The Scarecrow Wears a Wire

by Paul Farley (Tramp in Flames, Picador)

The scarecrow wears a wire in the top field.

At sundown, the audiophilic farmer

who bugged his pasture unpicks the concealed

mics from its lapels. He's by the fire

later, listening back to the great day,

though to the untrained ear there's nothing much

doing: a booming breeze, a wasp or bee

trying its empty button-hole, a stitch

of wrensong now and then. But he listens late

and nods off to the creak of the spinal pole

and the rumble of his tractor pulling beets

in the bottom field, which cuts out. In a while

somebody will approach over ploughed earth

in caked Frankenstein boots. There'll be a noise

of tearing, and he'll flap awake by a hearth

grown cold, waking the house with broken cries.

We each hope that given time and experience, we may become experts in our chosen field. Here the farmer has taken steps to ensure that this is quite literally the case. He has audio-wired his scarecrow so that whatever goings-on in his field he misses during the course of the day, he can catch up on later at his leisure.

Some might think the farmer strange, but is it any stranger than being one of millions who sit and watch the same programme on television at the same time all over the country as if brainwashed? There is something rather disturbing about millions of people simultaneously doing exactly the same thing; it makes us seem so suggestible.

One might wish that the viewers free themselves from the self-imposed communal occupation of watching Coronation Street or EastEnders, and strike out on their own just as the farmer has: the farmer's interest is nothing if not individual.

In listening to the sound of the wrens and the noise of his own tractor as he pulled beets, the farmer gets to have his day twice, albeit from two different perspectives. As an audiophile he is a man who enjoys the reproduction of sound. His tractor, the weather and the noises of the birds and insects are the improvised music that he listens to, mixed in the field that is his own sound studio.

I have often wanted to bug our three dogs with a camera and mike. One of them sings to herself sometimes, and we have no idea what sets her off. They have conversations, torment each other and play, not unlike children. I would like to see what they're doing when we're not looking, and which one always pees on the rug. But preoccupation with the rest of life has prevented me from making time to do something about it. (I'm curious, but not so curious that I would give up necessary chores to practise a little pet-voyeurism.)

The farmer, however, specifically makes time to review his daily scarecrow tapes. What goes on in his fields is a constant fascination for him; everything from the creak of the “spinal pole” that holds the scarecrow aloft, to the noise of his own boots, made “Frankenstein” by being caked in mud from the ploughed field, as he comes to take the wire from his scarecrow.

When he nods off while listening to his tape of the day, he is cushioned by the wind that disturbs the clothes on the scarecrow, and the wasp or bee that must sound deafening as it buzzes near the microphone.

The recording ends with the sound of the microphone being ripped from his scarecrow's lapel, which wakes him unhappily, so that he lets out “broken cries” that disturb the whole house. It is as if he has been suddenly thrown from the womb of field noise that enveloped him, into a room of responsibilities, where the fire is out, the hearth is cold and the lullaby is over. He flaps as one might, when shocked from deep sleep. But tomorrow is another day that he can enjoy twice, full of bees, birds, and breezes in a beet field.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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