Crushed - Part II

I’m standing at JB’s corner with hangover bile flooding up into my mouth.  We’re waiting for the Gentleman Farmer, last seen around midnight slumped over the steering wheel of the Land Rover outside the Punchbowl.  We hitch-walked from Ballyheane in our mucky boots and clothes, the memories of the Cattle-Crush Ribbon Cutting Ceremony fading with every drunken stagger.  

A couple of miles from town, some nutjob from Belmullet, driving home from “boogy-woogyin’ all night with the quare-wan balow in the Valkenburg” picked us up and saved any further falls into ditches.

“This bollix is never gonna make it,” I say after forty-five minutes at JB’s

I look down at the footpath, try to shake the bile back down into me stomach.

Just then God sends the battered ould Land Rover up Main Street – it musta been Himself driving, ‘cause the Gentleman Farmer barely recognizes us, his eyes swimming inside in his head.

“Get in there ta fuck,” he tries to snap, but he hasn’t the energy for a real snap.

Sighing and groaning, we lumber in; without looking he pulls out into the traffic to sound of tires screeching, horns blowing.

“Fucken Tito got out when I came home this morn… last night.  That’s the why I’m late,” he says shaking his head, paying no heed to the horn still blowing behind us. 

“Is he still loose?” I ask, planning ahead to keep a shovel in hand at all times.

“Nah, he was at the front door when she dragged me outta bed a few hours later ta go searchin’.  Hersell’s fucken furious; his mouth was all bloody.  I tol’ her he should be on them sleepin’ tablets day an’ night!”

He hits the steering wheel a whack with the palm of his hand and looks in the mirror to see who’s blowing the horn.

“Sure, he kilt a rake a sheep t’last time he got out.  We paid that bollix up the road for them an’ promised him fucken black n’ blue tid never happen again.  But sure, that’s what he’s a trained ta do.”

“To kill sheep?” I hear my hungover voice ask.

“Well people anyway … or at least all the bollixes in the world.”

When we pull up at the cattle-crush, there’s a cow-shite and dust covered white Merc sitting there, diesel engine thrumming.

“Were inda fock wuz youse?” a tall, ould fella, jumping out of the Merc, snaps for real. “I ben hur this haf hour waytin’.”

“Ah these bollixes were runnin’ late, sure I’d ta near drag them outta bed,” the Gentleman Farmer, always relaxed with the truth, nods at us.  “Ya can’t get no one ta work in this fuck….”

He lets himself trail off before he overdoes it.

“Rind up them cattle lads an’ brin ‘em doun tee the pen,” the ould fella nods at the cattle-crush as he opens the boot of the Merc pulls out a pair of wellingtons.

  “I have ta be in Cavan early this afternoon for tee meet a solicitor.  That won’t be azy on me wallet.”

He’s a cattle jobber from up the North, we know him from around town where we’d see him in pubs and nightclubs picking up drunk or desperate women.  Of Northerner-unknowable-age, his baggy eyes, jowly face and hunched shoulders seem to say sixty-something, but he’s probly more like fifty-something-high-mileage years.  

“Oho, I thought a man of your caliber’d be on a promise from some heifer up the country,” the Gentleman Farmer says, laughing too loud at his own joke.

“Hey…fer!” the Jobber yanks on his second wellie.  “I’d be happy tee bed an ould dry cow at this pint.  Oh, tings is vury bad of late in t’beddin’ dapartmant.  Too busy maken money ta ….”

“Here lads, grab the shovels an’ bring down the herd,” the Gentleman Farmer barks, waving his hand fast, like he’s a bigtime rancher.

“Shevels?  For tee move cattle?” the Jobber’s bushy eyebrows jump up.  “What did youse buy balow in Baal mart – elee…phants wuz it?”

“Ah no, they’re townies, an’ the shove…,” he whips off the tweed cap and puts it right back on, his face stone-hardening. 

“Jus’ bring the herd down ta the pen like I said,” he barks with fake crankiness.

We grab the shovels from the Land Rover and head off.  The cattle are even more suspicious this time and by the time we get them down to the pen the Jobber and the Gentleman Farmer are all talked out and cranky.

“Where in the fock did ye’se go for ‘em lads – Taxas wuz it?” the Jobber scoffs.  “Git ‘em inta that focken pen.  That’s a shockin’ low fence for a crish ye’se a put up thur.  Will it kape ‘em in eet-all-eet-all-eet-all?”  

We have sufficient shovel-power to get the cattle into the pen handy enough, but now imprisoned, they’re shocking nervous; hooves splashing through muck as they charge around the enclosure, bumping into one another, blue-glassy eyes wild with fear.

“Git wan a them down intee t’crish,” the Jobber barks, extracting a huge silver metal syringe from his Barbour coat pocket. 

“Come on tee fock, will ye’se,” the Jobber glares at me.  “Cavan touwn I have tee be at in a few hours.”
            The day before I wouldn’t have thought there was enough cash or pint bottles of Guinness on this planet to get me into the pen with them monsters of cattle, but unthinking-red-faced shame has me up over the pipe scaffold rails in two seconds. 

Before I know it, I’m in the pen swinging the shovel, creating bovine panic. 

The splashing thud of hooves finding hard ground through the thick muck is almost hypnotic as the massive beasts swirl around me, heads ducking and diving as they avoid my swinging shovel.

Falling into a rhythm, the bullocks four-legged sprint in a small circle.

“GIT ‘EM INTEE THEE FOCKEN CRISH!” I hear the Jobber scream.

I lurch toward the circle of beef swirling around me, destroying their rhythm.  Cattle burst in all directions, thudding one into the other.

In the pandemonium, a big red one launches himself at the pipe-scaffolding fence and clears it, but just barely, his hind hooves clipping the top rail, making him stagger sideways, almost crashing to the ground.

“Jeezus focken Chri…isst, we ur in Taxas!” the Jobber snaps.

But in the shovel-generated confusion a cream-coloured monster ends up darting into the cattle-crush chute.  The Jobber moves with surprising speed for a man his age and slides the rail across to prevent the bullock from backing up.  From the crush, the beast lets out a frightened bellow.  The ones in the pen move even faster, thick-heavy hooves stabbing through the muck to hard soil.  

I javelin the shovel clear out of the pen, scattering the two lads like frightened sheep.  Then I’m up over the rails and out to safety.

The Jobber has the silver syringe stuck into a white plastic bottle jammed between his knees.

“Cum here tee fuck wan a ye’se,” he says to no one, not even looking up.

I’m ankle deep in muck, panting for breath, heart pounding, muddy water leaking into my FCA boots.

“Wats yeer name feller?” the cattle Jobber’s barks at me, his hand waving rapidly for help.

“Joe,” I answer.

“Joel?  That’s a focken new wan, when did the May-ho crowd stirt buyin’ ‘L’s’ for their Joez?”

“No, no, I said, Joe.  J…o…e,” I answer, summoning up fear-anger like the cattle.

“Well cum hur J…o…e,” he’s waving the hand again like mad.  “Grab a hoult a that cream fucker’s tail, an’ twist it gud an’ hard ‘til he’s head canny go nowheres but inta that wee gate.

I stare at the bellowing monster in the cattle-crush chute.

“Cum tee fock son, I have nay got all day, Cavan touwn I haveta ….”

Fear of being seen in fear propels me forward through the muck.  The FCA boot slips as it hits the lower pipe rail of the cattle-crush.  I grab the top rail with my left hand and somehow instinctively grab the bullock’s tail with my right hand.  But I grab the tail tool close to the bullock’s arsehole and get a handful of cow shite instead of tail.

“Och J…o…e, I did’nay ask ya take him oot on a date.  Grab his tail wud ya, not his focken arse-howel!”

Spit flies from the Jobber’s thin lips; his jowly face tightening in crankiness.

With my hand, still greasy-green with cow-shite, I grab the bullock’s tail proper and twist it hard.  The half-ton a beef magically lurches forward down the narrow chute of the cattle-crush, the bullock’s thick head lodging into the opening in the gate. 

The Jobber yanks the gate handle, trapping the huge bovine head inside. The pipe scaffolding shudders as the bullock lurches in panic.

“Keep yer hand on that tail or he’ll a pull his own focken head off!”

The bullock bellows a plaintive cry, hooves stomping violently.

“Now see this hur?” the Jobber approaches the crush holding up the silvery syringe, its menacing four-inch-long needle aimed at the sky.

“Now J…o…e, if an’ ye’se gat a shot a this, he’d be stannin’ for a week he wud,” he laughs a dirty ould man’s laugh. 

“Oh ay, meybe he’d stay up fer two, cuz an’ yer that yung.  Wat I wudney guve ta be yung agin.”

 His watery eyes gaze past the needle and up at the grey clouds piling in from the Atlantic.

“Oh ay, I tell ye wat, if an’ I got t’chance tee do it all agun, I’d jus’ double t’lot – that’s all.  Simple as that.  Every woman I rode, an’ there’s ben a plenty of ‘em let me tell ya that J…o…e,” the bags under his eyes tighten as he turns his eyes to stare hard at me, waving the sharp-pointed syringe slowly. 

“I’d ride her a second time.  But when she was young an’ firm, not now an’ ‘er all ould an’ saggy-baggy.” 

He squirts a small drop out the top of the syringe.

“That’s wat I’d do now tee git twice as much outta life.  But ye canny go back.  Remember that J…o…e, ye canny never go back!”

“Ah go away outta that,” the Gentleman Farmer clomps up through the muck to us, his eyes darting everywhere.  “Sure, you’d end up with callouses on your shank if ya did all that ridin’!”

“Cum hur now a let me teach ye howtee do this,” the Jobber waves the Gentleman Farmer in close. 

“I canny be cumin’ out here all times,” he stares hard at the Gentleman Farmer, who’s paying him no heed.  “I’n a busy mawn.”

The Gentleman Farmer stares at the bellowing bullock. 

The Jobber sighs and shakes his head.

“See yer a lookin’ for a haf dacent bitta beef fur tee stick the needle intee,” the Jobber says, grabbing the bullock at the haunch of its front leg.

“That’s nay bad, stick it in there hard … as she says,” he hands the huge syringe to the Gentleman Farmer and stands back.

“Me?” the Gentleman Farmer’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes fixed on the syringe.  “Ah Jaysys no, I on’y stick it in the missus.  I wudn’t be up for this kinda vet work.”

“Just focken stick it in, if ye call a vet fer this job, we’ll all end up within in the poh…lice barracks talkin’ fast.”

“Just jab it in, is that all?”

“Ay, but good an’ hard.  Then, push down t’wee plunger an’ give him all the gud stuff, unless ye want ta save some for yersell,” the Jobber laughs a dry laugh and steps even further back.

The Gentleman Farmer leans in toward the bullock, the syringe held like a dagger in his hand. 

His shoulders rising under a deep breath, he plunges the syringe into the cream, muck splattered leather.

The bullock lurches, shaking the pipe scaffolding. 

I twist the tail harder.

The beast bellows: Its hooves dancing rapidly in place.

One massive hoof plunges down onto the Gentleman Farmer’s green wellie.

“JAYSYS FUCKEN CHRIST!” he bellows, dropping the syringe, slurping his wellie out of the muck.

“The fucker crushed me toes!” his cheeks vibrate as he haltingly draws in a breath.

“Ach yee fool, why didn’t yee kaep yer focken feet back like I tol’ ye’se to.  Now, where’s me see…ringe?” the Jobber roots around in the muck with his wellington.  “That’s a fifty-pound item!”

The Gentleman Farmer scurry-limps over to where the muck ends and lays down on the grass, rolling in agony, his hands pressed to his face.

“Do I keep this fella stuck in here?” I roar, my arm tiring from twisting the tail.

“I’ll tell ye what J…o…e,” the Jobber glares at me.  “I couldny give a fock what youse do.  I have a teacher above in Cavan touwn tee ride afore her husband gets home.”

He stomps off toward the gate, his Barbour jacket stained with bullock-splattered muck.

“Tell that bollix he owes me foifty quid!” he yells back over his shoulder.

“AAAHH, ME FUCKEN FOOT!” the Gentleman Farmer groans, rolling on the grass.

With a puff of blue smoke, the Merc’s diesel engine rumbles to life.

I hold the twist in the bullock’s tail; brain frozen; muscles melting; time stopped.