Home life
Desperate measures
Alice Thomas Ellis
Driving over the moors to Penmaen- mawr we noted that the animals seemed even more suicidal than usual. We passed a sheep gazing speculatively down a pre- cipice at a rushing torrent — he wasn't there when we came back, so either he'd taken the plunge or his wife had turned up in time to dissuade him. Last time we were here one of the sons watched a ram roaring across a field to remonstrate with some- thing that had displeased him. He shot straight into the fence, doing about 70, broke his neck and dropped dead. Stupid- ity and rage make a fatal combination.
As we progressed slowly, many more of the creatures attempted to fling themselves under our wheels. Hardly surprising, argued Janet, in view of their circum- stances — stuck up a Welsh mountain in unremitting rain. Some of them, I re- flected, would go from womb to abattoir never having known a fine day. It struck us as very sad; but then most things are striking us as rather sad these days. Passing through a water-logged meadow we en- countered a heifer who clearly had either hara-kiri or sabotage on her mind. She stood in our path, eyeing us and ruminat- ing what her course should be. We sat holding our breath until she decided she was too depressed to be bothered and ambled disconsolately off into the wet grass. As we came to a farmyard, the usual two sheep dogs came flying at us, one flinging himself at the left front wheel and the other coming round to outflank us. The farmer stood in the shelter of the midden watching impassively as Janet strove not to be a party to the brute's urge to self- destruction. Further on we came to a spot usually frequented by sheep whose mutton must be fish 'n' chips-flavoured, since people who have bought their lunch in Bala get out of their cars here to eat it and share it with a flock who have developed a taste for cod, salt and vinegar and grease- proof paper. There were no sheep there that day, as there were no picnickers. The sheep have been forced to fall back on eating boring old grass and bilberry shoots. No wonder they're fed up. The tourists and holiday-makers we saw in the few towns we went through very much resembled the miserable beasts of the field, wandering aimlessly around, singly or in small groups, browsing on packets of crisps and choco- late buns while the rain ran down their anoraks. Janet has suggested that we should keep a rain box, on the lines of a swear box, and every time anyone men- tions the word he should be forced to pay a forfeit. If we'd thought of that earlier we could now be drinking Dom Perignon on the proceeds.
Jeff and She came for a few days, which cheered me up considerably, except that I kept reflecting with the usual guilt of the hostess that She stood in less danger of drowning in Jeff's eyes than she did by merely stepping out of doors. I had had a pretty fantasy of everyone sitting in the sun by the stream sipping summery beverages, but none of us is too keen on over-diluted vodka, so we sat inside by the fire. Anyway Jeff had hurt his foot, which seems to be the fashion at the moment (he is the fourth person of my acquaintance to do this recently), so he couldn't have gone far. He was on a stick, and the third son on crutches, and I hope this isn't indicative of leanings towards felo de se.
The pheasants have been let out of their breeding pens in readiness for October, when people will come to shoot them, if any of them survive the traffic in the lanes. Already, small as they are, they are tired of life and scuttle along in front of the cars not realising, or not caring, that they have wings to lift them out of danger's way and acres of fields to play in. Together with the rabbits, hedgehogs and toads they prefer to dice with death in the lane. The chickens play chicken, and even the birds of the hedgerow play a sort of Russian roulette, sitting on the road until the car is almost upon them or swooping out in front of us with inches to spare. Janet just avoided running over a squirrel the other day. He came bouncing out, full of the presently universal malaise, and seeking to put an end to it all, and Janet screeched to a halt, so that I would have gone through the windscreen had it not been for the seat belt. Would I have cared, I ask myself?
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