Tipping

As Sarah turned into the yard of Tipping Farm in her old white Ford,
she was feeling particularly irritable. She'd had a headache all day,
and had been told earlier that one of her close colleagues, who was
also a good friend, was being immediately transferred to Glasgow. This
meant she would have to take on the workload of two people until a
replacement was organised which, in her experience of the agricultural
department, would be at least two weeks. And now, when all she wanted
to do was go home and have a nap, she had to be going and dealing with
this particularly stubborn farmer, one of the old independents who for
some reason was not replying to any correspondence, not even from the
Scottish Farmers Association.

She parked the car next to a dirty blue van, its windscreen covered
with bird excretion she noticed, smugly glancing at her own windscreen.
Her car was old, but at least it was clean. As she opened the boot to
retrieve the necessary documents and her clipboard, which were in an
awful mess due to the bumpy track that led to the farm, she vowed she
would remain professional, and above all, polite. Manners cost nothing,
after all. She smoothed the strands of wavy blonde hair that had
escaped from her bun behind her ears, and finding no doorbell, rapped
loudly on the peeling wooden door that she supposed was the front
entrance of the farm cottage. She waited a minute, then rapped again
much louder, although it hurt her knuckles. This time, leaning close to
the door, she heard the distinct sounds of someone moving towards it.
Expecting it to be opened, she took a step back. It wasn't. 'Calm', she
whispered, 'calm and polite.' She bent towards the door again, and
began to speak loudly, intending her words to be heard by the person on
the other side.
"Good afternoon Mr McGoughon, my name is Sarah Harris. As the Dumfries
and Galloway Agricultural Inspector, I have been referred here from the
Government Health and Safety official who recently examined the hygiene
of your livestock."
There was a pause. She felt sure that breezy, official approach would
work. It had better do, anyway - she just wasn't in the mood for
anything much today.
"Ahh, no thank you very much. Good day to you."

Sarah pressed her forehead against the door, slowly so as to not make
a noise. She repeated her mantra of earlier, whispering to herself
through gritted teeth. 'Calm, and POLITE.' She took a deep
breath.
"Mr McGoughan, this is a very serious matter. It's my job to ensure
you follow the safety regulations. If you'd please just open the door,
I'm sure we can discuss this."
She heard the snorting that preluded his condescending tone.
"I'm not interested in anything you have to say, missy."
Right. Bloody old fool. Not today, oh no.
"You may not be interested in me, Mr McGoughan, but the S.F.A. will
certainly be interested in you. They are refusing to accept the poor
health record of your farm, and if you do not comply to my
recommendations, you will find it a problem that is difficult to slam
the door on."
"Just leave me alone, d'ya hear? You bloody people, in ya suits,
bothering us poor innocent farmers all the time&;#8230;did you say
the S.F.A.?"
She allowed herself a brief smile of triumph before she replied,
assuming a business-like, but also slightly sardonic, tone.
"I understand your position, Mr McGoughan, but this is no way to deal
with it. Yes, I did say the S.F.A., and I am, in fact, actually not
wearing a suit!"

Behind the door, Jim McGoughan exhaled, a loud sigh. No gettin' rid a'
this lass. He'd managed to fob them all off before, pretending to be
out, or just being downright rude until they scurried away, loosening
their ties. But the S.F.A. &;#8230; well, that was a different
matter. He supposed he had no choice, really.
"Ach, well, I suppose you'd better come in then. Mind your feet on the
crates here."
He opened the door, squinting in the light. She was a tiny thing, the
girl behind this voice, a wee blonde wisp. What on earth?
"Thank you. I know this must be an unwanted burden for you but if
you'd just let me do my checks I can have my recommendations-" Jim
smaned, and Sarah looked up sharply - "my recommendations written up
by five o'clock."
He couldn't believe the nerve of these people. He'd made it perfectly
clear, to everyone who'd come tramping into his yard and knocking on
his door, that he could do fine on his own. He just wanted to be left
alone, for God's sake.
"Damn right you're unwanted, lovey," Jim exaggerated the lovey,
scowling as he did so. Bloody women. "What exactly is it you're looking
for?"
"Well Mr McGoughan, I will be looking at the hygiene issues that have
been laid out in the recent S.F.A. white paper. I take it you have
received the white paper?"

White paper. Jim had no idea what this was. He rarely kept anything
that came through his door. He opened his mouth to speak, and then
hesitated. On reflection, he shrugged. Might as well be honest. 'Speak
ya mind', his ma had urged him, since he was old enough to know what
the words meant.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Harris. Truth
be told, most of the paper that comes through that there door ends up
in the lavvie, whatever it is, you ken? What I want to know is, Miss
Harris, how you, a wee lassie, think you can come on ma farm and push
me about with your S.F.A. and white paper? A gust 'a wind 'd blow ya
over!"

He finished his tirade, and leant against the wall of the passageway,
satisfied. Teach the lassie a lesson. Then he noticed that Sarah did
not look in the least bit shocked. Sarah, meanwhile, was becoming
increasingly both tired and annoyed. She retorted speaking
forcefully.
"I am not here to be abused by you, sir. I've lived on a farm all my
life and both my father and grandfather have owned farms not too far
removed from your own. My job is simple, and regardless of your
attitude to women, I will either see your farm or your farm will see
liquidation!"
She was worried that a patronising note might have crept into her
voice, but a glance at Jim's face told her she was fine. He was shaking
his head from side to side, slowly, looking stunned. Jim WAS stunned,
and at first couldn't think of anything to say at all. He decided to
act indignant, wronged, but with a final insult.
"Well! Well&;#8230;I havnae got the time to be escorting young
upstarts around ma property, inspector or no! I'm sure you'll have no
problems locatin' the pigs&;#8230;"
"This didn't have to be a battle, Mr McGoughan." She sounded sad to
Jim, wistful. What did she bloody expect? Times were hard these days
for small farms such as his.
"Pfaa!"

He turned away from her as she left the room, stooping to go through
the small and battered wooden back door, but not before he noticed for
the first time how in need of repainting it was. He shook his head
angrily at himself. Things were fine the way they were. It had all
worked for him so far, eh?

Jim moved over to the kitchen table and poured himself a double
whisky, fully aware, as he sat down on a stool, of the umbrella stand
in place of the fourth leg. He didn't feel right. Was it
this&;#8230;this woman? Coming here, not backing down, even when he
was cruel. God he could be cruel - he'd inherited that from his bloody
father, he thought ruefully. But still - what bloody right did she
have? Really? He was better left alone. He raised his head, and peering
through the dirty kitchen window he could see her, walking slowly, and
stopping every now and then to touch the stable walls, or ground, or to
write something on her clipboard. He was getting raggy just looking at
her, poking her nose in everywhere. None of her business - an' a woman
at that! His farm, his business. His chest was feeling tight suddenly,
and he was regretting that whisky now, especially on top of the few
he'd had earlier. He was unconscious before his heavy body hit the
floor.

Sarah glanced at her watch, quickly noting the time as she carefully
recapped her rollerball pen. Finished half an hour early, so she'd no
need to worry about any comments about the unpunctuality of women, or
the like. The nerve of that man! She was doing her job. She'd wanted to
make him understand that, that it wasn't some kind of personal attack.
She understood the position of small-time farmers, especially ones like
Jim McGoughan, alone and struggling to make ends meet. But there was no
way around this. If the man didn't listen - she was trying to help, for
God's sake! - he would lose his farm, his livelihood, and be left with
nothing. She straightened from her crouch in the yard, and brushed down
her trousers to get rid of the creases, taking deep breaths and trying
to prepare herself. 'Get on with it', she told herself firmly.
'Delaying it isn't going to make it any easier.' She walked quickly
towards the back door, still open, feeling self-conscious but keeping
her head high. 'You'll be out of here soon, and it'll all be over. You
can go home, get a nice relaxing bath, read a book and forget.'
She'd already called out "Mr McGoughan?" before she noticed the still
shape on the floor.