wife...
E - I - Adio
The farmer wants wife #
The story of the farmer, his wife of five years
and her 1930's Austin Seven.
This isn't it!*
I ought to say now, this little story doesn't have a happy ending.
It's snowing in the Weald of Kent, and yes I should be ironing, however...
I find a little light blogging eases the pain of a throbbing thumb.
Back in the day; on my return from the Highlands, after five years of
living a self sufficient life, I returned to York.
I needed a job, and managed to land a well paid job selling chemicals and fertiliser
to farmers. Don't ask... yes me from living an organical life to that!
Needless to say I was absolutely blooming hopeless.
My boss used to say
'Linda the only thing you sell is yourself!'
Well it's before the 9 o clock watershed so we won't go into that! Joke!
'The dour Yorkshire farmers' warm to your bubbly outgoing personality,
it's just a pity you can't sell the products!'
I didn't last long; no surprise there.
Along the way I met a young farmer, eight years younger than me.
He I think, saw an unpaid helper hoving into view, plus a means to
get away from his father and brother.
Me, well I don't know what I saw; perhaps in my naive way I
thought farming with the use of tractors must be a lot easier than
the life I'd just left... wrong!
The days of unending toil on a small dairy farm, I just can't begin to
tell you. The highlight of my day was scraping out the muck on my little
red Fergie tractor. I drove huge trailers with big round bales through the
Vale of York. Loaded and unloaded thousands of small bales of straw.
The reason I now think, for my very worn out thumb.
Life was hard... bloody hard.
During that time, my father died. He lived about fifteen miles away,
and because of the workload I didn't get to see him as often as I
would have liked.
I phoned one Sunday afternoon of a very stormy weekend to see how he was.
A police officer answered the phone.
'He's dead isn't he!'
'I'm afraid so!'
Dad had died that Saturday night alone in his lovely little
cottage and I wasn't there for him.
Something in my heart changed, I could see the grinding toil of my life
stretching ahead without cease.
I knew, I just knew.
With some of my inheritance I bought myself an old
Austin 7,
British Racing Green,
BOL 715
The numberplate amused me, what with me living
such a champagne lifestyle.
I loved that car, although it cost me a fortune.
It continually broke down on my trips into York;
husband with serious hump would come out to tow me home.
Being towed at 40 - 50 miles an hour along twisty
country roads is not an experience I would recommend to anyone!
His way of getting me back I thought, for spending the money on something totally unsuitable: and yes I suppose he had a point.
One bleak morning I got up and knew I had to go.
I threw some clothes into a bag, got my little car out
and drove away without a word. Still milking, he didn't see me go.
I drove to my father's cottage, which luckily I'd kept, for this reason?
I think so, that's a lie, I know so.
That evening he arrived
'I've come to take you home!'
'No, I'm sorry!'
Why, did I say yes when he asked me to marry him?
A question I've asked myself many times.
There is no answer!
E - I - Adio
The farmer wants wife #
The story of the farmer, his wife of five years
and her 1930's Austin Seven.
I ought to say now, this little story doesn't have a happy ending.
It's snowing in the Weald of Kent, and yes I should be ironing, however...
I find a little light blogging eases the pain of a throbbing thumb.
Back in the day; on my return from the Highlands, after five years of
living a self sufficient life, I returned to York.
I needed a job, and managed to land a well paid job selling chemicals and fertiliser
to farmers. Don't ask... yes me from living an organical life to that!
Needless to say I was absolutely blooming hopeless.
My boss used to say
'Linda the only thing you sell is yourself!'
Well it's before the 9 o clock watershed so we won't go into that! Joke!
'The dour Yorkshire farmers' warm to your bubbly outgoing personality,
it's just a pity you can't sell the products!'
I didn't last long; no surprise there.
Along the way I met a young farmer, eight years younger than me.
He I think, saw an unpaid helper hoving into view, plus a means to
get away from his father and brother.
Me, well I don't know what I saw; perhaps in my naive way I
thought farming with the use of tractors must be a lot easier than
the life I'd just left... wrong!
The days of unending toil on a small dairy farm, I just can't begin to
tell you. The highlight of my day was scraping out the muck on my little
red Fergie tractor. I drove huge trailers with big round bales through the
Vale of York. Loaded and unloaded thousands of small bales of straw.
The reason I now think, for my very worn out thumb.
Life was hard... bloody hard.
During that time, my father died. He lived about fifteen miles away,
and because of the workload I didn't get to see him as often as I
would have liked.
I phoned one Sunday afternoon of a very stormy weekend to see how he was.
A police officer answered the phone.
'He's dead isn't he!'
'I'm afraid so!'
Dad had died that Saturday night alone in his lovely little
cottage and I wasn't there for him.
Something in my heart changed, I could see the grinding toil of my life
stretching ahead without cease.
I knew, I just knew.
With some of my inheritance I bought myself an old
Austin 7,
British Racing Green,
BOL 715
The numberplate amused me, what with me living
such a champagne lifestyle.
I loved that car, although it cost me a fortune.
It continually broke down on my trips into York;
husband with serious hump would come out to tow me home.
Being towed at 40 - 50 miles an hour along twisty
country roads is not an experience I would recommend to anyone!
His way of getting me back I thought, for spending the money on something totally unsuitable: and yes I suppose he had a point.
One bleak morning I got up and knew I had to go.
I threw some clothes into a bag, got my little car out
and drove away without a word. Still milking, he didn't see me go.
I drove to my father's cottage, which luckily I'd kept, for this reason?
I think so, that's a lie, I know so.
That evening he arrived
'I've come to take you home!'
'No, I'm sorry!'
Why, did I say yes when he asked me to marry him?
A question I've asked myself many times.
There is no answer!
* Can you believe that the only record of my little car and time on the farm, is on the Masterchef tapes?
It is nice getting to know your past adventures Linda. Where were you in the highlands? I was happy and sad reading this post and smiled at the number place of your little car! jayne x
ReplyDeleteI went from bottom left hand corner, a village near Tunbridge Wells to top right, North West coast, 10 miles north of Lochinver.
ReplyDeleteI think it was the snow yesterday making me feel melancholy. The bottom line for me is... enjoy. My trouble is, as Ted often says I do tend to put myself down. I think perhaps he's right, although I'd never let him know! As you might imagine that wasn't the full story. Thank you for commenting, it cheered me up, because I thought I'd frightened every other bod off!
LLX
Your Austin Seven brought back bittersweet memories for me - I was about 12 and it belonged to Alan next door, with whom I was in love. He called his car Ying Tong (he painted this neatly on the bonnet) and he played in a skiffle band. Swoon!
ReplyDeleteMy Uncle Jack had an open top Austin Seven and as kids we all thought it was a scream; not knowing really whether we were ashamed or delighted to be in it?
DeleteDonkey years ago when I worked on the Kentish Times, I well remember taking an advertisement for one for the princely sum of 18 quid, can you believe that? And worse than that I didn't frigging buy it! Happy days.
LLX