A Little Bit on the Side by John W O' Sullivan

all this, until he heard his comment.
    ‘Dad don’t turn’um that way, Mr Manning.’
    ‘Maybe not,’ said Jack, ‘But there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’
    Martin clearly didn’t know the expression, and turned for home with a puzzled look on his face, and as Jack had realised, another good story for the village to enjoy when he passed on his account of proceedings to his father. Davey, who like the rest would have got to hear it, said nothing, but Jack was left with the feeling that he did not approve of the unorthodox methods adopted with a ram that was his pride and joy.
    Back in the paddock, and no longer in discomfort, Norman showed renewed interest in the ladies, and by the time he had to leave them it looked from the ewes’ markings as though he might have earned his keep, and enjoyed himself a little in the process.
    Although there were no further falls of snow after the destruction of the fruit cage, the New Year’s drifts lingered on under the hedgerows until early February, when the cold weather left as rapidly as it had arrived as a warm front swept in from the west bringing wind and rain with it.
    Through late February and into March, Jack and Kate cosseted their ewes and watched them swell as the lambs grew inside them: as they believed. Working from the date when Norman had departed in mid-November they were expecting to see some of the lambing signs they had been told to watch for from early April onwards.
    But a week passed, then two, and then three with no signs of restlessness from their seven ewes, until eventually Jack asked Davey to pop over and have a look at them.
    With the ewes confined in the lambing area prepared for them at the end of the barn, Davey set about his methodical examination. He squeezed and prodded the rump and back, ran his hands down the sides and belly, gently felt around in front of the udders, lifted the docks and examined the vulva. Eventually, satisfied with his examination, he stood up and turned to Jack.
    ‘What have you been feeding them?’
    ‘Hay ad lib, and a daily ration of nuts and supplements. They’ve always had plenty.’
    ‘And when did you start?’
    ‘Well I’ve always let them have a few nuts, but upped their rations about six weeks before the ram came in and added a little sugar-beet pulp.’
    Davey’s analysis was brutal.
    ‘You’ve been over-feeding them. They were and are too fat, and they aren’t pregnant.
    That fiasco, and the entertainment it provided far and wide, was more than enough for Jack and Kate. Stock rearing was abandoned for less demanding pursuits, and Davey had the run of the land for whatever stock he chose.

5
There’s Something Funny Going On
    From his seventh floor office at the heart of Wolverton’s vibrant commercial centre, as the council’s PR department liked to describe the undistinguished cluster of buildings, Jack lit his first cigarette of the day, and cast a jaded eye across the urban sprawl that lay between him and the distant flush of autumn colour through which he had just driven from Barton Hill.
    His early-start, early-finish routine suited him fine when he was able to get down to a little work at his desk before the interruptions of the day began, but this morning it meant that he had time to kill as he awaited the arrival of Tony Bewley, his companion for the day, who kept more conventional hours.
    In the street below the morning traffic was beginning to build towards the town’s modest rush hour, and a few other early birds like Jack were making their way towards the entrance to the building. Tony was not amongst them, and would not be for almost another half-hour, and so turning from the window to his chair, Jack settled himself as comfortably as the official issue permitted, put his feet on the desk and drew deeply on his cigarette while he considered his position.
    Despite more than four years on the hill, the move from town to country which he had hoped might relieve his restlessness had