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This story was added to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's war website by Helen Jubb, ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Leeds, on behalf of the contributor, Mildred Holdsworth, with her permission.

I was sent to Knaresborough where we were housed in former Italian prisoner’s huts. One contained twenty double bunks, with straw palliasses grey blankets. Through the door the ablution block, sinks and three bathrooms. A cupboard with racks for boots and wellies. The sleeping quarters included small cupboards and chest of drawers for each bunk, two anthracite stoves and a few rag rugs on the cement floor. Over in the other hut were the kitchen and dining room and a small area for a stove and radio and easy chairs.

The food was plentiful but stodgy, there was no cover between the huts and one had to squelch through the snow in winter. There were men’s bikes to cycle to work, an old jeep took the gangers who were rented out for hoeing and planting potatoes etc. I preferred the bike as I liked looking after the stock and milking, dairy work. We had our entertainment in Knaresborough. The local dance hall was run by a family called Spencers. There was plenty of Service personal billeted around this part of Yorkshire at this time so we soon made a few friends. I was one of a gang of three, one blond girl, one ginger and myself, dark brown. We must have looked attractive as we had plenty of male company, to take us dancing or on the river, boating, and plenty of pubs to visit. The girls had to be in by 11pm and the Wardess used to flash us out with her torch from behind the bushes and trees as we were bidding our boyfriends’ goodnight.

My first farm was up Boroughbridge Road, before you get to Minskip, a place called Ferensby, I cycled there every morning to be in the cow shed by 7am. One day after dairy work (all the utensils had to be washed after use), I harnessed the carthorse called beauty, (the other one was called Boxer), to a cart, led her to a mangel field, (they were rather like turnips but red skinned). I had to fill the cart and return them to the farm. Leaving the field after a full load I led the horse out but the wheel got caught in the ditch by the gate, straightening up the contents rolled into the road. While I was busy forking them up a distant rumble made me aware of some oncoming traffic--- over the brow of the hill came a line of armoured car and tanks. They came to a halt as I rushed about clearing the road of mangels, and a soldier or two popped their heads out of the tank turret and fortunately their remarks were jovial---I leave the reader to imagine the conversation. I got a date for the Saturday night though.

On another farm in Scriven, not far away from the Hostel I was collecting the large empty 20-gallon milk churns from a platform at the top of the hill. It was a very windy day, and as I looked down the hill towards the farm a huge gust of wind blew the roof off the large barn as if it was made of matchsticks and landed down with a crash. When I alerted the farmer who was finishing his dinner, just said, ‘Is the tractor alright?’ Fortunately it missed the tractor. This same farmer was gored by the bull one day- fractured some of his ribs. I had to feed a younger bull that day and when I entered his stall with the food he usually went straight to the trough but this time he just stared at me and lowered his head. I dropped the skep and flew out, leaving him to help himself. The skep was retrieved later when he was tethered up. I felt I had had a lucky escape. I was asked to round up six sheep with the dog from a nearby field. When we arrived there the dog turned tail and ran, did not understand my orders apparently. I was left chasing the sheep all over the field but managed to get back with only one missing who was busy eating her breakfast in the adjoining turnip field. I was greeted with, ‘Where the ‘ell has that been, I was only larking when I asked you to round em’ up.’ That was the only thanks I got from the farmer that day. One morning we all gathered round the farm gate by the main road to see Churchill ride by. Oh yes and he gave us his well-known salute as we waved and cheered hanging over the gate. Country people were very patriotic. Also at another time Monty rode by wearing his double badged cap. He got the same reception.

One afternoon I was told to harness the two carthorses and take them to Arkendale about a mile down the road, for them to be shod by the local shoesmith, now you ride one and the other walks besides. The horse was so high I had to climb a farm gate to mount her. She kept moving away as I got one leg over and I nearly fell off. I eventually managed to seat myself and off we plodded while Boxer, the other horse sometimes came too close and squashed my leg. On arriving at Arkendale I jumped down and watched a bit of the procedure and then ambled off to a café that sold delicious sticky buns. I tucked in while the farmer attended to the horses. Off we returned, (I found another convenient gate to remount this time).

One of my morning jobs was to deliver the milk to the local cottages. A large milk churn hanging over the handle bar of an ancient bike without breaks, (you had to put your foot on the wheel or crash into a hedge to stop). One ladled the milk into beaded gauze covered jugs left on the doorstep by the house owners. I used to whistle on my round, the locals called me ‘Whistling Rufus.’ I wonder why, who was Rufus?

When it was time to round the cows for milking you just went to the field gate and shouted, ‘Cush Cush,’ and they all came along and found their own stalls in the shed where we had to put the cow food ready in their troughs. So clever of them I thought, till one day a cow slipped on the greasy cement floor knocking the old farmer over, and it scattered the rest of the herd not knowing which way to go. On helping the farmer get up, he shouted as if it was my fault, ‘you black Irish bitch!’ my hair was dark and curly in those days—I wonder why he thought I was Irish? Still, it did not deter me too much and I had another farm to go to. It was just as well I changed farmers at that time as I was falling in love with the farmer’s son, and he was already engaged….

Threshing day there was fun, as we lowered the corn sheaves into the machine from the stack. A dreadful odour would tell us that a rat’s nest was near. The rats fled as we exposed the nest, and the dogs caught them, we bagged seventy one day. They were pinned on a board by their tails, to warn other rats perhaps? The W.L.A. provided girls to farms in a fifty-mile radius round Harrogate and we came to know many pretty villages round the region. Once I was sent to some stables near Ripley Castle, to clean the stalls and feed the horses, cycling there and back- we were healthy girls then.

The girls at the hostel felt like going on strike about the contents of their lunch boxes, not enough variation or content. Too many cheese and beetroot sandwiches, but not enough to feed hungry girls doing men’s work. It was sorted out eventually and the ‘packing out.’

We were so hungry one day we ate turnips only to have tummy ache afterwards. We were paid 28/6 a week approximately £1.42p plus our board and lodging. Some farmers gave the girls a good dinner. I got a bowl of rice pudding now and then, sitting on the cottage doorstep. It was tantalising seeing the thick cream rising to the top of the milk churns before they were taken away to the big dairies elsewhere. We worked from 7am till 5pm- 5 and a half days a week, half hour for dinner and ten minutes for drinks.

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