Jump! (22 page)

It wasn’t a success.

‘Dear little soul needs some company,’ Painswick confided to Dora as they watched Mrs Wilkinson shivering, despite the warmth of the day, magenta rug up to her ears, which twitched constantly, checking for danger, one eye rolling and searching for Etta. Eternally pacing, she walked off any weight gain as she wore down the perimeter of Valent’s orchard.

‘Etta doesn’t want to abuse Valent Edwards’s kindness.’

‘Hum,’ mused Dora, ‘we’ll see about that.’

‘How’s young Paris?’ asked Painswick fondly.

‘Awesome,’ sighed Dora. ‘He’s got a part in
The Seagull
in the summer holidays, and he’s bang in the middle of his ‘A’ levels. So am I, GCSEs actually, not that you’d know it. On top of this Paris is so cool, he passed his driving test first time before a history paper yesterday. As soon as exams are over, I’ll bring him to see you, Miss Painswick. D’you know we’ve been seeing each other for eighteen months?’ Dora added proudly.

Paris Alvaston thought it a measure of his great and abiding love for Dora Belvedon that he was driving his father’s illicitly borrowed Rover and towing his mother’s equally illicitly borrowed trailer down to Hampshire on the eve of a crucial Greek ‘A’ level in order to rescue a goat from a research laboratory.

The moon was setting. The constellation Hercules, symbolizing resource and bravery, was straddling the heavens with his customary swagger. A heady scent of newly mown hay and honeysuckle wafted in through the open window. White flocks of daisies cowered on the verge as the trailer crashed from side to side in the narrow lanes as Paris, used to an automatic, ground the gears and tried to control the added weight behind him.

Matters were not helped by guests driving home from dinner parties or the pub. A Mercedes which seemed to fill the road was on his tail now, shining powerful lights straight into his rear mirror.

‘The goats are being tortured in decompression experiments,’ Dora was telling him in her shrill and indignant voice. ‘They’re coaxed with food into a big steel chamber, then imprisoned for twenty-four hours to recreate the conditions on board a submarine.

‘Have you ever heard of anything crueller? Goats have the same sized lungs as humans. For really fat people, they test on poor pigs. The air pressure is decreased and quickly brought back to normal to simulate a quick escape from a submarine. This makes bubbles of air form throughout the body, causing brain damage and agonizing pain around the joints. Poor, poor
goats, can you imagine anything worse than being trapped in an iron lung for twenty-four hours?’

‘Very easily,’ muttered Paris as the trailer lurched back and forth like a drunken hippo, just missing an approaching Bentley.

‘Shockingly, any findings have already been proved, and these experiments are just repeats. Enlightened countries like France now use computers, but the bloody MoD keep on testing.’

‘For Christ’s sake, shut up, Dora,’ hissed Paris, as Rover and trailer mounted the verge to let through a large lorry.

‘Only about ten miles to go.’ Dora examined the map with the torch she had borrowed from Etta. ‘The laboratory flanks the golf course and the goats are turned out in a little field. The Animal Rights people have been climbing over the fence throughout the week so the goats won’t be scared when we smuggle them out tonight.

‘Nuala, my contact, is so lovely, really slim and pretty with rhubarb-pink hair. She and her boyfriend have moved house to be nearer the laboratory so they can step up the campaign to stop the tests. The results were no use when the Brits were called in to help after some Russian submarine disaster. All the trapped sailors died anyway. Nuala’s got homes for eight of the goats, and I’ve offered another one.

‘How d’you know this friend of yours, Etta, will accept a goat?’

‘She’s got such a kind heart, she’d rescue an elephant. You’re driving beautifully. No wonder you passed first time.’

Dora’s blonde curls and round pink face were concealed by a black balaclava. She loved adventures. Paris only just stopped her slapping a ‘
www.thegoats.com
This company sponsors torture’ sticker on the windscreen of the Rover.

He ought to be back at school with a wet towel round his head, washing down uppers with black coffee and mugging up Homer. Paris had to get an ‘A’ in memory of his late classics master, Theo Graham, whom he had loved so much, who’d instilled in him a love of the ancient world and left him all his money. Places at Cambridge, Oxford and RADA were dependent on ‘A’ level grades.

‘You’ll walk it,’ said Dora.

‘Not if I end up in prison for goat-napping.’

‘Here’s the golf course,’ crowed Dora. ‘I’ve got a collar and lead for our goat. I’ll have a disc printed as soon as we get her back to Willowwood.’

The volunteers, all slim, all dressed in black, their features hidden by balaclavas, welcomed them in lowered voices. Nuala, Dora’s friend, introduced them to the leader, Brunhilda, who had a very firm handshake and thanked them for coming.

The moon had set, the car doors of the last departing golfer had slammed, the last light was off in the clubhouse. A dog barked. A van, filled with straw and food to entice the goats, had been parked under the trees on the fairway.

‘We’re aiming to rescue kids of about six months, who may not have been tested on yet,’ said Nuala, as she drove Paris and Dora over the golf course towards the field. ‘But we’ve all fallen in love with one older goat, a real character, much naughtier than the others. She keeps trying to eat our clothes and refuses to share apples with any of the other goats. I think she’d be the right sort to cheer up and protect your poor, nervous mare.’

‘We’ve got a collar and lead,’ whispered Dora. ‘She’ll have a lovely home. Etta, the mare’s owner, is bats about goats.’

Arcturus, brightest star of the constellation of Bootes the Shepherd, shone down on them. Hercules brandished his sword and cudgel, egging them on. Dora, trying to still her chattering teeth, slid her hand into Paris’s, as under the trees on the fairway, eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, they watched Brunhilda run forward to get to work with her wire cutters.

As half a dozen black-clad figures crept stealthily through the hole she’d made, a flock of goats like silver ghosts ran bleating excitedly towards them.

‘Aren’t they adorable?’ whispered Dora, wriggling through the hole, forgetting to be frightened.

‘This is Chisolm,’ whispered Nuala, ‘leading the stampede.’

Pure white Chisolm gleamed in the starlight like a unicorn. White-bearded, high as Paris’s waist, she accepted a Granny Smith and tried to eat Paris’s black sweatshirt as he buckled on her new blue collar and attached a lead.

‘Isn’t she good,’ sighed Dora, giving her a piece of melon as they led her towards the hole in the fence.

‘We’ll come and get you next time,’ she called back to the thirty-odd goats who’d been unlucky.

‘Not bloody likely.’ Paris jumped as an icy hand clawed his face, but it was only the wet leaves of an overhanging ash tree.

‘Couldn’t we take another?’ pleaded Dora. ‘I’m sure your mum …’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snarled Paris, who, having spent the first fifteen years of his life in a children’s home, had a profound distrust of the police and flinched every time he saw headlights on the road below. He was already drenched in sweat.

‘It’s so biblical,’ sighed Dora as they followed the other volunteers, one leading three little goats, the rest leading two. ‘And Chisolm already walks to heel.’

Once out on the golf course, however, the goats, intoxicated by this brave new world, took off in all directions, tearing leaves off trees and hedges, not sharing any of the urgency of the volunteers who were risking prison to save them. The language was fruitier than over any missed drive or putt as the goats tugged their rescuers into bunkers and across fairways in the darkness.

‘Come back, you fucking animal,’ hissed Paris, falling down the ninth hole as Chisolm towed him across the green, rearing up on her hind legs and attacking a field maple. ‘Come bloody here, or you’ll be back in that compression chamber and we’ll be in the nick.’

‘We are not giving up,’ whispered Dora furiously. ‘And don’t swear at Chisolm or they won’t let us have her.’

Paris tugged, Dora pushed, Chisolm resisted and the lead broke. Paris unbuckled his trouser belt.

One by one, the little goats, tempted by treats, allowed themselves to be loaded into the waiting van. Only Chisolm refused to budge until she’d stripped every leaf within reach off the maple tree. ‘We can’t waste any more time,’ ordered Brunhilda. ‘We’ll have to take her back and swap her for one of the young ones.’

‘No, no,’ wailed Dora. ‘Mrs Wilkinson needs her. We can’t leave her.’

True to her capricious nature, and tempted by Nuala’s Polos, Chisolm decided to join the other goats in the van. She was even amenable to being loaded into Paris’s mother’s trailer, until the ramp slammed on her and she realized she’d lost her companions, when she tried to kick and butt the walls down. ‘She’ll probably settle down soon,’ said Brunhilda, shaking hands with Paris and Dora. ‘Thanks very much, and give us a ring tomorrow.’

‘If there’s a problem,’ advised Nuala, ‘you could always put her in the back of the car.’

‘Whatever,’ said Paris wearily.

Luckily the roads were emptier going home. Hercules had long sheathed his sword and gone to bed. Bootes had led his flock over the hill, and Capricorn the goat had appropriately risen. There was a pale apricot glow on the horizon.

Chisolm, having wheedled herself into the Rover, scattered currants all over the back seat, polished off the midnight feast of digestive biscuits, grapes and tomato sandwiches prepared by Dora, and now rested her head on Paris’s shoulder as the convoy rumbled towards Willowwood.

Dora was asleep, curls flattened by her discarded balaclava. Fiery aeroplane trails criss-crossed the angelic blue. Paris looked at Marius’s gallops, bare sweeps of grass dotted with occasional
clumps as though some giant had missed them whilst shaving. Willowwood’s pale green willows barely moved above the ice-blue river.

In about four hours Paris would be taking his Greek exam. It felt rather pagan to be bringing home a goat, when his academic career was going to be sacrificed. His adoptive father, the bursar at Bagley, would not take kindly to such an exploit. Nor would the school. He needed a shower. Chisolm, nibbling his hair, smelled far sweeter than he did.

In the driving mirror, he could see Chisolm had long yellow eyes with a black hyphen for a pupil, a pink nose, pink ears, and a white coat turned rose by the rising sun.

‘You’re an escape goat,’ he told her.

In retrospect, he was proud he hadn’t crashed the car. It was quite an achievement the day after he’d passed his test.

Coming out of Little Hollow to take in the milk, Etta discovered Dora and a most beautiful youth with silver-blond hair, strange pale grey eyes and an even paler face, leading a white goat up the path.

‘Hello, Etta,’ said a beaming Dora. ‘This is Paris, my boyfriend. We’ve brought you a companion for Mrs Wilkinson. She’s a frightful show-off. Her name is Chisolm and she’s really tame.’

‘Oh my goodness, isn’t she lovely,’ stammered Etta. ‘Where did you find her?’

‘We rescued her from a hideous fate.’ Dora rolled her blood-shot eyes. ‘Paris was so brave, he lifted her up and shoved her into the back of the car when she tried to kick out the trailer. We’ve got exams in a couple of hours so shall we put her in the orchard?’

‘Oh goodness,’ exclaimed a worried Etta as Chisolm started to eat the white roses in a blue tub by the front door, ‘I’m not sure what Valent Edwards will say. He’s been so kind letting Mrs Wilkinson stay, I don’t want to abuse his hospitality, and I’m not sure what Mrs Wilkinson will think.’

Despite the growing heat of the day, Mrs Wilkinson shivered in the orchard, gazing into space. She looked up listlessly as Dora led Chisolm towards her. At first they gazed, then sniffed, then nuzzled each other.

‘How sweet,’ cried Dora, giving them each a Polo. ‘They’re really bonding.’

But as she undid Chisolm’s lead, Mrs Wilkinson gave a scream of rage and chased the goat round and round the orchard, until Chisolm took a flying leap over the fence.

‘Goat’s the one who ought to go chasing,’ observed Paris, as Dora finally managed to catch her.

‘Don’t be so spiteful, Mrs Wilkinson,’ pleaded Dora.

As if she heard, Mrs Wilkinson trotted to the gate, called out to Chisolm, and they sniffed identical pink noses. When Chisolm was returned to the field, they both began to graze peacefully.

‘That was fun, just like the Famous Five,’ beamed Dora as they climbed back into the bursar’s Rover. ‘We should have brought Cadbury. What shall we rescue next?’

Returning from Washington a week later, Valent Edwards was irritated to find himself driving through a downpour towards Willowwood, ostensibly to find out why the builders were taking for ever but actually to check on Mrs Wilkinson. Sprinting through the rain to his one-time office, where he noticed the imposing oak door had been sawn in half, he heard a bleat and discovered Mrs Wilkinson curled up beside a large white goat. Etta, who was sitting in the straw beside them reading
The Oldie
, leapt up in embarrassment. She had been having tea with Painswick and was wearing a blue denim dress and looked much more attractive than he’d remembered her.