Look Of Tomorrow

Gerry Wells

Description

When Gerry had been out of the army long enough to find a girl mad enough to marry him in the early days after WW2, they took off to start a new life and bought a small, run down farm in west Wales. It was a good time to start; after six years of war, Britain needed all the food it could grow so there were marketing boards that took everything produced and paid at the going price. It was a time of change; west Wales was receiving an influx of people like them and displaced people from Europe. It was a great mix - on market days their pub was blue with Gauloises, Gitanes and many accents, a heady mix which became part of the local scene with its own long established language and customs, and yet was still able to adapt to changing times.That was playtime. Real time was spent out on thistly acres ploughing, hedging and wondering what to do about a million rabbits. Farmers know their business or very soon learn. They just about qualified even though they were both on a steep learning curve. When neighbours realised they were both in it for real and prepared to put the work in, they became friends - Gerry and his wife found themselves honorary members of the community. Both Gerry and his wife lost weight, gained muscle and much else - most of all that special feeling that comes when you are walking your own land. Memorable times especially for them.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 08 novembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788034111
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Look of Tomorrow





Gerry Wells
Copyright © 2017 Gerry Wells
Cover artwork © 2017 Lindsay Lloyd

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781788034111

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For my family and friends, with love.
Contents
1. PREAMBLE
2. GOING FOR BROKE
3. BED, BREAKFAST AND CRAZY AGENTS
4. A HAGGLE BY MOONLIGHT
5. ON THE MOVE
6. SETTLING IN
7. PIED PIPER AND THE MAFIOSO
8. MILKING MADE EASY
9. PEOPLE IS VARIOUS
10. ONE MAN WENT TO MOW, WENT TO MOW…
11. NEW FACES AND A FLYING PIG
12. BUYING A BANGER
13 . WET FEET AND A RED KITE OR TWO
14. ALL YOU NEED IS WIND
15. PROBLEMS WITH PIRATES – AND TRAVELS WITH A RANDY SOW
16. POST ETHEL DAYS AND A COUPLE OF BAD BACKS
17. MOONLIGHT ON MOUNTAINS
18. A SAGA OF JENKIN
19. MOLARS & A MEAT SAFE
20. SILAGE, DAI BLACKSMITH AND A DODGY ROOF
21. COWSHED TALES – AND AN UNTIMELY BLIZZARD
22. TELLING TALES
23. A WEEKEND AWAY – AND FOOLS RUSH IN
24. SUMMER, GLORIOUS SUMMER AND AN INTERNATIONAL PARTY
25. A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE AND A BIT OF BUSINESS
26. FRED CARNO’S CAR RALLY
27. A MATTER OF ACRES
28. MOVING ON
1.

PREAMBLE
(Dogsbody Days)

When finally the European part of WW2 sank exhausted to its knees in 1945, the rest of the British army in Germany went home except for a few leftovers like me, who were told to do what was called ‘Occupation’ until our demob release numbers came up. Occupation potential was either zilch or a many-splendoured thing – depending as always, on who you knew. Familiar ground that, I learned about it at school. To cut short the whys and wherefores, with some luck I was able to convert zilch to something which if not exactly many-splendoured, passed the time and had its moments.
Plus ça change. At last came the delights of not being in the army. Instead there were three months’ demob leave with a lump of accrued pay and a generous supply of petrol coupons (gold, pure gold – even better than cigarettes in very messed-up Germany). For an exploratory while my friend Tom and I tasted the glories of Sussex where the sun shines and sea breezes tease. Plus Brighton – especially Brighton, still known today as London- on-Sea – which without undue hassle still provides everything – plus a few things you probably haven’t even thought of.
Available also were duff bar ladies, one in particular. Late one evening at the Old Ship we didn’t cut the mustard with voluptuous Maizy Doates who was the doyen of alcohol distribution at the posh bar; she had a cat that smiled like Buddha, cushioned on a shelf behind the bar.
Maizy Doates evidently didn’t like the look of us at first sight; one grudging pint of bitter was it – that finished at a swallow, she then wanted us out Now…Pronto. Not a good attitude because as everybody knows, a single pint doesn’t do the business. In our innocence we thought she was only joking at first – but the awful truth eventually dawned.
Now, in those far-off days there would be a soda water siphon on the bar to provide the splash required for the Colonel’s tipple. Tempting, that. Maizy spotted what we were looking at.
“You dare! Just you dare!” Serious mistake. Tom (who got there first) took aim and gave her a quick burst down happy valley and another for Buddha who erupted effortlessly from deep siesta into orbit. Maizy hit the panic button.

Assistance arrived remarkably smartly in the shape of a couple of porters built like gorillas. They seemed to be reasonable gorillas however.
“There’s an easy way to deal with this little matter,” remarked the larger gorilla, “you just come quietly with us like the gentlemen I’m sure you are – or there’s the hard way which is much too unpleasant to describe to you.” Tom and I looked at each other. Testosterone flowed. We were young and ignorant, but we’d learned it’s not a good idea to start trouble when you’re outgunned. So we didn’t.
“Never seen that bloody cat awake before” remarked the gorilla whose hand rested lightly on my shoulder, “nor Maizy so wet down there. What a shame.” It seemed almost as if he and his chum had been awaiting events from some hidden vantage point. I hope we hadn’t kept them waiting for long.

As we passed through Palm Court, one of the blue-rinsed harpies apparently resident there, gave us the eye… a pink tongue-tip flickered snake-like through the heavy lipstick. The fingers on my shoulder tightened. “That’s Tottie,” my escort remarked as he eased me through the revolving door, “always at it – she’d have you boys for breakfast – no trouble at all.” I think our gorillas quite liked us really, we seemed to have something in common.

Such was the happy tenor of the freedom we enjoyed until I had the distinct feeling that my life of Riley wasn’t going to be allowed to last much longer – and anyway, leave money was getting a bit short. After negotiations with Dad, I scraped together enough funds to acquire a motorbike, and one memorable morning rode off to start work as a dogsbody on a small farm close to the Pevensey Marshes along the coast.
My father who was a bank manager in Eastbourne at that time had a hand in that arrangement too. Bank managers had clout in those days and farmers were always needing a bit of the ready in return for a favour. My good luck.
It was my first taste of being a working part of country life – and I loved it. I was turned on by the contrast of marshes and the rising country of the Sussex weald as it stretched away northwards, woodland interspersed with cornfields – one of which I remember wore a bright slash of poppies like a wound.
Working days started when I biked over the marshes to the farm, a pleasure in itself with cattle floating like ghosts in the mist rising from the dykes: it was wind-in-the-face stuff, and I felt like a reborn Biggles in my flying helmet and goggles. No bother with Health & Safety in those days of course.
With Harry, Archie and Bernard, the hard-core farm workers, I put in the hours and learned a lot of new things – sometimes working with Carol and Margaret, both former Land Army girls given to interestingly tight sweaters and jodhpurs; their job was to look after the prized Jersey herd which had dished faces and sexy eyes. The girls sang to them at milking time and their pretty cows milked like anything. It was a very feminine part of the many and various farm activities, and was also a place of particular focus for Bernard and Archie who were apparently fascinated by the technical business of milk production. Or so they said.
Old Harry the farm carter was somewhat past that sort of very particular interest, and spent much of his time fussing over Flossie the gorgeous Shire mare that had a very sweet tooth and pulled everything not allocated to the revolutionary new Ferguson tractor with all its gadgetry. That was the latest piece of kit in those days – and very much the province of Bernard who didn’t encourage technically backward outsiders like Archie and I to use it.
Harry who had a hand in most things always smoked an antique pipe: a permanent facial feature except for occasional bubbling excavation and de-coking sessions. He was a character representing the end of an era. In weather that had me stripped down to a pair of army surplus shorts, he wore as a matter of course his standard rig of woollen vest, flannel shirt, waistcoat, tweed jacket and thick trousers tied at the knee with binder twine. He had endless stories, mostly I suspect apocryphal; and there were few farming skills he hadn’t mastered.
I got to know the Harry / Flossie (who had a look in her eye and a love of humbugs) team pretty well in the early days while weeding between the rows of mangolds with the horse shim – I leading Flossie while Harry did the skilled bit with his pipe upside down and a drip on the end of his nose.
I soon discovered that weeding the mangolds in spring was just a happy memory on icy February mornings when it came to picking up a load to feed to the yarded cattle; once more with Flossie, this time harnessed to a Sussex cart, Harry and I armed with long bladed knives, went out early to pull and cut off the leaves of what had to become a cartload of rock-hard mangolds. After ten minutes you couldn’t feel your hands, and fingers looked like raw sausages ready to drop off. Of all the jobs in a farming year that was the one I hated most – and even Harry’s usual reminiscences tended to trail off as the cart slowly filled up.
It was at harvest and threshing times that Harry was at his best. With Flossie doing the work and lathered with sweat, he was charioteer on the binder (those being pre-combine days) with its sails revolving and sheaves spilling out as the machine roared and clattered round the field. In the shimmering heat the air was as thick as pollen and windless – but heavens…