Open Writing

For some reason my parents were away and I was left in the care of Mrs. Woodward who had lived in Birmingham for many years. Because of the end of a lease she had lost her house and was living with us, helping to look after me while my parents worked.

I was eleven years old at the time, having left my junior school and waiting to go to the grammar school in the September. I was probably quite a handful for an old woman to look after, and so Mrs. Woodward decided to take me to her brother’s farm. I think that it was many years since her last visit, and she was dying to see again the farm which had been her home when she was a child.

We went by train from Birmingham and arrived at the nearest station which, I think, was Tamworth in Arden, real Shakespeare country. At the station we were met by an old man with a pony and trap.

“Hello, Mary. It’s been a long time. Where’s the long golden hair gone?”

“Same place as yours, John. Neither of us is a spring chicken any more, but it’s good to see you looking so well.”

“You as well, Mary. Well who’s this then?”

I was introduced and shook hands with the old man. We climbed aboard the trap and trotted off towards the village of Lapworth where the farm was situated. It was all new to me. I was a city boy born and bred. I had never been on a farm before and did not know what to expect.

After a mile or two along country lanes we arrived at the farm which was much bigger than I had expected. The farm house itself was big, dating from the time when people had large families, and there were barns and stables surrounding it. To my disappointment, except for the odd chicken pecking in the yard, the whole place was deserted.

“They’re all out at the harvest,” we were told. “We’ll go and join them if you like, but you can’t go in those clothes.” This to me. “Mary,” he said, “You know your way about. You’re in the little attic room which you had as a child. I thought you’d like that. I suggest you unpack and then make yourself a cup of tea. I’ll take this lad up to the top field and introduce him to the young ‘uns.”

He took me into the farm, into a bedroom where there were three beds. He soon found some clothes which he told me his grandson had grown out of and told me to put them on instead of the smart clothes I had travelled in. As soon as I was ready he led me through the kitchen into the farmyard and up to the field where they were harvesting the wheat crop.

I was found a job helping his three grandchildren, two boys a little older than me, George and Jim, and a girl, Mary, of the same age, to collect the sheaves and pile them into stooks. I found that I had learned two new words in the process. It looked dead easy at first, and so it was, but soon I was sweating with the unaccustomed effort. I was just about at the end of my tether when everyone stopped and picked up stout sticks. One was found for me, though I had no idea of what I was to use it for. I joined the workers as they surrounded the diminishing area of corn in the middle of the field.

Suddenly a rabbit bolted out. He didn’t get far. Soon they were coming out thick and fast, dashing everywhere in their panic to escape the deadly sticks. I was horrified. This was my first experience of the bloody side of farming. My family owned two greengrocers’ shops and we sold rabbits. I had even been shown how to skin them, but I had never really connected the dead meat in the shop with the live bunnies running around the countryside. To show willing, I helped to gather up the still warm, limp bundles.

“A fat lot of good you were! You just stood there and watched. You didn’t even get one!” The contempt in Mary’s voice made me blush with shame. When we had finished stacking the stooks, we followed the rest of the workers into the next field and started again. It was almost dark by the time we finished for the day and went back to the farm. I know I washed and went into supper, but that was the last I remembered. I must have fallen asleep at the table, for the next thing I remember was being shaken awake in the morning by George and Jim who were already dressed.

Each day on the farm was different from the one before, especially for a city boy like me. Mary’s mother showed me how to milk a cow, skim the milk and make butter. The skimmed milk went to the pigs. I went out with her uncle shooting pigeons, and he let me have a shot. I cleaned out the stables with Jim and rode the horses around the fields. I was shown how to use a pitchfork to load the sheaves into the threshing machine. I went fishing.

I swam in the river with Mary and the boys. I was the better swimmer, having a pool a couple of hundred yards from home in Birmingham. Unfortunately, it was the only thing I could boast about. All three were better than me at everything else. The sun shone every day (as it always does in childhood memories), and we were outside from early morning until it was dusk every evening.

There were huge meals every evening. There were eight plus Mrs. Woodward and me to feed. Sometimes there were more when people who had come to help with the harvest stayed for supper. Mary’s aunt was the cook. She produced huge rabbit pies with golden crust which melted in the mouth. One night we each had a pigeon, the first I had ever tasted. I had never in my life before worked so hard, and I am certain I did justice to the wonderful meal every evening.

Suddenly the time had come for us to go home. Jim and George were firm friends, and I learned for the first time that it is possible to love two girls at the same time -- Philomena at home and Mary on the farm. We were pressed to return to help with the harvest the following year, and I was determined to do so.

But, sadly, it did not happen. My parents sold up and moved from our large house in the middle of Birmingham to a semi on the outskirts. Shortage of space meant that Mrs. Woodward could no longer be with us and moved into a tiny cottage miles away.

Then the war came, which changed all our lives.