In the summer of 2001, "Rosy" and Bill travelled along the Canal de Marne à Soanne in the company of the good ship "Cathy", owned by Geoff and Rose Poole.  "Rosy" provided Rose with that little spark of inspiration that led to the writing of the following piece entitled "La Vache" ("The Cow").

Rose Poole has kindly agreed for her story to be placed on this site.  I am pleased to recognise that the copyright of this short story rests solely with Rose Poole.  People using this site are also requested to recognise that copyright of this short story rests with Rose Poole.

La Vache

The odd little boat came chugging around the corner, the tall, thin chimney stack emitting small puffs of grey smoke each time the boat's engine gave forth its slow rhythmic beat.  It sounded rather like one of the trains from "Thomas the Tank Engine", a very ancient, venerable train, and although the pace was heart-stoppingly slow its sound could be heard from as far away as the next lock.  Which was why the locks were always ready and waiting for the little boat, word having spread along the lock-keepers' grapevine to listen out for the strange boat with Andy the "Mad Englishman" on board.

The mad Englishman himself stood propped at one end of the narrow but lengthy boat, leaning against the hatchway with tiller tucked under one arm and eyes fixed on some faraway place.  His bushy red beard and shock of white hair blew in all directions as the puffs of smoke from his pipe kept time with those from the engine.  He seemed oblivious to the passing countryside, ducks and moorhens squawking madly as the boat's bows scythed past within inches, which is why his arrival at each lock seemed to precipitate him into a surprised and desperate flurry of action - wheels spinning and levers pressed to reduce the production of puffs to almost nil, ungainly leapings around the cabin top to untangle ropes from ventilators and plant-pots, and a final frantic waving of arms as attempts were made to lasso a passing bollard before the bows of the boat rammed the far lock-gates.  Luckily for the slightly battered boat, most of these attempts were successful, with the rope ending up around one of the bollards even if not quite the intended one!  Then as the lock filled or emptied and the far gates opened, the mad Englishman would calmly resume his position at the stern, gently twirling wheels and lifting levers, and as the dying beat of the engine regained its previous andante rhythm the odd little boat would progress slowly out of the lock.

Poor "Petunia" was known as the slowest boat on the canals, and great efforts were made by the regular canal-users to avoid having to travel in convoy with her.  But Andy didn't mind;  he preferred to travel alone and be left to think his thoughts undisturbed.  Often, however, the other boaters didn't understand.  At first they admired Petunia, with her unusual but workman-like lines, her shining paintwork and traditional decoration, and her historic old engine with brasswork gleaming and not a speck of oil to be seen.  Engines thrumming, they would approach rapidly, eager for a really good look, then roar off ahead leaving poor Petunia rolling madly in their wake.  But then, of course, they'd have to wait for her at the next lock.  Sometimes, as Andy spotted them sitting there in the distance, he'd slowly reduce the rate of puffs from the chimney until he could see them pacing about and gesticulating wildly as they checked their watches.  It was a somewhat ineffective attempt to teach them about the slower pace of life on the waterways, and was small recompense for the broken plates and spilled cups of tea caused by their wash, but it made him and Petunia feel that at least they'd tried.

His frequent gifts of beer and wine to the patient lock-keepers, who also had to wait for his slow progress and put up with the other impatient boaters and who often helped him with his ropes, were greatly appreciated and endeared the mad Englishman to all the professionals on the waterways.  Even the peniche owners, a notoriously cranky bunch, would pass the word on and allow him to meet and pass them by in the most advantageous spots.  Andy, though, was oblivious to it all.  He was a simple soul who expected nothing in return for his "thank yous", but just puttered slowly onwards, lavishing attention on Petunia and her beloved engine, and with his heart and soul based firmly in the last century.

That was a time when cargo-carrying narrowboats reigned over the English waterways and were a sight as common as clogs in the industrial heartlands and byways.  Things were historically somewhat different in France, but Andy could see no reason why a vessel suitable for carrying cargo on the English waterways should find it any different on the French ones.  He would have loved to have proved it, but alas it was not possible in these modern times.  Nor could he see why an engine which had performed its task for seventy treasured years should not do so for another seventy, and saw no reason to change it for a faster, simpler one.  And so it was that he and Petunia were slowly chugging through France, wrapped up in past glories and dreaming of impossible futures.

Thus it was inevitable, perhaps, that when the idea of a cargo came up, old Andy jumped at the chance!

The cow was not a very beautiful cow, in fact, she was exceedingly ugly.  Big and bony, she had none of the sleek compactness of her peers.  She had long lumpy legs instead of short solid ones, one crooked horn stuck out at an angle, her head was distinguished by a landscape of bony lumps and hollows, and a straggly fringe flopped over a white wall-eye.  Even her coat resembled a moth-eaten carpet the colour of mud, finished off by a couple of lengths of tatty string supposed to represent her tail.  Poor sad cow, her appearance wasn't even ameliorated by a kind and gentle character.  She had an evil temper, and frequently succeeded in hooking anyone attempting to thwart her desires with the solitary but very sharp horn.  Many times had her owner hobbled home to the farmhouse by the canal with a foot badly bruised by one of the great hooves, and many a time had she stood in front of him up to her knees in mud with rain cascading off her moth-eaten back after having refused to leave the field and return to her warm dry cowshed, just because he wanted her safe and well.

But her owner, Jean-Paul, the brother of one of the lock-keepers, cherished a secret belief.  He knew, absolutely KNEW, that this particular cow would fulfil all his wildest dreams.  She had a beautiful, gentle mother and a strong, stolid father, and somewhere in that godforsaken creature were hidden some championship genes.  He was convinced of it.  He said as much to everyone in the cafe as they enjoyed an evening pastis, and endured their ridicule at this preposterous idea.  And they laughed even harder when he sold his wife's car to pay for the champion bull of the district to come to his farm and service the cow - though if the bull's owner had ever actually seen his champion's prospective bride, no amount of money would have persuaded him to leave it there!

What a humiliation.  As the poor bull had bounced eagerly up to the wary cow, puffing and snorting, she had planted a great muddy hoof right on the end of his nose and disappeared to the far end of the field.  It wasn't the best of introductions, but the bull had generations of champions in his blood and was not to be put off.  After three days a muddy, bruised and bloody shadow of a bull staggered out of the back of a truck and collapsed thankfully into the thick straw of his home barn, wondering if the job was really all it was cracked up to be.

But Jean-Paul was ecstatic;  he just knew his cow was pregnant, and the calf was going to make his fortune - "best calf", "best of breed", "champion yearling", "district, regional and national champion", and even, dream of dreams, "supreme champion" of the huge agricultural show near Paris.  Oh yes, he was going to be rich and famous, and on the strength of that he even bought a round at the local bar!

Now he nearly worshipped the ugly, bad-tempered mother-to-be.  He attended personally to her every need - fresh straw, fresh water, the best hay, the best field.  But he had a big worry.  He'd led her, with much difficulty, bruises and bribery, several kilometres to his richest greenest field, which bordered the canal and so always contained long lush grass, and she now refused to come out.  Unfortunately it was too far to keep an eye on her as she approached her calving date and Jean-Paul despaired of what to do.  It was too late for a heavily pregnant cow to walk all the way back, even if he could persuade her to leave the field, and no way would she ever get in the back of a truck.  He'd tried that once before, and the truck had never quite recovered from the damage.  He daren't upset her now and risk the calf, there was nothing he could think of to do.

He'd been bemoaning the problem in the café one evening, and had almost resigned himself to camping out in the field for several weeks to be near her, when his brother placed a second glass of pastis in front of the disconsolate figure and winked surreptitiously at the others crowding round the table.

"That old cow of yours, I've seen her in that field by the canal, standing on the bank watching the boats go by.  I reckon she rather likes the boats.  In fact many of the boatowners have commented on how she glares at them wistfully with that wall-eye of hers as they pass by."

"It's all right for you to laugh," Jean-Paul replied morosely.  "You're not the one going to have to stay out there with her night and day".

"Well now, hang on a moment, let's see.  She can't walk back to the farm, and she won't go in a truck, and you can't even swim her up the canal, not in her state.  But she likes the boats.  So-o.  I do believe old Petunia will be on her way past in the next day or so".

He looked round solemnly at the other lock-keepers at the table.

"Yes, I reckon Petunia'll do the trick".

The others glanced at him in amazement, then had trouble in covering up their grins.

"Petunia?  Petunia?  What are you going on about?  This is no joking matter, it could cost me my fortune."  Jean-Paul didn't like being the butt of a joke, especially about such an important matter.

"Well, this is the plan.  Petunia is the long thin boat belonging to that mad Englishman that comes through here several times a year.  Apparently in the old days those ridiculous boats used to carry heavy cargoes around England - coal, wood, sacks of flour etc.  Old Andy is always talking about it, how he would like to go back to the old days and see the boats carrying cargo once more.  Well, let's give him a cargo - a cargo of cow!"

"What!!!  You're mad, completely mad.  I can't risk the cow on a boat.  Besides she'd never go on it, you know her and her evil ways, she'd kick it to bits or fall in deliberately, it'd never work.  And how on earth would you persuade the owner to do it anyway?"

Jean-Paul threw his hands in the air and slowly looked round at them all.

"You're serious?  You can't be.  He'd never agree.  You're all mad!"

"No, really, listen.  We'll get old Andy over here one night and ply him with drinks and let him go on and on about all that cargo stuff.  And then at exactly the right moment we'll bring in about your champion cow in the field right by the canal, and how you urgently have to bring her home, and if his boat is really a cargo-vessel why not prove it?  Easy.  We'll even let him think it's his own idea!"

So that's exactly what they did, and Andy woke up the next morning to a heavy head and the realisation that somehow he was going to have to get a cow - a COW!  - on board his precious boat.  Poor Petunia!

It wasn't quite as easy as Jean-Paul's brother had implied.  First of all, the water at the edge of the canal wasn't quite deep enough to allow Petunia plus weight of cow to float alongside the bank.  So a couple of days of wellies, shovels and large volumes of mud ensued to allow the long length of Petunia to be firmly moored alongside the bank.  Then of course it had to be worked out exactly where on board the cow was going to go.  The boat hadn't been designed to carry several hundredweight of restless cow and anyway the modifications required to turn it into a comfortable home had obliterated the cargo-hold.  Not that they had a crane to lift the cow in anyway.  So it was agreed that a narrow pen would have to be built on the cabin-top for the cow to stand in, with shoring placed underneath inside the main cabin.  That was fine until Andy pointed out that a large weight perched on top of the boat would add nothing to its stability, and they had visions of the whole lot - cow, pen and all  - turning turtle in the middle of the canal.  That would have given the authorities something to think about!

Several sessions in the cafe, and a chance glimpse of an old Paris-Match magazine lying about, produced a solution.  Outriggers, in the form of two "canal-authority" punts, would be fastened underneath the over-lapping cowpen on either side of the boat.  Might be a little difficult to steer, but there were plenty of people around to help with that.  Luckily, poor Petunia being so narrow, they would still fit in the locks.  And with Petunia also being so low, the extra cow on top would still squeeze under the bridges.  Perfect.

The efficiency of the lock-service in the area decreased substantially during this time, as all the lock-keepers disappeared off to help with the construction works.  Time was somewhat pressing as no-one, least of all Jean-Paul, was quite sure when the cow would give birth.  Comments by onlookers on the strange goings-on were put off with a Gallic shrug and the magic words "Mad Englishman", which seemed to explain everything.  But eventually the cowpen and outriggers were finished, and everyone retired to the cafe to decide on the big day.

Jean-Paul thought they should allow a few days for the cow to get used to the finished construction before trying to get her on board.  She had in fact been watching the whole process from a safe distance with great mistrust, and had expressed her feelings every now and then by standing muddily on top of coats and sandwiches and radios left carelessly lying around the area.  But Jean-Paul would allow no-one to shout at or upset her in any way, so there was much grumbling going about.  Everyone had their doubts as to whether the cow would actually go on board, and stay there, but it was all too much fun to say anything out loud.

A Wednesday was reckoned to be the quietest day on the canal, and the locks would be closed at lunchtime with the bosses all at home eating, so the next Wednesday lunchtime was decided on for "operation cow".  Fortunately for the whole venture, the cow didn't decide to calve beforehand.

Andy was up early that morning, putting breakables away safely in lockers and tickling up the engine with a little oil and a polish with a clean rag.  He started it up a couple of times to make sure it was warm and running evenly;  heaven help them if it broke down or emitted one of the sudden loud bangs it was rather prone to do when cold.  The cow might not like it!

He was only too aware that that his pride in his boat and her long history was at stake, but he knew that Petunia's British staunchness would carry them through.  He also realised that only he and Jean-Paul took the whole thing seriously;  it was a great joke for everyone else.  But he had been commissioned to carry a cargo from the bankside here, along five kilometres of canal and through two locks, and he would deliver it safely and successfully.  The chance would probably never come along again.

Jean-Paul was also up early.  He fussed around spreading straw thickly over the cowpen, and placed a large bale of the best hay in a corner to keep the cow occupied on the journey.  He then sent up a prayer to all the saints he could think of connected to animals, journeys and boats, and also a quick one to St Jude just in case.  By eleven o'clock all was ready and a large crowd of passing lorry drivers, lock-keepers' wives in pinnies and ancient fishermen muttering unintelligibly to themselves had gathered on the canalside with bottles of pastis, red wine and baguettes to hand.  Jean-Paul approached the cow with a bucket of cow-nuts and a rope halter, and took a deep breath.

An hour later he was cheered with plentiful toasts of wine as he led the reluctant cow towards the boat, limping slowly, brushing mud off his jacket and fervently hoping the tear in his trousers would hold together.  There was a collective hiss of indrawn breath as the cow sidled in fits and starts up to the boat, and a groan of disappointment as she stepped aboard with great aplomb and started munching the hay.  The disappointment nearly changed to glee as poor Petunia dipped and swayed with the extra weight, but then bobbed up again as if pleased to feel the presence of a real cargo on board again.  Jean-Paul sat down with a great sigh of relief beside the cow, lines were let go, and finally Andy moved Petunia away from the bankside very, very slowly.  There were cheers again from the crowd as the only South Pacific-style narrow-boat in existence moved gracefully down the canal, rolling gently from outrigger to outrigger as her definitely last cargo swished its tail and meditatively chewed its way past the waving onlookers.

Petunia chugged slowly up the canal with Andy concentrating on throttle and oil pressure harder than he'd ever done before.  The outriggers gurgled through the water on either side, sending up little sprays of water as the cow changed weight from one leg to another.  Her rotund figure filled most of the pen, with Jean-Paul sat frozen in one corner keeping an eye on her only too familiar sharp hooves, and finally wondering at this late stage, what would happen if she decided to get off.  He couldn't stop her, no-one could.  How on earth had he got talked into such a crazy scheme?  He was going to have a sharp word with his brother when this was all over.

As the first lock loomed up, the bridge over the gates seemed very low.  Would the cow really fit underneath?  There was a bad moment when she tossed her head at exactly the wrong moment and the tip of her solitary horn scratched along the underside, but then they were through and safely tied up to the lockside.  Unfortunately the cow chose that moment to investigate a bed of prize dahlias growing alongside the wall, and as she stepped to one side of the pen to investigate Petunia rolled alarmingly to starboard.  But amid much creaking and groaning the outrigger proved its worth and the cow calmly picked the heads off the flowers as the lock-keeper started lowering the water level, teeth grinding in frustration as he saw his chances of the "Blue Ribbon" disappearing down the gullet of a cow.

There was another anxious moment as the lock wall passed upwards right in front of the cow's nose and she stepped back in alarm, eyes rolling.  But a timely rattle of the cow-nut bucket by Jean-Paul distracted her before any harm was done.  Then they were all off again, a relieved Andy starting to enjoy himself at last, an anxious Jean-Paul worriedly counting the number of nuts left in the bucket, the gluttonous cow snuffling happily amongst the hay and a proud Petunia carrying all in her dignified stride.

The next five kilometres passed without incident.  The steady chug of Petunia's engine proved very soporific and the cow lapsed into a dreamlike state, chewing her cud meditatively as she watched the trees pass by in endless succession.  The sun shone, birds sang, and a gentle breeze fluttered past her ears.  She almost seemed to be enjoying herself.  And all would have stayed well if the 11:45 express train hadn't thundered over the bridge at the exact same moment as Petunia was gliding beneath.  Andy and Jean-Paul jumped in surprise at the thunderous noise, but the cow went rigid and let forth a resounding bellow.  Then another, but this time with a strange squeak at the end of it.  Jean-Paul cowered in the corner of the pen, expecting the maddened cow to trample him with vicious hooves as she crashed through the planks and leapt into the water, but instead she started looking around at herself with speculative eyes.  He knew immediately what was happening.

"It's the calf, the calf, she's started to have the calf.  Oh God, quick, get to the bank straight away, it's the calf, it's coming!"

His panic subsided somewhat at the sight of the next lock appearing round the bend.  A big crowd had gathered around the locksides to greet the intrepid travellers, cheering and raising glasses as Andy slowly eased Petunia plus outriggers into the narrow confines of the lock.  The crowd cheered even louder as they heard the news of the imminent delivery from a worried Jean-Paul, then scattered rapidly as the overwrought cow had finally had enough, shoved her way through the sides of the pen and heaved herself across the small gap between boat and lockside.  She headed determinedly for her nearby cowshed, dragging Jean-Paul along behind her after having trodden on his foot, squashed him against the broken sides of the pen and skinned his knees as he bounced across from boat onto dry land.  All was as normal, and Jean-Paul was happy again.  He knew he was in for a long and probably painful night, but the thought of the eagerly-awaited calf at the end of it kept him cheerful.

As the cow and Jean-Paul disappeared rapidly out of sight, Andy raised a glass to the successful transport and delivery of his first cargo, and poured a little over Petunia's deck in tribute to her valiant effort.  Many willing, if slightly tipsy, hands cleared away the broken pen and the outriggers from Petunia's hull, and declining further offers of bibulous hospitality, Andy and Petunia cleared the lock and chugged slowly up the canal amidst jaunty puffs of smoke as they dreamed of greater, but perhaps less lively, cargoes in the future.

The newly arrived calf opened its large, brown, long-lashed eyes, and shook its beautiful, sleek, cream-coloured coat.  It struggled up onto its long, slender legs and waggled its short fluffy tail as it looked round and spotted a proud though battered Jean-Paul standing a safe distance from its mother.  With a little lamb-like bleat, the perfectly-proportioned championship calf tottered purposefully over to Jean-Paul, butted him painfully and accurately with its minute but perfectly-pointed horns, and stamped decisively on his foot with its tiny, sharp, but perfectly-shaped hooves. 

Copyright © 2002, Rose Poole