Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes by Rosie Boycott Read Free Book Online

however, have not been doing so well. We have two breeds as layers, born a couple of months apart, so that as
     one age group enters its brief, non-laying period, the other will take over. Theoretically, this should mean that we have
     140 chickens laying between five and six eggs each every week. Our first group of 140 Silver and Brown Neros started laying
     in September, but now, two months later, they're producing only twenty to thirty eggs a day. They peaked at forty. We don't
     know whether it is the food, the cold, or what. David has installed lights in the chicken shed as the long hours of darkness
     mean the birds sleep much of the time. A friendly egg producer, plus information gleaned from a chicken-keeping manual, suggested
     extending the chicken's day with lights. Now, a light switches on at 5 a.m. and another turns on just after 4 p.m., when the
     birds return of their own accord to their shed as darkness falls. It hasn't made any difference. Now we're wondering whether
     we ought to change their food. Their eggs are delicious and we have plenty of orders - not just the 750 that Dillington House
     will consume every week, but orders from colleagues of David's brother Julian at his office in Taunton and orders from neighbours
     in the village. As with the vegetables, we could sell far more than we are managing to produce.
    Bluebell has been moved out of the all-girls' enclosure and in with the boys. The oldest boys, who arrived before Boris and
     his brothers, are now over three months old, the age at which pigs reach sexual maturity. Female pigs come on heat for a few
     days every three weeks and so the plan is to leave her in there for six weeks and hope that she gets pregnant, if not at the
     first opportunity then at the second. Afterwards, it will be Bramble's turn. Bluebell isn't at all happy about the move. The
     first two days she hardly left the gate, nuzzling up to David, making sad little snuffles and noises. When I walk over to
     see her this afternoon, I find her standing on her own near the entrance to her run. She comes over immediately I call, and
     leans against the fence to have her ears scratched. She seems a very subdued version of her normal bumptious self, her head
     held low and her eyes downcast. The moment I turn to go, she squeals softly and follows me along the fence. One of Boris's
     unnamed brothers appears from the undergrowth and makes a beeline for Bluebell's rear end. I stop and resume scratching her
     ears while the little fellow clambers up her back, his muddy cloven hooves just tall enough to reach on to her back, his eager
     little face pointing skywards above her tail. With a determined expression, he rocks backwards and forwards, mimicking having
     sex. Bluebell pays no attention at all. She doesn't move away or swish her hips to knock him sideways and rid herself of the
     irritating presence he surely must be. Instead, she leans more fully into the fence and thus closer to me, eager for more
     pats and scratches. The off-white hairs of her coat feel thicker than normal and I wonder if she is growing a winter coat.
     Poor Bluebell, she seems lonely in with the boys, desirous of her sisters and fellow females for company. I feel an enormous
     wave of affection for her and want to take her back to her own run. David says she is more cheerful than she was a couple
     of days ago; nevertheless, she seems a shadow of her former self.
    Tonight I'mjudging the Christmas windows in the town. It's been an extraordinary autumn, the warmest on record, with bulbs shooting up
     in November when they should be sleeping quietly for at least another month or two. Inour wood, primroses have been flowering since the end of October. But today, although it's sunny, it's very cold; under the
     trees on the far side of the park the grass is still white with last night's frost. At four o'clock the sky is pale blue,
     fading into white, but perfectly clear. There is no wind, and as the light