Deery me

On the way to the organic farm shop the dawter spied a herd of deer in a field. We drove past them on our right, leaving them behind us as we swung round the lanes towards the fresh vegetables. We arrived, on Monday, the sign said ‘Open Tuesday till Saturday’. So the girl turned the car round and we drove back, past the deer.
‘Shall we turn round so we can really see them.’ said the driver. Agreeing I folded up my mask and settled down for a five minute sigh fest. She pulled into a little lay-by, next to a metal fence. Inside was a lone female deer, her head caught between metal and wooden gates. What to do? The field was adjacent to a house that was showing its garden for charity.
Stirling Mossette did a perfect three point turn and we turned right towards the house. A full minute passed before we arrived. My, but the grounds were lush. The extremely well tamed drive took longer than it takes to get from Marble Arch to Park lane on a Friday night, in rush hour. The surrounding woods and copses were magical, although it did feel ever so slightly immoral that one family could own all this land when so many people were homeless. Still we had more pressing things on our mind.
We drove to a flower stall parked outside the house, who sent us back to the car park where a man with a frightfully plummy accent said he would call ‘Chris’.
Ms Button hit the pedal turned us round and drove us out onto the main road, then carefully parked outside the pen. I couldn’t look as the deer thrashed her head from side to side. We could see the blood coming as she tried to yank her stuck body.
“This is why we had to come here today.” said the dawter prophetically.
Suddenly I sprung to action, thank heavens I had my smart phone with me. I called the local wild life rescue centre who gave us the number of the local deer handlers in the area and we talked to ‘Chris’. He asked where we were and did we want him to come out. Durrrrr.
Then I did that thing, that thing you do when you have no idea what the next step is. I looked up, maybe that’s where ideas live up in the ether. I looked up into the left hand side of my brain and the lightbulb went off. I googled ‘Red Deer’ farms in the area, and bugger me if the very first voice that answered told me, yes they did indeed own a herd of deer, and could we describe exactly where we were.
My technological daughter brought up a map on the phone and pinpointed precisely where we were parked.
I realised that Ms Hamilton had gone really quiet, she’d turned the engine off and was looking intently at the deer. ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered.
”I’m telling her to stay calm and not move.”
Well whatever language Ms Lewis Button was talking that doe was listening, that beautiful creature stopped shaking and pulling and stood still. Stock still, even when the herd came over to try and encourage her to get out, she remained still.
Five minutes after my call a fancy SUV parked opposite us on the grass verge. A tall be-shorted feller and his smaller mate, who looked exactly like Anthony Worral Thompson, sauntered over to us. They were the very farmers who owned the herd. With one swift leap Wozza hopped over the 8 foot metal fence, don’t ask me how I was looking the other way, and gently moved the deer away from the gates, she pulled back and with one mighty bound leapt off to join her herd.
“She’ll be fine.” he said nonchalantly. No worry, no concern. Clearly it happened all the time. She had wandered into the pen and got her own self stuck. The wounds would heal quickly and all was well.
So two hysterical women, okay one hysterical woman, thanked them for coming and off we drove, the two men thanking us, not profusely, well they are British farmers after all, but they thanked us nevertheless.
The dawter called ‘Chris’ to cancel him.
What if we hadn’t gone to buy vegetables in a shop that wasn’t even open? What if we hadn’t turned round and gone back to look at that herd of deer? What if my daughter wasn’t a bloody witchy woo? What if I hadn’t had a lightbulb moment and we hadn’t got through to the famers? What if the farmers that owned the deer lived miles and miles away? What would’ve happened then?
“They’d have killed her and she would have gone the way of all the others.” said the old git.
‘What way’s that?’ asked his daughter.
“Slaughtered for the local butchers.”
‘Nooooo…’ wailed the dawter.
“Yes, what do you think venison is?”
“Deer, oh dear, oh deer.” She cried.
Precisely.