. We do indeed. Yes indeed. And I should think they hold their devilish rites in the nude as well" The sexton's tongue flicked out again. "Oh yes indeed, completely naked," he finished in a hoarse whisper.
Miss Pinchard's eyes widened at his words. "Mmmmm," she agreed, sotto voce, a red flush appearing on her neck.
Uncle Hobart cocked his head, frowning in mock concentration. "Well, I might 'ave 'eard a strange noise t'other night," he told the Sextant slowly.
Miss Pinchard squeezed Mr Kneeler's arm, jiggling up and down excitedly. "You see Herbert, I told you so. There really are horrible rituals going on in the graveyard."
Mr Kneeler leant closer to Uncle Hobart. "And what did these strange noises sound like, Mr Tuttershed?"
"Well sort of, 'Ungh, ungh, oh yes, oh yes. Just there, oh yes'. Yer know, that sort of thing," Uncle Hobart told him with a broad smile.
Miss Pinchard's face flushed bright red and Mr Kneeler coughed loudly several times. "Yes, I see," he said, "Well thank you, Mr Tuttershed, but I expect that was something else entirely."
"I've a good mind to call the police to those filthy beasts," Miss Pinchard squeaked. "Come on Herbert, we'll not stay here to be insulted." Grabbing Mr Kneeler by the arm, she hurriedly dragged him away.
Uncle Hobart leant over the fence. "Oy missis!" he called out after her, "Is it yer what owns that scrawny looking goat?"
Miss Pinchard threw him a smouldering look over her shoulder. "If you mean Sabina, my champion British Toggenburg, yes I do. Why?"
"'Cause I caught it in me veggy plot t'other day and if I catch the bleedin' thing there again, it'll be coming back as goat-burgers, that's why."
With a, "Well really!" and a toss of her head, Miss Pinchard turned away, striding up the lane, Mr Kneeler trotting along beside her like some little lap-dog.
Uncle Hobart broke wind; a long, slow, satisfying rumble. "Silly old fart," he muttered. "Satanists me bleedin' arse!"
Waving a hand in the air, I pulled a face. "Well it certainly smells as though you might well have one of those stuck up there," I observed breathlessly. "I hope you're going to have a bath before supper.
*
I was coming out of the cowshed when Uncle Hobart shouted at me, "Quick, Peter boy. Go fetch me gun, and 'urry it up afore it's too bleedin' late."
Running back from the house with the gun, I slithered to a stop in the thick mud and Uncle Hobart pointed excitedly at a small, black form racing along the farm track. I grimaced. "Oh no, not that one too. How the hell did that one get out? I thought we'd fixed all the fences."
Uncle Hobart swung the gun to his shoulder, took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed across the fields and I winced as the pig flopped over, landing on its side with a dull thump. It twitched once, then stopped moving. "Well that one ain't escaping like the other, is it?" Uncle Hobart observed dryly.
Turning the pig over I studied it closely for a few seconds, then glared up at him accusingly. "You idiot!" I shouted. "This is the sow. You've shot the bloody sow. This is the one that escaped yesterday, the boar must still be in the bloody field, where we put it." We checked, and sure enough there it was, snuffling about, as happy as a pig in shit. Which of course is exactly what it was.
"Well 'ow was I supposed ter know?" Uncle Hobart argued later as I hectored him for shooting the only homing-pig in existence: I suppose he did have a point though. Anyway we dined on Vietnamese pot-bellied pig that night, and I must say, it tasted pretty damned good.
*
"Sh! Look. Over there. By that gravestone." I squinted through the darkness and could just make out something moving about in the tall grass. I switched on the torch and there, illuminated by a bright cone of light, was 'Piggy Pinchard', our surviving pot-bellied pig. Its eyes glinting yellow in the torchlight, for a moment looking almost evil.
Uncle Hobart chuckled. "It must 'ave been the bleedin' pigs what was digging in the graveyard all the time, not Satanists at all." He chuckled again. "That'll spoil the Sexton's little daydreams, won't it?" 'Piggy Pinchard' suddenly scented us and took off like a rocket. Uncle Hobart lunged for it but missed by a mile. The pig doubled back, straight between his legs, spilling him to the ground. Grabbing a gravestone, he hauled himself upright, shouting in agony when the top section broke off and fell on his foot. "Right!" he hollered at the top of his voice. "That's it! I've 'ad just about enough!" Throwing the piece of headstone aside, he strode out of the graveyard in a temper.
"Where are you going?" I asked him breathlessly, doing my best to keep up.
"I'm going ter make me a pig-trap," he growled through clenched teeth.
We were soon back at the farm where Uncle Hobart slammed open his shed door, hurrying inside. Lifting up a loose floorboard, he scrabbled about underneath and brought out an old stick of dynamite. Working methodically, he wired a pressure switch to it, then attached a detonator. Finally, he plastered the whole lot with a mixture of fat and bran-flakes.
When he'd finished, he stood back from his workbench, smiling broadly at me, a glint lighting up his faded blue eyes. "There's no pig can resist bran-flakes," he confided. "And when that little bugger takes a bite out o' this... Goodbye Piggy Pinchard!"
"Bit bloody drastic isn't it?" I complained.
Uncle Hobart glared at me, a scowl twisting his features. "Would yer rather be 'auled into court for owning a Satanic pig?" he growled. "I can imagine just 'ow much Miss bleedin' Pinchard would love doing that."
Shaking my head, I pursed my lips. "No, I suppose not. But is this really the only way?"
Uncle Hobart cracked open a can of beer. "Got any better suggestions?" he wanted to know.
"Where are you going to put it?"
"I'll nip back ter the graveyard and stick it by the monument. That's where all the diggings been going on."
I nodded. "Right, I'll go and get the supper on then, shall I?"
*
"'Ere Peter boy, wake up!" I groaned, opening my eyes as Uncle Hobart shook me again.
"What? What's up?" I mumbled through dry lips. "What time is it?"
"'Alf five. Come on, I need yer 'elp."
I sat up, stuck my legs out of the bed and gasped as my feet hit the cold linoleum. Rubbing my eyes, I managed a squint at Uncle Hobart. "What's up then?" I asked again.
"I need an 'and ter collect the pig. It went back ter the graveyard during the night and its dead."
"Oh right," I said, nodding my head at the recollection of the explosion that had briefly woken me during the night. "Yeah, I heard the bang," I said, perking up a bit. "So you got it then?"
Uncle Hobart nodded. "Shot it about ten minutes ago," he told me.
"Shot it!" I exclaimed. "But I thought..." Smoothing back my hair with a shaky hand, I pointed at the window. "Well, if you shot it this morning, what was the explosion that woke me up during the night?"
He shrugged. "Buggered if I know, probably a rabbit or some'at. Anyway, it don't really matter does it? Come on, get out o' bed and give us an 'and will yer."
I got up, cleaned my teeth in the remnants of the beer still sitting on the bedside cabinet, had a quick shower and joined Uncle Hobart in the front-yard. We set off through the crisp morning air to the graveyard, praying that our Sexton was not an early riser. As we neared the spot where Uncle Hobart had planted his home made bomb, I noticed that the gravestones were covered with a thick red, slimy goo.
"God what a mess," I said, looking around in distaste. "It certainly seems like your trap caught something alright, but from the looks of it I'd say it was something a lot bigger than a rabbit."
Ignoring my comment, Uncle Hobart pointed at the monument. "The pig's round the back o' that. Come on," he ordered, "let's fetch it and get the 'ell out o' 'ere afore someone shows up."
*
Two days later I spotted a poster nailed to a tree in the village.
WILL ANYBODY KNOWING THE WHEREABOUTS OF
A MISSING BT GOAT
ANSWERING TO THE NAME OF SABINA,
PLEASE CONTACT MISS PINCHARD
AT THE VICARAGE.