Scrap 71

SCRAP 71
After a hectic Saturday, Frank is enjoying having some time to himself and heads away from the camp for a morning of freedom. Too many people have been coming up to him wanting to talk about his performance at the talent show. He had hoped that it would all fizzle out with the departure of guests and arrival of new ones, but everywhere he goes he is stopped by admiring fans and he is finding it very embarrassing. After all, he only did it because Scotty had put his name forward. He could wring his neck sometimes.
Sunshine makes Frank feel more relaxed as he drives into the countryside, enjoying views of the open meadows, hedgerows and small villages with their lopsided cottages and sleepy looking roofs. He stops in a tiny hamlet and gets out to stretch his legs. There are only about a dozen houses along the main road, a small church and a post office/general store set up in someone’s front room.
The bell above the door rings madly as he enters, in search of something nice to eat, maybe a newspaper and an ice cream. There is room for about six customers in the cramped space and there are two women here already, chatting to the woman behind the counter. They all give him the once-over as he arrives. He wishes them good morning and they nod back at him, returning to their gossip but with one eye to the stranger just in case.
There is a rusty metal stand in one corner, in which are displayed postcards of the hamlet, most of which are in black and white and probably taken 30 years ago. As the place has changed little in more than 300 years it seems pointless getting new ones made up. Frank selects one and looks round for a newspaper. ‘We only sell the local,’ the owner tells him, but Frank is bored so he buys one anyway. The other customers are in no hurry so he selects a handful of chocolate bars to keep him going, pays for the items and bids them good day.
A short distance away from the hamlet is a quiet looking lay-by, where Frank parks the car and stretches out on the front bench seat, a pillow at his back, facing towards a pasture in which are grazing a herd of milking cows. Some of them look up but soon return to their day job cropping the lush grass. He takes up the newspaper and scans the pages, reading that the local council are setting up a committee to discuss the new motorway proposed for the area, the horrific story of the man who had his bike stolen from outside his own back door, the distress caused to an elderly spinster because her 50 year old tortoise has gone missing, (how far could it have gone on those short legs?) Several reports from meetings of the Women’s Institute in the various local communities, bowling club news, school sports day, flower shows and so on. It doesn’t take long to finish and he sets it on the floor, finishes the chocolate bar he has been eating and settles down for a quiet nap.
He is just about to nod off when he hears screams of terror and a dog barking. Leaping from the car he looks for the source of the noise, which is coming from somewhere in the cow field. Scrambling over the gate he rushes towards where a group of cows have surrounded a middle-aged woman who is trying to protect her dog from attack. The cows are bellowing, stamping and butting the woman, who cries out in pain and terror. The dog is being stamped on and is howling and yelping at his attackers but powerless against their combined strength and number.
‘Let the dog go,’ Frank yells, ‘let the dog go; he can run faster than the cows.’ The woman lets go of the leash and the injured animal sprints away between the legs of the beasts. The lead cow rushes after it, followed by most of the herd. Frank shoos away the few animals who are still menacing the woman, grabs her by the shoulders and propels her towards the hedge, where he lifts her above his head to deposit her over it then follows as quickly as he can.
The fate of the dog is the last thing on his mind, but the woman is hysterical and it is the only thing she can think about. Frank helps her along the road and into the car, assessing the damage as they go. She is covered in bruises, has cuts to her arms and legs and is spattered with mud and dung, just as he is. She keeps asking about her dog, calling out his name and trying to get out to find him, but she is too weak. Looking down at her torn blouse and skirt she realises that she is lucky to be alive. Suddenly quiet, she looks at Frank with tears flowing from her eyes. ‘You saved my life,’ she says, before passing out.
Frank turns the car back towards the hamlet, leaving the dead dog by the gate. The shop owner phones for an ambulance and they take Mrs Carmichael from the car, gently carry her into the parlour and lay her on the couch. The shopkeeper goes to get a bowl of water and a cloth to wipe the poor woman’s face and when she returns she finds that Frank has gone.