Easter babies

I fidgeted with the zip of my anorak, its metal teeth pinching at the tender skin under my chin as the little car rattled and jolted and picked its way down the rutted farm track. Bounded on either side by a tall and untidy tangle of elder, brambles and stunted elms, the narrow lane stretched ahead and behind us with nothing above but the bright April sky. Around us, the air was filled with the twitters and calls of unseen birds as they went about their spring business of nesting and feeding grubs to broods of gangly grey and pink skinned hatchlings.

At last the track gave into a gravel covered open courtyard and the car stopped. I got out and wiggled my toes as best I could inside the too tight Wellingtons. One leg of my polyester trousers had escaped from the top of the boot in spite of my mother’s vigorous tucking and the other was threatening to do so, content for now instead with ballooning around my knee in a nylon approximation of plus fours. A huge brown cow with soft shiny eyes thrust her head over the top of a wall nearby and stared at us, grass and spittle at the edges of her lips as she rhythmically ground her jaws.
“Come on girls. Stop dawdling.” Mike locked his car and strode away, the cow still staring and chewing as the three of us scuttled after his back up the path to the farm house.

“Now girls, what you’ve got to do is keep them together,” Cathy boomed as she issued us each with a pale wooden crook. “We need to bring the lambs and their mothers from that field,” she said pointing off into the distance with her staff, “into this one. Walk behind them, but not too close, like this. You see?” she said, shepherding an invisible sheep and her offspring in front of her through the calf high wet grass. We nodded in unison, three little girls in anoraks and scarves and hand knitted gloves. “John’s out there already with the dogs. He’ll show you the ones we need”. And with that she set off, taking long strides in her muddy green boots over the tufts and hillocks.

I watched from the edge of the field. The black and white sheep dog ran quickly, head down and crouched low to the ground as she circled closer and closer to the raggedy gathering of ewes and lambs. John stood some way off, long green coat and crook silhouetted against the natural rise of the land. The dog moved with silent practised precision, sometimes dropping completely to the ground and never close enough to the flock to cause alarm but urging them forward slowly all the same in response to the farmer’s whistled commands. My job was to get the stragglers to follow. I got behind the first group, a ewe and her twin lambs, and tried to recreate the action that Cathy had shown us. Perhaps sensing inexperience or a fellow youngster, the rotund sheep rolled her eyes gently and did as she was asked, her two babies jumping and trotting on uncertain legs behind her.

We became a little more efficient as the morning wore on and eventually all the sheep and lambs that had been out of sight were now gathered in the field near the farm house. Mike poured us all a cup of orangey tea from a thermos flask as Cathy described the next part to us. She would, she explained, be going around with this little machine to put a tight yellow band around each lamb’s tail. It didn’t hurt the lamb, she told us, but it would make the tail fall off in a few days. Our job was to hold each lamb steady near its mother whilst she snapped the band on near the rump with a gadget that looked like a pair of pliers.

The three of us girls spread out into the small field and carefully captured our first lambs. My lamb was standing quietly next to its mother as she nibbled gently on the grass at her feet. I had taken my woollen gloves off and could feel the little one’s heart beating steadily through my fingers, her body firm with muscle beneath the soft and tightly curled fleece. I needed to hug this tiny lamb and knelt down in the wet grass and drew her close to my face, burying my nose in her coat and breathing in deeply. She smelt warmly of grass and wool and fresh air and milk in that universal aroma of new babies. She opened her small mouth and bleated softly to her mother and I could see her tiny pink tongue. I spoke soothing words to her as Cathy came over and deftly clipped the band around her tail with expert hands before stroking her and letting her go. She bounced up on her front legs, kicking her little hooves out behind her, once, twice, shaking her tail as she nudged her mother’s udder.

Finally, when all the little tails had been bound, it was time for our last task of the day. The three of us trooped after Mike, Cathy and John across the wet grassy field until we came to a long semi-circular structure.

“This is the poly tunnel,” Cathy told us, “it’s where the ewes wait to have their babies. We’ll need to be very quiet now; some of these sheep will be giving birth to their lambs.”
She pushed the door open and in we went, silent now and breath hushed with awe that we might see a lamb being born. It was warm inside. Deep straw lay on the ground and the air was filled with the heavy sweet scent of grass and sheep and new life. We walked behind the adults up the central aisle, stopping in line as they stopped to examine the ewes.
“Here,” said John, “come here. This one’s about to give birth.”
And so the three of us knelt down in the straw behind the ewe who was half standing and half lying down. Before our eyes, a white veiny sac appeared, followed by two hooves and two thin legs, a head, and then the whole lamb lay on the straw. John put his fingers into the new born’s mouth, cleared her throat, rubbed her firmly with a handful of yellow straw as the ewe turned round and started to lick her baby. The lamb, still partly covered in her white birth veil, now struggled to her feet, spindly legs wobbling and slipping on the straw. She stood, fell, stood again, swayed, and took her first steps as John guided her to her mother’s milk. We watched our new lamb for a long time, crouched there in the straw. When it was time to go, we said our goodbyes and closed the door of the poly tunnel softly behind us.

“Come on,” said Cathy, “I’ve got one more thing to show you before you go home.” So we followed her into the farm house, down the long dark corridor and into the kitchen. The kitchen itself was huge and square, a massive wooden framed picture window looking out over the field where we’d just been. One wall of the room was filled with a long cast iron range, and Cathy went to this now and opened one of the bottom doors.

“Look.” She said, so we did, three pairs of little girl eyes were met with a stare from inside, a tiny lamb curled up on a blanket. Cathy lifted a teated bottle from on top of the range and hoisted the lamb and blanket onto her knee. The lamb grabbed hungrily at the milk, gasping and slurping and swallowing as hard as she could.
“This lamb’s mother died when she was born so I need to feed her milk until she’s old enough to go out into the field.” Cathy explained, the lamb sucking at her knuckle as she topped up the warm milk from a saucepan. “Would you like to feed her?” And so the tiny lamb was passed to us one by one, complete with bottle and blanket until all the milk was gone and the lamb had fallen asleep. Cathy carefully placed the lamb back into the gentle warmth of the range and left the door open so we could crouch down and look and stroke her.

We left the farm house and followed Mike back to his car. A mallard stretched her wings and refolded them neatly as she ducked her head under a fence, sauntering and swaying from foot to foot as her clutch of yellow and black chicks scampered and squabbled behind her. Tired and hungry and very very happy, we made our way home.


Happy Easter.