Lies, Damned Lies, and History(16)

‘Where?’ demanded Peterson.

He pointed. ‘Just over there. See that smaller hill? Somewhere in the middle but nearer to the left. The house will be there, facing towards us. To the left will be the two barns. Facing them are the cattle sheds and milking parlours. We have two. We will have two. The silo tower is over there.’

He paused, staring eagerly over the wall. ‘I think my tree house is just …’ he sighted down his arm ‘… there. This is so cool!’

Peterson was amused. It’s a bit of a rarity for any of us to have family. Especially family with whom we were still speaking. Or who were speaking to us. ‘How many?’

‘Oh, it’s a big farm. Over two hundred animals all together.’

‘I meant in your family, idiot. Why aren’t you with them, riding the range?’

‘Third son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Surplus to requirements. And it’s a hazardous business, dairy farming. Me mam was dead chuffed when I went off to seek my fortune in the gloriously dull world of European History.’

This statement was greeted with disbelief. ‘You have a mother?’

‘And two younger sisters.’

‘Hazardous?’ said Markham. ‘You were a dairy farmer, for heaven’s sake. What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Have you ever seen the size of a cow? Up close? Right up close, I mean. I’ve been bitten – well, gummed and slobbered on – kicked, and crushed. My brother had a nasty chain-saw accident to his leg. You can roll a tractor – done that – me dad stayed the whole day at my bedside, waiting for me to come round and then tried to strangle me. There’s chemicals that make your eyes drop out and your lungs burst into flames. Then there’s the weather. Sunburn …’

‘Hold on,’ said Markham. ‘In Wales?’

‘Well, all right. Exposure, then.’

‘Can I just ask – what exactly does your mum think you do for a living now?’

‘Sit in a library, thinking deep academic thoughts, and not, in any way, getting ringworm, or poisoning myself with pesticides, ripping myself to pieces on barbed wire and getting tetanus, or finding myself underneath an angry cow.’

There was a thoughtful silence.

‘Actually,’ said Sands. ‘I think she might have a point. To the best of my knowledge, no historian has ever found himself underneath an angry cow.’

‘Give us time,’ I said.

‘Here,’ said Markham, bringing us back to the present and dropping his bundle. ‘It’s quiet and out of the wind. We’ll camp here and the second they’re through the gate – whoever they are – we’re over this wall and down the hill back to the pod. No arguments. Right – what have we got in the way of weapons?’

We’re not allowed to injure contemporaries – it’s a capital offence – so whatever we carry is for defensive purposes only. We had the usual stun guns and pepper. And hairpins in my case. If none of that worked then we’d just have to rely on the historian’s natural ability to cover vast distances very, very quickly.

Except that one of us had an artificial foot, one of us had a weak arm, one of us was missing a bit of one ear, one of us was pregnant, and none of us was very bright.

We made ourselves comfortable against the wall. From where we sat, we had a clear view of the entrance to the enclosure in which we were quartered. People were still hurrying inside, although the flow was much less now. Taking stock of our provisions, we had food for two days and water for about twenty-four hours.

‘There’ll be a supply of water somewhere around,’ said Peterson, confidently. ‘There must be, otherwise the enemy would only have to sit outside the gates and wait.’

He was right. There were two wells in our enclosure, both surrounded by muddy, churned up ground. One for animals and one for people as far as I could see. There were about eight or ten huts, clustered together around a large, barn-like structure in the centre, with haystacks and sacks of grain stacked against their walls. Across in the other enclosure, I could hear the ringing sound of hammers on anvils and there were two forges near us, as well. Away at the far end, about thirty greasy-looking sheep, a large number of pigs, and six small, skinny cows had been herded against the wall. Piles of brushwood kept them penned in. It’s always a surprise to see how small farmyard animals used to be. Some of the sheep were no bigger than large dogs and the pigs – these pigs anyway – were certainly not the fat, wobbling monsters we were used to. The cows were mud-covered and bony. They all had horns and were about as far from massive, glossy black and white Friesians as I could imagine. But they seemed docile enough. They all got their heads down and started grazing.