Crystal Balls (20 page)

The group comes to an abrupt halt as Pat stops suddenly in front of a large cattle shed.

“It’s five minutes to eleven, troops!” she shouts. “We’re going to take a seat inside here just in time to feed the goats at eleven o’clock.”

The children squeal excitedly, rushing towards the shed, and my arms are almost pulled out of their sockets by the two boys swinging from them. We follow Pat into the large open shed and take a
seat on the low wooden benches provided. Perfectly lined up, row by row.

Placing myself in between Jake and Charlie, I point to a staff member wearing a rather trendy head microphone and dressed in a royal-blue polo shirt embroidered with the Noah’s Farm
logo.

“That lady is watching us so we’d all better behave really really well.” I smile down at them positively. “Can you do that for me, boys?”

“If that stupid goat comes near me I’m gonna punch him!” Jake replies violently. His clasped hand smacks the air as he mimics the action.

“Yeah and I’m going to – eh – kick him!” Charlie joins in.

I’m horrified. Kicking! Biting! How aggressive are children today?

I hear a faint bleating as the goats are led into the shed by what look like teenage volunteers – probably local children earning some pocket money.

“Absolutely
no
kicking allowed!” I lecture, shocked at how Pat-like I sound. Repulsed even.
I’m so glad I haven’t eaten yet.
I point to the supervisor who
has started to tell us about a Nubian-type goat. “Charlie. Jake. Look!” A tiny goat is trying desperately to extricate itself from her tight grip. The lead is free from slack to keep
the creature close and she pokes and prods it in various parts of its anatomy, lifting its ears and allowing them to flop down.

“Sometimes we call them Lop-Eared Goats,” she explains passionately. This makes the children laugh hysterically.
Why do children laugh at the most ridiculous things?
“It
is also known for its high-quality butterfat and milk production.”

“
Uuurrghh!”
yells Charlie. “Milk is so gross!”

“Yeah, it’s like puke!” adds Jake.

“Boys!” I snap. “That lady is in charge here and she will ask you to leave if you continue to be so rude and naughty.” The firmness in my voice settles them and for a
moment they look as cute and as run-of-the-mill as the other kids here.

Their little necks strain as they try to see over the top of people’s heads, frantically following the direction of the bleating. As the noise becomes louder, a baby goat appears at the
top end of our bench, sucking vigorously on a milk bottle held in place by one of the teenagers. He gives the bottle to the first child to hold while the tiny goat simply follows the scent of milk,
supping on its teat pleasurably. One by one, each child takes a turn of holding the bottle upside down as the goat follows obediently with its head tilted up, eager to take the bottle from anyone
prepared to feed it. It really is a beautiful sight. This little white creature, all innocent and trusting, sucking away on the rubber teat without a care in the world.

Why isn’t my life so uncomplicated and immaterial? Maybe I’ll come back as an animal.

“Look, boys, it’s nearly your turn,” I tell them excitedly. I’m really starting to enjoy myself now.
Aren’t kids great when they do as they’re
told!

As the goat wobbles towards us I keep a mindful eye on the children’s feet, ready to grab them just in case they deliver their threat. And why wouldn’t they?

“Here it is!” Charlie yells, pulling on my sleeve with excitement. “Look, look!”

I note his sparkling eyes, wide and amazed. His bottom barely touches the bench as he shifts about with uncontrollable exuberance. His face is quite angelic, albeit a little dirty and a good
scrub wouldn’t go amiss. I don’t know what the history is behind these kids and neither do I want to, but I hear that many of them are pretty disadvantaged. Suddenly I’m grateful
for the head-start I’ve had.

“Now be careful not to scare him, Charlie. He’s very little.” I grin proudly at the teenage boy, taking the bottle from him and carefully passing it on to Charlie. I watch as
Charlie holds the bottle high, taking it way out of the animal’s reach and his face begins to look a little scared.

“Hold it lower, Charlie – he can’t reach it.”

The goat’s neck is practically distorted as it jumps up to reach the teat, frustrated at it being given and then taken so rudely away.

“Quickly, Charlie.” I apply a little weight to his arm, lowering it to a height where the creature can reach it without suffering from goat-induced whiplash. But Charlie whimpers in
fear, holding it up high again in a fit of panic.

The goat suddenly takes remedial action and jumps onto its hind legs, reaching up impatiently and bleating with aggression.

“He’s jumping on me!” Charlie screams. “Help! Help!”

In reaction his hand flies into the air even higher, taking the bottle with it, while a hungry and frustrated baby goat cries out with distressed anxiety.

Once more it jumps up, balancing on its back legs, and lands with its two hooves on Charlie’s lap, where it stresses and strains to reach the milk. Almost eye to eye with Charlie, his
bleating sounds become more and more agitated and the teenage volunteer quickly attempts to control the situation. He leans towards Charlie, ready to take the bottle from him, but now tired and
angry, the goat resorts to violence and roughly head-butts Charlie causing the bottle to spin from his grip. It catapults through the cattle shed, travelling backwards, and I reluctantly turn to
assess the damage, hearing a thud followed by a yelp.

Oh my God. It’s hit a child.

The injured child bawls, nursing her head and a frenzy of attention gathers around her.

“Calm down, Charlie, he’s not going to hurt you,” I say slowly and with a firm reassurance. I watch the young guy running across the shed to retrieve the milk and hope the goat
will follow suit. Not a chance. I hear the teenager shout for a first-aid kit, pointing down to the injured child. Her muffled cries fill me with horror and I stand to witness her holding her
injured head which has an already impressive swelling. The poor mite must have taken the full force.

Charlie is sitting there deadly still with his eyes firmly shut and his breath sucked in. He’s practically turning blue. Quickly –
do something.

I place my hands beneath the goat’s stomach, slowly lifting it from Charlie’s lap and holding it close to me. I grimace at the feel of its coarse hair and try counting to ten in a
distraction bid. A warm sensation hits my legs followed immediately by a strong putrid smell and I glance down to see drops of urine trickle from him, falling onto jeans that are already soaking
wet.

“
Aagghh!
”

In utter horror I release my grip. The goat falls from mid-air, hitting the floor clumsily and yelping as it tries to regain balance. Its hind legs lash out with aggressive punishment and I
shriek as my shins take the full force of his assault. Not once, but twice. “
Oouch
!” I bend, doubled over, to rub the throbbing pain and, thrusting my hand up the inside of my
jeans, I feel an immediate swelling. A fresh waft of goat’s urine rockets up my nose. I suddenly feel ill.

Abandoning the boys I rush outside, gasping for fresh air, desperately trying to remove the taste of urine from the back of my throat by swallowing repeatedly. The burning sensation eases a
little but my head is still light and floaty from drawing too many short breaths and the stench is overpowering.

Feeling a little more composed and reluctant to give in to the circus of events, I turn to recommence my childcare duties but the full force of the weight placed on my legs makes me wince and I
hobble a little further before stopping dead. My jeans are soaked through. The Caterpillar boots are for the bin. And I stink. My legs hurt beyond belief and my arm is probably in need of a tetanus
injection if the inside of Charlie’s mouth is as dirty as the outside.

Oh God!
I can’t do it. I can’t go back in.

Half-running, half-limping, I rush back to the car and grab my handbag. Scribbling on a blank cheque, I sign it shakily before rushing across to the Sunshine minibus. I glance around, quickly
lift the wiper blade and leave the cheque safely underneath it, praying that it won’t rain.
Prayers! What use are they?

That’s it. Enough is enough. I’ve given all I can give and taken all I can take. It’s a generous donation and isn’t that what these places are crying out for? Money.
Bloody army training wouldn’t even prepare you for a day like that so it’s easier to admit when you’re out of your depth and simply surrender.
I surrender.

I climb into the car and tear away like a joy-rider, feeling guilty for not saying goodbye to Chantelle but nobody else.

Of all the bloody days! I have the date of my life tonight.

I fight hard with myself not to feel bad about yet another ludicrous episode. What control did I have over it? I did nothing wrong and, as for running off like that, what else could I have done?
I’ve no change of clothes, I stink to high heaven and there was no way on God’s earth I was going to perform mouth to mouth on Charlie even if it did look like he needed it. And as for
knowing how to handle animals, do I seem like that type of girl?

Working with animals and children definitely isn’t my ultimate purpose in life . . .
but as for studs . . . now we’re talking . . .

Absolute heaven!

Immersed in a deep warm bath, the water laps around me as my body shuts down into a state of relaxation. A towel is wrapped tightly around my head to stop the humidity from curling my hair,
although given how dirty I feel from the inside out it’s killing me not washing it. But I just don’t have the inclination nor the arm-power right now.

A single injured leg hangs over the side of the bath, nursed by a bag of frozen peas. It’s not a bad bump but it’s a lot worse than the left which looks unscathed by comparison. It
is, however, obvious enough that a change in outfit from skirt to trousers is now required. And for that alone, I’m not happy.

I lean forward, grabbing the loofah, desperate to scrub away the goat’s pee which seems to have penetrated my skin. I scrub ferociously. My legs are red and tender but thankfully now
rather sweet-smelling so who cares about a little pain? Although self-inflicted pain is much easier to swallow. Being bitten by a human and urinated on by an animal is much less forgiving in my
book.

Once again today was a Tina write-off. Why me? Why couldn’t I have been given the little girls that Chantelle had dancing and skipping around her with joy and affection? A child who would
have looked up to me and decided early on that she wants to be just like me when she grows up. Instead I got the all-biting all-kicking kids from hell.

I must ask Sam if she’s planning to start a family after she’s married. I’ve got a few parental tips for her.

Thank goodness I’ve got this evening to look forward to. I’ve no idea where Brian is taking me which makes it all the more exciting. And alluring. He sent me a text last night to
advise that he will now be picking me up and to dress smart casual.
Whatever!
Once more I’ll be going for the kill, starting with the underwear. The better I feel physically, the more
easily I can ignore the burning red thighs, bruised shins and bite-marks on my arm, and the choice of a classy cream trouser suit will cover my limbs adequately, giving little away. Perhaps later
in the evening things will be a little different. But after a few drinks and dimmed lights, all he will see is the lust in my eyes.

“Hi, Chantelle.” I answer the phone reluctantly.

“Tina, where did you get to?”

She’s annoyed, I can tell.

“Sorry but I’d had enough, Chantelle! I got bitten, kicked and pissed on in the space of a few hours and I just threw the towel in!”

A howl of laughter vibrates through the receiver and I wait patiently for her to calm down.

“What?” Her voice jumps up an octave. “I saw you with wet jeans but I thought someone had spilled a drink on you or something.” She snorts. “Did one of the boys pee
on you?”
Here we go.

“Actually . . . it was the goat,” I reply, immediately wishing I had lied to her. “Chantelle. Are you still there?” I can hear muffled noises in the background and
someone clearing their throat.

“Yes . . . I’m erm . . . still here.” Her voice breaks. “Tina, how did you manage to
phwwrr
. . .”

Once again Chantelle is off but this time there’s no stopping her. At least that clipped tone has disappeared. I hate it when she’s cross with me because I know I usually deserve it,
but on this occasion I think not. I smelled worse than any of the animals there. It would have been a danger to stay any longer, I could have been jumped on or anything. You never know. Don’t
some animals cover themselves with urine to attract the opposite sex? My escape was both practical and necessary. I shudder at the thought of getting launched on by a horny four-legged creature.
Works for some people though!
Yuk!

I go on to tell Chantelle the whole story, omitting no detail. It seemed no-one knew exactly what had happened given the speed with which I left. Naturally the tight-lipped boys had given
nothing away.

I enquire about the little girl with the injured head and am pleased to hear it was nothing serious, just a minor scrape and a swollen forehead. I should really ask if Charlie has started to
breathe yet but I’m afraid to.

“Pat was furious when you’d gone, Tina. She said it wasn’t any wonder she’d not seen you in church and that girls like you have no staying power for anything, let alone a
lifelong relationship with God!” She giggles.

“Cheeky cow,” I say angrily. “I’ve a good mind to stop that bloody cheque.”

“I told her you must have been ill or something but I’ll ring her to fill her in if you don’t mind. I don’t want her bad-mouthing you to my grandmother on
Sunday.”