Rubric's Cube

Chapter 5 Small farm and family concerns, and the police.

"Come on then Jay."

Mark took me to a pile of sections of a tree trunk cut into cylinders somewhat under a foot long.

"We need these chopped into pieces suitable for the kitchen range."

"Hmm, like what?"

He pointed to a wheel barrow half full of timber pieces the length of the cylinders but all less than three inches across.

"Right, come and get dressed"

In a barn he made me put on steel capped boots, thick gloves and a face visor.

"Jesus," I said," is all this really necessary?"

"Oh yes."

"But -"

"For this piddling little smallholding?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that."

He handed me a three foot long axe with a steel head that gleamed dully in the sun through a film of oil, and then said.

"Believe me. Five years ago I'd have reacted the way you did. We were making money selling eggs, and goats milk and Olivia was making goats cheese in the kitchen and that was going down great. We were, I thought, making a go of a sustainable small simple farm and the girls were great sales women. Then we were visited by a food inspector. Fortunately he was a realist. Stopped us selling cheese. Said we had to pasteurise the milk. Stamp and grade the eggs. Get the vet to look at the stock. And as I was casually employing labour get Employers Liability Insurance, and by the way get Public Liability Insurance. I think he was sorry for us because he didn't throw the book at us. Just made us conform. Then the National Farmer's Union waded in. They were really helpful in expanding the overhead bill. Was a bloody nightmare. So, Jason, put the gear on and shut up. Health and Safety."

"Ouch. You didn't tell me about all that. Why?"

"I wanted to make it work. I was dreaming my dream. But the industrialisation of food production by corporate interests has crapped on that, with the connivance of politicians from Westminster to Brussels, and wherever else."

"You too," I muttered.

"What?"

"The last words Ellie said to me. Well, screamed 'You dreamer.'"

He put a hand on my shoulder. "Sorry," he said barely above a whisper.

"Ok," I said, mentally shaking myself, " give me a master-class in log splitting."

He showed me how to use the log splitter. This was a cone shaped piece of steel some six inches long which came to a point and was flat at the other two inch diameter end. This very heavy lump of metal was tapped point first into the grain of the timber until it was secure and was then welted harder with the back of the axe so the cone forced the wood into two parts. Once divided into three to five parts with the log splitter the axe alone was used to split the wood into the requisite pieces.

As I worked my way through the log pile I had to concentrate. One careless move and the axe would regain a mind of its own, and the splitter cone could spin away like a lethal demented shuttle cock, and in truth only a suit of steel armour would protect me.

The exercise was a relief in the September sunshine. I had no time think of my or Mark's troubles.

I stood to ease my back, unused to the effort.

Mark came up. "You've done well. This the second barrow?"

"Yes. I feel better for it too."

"That's why I won't let all this," he swept and arm to encompass the farm ", go. It's a good life potentially. Come, have some lunch. You haven't had breakfast, and only sandwiches yesterday. You must be ravenous, particularly after chopping that lot."