TODAY WE WELCOME AUTHOR, LIZA GRANTHAM, WHO SHARES A BRIEF AUTHOR BIO AND AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 20 OF HER NOVEL, 'MAD COWS AND ENGLISHMEN' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

AUTHOR BIO

I was born in 1965, in the East Midlands brewery town of Burton-on-Trent. I worked as a primary teacher in England and Gran Canaria, before relocating to Galicia, northern Spain.

I'm the author of Mad Cow in Galicia memoir series; the ongoing humorous saga of a reasonably-happily-married couple getting to grips with the challenges of rural life. The series is packed with animal antics and country capers, as you can see in the following extract from Mad Cows and Englishmen (book 1).

CHAPTER 20

This Land is My Land

On Tuesday morning there was discord down in the henhouse. The chooks were bickering like fishwives when I opened the door. Disgruntled by the disturbance, Rufo paced at the threshold. I left him to put his foot down and strolled back across the run. I was almost at the door when he charged in front of me. He launched himself forward and jabbed me hard on the knee. When I nudged him away with my foot it enraged him. This time he meant business; he attacked with his claws.

Back in the kitchen I rolled up the leg of my joggers. My knee was bleeding and a bruise was already appearing on my shin.

‘Look at the state of my leg,’ I said to Gary.

‘Crikey, Liza, you aren’t half clumsy. How the heck have you managed to do that?’

‘I haven’t done anything, it was Rufo.’

‘You’ve got to be joking. You’re telling me the cockerel’s done that?’

‘He’s never attacked me before.’

‘He has, though, hasn’t he? Come on, Liza, you told me last week…’

‘I told you he was pecking my wellies. This is different. It’s the first time he’s gone for my leg.’

‘I wonder what’s made him aggressive. It’s as if he’s deranged or disturbed.’

‘That sounds like Chanticleer.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He was a randy cockerel with lots of wives. It’s Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales. If I can remember the story it might give me some idea of what to do.’

‘Did this Chanticleer attack people, then?’

‘No, he had nightmares.’

‘I can’t see how that would help. It’s not the same.’

‘I know it’s not, but it’s similar. His favourite wife, Pertelote, suggested he was beset by melancholy choler.’

‘You what?’

‘In Chaucer’s day they believed that physical conditions were caused by moods.’

‘But Rufo’s not ill.’

‘No, but he’s angry. That’s red choler. The same treatment might work.’

‘Sometimes you’re on another planet.’

‘Shh, I’m thinking. That’s it, I remember now. He needs purging.’

‘He needs necking, more like.’

The idea of purging was quickly abandoned; I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Pertelote had prescribed. Blackberries rang a bell, but they weren’t exactly prolific in April and I didn’t dare improvise for fear of sending Rufo to an early grave. Sometimes the simplest solutions were the soundest; somehow I needed to hide when Rufo emerged.

Next morning I crept across the enclosure and lifted the latch on the henhouse. I eased the door towards me, walking slowly backwards until I was pressed against the side of the house. I stood on tiptoe and watched from my hideout. It wasn’t long before Rufo strode into view. He turned to the north and crowed loudly. He turned to the south and crowed again. He turned to the east but didn’t crow a third time; instead he froze and tilted his head. Suddenly he charged round the back of the house and, before I realised what was happening, he flew at me from behind. Trapped in my erstwhile haven, my only means of escape was to step over my assailant. As I made my move he jabbed at me repeatedly. I yelled out in pain as I fled to the door of the run.

‘Perhaps it’s just you,’ said Gary, as I inspected the damage.

‘What do you mean “just me”? I’m not exaggerating, Gary, you can see the mess he’s made of my shins.'

‘I didn’t mean it’s just your imagination, I meant perhaps it’s only you he’ll attack.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Well, he saw you catching the hens and clipping them. Now he sees you stealing the eggs.’

‘Ah, I’ve got you. He sees me as a predator.’

‘Exactly. Perhaps he wouldn’t attack me.’

‘You were involved in the clipping.’

‘But I didn’t actually catch them.’

‘That’s true. You were hopeless. Go on then, it won’t hurt to give it a try.’

‘I’ll go now while he’s still feeling angry, I’ve got time before Carlos arrives.’

It wasn’t long before he stamped back into the kitchen.

‘Bastard flew at me!’

I stifled a giggle.

‘He never?’

‘He did. He came at me with his claws up. He’s drawn blood.’

In the evening my thoughts returned to my deviant cockerel. It seemed as if my efforts to outwit him had only served to fuel his rage. There was no doubt in my mind his attacks would continue; damage limitation was the only option that remained.

Out in the barn I dismantled two cardboard boxes, fastened them with parcel tape, and constructed a large cylinder. It was a foot and a half in diameter and when I stood inside it the cardboard came up to my thighs. By holding it a couple of inches off the ground I was able to shuffle forwards. I waddled across the lane and into the kitchen to give it a trial run.

‘What the bloody hell is that?’ smirked Gary.

‘It’s armour,’ I said indignantly.

‘Armour? You look like a jack-in-the-box.’

‘Bugger off. I think it’s rather ingenious.’

‘Hmm. If you say so.’

‘Look, it’s a hundred per cent fool-proof. He can jab and claw at the cardboard all he likes. Whichever way he comes at me I’m protected; only my wellies will be exposed.’

‘And you’re going to wear it every morning?’

‘Yes, for the time being, but I’m sure he’ll stop attacking me when he sees I don’t react. When we’ve broken the habit I won’t need it. He’ll soon be back to the lovely bird he once was.’

On Thursday morning I was feeling optimistic; encased in my cock-proof armour I’d be impervious to Rufo’s attacks. I’d be able to enjoy the hens as they pottered in the lovely spring sunshine and as for Rufo, well… I supposed I was about to find out.

I strode across the run and pulled the door wide open. The hens were still making their minds up as Rufo strutted out crossly and ran at my shield. The stiffness of the cardboard seemed to confuse him. He paused for a moment, stepped back, and stared.

‘Ha,’ I said. ‘That’s got you flummoxed. What do you propose to do now?’

He arched his neck and hurled himself towards me, this time catching the cardboard with his claws. He stepped back a second time and shook his head fiercely, as if in a state of stunned disbelief. For a moment it seemed he might throw the towel in, but I should have known better. This was no Chanticleer; this was Rufo and he was no ‘timorous poltroon’. All of a sudden he beat his wings keenly and flew up above my armour. I screamed as I felt his beak pierce my thigh. I reached for the edge of the cardboard so that I could shuffle back to safety but Rufo, like lightening, flew forwards, clawing my hand. I stepped out of the cardboard and thrust it against him, then brandished it wildly as I ran backwards to the door of the pen.

‘What news of the human toilet roll?’ asked Gary, as I stomped into the kitchen.

‘Not funny,’ I said. ‘I need a fag.’

‘I gather it wasn’t a success, then?’

‘It works in principle. It just needs a minor adjustment.’

‘Such as?’

‘Extending it up to my waist.’

‘You don’t mean he…?’

‘Yes. The crafty blighter aimed above the cardboard. I’m telling you, Gary, he was thirsting for blood.’

Revived by caffeine and refreshed from a shower, my spirits lifted; it wasn’t long before I was back in my stride. I was pegging out the laundry when I heard the sound of cow bells. Anxo began to bark as the first of the herd clomped past the gate. I wandered over to watch the parade of unlikely contradictions: bulky, yet beguiling, with their pendulous bellies and bony behinds. At the back of the procession a wild-eyed calf shied and skittered, while Res snapped at its ankles and Javier sauntered behind.

They disappeared around the corner and I was about to return to my pegging, but suddenly I heard Javier shouting and the wild-eyed calf shot back past the gate. Res, barking gruffly, dashed off in pursuit, but as Javier came panting after, the calf galloped by again.

‘Whoa! Whoa!’ Javier yelled, as the calf charged past him.

‘Whoa! Whoa!’ shouted José Manuel who, on hearing the commotion, had joined the chase.

With its pursuers at both ends of the lane the calf panicked and fled across the verge at the side of number ten, startling Maruja and old Pastor who were on their way to join the throng.

‘Reina, Res! Reina!’ cried Javier.

Res, confused, tore off in the wrong direction. Within seconds, the calf shot by again. I was beginning to think that the farce might go on for hours, when a deep lowing came from behind the barn. As the cow came into view the calf trotted calmly past our annexe. Reunited, the pair strolled off to join the herd.

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COMING SOON: On Monday, 28th July, our fabulous team member, author Lorraine Carey, met the Flash Fiction Challenge and is sharing her short story, 'You Were Meant To Be Here'.