Parfitt and the Thieving Neighbour

Stories for Another Day

Parfitt, his father, his uncles and aunts, even his grandparents, were sheep farmers. His father, Renown, had the best flock in the country. Their wool was known for its exceptional softness and fineness, and it always brought the highest prices. As soon as Parfitt was tall enough to see over a sheep, he had become a shepherd, the same as his brothers and sisters and father and grandparents and great-great-grandparents had done.

Every morning as soon as it was light, he would go to the pen and open the gate. Then he would set out for whichever hill was greenest, with the sheep following, milling about and bleating. At the end of the day he would round them up, shouting and chasing after them, waving his arms, then he would lead them back, and shut them safely in their pen for the night.

But Parfitt wanted something more. Parfitt wanted to be a musician. His mother, before she left the family, had been a fine singer as well as playing the piano accordion, and when Parfitt found it in a dusty cupboard one day when he was eight or nine, he couldn’t keep his hands off it.

As soon as he touched it and heard its complaining wheeze, he was mesmerised. No more did he want to go out every day from sunrise to sunset and sit around on a hillside watching over a flock of silly sheep. He wanted to play this magical instrument, and fill the world with music.

His father didn’t agree. “Put that old thing down! Stop torturing our ears and go and do your work. Those sheep aren’t going to walk to pasture by themselves, you know!”

“But Father, I want to play music! I want to become a great musician, and fill the world with music!” Parfitt pleaded.

“There’s enough music in the world already,” his father grumbled. “Put that thing down and get going. “

Parfitt got going, but when his father wasn’t looking, he dragged the old accordion with him. As soon as he and the sheep reached the high, green pastures, he sat down and started to play. The sound was awful to begin with, but he kept trying until he could more or less make a tune. Day after day he would sit under a tree practising, while the sheep trotted to and fro on the hillside, until the day when the worst happened. When it came time to gather the sheep to take them home, they weren’t there.

Parfitt ran here and there, and found three, then four, but the rest had strayed to who knows where, looking for greener grass. He had to run home and tell his father that he had lost his sheep.

Renown called the older brothers and sisters to leave their work and come and help find the sheep before they fell over a cliff in the dark or were attacked by wild animals. By the time it was dark, every one of the sheep had been found and tucked safely into the sheep pen, but Parfitt’s father was so angry with him that he threw the accordion onto the ground and smashed it to pieces.

“No more!” he yelled. “From now on, you do your job minding the sheep and do it properly!”

Parfitt was angry and miserable and ashamed, angry that his father had destroyed the accordion so he could never play again, and miserable and ashamed because he knew his father was right. It was his job to look after the sheep, and he had failed them.

The next day he was determined to do the right thing and watch the sheep every minute. But it seemed that the small taste of music that the accordion had given him had woken an insatiable hunger in him. He roamed discontentedly among the sheep, patting them and calling their names now and then, but his mind was humming and his fingers were twitching.

There was a bamboo grove in a hollow nearby and Parfitt noticed that as the wind passed among the tall stalks, they moaned and whistled. He broke off a long hollow stick and trimmed it with his knife, making holes for his fingers and shaping a mouthpiece at one end. When he blew into it, it made an eerie, hollow sound, but to Parfitt’s ears it was music.

Now as he sat on the hillside or walked among the sheep, he played his bamboo flute, making up melodies and playing old tunes. When one flute broke because old Dot stepped on it or Tumble chewed it up, he simply cut another stalk of bamboo and started again. Before long, he could make a flute with exactly the sound he wanted, high and sweet, or low and cooing, as quick as anything.

Then one day, the very worst happened. He looked up from an especially tricky melody he was working on and ran his eye over the flock, counting swiftly as he always did, and at once he noticed that something was wrong. Trundle was missing!

He left the rest of the flock and ran east and west, up and down, yelling Trundle’s name. But the high wind blew his voice away, so he took out his flute and blew it as loudly and as sharply as he could, over and over. Finally he heard a distant answering bleat. He rushed towards the sound and found his missing sheep.

Trundle was browsing among the blackberry bushes, closed to the edge of a treacherous path. The last thing Parfitt wanted to do was shout and frighten Trundle into running away and falling over the edge. Instead he forced himself to sit down calmly and play the sweetest calls he could think of, until Trundle came trotting over to him. Then he led him back to the rest of the flock.

Such a close call gave Parfitt an a idea. From then on, he made up special tunes for the sheep, one that told them it was time to go home, and another that called them to follow after him, and a sharp, strident call that meant danger. He played them over and over, until the sheep knew them and would come whenever the right tune was played. For some of the most stubborn sheep, he made up their very own tunes that he played whenever they started to stray off. There was even a special skipping song for the new lambs. He loved playing his flute on the hillsides, twining their calls into long, winding melodies.

Then one day, the worst of the worst happened. He was sitting in the sun on the hillside with the sheep happily grazing back and forth when a gang of sheep-stealers sprang on him. They beat him with their sticks, and left him lying unconscious and bleeding, while they drove the sheep away.

When he didn’t come home, his father came to look for him. “Stolen! The whole flock, gone!” Renown groaned, when Parfitt told him what had happened. His eyes glinted with anger. “This must be the work of our neighbour, I’m certain. I’ve seen him many times looking enviously at our flock, wishing they were his own instead of the scrawny, rough-coated beasts he raises.”

Parfitt held his aching head and said, “What can we do? We have to get them back!”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Renown said. “Even if we accused him to his face, he will say that they’re his sheep. We can’t prove that they’re ours.”

Parfitt said, “But of course we can prove which sheep are ours. Every one of them knows me, and they’ll come when I call.”

Renown said doubtfully, “A hundred sheep, and you think you know each one of them? And each of them knows you?”

“Just let me try, Father,” Parfitt said.

So the next day they went to see the neighbour, a hard, grasping man with shifty eyes. He was hanging over the fence of his sheep pen, greedily counting the sheep crowded into it. Renown said boldly, “My sheep were stolen yesterday. You’re the thief, aren’t you? They’re here, hidden among your own miserable flock.”

“These are all my sheep,” the neighbour said, with a greasy smile. “Some of them may be a bit fatter than others, but they’re all mine. Do your sheep have your name on them?”

“Of course not,” Renown growled.

“So you can’t prove anything,” the neighbour sneered.

Parfitt said, “They have no marks that you can see, but my father’s sheep will listen to me and come when I call.”

The neighbour laughed. “Sheep that come when you call? I’ve never heard such rubbish! I’d like to see you try!”

Parfitt said, “Open the gate, and watch.” He put his flute to his lips and played. Out of the middle of the grey and dusty flock of sheep, Trundle, Dot and Tumble pricked up their ears and began bleating loudly. They pushed their way out of the neighbour’s flock and ran to the gate. Renown opened the gate, and Parfitt played the flock’s favourite call, time to go home. The rest of Renown’s sheep came running, knocking the thieving neighbour over in their rush. Soon they were all milling around him, bleating and calling. Parfitt set off for home, playing his happiest melodies, and they followed him.

The thieving neighbour was punished for stealing, and his flock was taken away from him and given to other sheep farmers who would look after them better. Renown’s flock continued to be the best in the country, and the best cared-for. From then on, every shepherd boy and girl wanted a flute of their own, and Parfitt was kept busy making flutes and teaching them how to play them, in between making up his own melodies and roaming the hills with the sheep, filling the world with music.