Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths

(For Kids from One to Ninety Two)

In a field, not too far away, in the pastures of Northumberland, they ate, slept and played. Three friends – and occasional enemies – lived their lives in glorious, splendid friendship… or not so much, as often happened. One minute, they’d be the best of pals, the next, sworn adversaries. I suppose you could call them “frenemies” at times like these.

Their names were chosen by each other, sometimes by vote, sometimes because their titles came naturally – out of the blue.

Famouse was so-called, in her desperation to make her name on stage or screen. It was an obsession. She showed off in huge style, batting eyelashes over two very large brown peepers. She couldn’t sing, just squeaked annoyingly. But she could play the fool in front of any audience. A perfect clown, the farmer’s wife was often heard to say. She could play it straight too, in a mousy, thespian sort of way. She also loved to model on a makeshift catwalk of gravel path, with meadow flowers stuck behind her pretty fawn-coloured ears. She could dance too. A glut of rock n roll; a plethora of jitterbug and lindy-hop. 

‘Ah, what talent,’ she would squeal to herself.  And her two best friends – her only real friends – stood back in what Famouse always thought was sheer wonderment.

I suppose she was right in a way, particularly because of Brabbit’s envy – notwithstanding her jealousy. Brabbit’s name came from “rabbit” of course, but the “B” stood for “Bashful”. She was a very shy bunny, though she wished she wasn’t. Her desire was to be the extrovert that her mouse pal was. She was sure that she had hidden talents. But what, she had no idea, except that she was clever and could work out the most magical maths sums – and division, subtraction and even multiplication.

‘Ah, what talent,’ she snuffled many-a-time, sniffing the air in self-absorption.

Then, of course, there was the “revered one” they originally named Cowslip. They’d thought the cow was a slip of a girl. Turned out she was a he. The shock on the faces of the mouse and the rabbit were comical in the extreme when they discovered the big, long “sausage” thing dangling between his legs, resting up against a jet-black snooker ball, either side. He explained to his friends – his fans of the field – that he was a stud; a boy who helped cows to have babies. That didn’t mean a great deal either to Famouse or to Brabbit. Course it didn’t – except that his amazing reputation went before him.  He was a superstar – a super-stud. Apparently, that made him the cream of the crop on the farm. All hail the newly named Cow-Boy, black and shiny and kingly. The farmer and his wife said they were so very proud of him. Famouse and Brabbit heard them talking about all the money they’d made from their “almost royal” bull. It seemed he’d fathered hundreds of calves – baby cows, that is. The next calf to be born – the three-hundredth – was to be celebrated with honours bestowed on Cow-Boy – with a “stud 300” rosette, a picture in the newspaper and an article online.

‘Huh,’ said Brabbit, in her own sulky way, flaring her nostrils, mouth downturned. ‘That’s two out of the three of us heading for fame and fortune. What about me? I’m not worth a dime.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ answered Famouse, squeaking like a puppy’s rubber toy, ‘It’s a waiting game we’re playing. Sooner or later, we’ll be online and in the papers like Cow-Boy here.’ Turning, she said, Like you, you great big, beautiful bull.’

‘Mooooo,’ said Cow-Boy, meaning that he couldn’t care a jot. He was gonna be in the limelight before long – and that’s all that mattered. ‘Soooooon,’ he added.

‘Nah, I’m too shy to show off,’ said Brabbit, wandering away with a back-foot thump, scrabbling down her rabbit-hole. Head-first, button-tail up, she fled as if gliding down a banana-slide. Down in the depths of her warren home, she wondered why Famouse was happy as a lark to climb up Cow-Boy’s forelock. To sit atop his big black head and tickle his ears with a blade of grass. Or lean forward to pull on his nose-ring, making him snort and sneeze. Cow-Boy loved it, Brabbit knew. 

She’d tried it herself, climbing up Cow-Boy’s long skinny tail, only to slip-slide down a stinking slurry of brown slimy sludge. Pure, unadulterated poop, it was. Cow-Boy had thought it hilarious, saying, in his own “moo-dy” way: 

‘What’s a bit of poo between friends.’ 

Brabbit had never climbed up there again – and never would. Yet they remained good pals – at a distance.

She clucked as she chewed on a juicy leaf, lolling in her warren, thinking about the hundreds of babies that Cow-Boy played “Daddy” to. It made her wonder why she hadn’t been applauded for all the baby kits she’d added to the field, going forth and multiplying, bringing them up to be good rabbits, then sending them on their way. It just wasn’t fair. But she’d “put-up-and-shut-up” like always. Too introverted to make a fuss. She just wiggled her nose and divided her time between ruminating and rummaging through her toys and keepsakes. Like a true mathematician.

She didn’t stop to wonder about her BFF, the mouse, or her inclination toward reproduction. Famouse was very close to the chest on such matters. She identified more as a “person”. Persons were most assuredly her people. In fact, she identified, wholly and happily, with Mrs Farmer, who was cute and petite and wore pretty, floral frocks. Her own special wish was to own her own little daisy number with daisy-emblazoned high-heeled shoes to match. Something like that, anyhow. She squealed happily at the thought.

‘Never gonna happen,’ the Cow-Boy moo-ed, just as happily.

***

Mrs Farmer had been a busy lady. Come the day of the celebration, she was well-organised. She’d put on a huge breakfast spread for the reporters and journalists – and she was expecting television’s North East News to show up. She’d heard that little tit-bit on the village grape-vine. Not one to ignore an opportunity, Daisy-Belle Farmer had dressed for the occasion; dressed to the hilt, in fact. Like a line-dancer, she’d taken the cowboy theme to a higher level. A whiz with a needle and thread, a guru of the sewing machine, she’d made herself a knee-length befringed skirt and a fringed top that sported a lovely daisy motif. She wore them now, with matching suede boots and a feathered cowboy hat.

Oh my, thought Famouse, she looks perfect, with her five-foot-high perfect figure, her perfect curled blonde hair and her long, slim, booted legs. 

‘No wonder Mr Farmer says his wife’s a beautiful daisy. One day, I’ll look just like her,’ she said, out loud, with rapid squeaks, it being a long sentence.

Terry Farmer looked on proudly, from the great height of five feet eleven, wearing a chequered red shirt Daisy-Belle had just finished sewing. Auburn hairs sprang out from the second shirt-button, showing off a well-muscled set of pectorals. His beard, sandy and scruffy, was as thick as the wavy hair beneath his cowboy hat. A bear of a man, he was, which is probably why everyone called him Teddy.

He smiled a lop-sided grin when Famouse sidled up to Daisy-Belle, the only person the field animals ever approached.

‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘You and I can be twins.’ She dressed the mouse in a tiny carbon-copy of her own outfit, slapping a diminutive cowboy hat onto Famouse’s head. 

‘There!’ Then she walked over to Cow-Boy, who’d been cleaned up, just an hour ago, by Teddy – and scrubbed to within an inch of his life. Daisy-Belle threw a huge, blue, suede blanket over his back, one side pronouncing him, “SUPER”, the other side, “STUD”.  Moo-ing and licking mama’s face, he looked well-chuffed. 

Famouse chuckled, ‘…eek’.

Brabbit did a twirl outside her rabbit-hole, thumping the ground and blinking her big brown eyes.

‘Ah, there you are, little rabbit.’ Mrs Farmer giggled.’ ‘Come here and get your pink bow, you shy, awkward little so-and-so. 

Brabbit hopped uncertainly toward the farmer’s wife, grabbing at the curling-ribbon bow with both front paws. She thumped the ground twice in a ‘thank you’ and sprang like a Jack-in-the-Box, skipping back to her warren.

‘That’s us all done, dusted and raring to go, Teddy Bear.’ Daisy-Belle grinned at her husband in delight. ‘All set for the party; the ceremony; the fame and the fortune.’

***

As though she’d predicted it, the TV reporters, newspaper journalists, veterinarians, representatives of the National Farmers’ Union and local farmers with their wives and kids were showing up. within minutes. In their droves.

Cow-Boy received his ‘300’ rosette and certificate. He was in a great moooood! The cameras clicked, the TV footage rolled, Mr and Mrs Farmer were interviewed by many members of media and social media.

Famouse climbed up Cow-Boy’s right front leg, up, up and away to the top of his head, posing and preening. Hands on hips, line dancing. Lying on her back, one knee over the other, tipping her cowboy hat at a jaunty angle. Leaning forward to kiss the bull’s nose, making him sneeze. And Famouse looked so cute when her outfit’s fringes covered the bull’s eyes. Everybody laughed. Everybody cheered. Everybody clapped hands. Lots of folks did the thumb-and-finger-in-mouth, screeching whistle. What a success.

Meanwhile, back at the rabbit warren, Brabbit looked forlorn, despite the glamour of the beautiful pink bow she wore around her fluffy, fawn, furry neck. She’d even found a glittery red-and-silver diadem she’d hidden – way down below – many moons ago. Talk about looking a million dollars; she sure looked the part of a Hollywood star. When she held the handle of the mirror she’d secreted in her underground lair, she looked glitzy and ritzy in that sparkly crimson tiara.

Can’t do it. Can’t go out there! Brabbit thought, shuddering in the tiny pink front-foot shoes she’d snaffled from a visiting little girl and her Barbie doll… oh, a lifetime ago.

She growled, she hissed, she grunted, plucking up courage – until finally, Brabbit shot out of the rabbit hole at what felt like a hundred miles an hour.

***

Brabbit landed in a skid at edge of the field, where Cow-Boy and Famouse were doing a video-shoot for Tyne Tees Television. She looked up to see two very proud faces – both smiling in the way mice and bulls smile. Then she adjusted her tiara, flopping around, all higgledy-piggledy, between two long, shapely rabbit ears.

Suddenly, she jumped, hearing the most blood-curdling scream. It was coming from Mamma. She was sure of it. 

What’s going on? What have I done? Where’s the dead body?

Then she realised. The lovely Mrs Farmer was pointing in her direction, shouting,

‘Oh my god, rabbit. You’re wearing my long-lost ruby bracelet! What a find. You’re a clever wee bunny.’

Daisy-Belle ran toward Brabbit, who was taken aback with joy, managing to trip over mamma’s ankles. ‘Is this a special gift to Mumsy from Clumsy?’ And she scratched the beautiful rabbit’s fuzzy-brown ears.

‘You all must know that rabbits’ ears are very, very lucky,’ she said, turning in triumph toward the throng of people crowding around. ‘This here’s my lucky bunny-charm.’

‘Take a photo,’ shouted Teddy from the sidelines. ‘Come on, you cameramen – get flashing. We’re in the presence of three famous farm-field critters. Take a bow, Mr Bull, Missy Mouse and Madam Rabbit.

They did – take a bow, that is. Even though Daddy Bear had got their names wrong. They didn’t care. They were all famous, weren’t they? Fame and fortune suited them. They grinned, as only a Cow-Boy, a Brabbit, and a Famouse can.

Teddy Farmer had the last laugh. Before everyone packed up to go home, he yelled at the celebrating throng, waving his arms in the air. 

‘You must all excuse my wife. So excited at finding her lost anniversary bracelet, she made a grave mistake. It’s not a rabbit’s ear that’s lucky – it’s a rabbit’s foot. Therefore, she should, on this great occasion, apologise profusely. And admit she’s really put her foot in it this time.’