STORY CONTEST
on one of the hottest days in September she had worn it to scour carried the lamb with him, its head still turned back on itself
the hedgerows along the field for blackberries. The purple stains in death.
still mingled with the silver threads where she had gathered fruit ‘There’s another needs this,’ he said and went out.
in the upturned hem. Mary held the jumper, feeling its softness in Mary took up the pink jumper from where she had laid it on
her hard hands. She laid it on one side. Then carefully putting the the table and carried it out to the scullery. She dropped it into the
rest of the things back into the box she closed the lid. stone sink and, taking a bar of soap, set to scrubbing with vigour
‘These’ll do for the jumble. No point keeping ‘em,’ she at the blackberry stains.
announced and she put it by the door ready for the Scouts when Mary remembered how Ellie had shown her mother the precious
they called. jumper and Sheila had given the stained, worn out garment one
Bill rubbed the lamb’s chest and it spluttered a little. He hooked quick glance and had abandoned it declaring, ‘You won’t need a
his finger inside its mouth and dragged out a trail of mucous. jumper where we’re going; it’s hot all year round, Ellie Rose.’
‘That’s done it,’ he exclaimed, ‘Fetch us some milk, quickly.’ Ellie’s eyes had brimmed with tears and Mary, to prevent more
Mary made her way back to the scullery to put the kettle on. distress, distracted her saying, ‘I’ll keep it here for you, just in
The milk powder was in a large tin on a shelf above the drain- case you come back from down under. You never know.’
ing board. She lifted it down, prised off the lid and scooped some The other clothes could be passed on but Mary would keep this
into a measuring jug. When the kettle had boiled she carefully jumper.
poured it over the mound of powder and then stirred until a Outside the wind was still chill and the first flakes of snow
creamy milk had formed. She used the rest of the water to make could be felt in the air. Mary had heard the rapid rasp and slip of
Bill’s knife against the whetstone and wondered if this old trick
The white trickle from the bottle
of his would work. Now, she put the washing basket down on the
well cover and went over to the lambing shed. Bill was leaning
dribbled on to the chair and the
with both hands on his stick watching an old ewe, the mother
of the dead lamb. She was doing what she had done every year
lamb’s head lolled
for nearly a decade; nudging a little creature into life. The ewe
had barely had chance to realise her loss before Bill had slipped
the sickly twin to her disguised as her own offspring. She had
two mugs of steaming coffee. She put the hot drink on the table simply followed the unbroken pattern of birth and motherhood.
next to Bill. He looked up impatiently, Her new charge was gangly legged and wore a second coat, still
‘Where’s the milk? He needs some now.’ speckled brown with blood, over its own tightly curled fleece; the
‘It’s just cooling. It’s coming,’ she answered. skinned jacket of the ewe’s own lamb.
Back in the scullery she dipped her knuckle into the jug and, ‘That’s good,’ said Mary.
satisfied that it was cool enough, she poured the milk into a ‘Yes, she’s old but she’s always been a good mother. Good she’s
brown beer bottle and pulled a rubber teat down over the neck. got this one to care for.’
Bill hadn’t touched his coffee but he took the bottle from her and ‘Thought I’d wash Ellie’s jumper,’ Mary ventured.
tipped it expertly ready for the lamb to suckle. ‘That’s good,’ he replied moving his hand to touch the sleeve of
‘Come on then, little ‘un, here you are,’ he coaxed. He held the her mac. ‘You should keep it, just in case.’
lamb’s head and pushed the teat between its rigid lips. It opened They stood side by side for a few moments in the slatted
and closed its mouth stiffly but the white trickle from the bottle light of the barn before Mary went back out into the winter’s
dribbled onto the chair and the lamb’s head lolled back against day. She looked over to the field where the rooks were buffeted
its body. He murmured urgently to it. He willed the tiny creature against the darkening sky and the pink jumper flapped at the end
to take strength from the warmth of the fire. He willed it to stir of the line.
itself into life. The ticking of the clock, and the crackle and shift of
the burning logs, marked the last few minutes of the lamb’s life.
With a quiet cough it gave up a struggle that it had never sought
to win.
About the author
‘Damn and blast it!’
Rosey Wilkin is a dyslexia specialist teacher living
Bill dropped the carcase on to the floor, drank down his luke-
in the Sussex countryside. She has always enjoyed
warm coffee and wiped his hand wearily across his moustache.
reading and hoped that one day she would fi nd time
He held onto the table and got up. Back by the door he shrugged
to write. Last year, when her youngest child set off on
on his coat and pulled on his cap ready to go out to the lambing
his travels, she decided that it was time to begin.
shed. Almost as an afterthought, he returned to the range and
Writers
’
FORUM #99 33
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