The Sunday Delivery Service, page 3
‘I love it!’ said Dotty with glee. ‘Peggy, you’re so clever.’
Everyone seemed to agree, apart from Kipling, whose face had dropped. ‘Oh . . . that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’
‘Oh don’t tell me, you thought they could serve their ice cream while you read a soppy love poem or something?’ Peggy jeered.
‘No, of course not!’ Kipling snapped. He bristled before murmuring sheepishly, ‘I thought they could serve it while I was doing a tap dance, actually . . .’
Peggy rolled her eyes, and ignoring her brother’s suggestion entirely, turned back to Dotty. ‘So what do you all think? Shall we go with my idea?’
‘It does sound spectacular,’ Dotty replied before quickly adding, ‘Not that I didn’t like your idea Kipling, but—’
‘It’s fine,’ Kipling retorted, swatting away the comment as if it hadn’t affected him at all. ‘Not everyone has the sophistication to appreciate true art. But don’t come running to me if animals and ice cream don’t mix.’ He crossed his arms with a huff, turning his back on the group.
‘I was actually going to suggest that you choreograph some kind of routine for the chosen animails,’ said Dotty. ‘We can’t have them just parading across the stage willy-nilly. It needs to look professional.’
Kipling spun round, his eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘Really?’
Dotty nodded warmly.
Kipling was on his feet immediately. ‘Yes, I could definitely do that! I can see it now – a snake serving strawberry sorbets while slithering a samba! Or cats doing the cancan while carrying caramel cones!’ He proceeded to pivot across the room before taking Mrs Gastaldini by the hand and twirling her towards him. The old woman let out a squeal of delight, fanning herself with her hand.
‘Well, that settles it,’ said Peggy, looking very pleased with herself. ‘Kipling will choreograph. But the next question is, which of our animails should we train up?’
‘How about Helios, the new golden eagle?’ suggested Suki. ‘We could teach him to zoom down on to the stage and dollop ice cream into the judges’ bowls from above!’
‘Nah, I think the porcupines would be better,’ Bramwell countered. ‘The cones would sit perfectly in between their spines. Nothing would be spilt and—’
‘No, no, no,’ said Séafra, shaking his head. ‘Geronimo is the obvious choice. We could fill her bucket beak with the ice cream! It would look ever so impressive.’
‘We’d have to clean her teeth first though,’ said Orinthia. ‘We don’t want the ice cream tasting like mackerel.’
There was an explosion of excitement as the children pitched in with more and more ideas – shrieks of ‘leaping lizards!’ and ‘dancing donkeys!’ and ‘waltzing wombats!’ filled the air.
‘Hang on a minute, what about this as an option,’ said Grandy Brock, interrupting the cacophony. ‘What if you trained up a couple of cows? They’d be much more in keeping with the nature of the competition. A dairy cow delivering dairy ice cream! What could be better than that?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea!’ Dotty screeched.
‘Genius!’ Orinthia agreed.
‘Moooooo!’ Caspian brayed, much to everyone’s amusement.
‘But where are we going to get cows from?’ asked Séafra. ‘We don’t have any in the menagerie.’
Dotty got up. ‘From Farmer Newing’s dairy farm of course! Mum and I go there every morning to get fresh cream to churn. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Why don’t we go ask him now?’
All at once the children leapt into action, scrambling to get their shoes.
‘Woah, woah, woah!’ said Grandy Brock, holding up his hands. ‘You can’t all go. We have our afternoon deliveries to prepare for, remember. Dotty, you can choose one person to take with you to the farm, but the rest need to stay here.’
‘Gosh, OK,’ said Dotty, obviously feeling a little put on the spot. She looked around, her eyes twitching with indecision, before her gaze stopped at Orinthia. ‘Erm . . . Rinthi, would you like to come?’
Blocking out the jealous groans coming from the others, Orinthia nodded eagerly. She was delighted that Dotty had picked her and she couldn’t think of a better way to spend the afternoon.
‘But apart from Farmer Newing, I don’t think we should tell anyone else in the village about what we’re planning to do with the cows,’ said Dotty.
‘Why not?’ asked Bramwell.
Dotty looked around surreptitiously, as if checking that no one was listening in. ‘Because the Golden Udder Awards are a big deal. And the ice cream world is very close-knit. We don’t want anyone hearing about our ideas and stealing them.’
‘Oh come on, Dotty,’ said Séafra. ‘I know it’s an important competition but you’re making the whole thing sound like a spy novel!’
‘It’s true,’ said Mrs Gastaldini. ‘I know from experience how competitive ice cream makers can be. It’s not all whipped cream and cherries, you know. My famiglia have to work very hard to stand out from the local competition back in Italy. I heard about a gelataio in Milan who once laced a rival’s lemon sorbet with garlic!’
Dotty nodded and looked around the room, her face sombre. ‘Exactly. So please, you must all promise to keep these plans a secret.’
Farmer Newing’s dairy was just outside Little Penhallow, which meant another lovely long walk in the sunshine for Orinthia and Dotty. They zigzagged their way through the meadows on the outskirts of the village, kicking off their shoes and picking wildflowers as they went. There were blooms everywhere they turned – cow parsley, bluebells, cornflowers, daisies – as if someone had scattered multicoloured confetti across the landscape. There were apple trees too, their boughs heavy with pale-pink fruit.
Chatter came easy between the two girls and Orinthia loved getting to know her new friend a little better. She learnt that Dotty was twelve, her favourite colour was orange and that her favourite school subject was . . . lunchtime! She loved the smell of burnt toast, and could hold her breath underwater for more than a minute and a half. She was at her happiest when reading murder mysteries under her covers late at night, and had a growing collection of sea glass – over a thousand pieces. She reached into her dungaree pocket and pulled one out, holding it flat-palmed for Orinthia to see.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Orinthia, running a finger down the translucent turquoise surface of the stone. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘Back home in Wales,’ Dotty replied. ‘We used to live by the beach. Every morning I used to go and see what the tide had brought in.’
Orinthia smiled. ‘That sounds lovely. Why did you and your mums decide to move here to Little Penhallow?’
Dotty looked to the ground, catching her lip between her teeth. ‘No real reason,’ she said, kicking up a clod of dirt, not looking up. ‘Our family were just a bit . . . different . . . to everyone else, that’s all. We needed a change of scene.’
Orinthia didn’t know for sure, but she thought that Dotty was probably talking about having two mothers, rather than a mum and a dad. She desperately wanted to tell her lovely new friend that there was nothing wrong with having a family that were different. She, Séafra and Taber only had their mum after all. And the Brock children had Grandy and a house full of animals and birds and insects! Was there even such thing as a normal family?
It was obvious that Dotty didn’t want to elaborate any further though, so Orinthia said no more, instead putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder, hoping that was enough to show that she cared.
Soon enough, the girls approached the large wooden gate which led into Farmer Newing’s field. Beyond it, a rickety old scarecrow was rising up from amongst some bales of hay, its head made from a stuffed hessian sack with two buttons for eyes. A herd of cows had congregated around a nearby water trough, and they reminded Orinthia of the gaggle of old women that often milled around outside the green-grocers, moaning about the rising price of cauliflowers!
‘Ah, young Dotty!’ came a man’s voice, as the girls swung their legs over the gate. ‘Two visits in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Orinthia looked up. A face was poking out from the cab of a gleaming red tractor: two dark eyes with weather-beaten skin, and a pockmarked potato of a nose. Orinthia hadn’t met Farmer Newing before but she assumed that this must be him.
‘Hello again!’ Dotty replied, sweeping chaff from her dungarees as she strode towards the tractor.
The farmer jumped down and wiped his brow. He was a gangly man in dusty overalls, with a birds-nest of wild grey hair. If it weren’t for the fact that he was moving, Orinthia might have mistaken him for a scarecrow too.
‘What are you doin’ here at this time of day?’ he asked. ‘Not needin’ more cream already, are you?’
‘No, no,’ said Dotty. ‘My friend Orinthia here and I have a proposition for you, actually.’
‘Oh?’ said the farmer, flashing a mouth of chipped teeth. ‘And what’s that then?’
‘Well,’ said Dotty, plucking up a long blade of grass and twiddling it between her fingers, ‘I know this is a strange request, but we’d like to borrow a couple of your cows. It’ll just be for a couple of weeks or so, then we’ll bring them back.’
The old farmer looked befuddled. ‘Eh? Borrow my cows? What the heck are you talkin’ about, girl?’
‘Well, you know my mums and I are going to be competing at this year’s Golden Udder Awards?’ said Dotty.
‘Pem and Pandora did mention it. Would be nice for you to bring home the trophy, eh? Not to mention that very generous cash prize!’
Dotty nodded. ‘That’s the plan. So we came up with the idea of training some cows to deliver our ice cream to the judges. We need to really impress them. We thought you might be able to help us.’
The farmer puffed out his cheeks, seemingly lost for words. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his head of wiry hair, before replacing it. ‘Well, it’s a nice idea, and I know better than anyone how clever animals are, but I don’t think any of my cows would be capable of deliverin’ ice cream, Dotty. I can barely get them to walk back to the barn of an evenin’—’
‘But Orinthia is going to help me train them,’ protested Dotty. ‘She works up at the Mailbox Menagerie, and she and her friends are a whizz at teaching animals.’
‘Ahhh, of course, I thought I recognized you,’ said Farmer Newing to Orinthia. ‘You’re one of Amos’s brood. It’s a mighty fine service you’re providin’, I must say. Them animal posties are very reliable.’
‘Thank you,’ said Orinthia proudly.
‘That’s why I’m so confident we’ll be able to train some of your cows,’ Dotty persevered. ‘What do you think?’
Farmer Newing let out a loud breath. ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm in tryin’. I can’t loan you any of my milkers, but I do have a couple of cows that I’ve recently retired. They’re not the most obedient pair though. A little stubborn to say the least.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Come on, follow me. I’ll show them to you.’
He strode off in the direction of the farmyard, and Dotty and Orinthia turned to each other, grinning from ear to ear. Across the yard they went, picking their way through discarded bits of machinery, rusted oil drums and metal troughs. Young farmhands were calling out to each other, while a scruffy-looking mouser snoozed in the shadow of an old horsebox. Once they’d reached the large barn on the far side, Farmer Newing shooed away a flock of clucking chickens pecking at the large double doors, before going inside.
The barn was huge and had been split into different stalls, each strewn with sweet-smelling straw and housing a cow or two. There were sturdy-looking black ones spotted with white, smaller ones with soft brown hides, and even some of an almost reddish colour.
‘So these are the two ladies I’d like you to meet,’ said Farmer Newing, pulling open the gate to the furthest stall. ‘Come quietly though, we don’t want to spook ’em.’
The girls crept in, and found themselves face to face with two horned creatures with low-hanging udders the colour of pink blancmange. Their bodies were angular and muscly, and they each had a brass bell hanging around their neck.
‘This one here is called Fosse,’ said Farmer Newing, patting the flank of the closest cow. ‘And that one over there is Falaise. They’re both too old to be milked now, so I’ve been keeping them as . . . well . . . pets, I guess.’ He brought his voice down to a whisper. ‘Don’t tell Mrs Newing, though – she’s always on at me about the cost of keeping too much stock!’
The girls edged slowly towards the creatures. Fosse was the larger of the two, with a white hide spotted with patches of russet. Falaise was slightly smaller and fawn in colour, with a pale diamond-shaped patch in the middle of her forehead.
‘Both are good-natured, and aren’t skittish at all,’ said Farmer Newing. ‘But like I said before, they’re not the best at following orders.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a small red apple. ‘A little treat usually does the trick, though. Orinthia, as you’re the most experienced with animals, why don’t you give this to Fosse and see if she’ll come to you.’
Orinthia took the apple and inched towards the larger cow. Her eyes were dark, framed by large, fan-shaped eyelashes. ‘Hello girl,’ she said, tentatively offering up the treat. ‘You want an apple?’ Fosse looked up and, after a few inquisitive sniffs, she opened her mouth and lapped up the piece of fruit with her long black tongue. It was as rough as sandpaper, and left Orinthia’s fingers covered in slobber!
‘There you go!’ said Farmer Newing, as the cow scarfed the apple down. ‘Seems as though she’s more than happy to be friends.’ He pulled out another apple and gave it to Dotty. ‘Here, why don’t you give it a try with Falaise?’
Dotty nodded, and repeated the exercise with the smaller cow. She too hoovered up the apple in seconds, and was soon nuzzling at Dotty’s hand in the hope of another. ‘So is it OK for us to take them back to the Mailbox Menagerie, Farmer Newing?’ Dotty asked. ‘They have more than enough space for them there and they’ll be very well looked after.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re more than welcome. Amos and I have crossed paths a few times now down at the Drunken Duck and I know how much of an animal lover he is. I’m sure Fosse and Falaise will be very comfortable there for a couple of weeks.’
‘And do you have any other handling tips for us?’ asked Orinthia.
The farmer crossed his arms in thought. ‘Well, the most important thing about cows is that they learn by association. So givin’ them positive experiences will elicit positive behaviour . . . well, most of the time.’
‘So basically we need to make their training sessions as enjoyable as possible, so they’ll want to come back for more?’ asked Dotty.
‘Exactly!’ said Farmer Newing. ‘And take things slow. If a cow feels threatened or rushed it may react badly. If its tail’s swishin’ you’re puttin’ too much pressure on it, and you’ll need to step back. Its happiness should always be your priority.’
Orinthia nodded earnestly as she took in the farmer’s words. She enjoyed hearing him talk about his cows. He spoke about them with such respect and kindness and warmth – no wonder their cream tasted so good.
‘Oh, and they both like listening to music on the radio if you have one,’ added Farmer Newing. ‘Jazz is their favourite, if you can bear listenin’ to it that is!’
Orinthia laughed as she pictured Fosse and Falaise bobbing their heads to a bit of ragtime or bebop. What fun they were going to have teaching them new tricks.
‘Right,’ said Farmer Newing, clapping his hands together. ‘I’ll get the cows ready to leave then. I can’t believe two of my old girls are going to be performin’ on stage.’ He reached for a couple of leather halters hanging from a hook on the wall, and began to prepare Fosse and Falaise for the journey back to Tupenny Mill. ‘I tell you what, while I’m doing this, why don’t you girls head into the farmhouse and ask Mrs Newing if she’ll pour you a nice glass of milk? Fresh this morning, of course. She might have a couple of Eccles cakes too if you’re lucky.’
Orinthia grinned. First ice cream and now cake. This was turning out to be a very good day indeed!
The two girls must have looked quite a sight as they led the newly acquired cows through Little Penhallow later that morning. Fosse had been more than a little reticent to leave the farm to begin with, and Falaise had tried a few times to wander back to Farmer Newing, but with a few apple-shaped bribes, they’d got going soon enough. As Orinthia and Dotty ushered them down the high street, children stared and pointed with glee, and many of the shop owners popped their heads out to wave hello as they passed.
Everyone but grumpy old Mr Parsons the greengrocer, that was. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to be training them to deliver my post?’ he called out as they went past. ‘I’ve only just got used to the bats and the birds.’ He was the only person in the village that still hadn’t warmed to the idea of the Mailbox Menagerie, but in all fairness, that was probably because the animails were prone to pilfering things from his displays when his back was turned!
‘Don’t worry, Mr Parsons!’ Orinthia reassured him. ‘We’re going to be training them to—’ She stopped mid-sentence, remembering what Dotty had said about keeping their plans a secret. ‘They’re going to be pets, that’s all!’
Mr Parsons nodded suspiciously. ‘I hope so. I don’t fancy waking up to cowpats on my doorstep every morning, thank you very much.’
Orinthia laughed nervously, thinking it best not to mention that Fosse had actually just stopped for a big poo only a few metres up the road. She quickly tugged at Falaise’s reins to get the cow moving again, aware that she might do the same at any second.
At the end of the high street the girls crossed the village green, and before long they were nearing Tupenny Mill once more. They found Grandy Brock and the rest of the gang in a huddle out front, giving the daily briefing to the animails who were about to head out on afternoon deliveries. Bettina, the pygmy hippopotamus, was at their helm, with a large parcel strapped to her back.
