Helen Peters [Helen Peters] - A Piglet Called Truffle

For Dorothea

H. P.

For my family

E. S.

Chapter One

You Poor Little Thing

Jasmine was lying on her bed with her cats, reading her favourite magazine, Practical Pigs. It was a Friday afternoon in late November, and Jasmine, absorbed in an interesting article about rare breeds, was completely happy.

Jasmine! called her mum up the stairs. I have to go to a calving at Carters. Do you want to come?

Jasmine swung her feet to the floor. Mr Carter was a grumpy old farmer with a permanent scowl on his face, but he kept pigs, and that was reason enough to visit his farm. Jasmines dad was a farmer, too, and he kept plenty of calves. But, despite Jasmines constant pleading, there were no pigs at Oak Tree Farm.

Ill be back soon, Jasmine murmured to the cats, stroking the tops of their heads. Have a lovely sleep.

Marmite purred as Jasmine stroked her thick black fur. Toffee lay curled up on a blanket at the end of the bed, and didnt open his eyes as Jasmine left the room.

Jasmines mum, Nadia, was standing at the bottom of the stairs in her coat and wellington boots, jingling her keys like she always did when she was impatient.

Come on, Jas. Grab your coat, I need to go.

As a farm vet, Mum often got called out at inconvenient times. Jasmine sometimes thought farmers purposely waited until mealtimes to make their emergency phone calls to the vet.

Jasmine pulled her muddy waterproof jacket from its hook by the Aga cooker in the kitchen. Her older sister, Ella, sat at the kitchen table, frowning over a GCSE textbook. The table was covered with school books and files and scraps of paper and pens.

We shouldnt be too long, Mum said to Ella. Ive put some jacket potatoes in the Aga.

Uh-huh, said Ella, vaguely. She didnt look up from her books.

Jasmine and Mum walked out into the front garden, past the kennel where Bramble, the old springer spaniel, lived.

The kennel always made Jasmine sad these days. Until last month, there had been two dogs living there. But Brambles sister, Bracken, had died of old age a month ago, and now Bramble was on her own. It must be so strange and lonely for her, Jasmine thought.

At the moment, the kennel was empty. Bramble was out in the fields with Jasmines dad.

Mum opened the gate. Manu, Ben, Im going out on a call, she called into the tangle of bushes at the edge of the farmyard.

There was a rustling noise and two faces, smeared with mud, poked out through the damp twigs. One belonged to Jasmines five-year-old brother, Manu, and one to his best friend, Ben, who lived in the house at the end of the farm road.

Do you want some of our crumble? asked Manu. He thrust a washing-up bowl through the leaves.

What sort of crumble? asked Mum.

Jasmine peered into the bowl.

Mud crumble, it looks like. With a crunchy dead leaf topping.

Its got yew berries and acorns in, too, said Ben.

Its dying crumble, said Manu.

Dying crumble? asked Mum.

Yes, said Manu. If you eat it, you die.

It sounds lovely, said Mum, but I think Ill pass. Daddys checking the sheep in the Thirteen Acres and Ellas indoors if you need anything.

OK, said Manu.

Thank you, Nadia, said Ben. He was always super-polite to adults. That was how he got away with being so naughty.

And dont eat that crumble, called Mum.

No, Nadia, we wont, said Ben. Thank you, Nadia. Bye, Nadia. And their heads disappeared back into the bushes.

Mr Carter appeared from a cow shed as they drove into the farmyard. He was a stocky, middle-aged man, in a dirty waterproof coat and baggy dungarees tucked into enormous black wellingtons. As always, he had a scowl on his face.

Afternoon, Jim, said Mum, getting out of the car.

Mr Carter didnt return the greeting. Breech birth, I reckon, he grunted, as Mum opened the boot of the car and took out her cases of medicines and equipment. Been straining for hours.

Can I go and see the pigs? asked Jasmine. Mr Carter gave a grunt, which Jasmine took as a yes. She was halfway across the yard when he called, Theres a sow just farrowed. Eleven, shes had.

Jasmine gave a squeal of delight. Newborn piglets!

Watch out for that old sow, though, called the farmer.

And disinfect your boots first, said Mum. Here, she said, taking from the car boot a plastic bucket containing a bottle of disinfectant and a scrubbing brush.

Jasmine took the bucket and filled it from the tap in the milking parlour. She poured disinfectant in, carried the bucket back to the yard and handed the scrubbing brush to her mother. Mum scrubbed her wellies and passed the brush to Jasmine, who did the same. It was one of those boring jobs that had to be done, like brushing your teeth. We cant risk spreading infections between farms, Mum always said.

Now that her boots were thoroughly disinfected, Jasmine splashed through the muddy puddles to the pigsties. Every sty had a stable door. The bottom halves were bolted shut, but the top halves were open.

Jasmine leaned over the half-door of the first sty and peered in. It was empty. The second sty contained one old sow lying asleep on a pile of straw. But there were rustling and grunting noises coming from the third one.

Jasmine looked in. A sleek Large White pig lay on her side in a bed of straw. Sucking busily at her long double line of teats was a row of silky little newborn piglets, pink with black splodges. Their tiny curly tails wriggled with delight as they drank their mothers milk.

Jasmine grinned at the scene. You, she said to the piglets, are so lovely. And you, she told the sow, are very clever.

Even though Mr Carter had already told her there were eleven piglets, Jasmine couldnt resist counting the row of little bodies packed tightly together.

Yes, there were eleven.

But then something caught her attention. At the far end of the row, from underneath the biggest and fattest piglet in the litter, there was a movement in the straw. A rustling sort of movement.

Was it a mouse?