New life

Down on the farm

Zenga Longmore

Whenever the city seems grimmest, beset by concrete and car fumes, a whole- some whiff of pig reveals that city farmers are at work nearby. Kentish Town and Hackney Road City Farms are highly rec- ommended, but my own near-to-Brixton delight is Vauxhall City Farm.

On a sunny day last week, I was wheeling Omalara to the gates of the City Farm when I heard an unexpected cackling cry of `Hello, dearie.' My head was so filled with farmyard imagery that at first I almost thought a hen had spoken. Turning back, I found the speaker to be old Mrs Wright, my ninth-floor neighbour.

`Just a-visiting round these parts,' she said vaguely. Outside the farm, I paused to show Omalara a horse box attached to a battered van.

`Perhaps they've bought some new ani- mals,' I suggested.

`Oh no, dear, these city farmers don't go to marts or auctions like regular farmers,' Mrs Wright corrected me. 'You never see them at Barnet Fair when horses are paced. No, I know what that there trailer is for. I'll just come into the farm with you and the blessed babby for a while.'

Mystified, I entered the City Farm with the blessed babby. Frisking in the hay, Omalara recited the appropriate nursery rhyme at each pen or paddock: `Likkle Bo- Peep'; 'To Margate To Margate To Buy A Fat Pig'; 'The Cow Jumped Over The Moo-oo!' The animals replied in less book- ish tones.

We duly admired the grazing sheep, Angora rabbits, goats, hens and other crea- tures. Gentle hippies wandered about car- ing for the animals in dreamy silence. It made me smile to think of a city farm auc- tion, with pale, intellectual city farmers bid- ding one against another, raising rolled copies of the Ecologist to signify a sale.

`Pork!' cried Omalara, pointing at the farm's pampered pig. Mercifully, this remark was not overheard by the mild ani- mal nurturers, who continued to feed ducks in a wan but unconcerned manner.

`Pork! My back foot! These city farmers ain't got the gumption to kill a pig,' old Mrs Wright complained. 'No one'll get a taste of that porker — it'll be pure wasted! This is more like a ruddy pets corner. Ah, there's my boy Billy, just like I expected on. Strong Lovells turn pale at Barnet Fair when they sees his trailer.'

Although Billy and I have never exchanged words, I recognised him at once by sight. A broken-nosed giant of a man, Billy is not the sort of person you would want to meet on a bright day, let alone on a dark night. On this occasion he wore mechanic's jeans with wire-cutters and pli- ers poking from the pockets of both legs. A rope hung from one tattooed arm.

`Oh no you don't, our Billy!' Mrs Wright screamed out. Billy gave a start and looked shamefaced.

`I weren't going to take no horse or pig, Ma,' he blurted out.

`Don't lie to me!' shrilled his mother. `Why was you whispering to that gelding, then? Never a horse you whispered to that won't follow you to your waiting van! Thought you could sell him up at Barnet, eh? Thought you could pison the pig, did you? You get along to your wife and chawies now, or I'll tan your sheep-stealing hide!'

Quickly I wheeled Omalara away from this painful family scene. Reality had out- done my wildest imaginings. Stranger than the City Farm auction was the prospect of Rustlers at the Vauxhall Corral.