大象传媒

After the relief and excitement of VE Day died down, we finished our training at the milking school, and went our separate ways. I went back to my original hostel, as a relief milker was needed for a local farmer after his cowman had been taken ill. Although it was very comforting to meet up with old friends, I wasn't very happy on the farm. I had been told that my midday meal would be provided, but when I accompanied the farmer back to his house at 12 noon the next day, I was told I had to go round to the kitchen door, where a very supercilious maid sniffed, then made me sit on the doorstep to eat the indifferent stew and rhubarb and custard dolled out to me. After that, I took sandwiches and ate them in an empty stable. The farmer only spoke to me when it was absolutely necessary and made it obvious that Land Girls were beneath his contempt, even though he was glad to call upon us to help him out. I wasn't sorry when his cowman returned to work!

However, it was a case of 'out of the frying pan into the fire', when I moved on to my next job, again as a relief milker. The farmer and his wife were an ill matched couple, and whereas he was devoted to his farm and the animals, she liked to go out as much as possible and would get the bus each day into Grantham to shop, or visit friends and relatives. Consequently, in addition to my chores I had the unenviable task of looking after two lively, and not very well mannered toddlers. I was constantly rescuing them from the tops of ladders, the hay loft or the hen huts, into which they would climb and frighten all the hens, so much so that the poor creatures stopped laying. My hands were itching to slap them, but their father had an odd habit of watching me from the window of the outside toilet. I often wonder why he spent so much time in there!

Then there was the pig a huge boar which the farmer was fattening up for Christmas (the Government allowed the farmers one each) and I was simply terrified of it. It was docile enough, and probably wouldn't have harmed a fly, but nevertheless, I didn't dare go into its sty even to feed it. I would stand at the half door and throw the bucketful of food into the general direction of its trough, and if most of it missed that was just too bad. The sty was well out of sight of the farm buildings so, therefore, when the creature got out of its sty, which it often did, and went foraging in the village, probably because it was hungry, we didn't know about it until a breathless girl or boy would rush up the lane yelling, "'T pig's out". As I was too self conscious to admit my fear, I had to go and fetch it back. Armed with an enormous stick, sweating profusely, I would drive it back to its sty, and certainly it would trot back quite happily after its taste of freedom until the next time. But I never forgave that pig, and my only consolation was that come Christmas, it would get its come uppance.

I was not to see that happen though, as once more I moved on to replace a cowman who had fallen off a ladder and broken his leg. There was a small herd of about 20 hand milked cows, but for some reason I couldn't get them to give of their best. As all the herds I worked with were TT attested, and I could see the figures on the charts gradually declining, I could tell that the farmer was beginning to get worried and seriously doubting my ability. I did everything I could to get those cows to have confidence in me, but to no avail. Then one day I noticed that when my boss was milking, he was softly whistling to the cow, and always the same tune 'Coming home my darling' a Vera Lynn favourite. In desperation I emulated him, and to my great pleasure and relief it worked, and I had no more trouble after that.

It was whilst I was working on this farm that I had my first experience of threshing, and found it quite exciting. Everybody was roped in, farm workers from other farms, villagers and off duty Air Force lads. It was my job to help throw the sheaves (no pick up balers on this farm) to the men who cut the bands before feeding them into the thresher no inexperienced person allowed near the treacherous machine. As we worked towards the bottom of each stack, men with guns, dogs and young boys would station themselves at a distance to catch the rabbits, rats, mice and other rodents which would dart from the warmth and safety of the stack. Each farmer would help his neighbour, using the same hired thresher, and we would work late into the evenings until the job was finished. There was a great feeling of camaraderie at these times, with plenty of laughing and joking, and the farmers' wives and children bringing us tea, cider, sandwiches and great wedges of apple pie to keep us going. Sometimes German or Italian prisoners of war would be brought along to supplement our numbers, easily identified by the large coloured circles on their brown or grey green uniforms. They were waiting to be repatriated, and at first I was suspicious and very resentful of them, but then thinking how our boys who had been prisoners of war over in Germany must have longed to see a friendly face, an uneasy truce was reached, when we would learn a few words of each others languages, and show each other our family photographs. They were hard workers, especially the Germans, and at the week ends they could be seen busy working in the gardens of their living quarters. When one of the Germans learnt that I had a small niece, he presented me with a home made wooden toy for her and a photograph frame made from a corned beef tin. One of the Italian prisoners gave me an Italian dictionary, but I lost it out of my pocket cycling home.

The hostel I was living in at this time had one of those old fashioned, heavy mangles in the scullery with large wooden rollers, which we used for our washing. It squeaked, wheezed and groaned so much when it was being used that it was banned after 7 o'clock in the evening. As I worked late though I got special dispensation by the warden, but this was taken away from me when I went off home one week end with the key of the locked cycle shed in my pocket!

I felt a little disgruntled when I was moved once again to replace a sick Land Girl, as I had got quite fond of my cows, but I found it was really a step up in the world, as I was to help with a herd of pedigree Red polls. I moved to a hostel nearer to Grantham, and was given a lift to the farm complex every day in a battered old Ford van, driven by a girl who had never taken a driving test, or even had a lesson, and I took my life in my hands as we whizzed round the narrow lanes. The owner of the estate was virtually the squire, as the majority of the inhabitants of the village were in his employ. A row of neat cottages with attractive gardens stood at one side of the one and only street, and these were occupied by the head herdsman, second herdsman, shepherd and general estate workers.

I learned that the sick girl I was replacing was a friend of the squire and his family, and therefore lived in their house, a huge Tudor style mansion on the top of a hill at one end of the village. When the squire, who soon became a familiar figure with his little grey poodle, Candy, was needed up at the house, or at meal times, his wife would ring a large Ship's bell outside the back door. At the other end of the village, next to the level crossing and the gate keeper's cottage, was the village pub. This was always well patronised, as there was really nowhere else to go, with only one bus a week serving the village, but it did have an enthusiastic, if unskilled, darts team. Even I was enrolled as a member, although I would hit the wall more often than the board, but we would be invited to play other village teams, usually reached by bicycle, and there was always a supper laid on for us. With rations tight, and very little to offer in food at the village shop, this was always welcome.

I really enjoyed my work with a pedigree herd, and I learned a great deal too. The importance of breeding with the correct strain (and it was always a joy to arrive in the morning and find a brand new calf), the complicated feeding methods, incorporating the appropriate amounts of protein, fats, salt, greenstuff and so on, the right way to carry a cwt. sack so I didn't hurt my back, how to separate milk and churn butter, and how to hold the cows correctly whilst they had their TT injections (although washing and scrubbing the slimy halters afterwards was a chore I did not enjoy). I did take time off though to join the revellers celebrating the end of the war in Japan, drinking glass after glass of 'pink pop'. What a lot of long faces there were too when the pub ran out of beer!

I did have a 'bete noir' though the boiler. Although the estate was equipped with the most up to date farming machinery and methods, they had overlooked the boiler, an ancient, shaky coke fired monstrosity. I lit it every morning, and as the needle on the pressure gauge climbed up to the necessary temperature required before releasing the steam into the steriliser, that old boiler would start thumping, the pipes to shake, and the joints to rattle, and I would pray the needle would make haste and I could quickly release the pressure and bring the whole lot back to its creaky normal. I hated that boiler more than I had previously hated the pig! One morning, after a very wet night, the darned thing would not light, and I thought rain water must somehow have got into the pipes, so as a last resort I threw some paraffin into the fire box, followed by a lighted match. The resounding 'Whoomph' knocked me across the boiler room, and scorched off my eyebrows, eye lashes and the front of my hair. Fortunately my woollen head scarf had protected the rest. I staggered out of the boiler house, my face streaked with dirt and soot, straight into the person of the squire. He inspected me and then the offending iron monster, and declared that no damage had been done to the boiler and that the fire was burning nicely! On several occasions after that he said he would really try and replace the boiler, but they were still difficult to get even though the war was over I bet he is still using that excuse!

I became quite friendly with the head herdsman's family he had four children and I would eat my sandwiches in their living room at the same time as they had their dinner, and many a time I was treated to a large slice of apple pie, a plateful of shepherd's pie, or a dish of milk pudding. Those who have tasted the latter when it is made with the first milk after a cow has calved have tasted ambrosia, and it was a delicious supplement to my sandwiches of thick bread, margarine and cheese. After afternoon milking I would play games with the children until my transport arrived to take me back to the hostel. I got into the happy state of feeling settled and useful in my work. I had got to know the habits and moods of all the cows and bulls and enjoyed feeling the way the calves depended on me as they sucked the milk from the bucket through my fingers, until they were old enough to feed themselves. As they got older, I would spend the time playing with them, and my mother despaired of the dirty handkerchiefs I sent home with my washing, which I had used 'to wipe the calves' noses'. I didn't get home very often, and rarely went into Grantham, the nearest town, but I didn't mind the isolation, as the villagers, even old 'Grandad', who propped himself at his gate all day, had accepted me as a friend. Therefore, it was with a sad heart that I learned that the other Land Girl would be returning, which was rather uncharitable of me considering she had been ill.

As I had some leave due to me, I was granted this before moving on to my next place of work, possibly in another area. I had only been home a few days when I developed some irritating spots on my head. As these grew worse, I paid a visit to my doctor, who appeared to be pretty baffled and referred me to a consultant. By this time the spots had turned into large messy scabs, which were gradually spreading towards my neck. The consultant diagnosed an infection caused by the straw dust, and in order to treat it, I had to have all my hair cut off. I felt too ill and upset to worry about the messy spikes of hair left all over my head, as the scabs had now spread to my ears and face, but fortunately the infection responded to treatment, and it wasn't long before it had cleared up, and I was declared fit enough to return to my duties. My parents begged me to let them try and secure my release from the Land Army, but I had found my forte and longed to go back. When I received a letter stating that the squire, my last employer, had decided there was work enough for two Land Girls on his estate, and had requested that I returned on a permanent basis, my parents relented. With a scarf around my shorn locks, I went back happily, and found that instead of living in a hostel I was to be billeted at the head herdsman's house. It was a little overcrowded with four children, but we managed. The cottage did have a bathroom, but it was necessary to heat the water in a stone built copper, a long process, as I would cart rain water down from the dairy water butt, having heard that it was very good for washing one's hair. Nature took its course and my hair did grow and oh joy it was wavy and curly, and remains so to this day. Thank goodness for rain water!

As I was now 'living on the job', I was often woken in the night to help with a calving, occasionally a difficult one. At first I was very nervous, and even frightened, but this was soon overcome by the need to relieve the poor cow's suffering, and the joy of seeing the young calf, cleaned up and nuzzling its mother. I managed to come to terms with the vagaries of the boiler by convincing the other Land Girl that she was much more persuasive with it than I, and so she took over the job of sterilising the milking equipment. Working in a man's sphere for so long, it was very pleasant to have another girl for company, and we worked well together, but, since her illness, although she would perform most tasks, she refused to go in the cow shed when the animals were there, and the thought of going into the bull pens made her pale. So we each found ourselves doing the work we enjoyed most, and after milking, we would join forces in the dairy, getting the great churns of cooled milk ready for collection, and dishing out milk and butter to the villagers, who straggled up to the dairy with their assorted milk cans. Even old Grandad would slowly climb the cobbled path with his stick to collect skimmed milk for his equally old dog, and tell us for the umpteenth time that his daughter was a survivor of the tragic Titanic. We were all very fond of him, and some years later, when I went back to visit the village, he was still there standing at the gate of his cottage.

Continued ...

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