by Amanda Owen
Once I’d safely negotiated the feathered fiend I could relax and take in my surroundings. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit hallway. I was in a narrow corridor, with an arched window straight ahead of me that threw a little light onto the situation. An umbrella stand, crammed full of hazel sticks, stood behind the door, whilst a sizeable banjo barometer hung from the wall above a dresser that was stacked high with envelopes, letters and other correspondence. Creeping black mould had tracked its way upwards from the dampest recesses and now the yellowing wallpaper was peeling at the edges of the skirting board, and flaps hung loosely just below ceiling height.
‘Nah need to tek thi boots off,’ came a shout from around the corner.
There’d be no danger of that – nobody had ever taken their boots off to come in here, that was plain to see. A well-worn path of farmyard muck trailed straight up the centre of the hallway; nobody, it seemed, had ever wiped their feet.
I walked into the kitchen, which was dominated by a hugely impressive stone mantelpiece. It had clearly once sat above a substantial fireplace, though now, in the space that it had once occupied, was a freestanding electric cooker. A hideous pale-blue larder cupboard with vertical-striped frosted-glass frontage appeared to be where foodstuffs and condiments were stored – everything from ketchup to mustard to jars of jam, pickles and cat food were all here within reach of anyone who was to be dining at the kitchen table. The kitchen itself, to give it its due, did contain all the essentials that any kitchen should have: a large butlers sink piled high with crockery, a fridge stood alone by the door and a truly magnificent display of eggshells stacked with tremendous precision and great attention to detail like a croquembouche. There was plenty of seating for any guests that should drop by, but one would first have to clear away the excessive piles of reading material which were stacked and strewn on every surface. Any other available space was filled with biscuit tins or cats.
Ambler was now boiling a kettle that sat on a side table amongst books, newspapers, magazines and newsletters.
‘Sit down,’ he said, not looking towards me.
There appeared to be, hidden under years’ worth of newspapers, a small sofa at one end of the room and, just as I contemplated whether I should begin clearing them aside or throw caution to the wind and sit right down on top of it all, a maelstrom of papers went flying into the air. An elderly man was now sitting bolt upright.
‘Aye,’ said Ambler, now turning around, ‘mi brother, Walter.’
Walter brushed himself down, then, after a moment or two of rummaging around in his pockets searching for his glasses, held out his hand to greet me.
‘’Ow do,’ he said. I sat down on the sofa amongst the papers, thankful that I hadn’t just sat right on Walter.
A cat meandered past, arching its back as it stopped momentarily to rub itself on Walter’s legs.
I sat, drank tea and enjoyed being in what to many might have seemed like a pretty dire place but I felt privileged to be in the company of a dying breed, two elderly bachelor brothers who remained almost untouched by modern-day life. No television, I learnt, but instead a wireless that kept them abreast of the ‘goings on’ in the world and, of course, reading material. Neighbours put aside their newspapers for the brothers, and subsequently they hoarded them. As for the books, from what I could see they appeared to be mainly hardbacked and heavy, with faded gilt titles, torn spines and worn covers covered with dust and stains.
‘Yer like yer books,’ I said as I stood and looked around for a vacant surface, somewhere to put my empty mug. I saw a cat lapping from the milk jug beside the kettle and decided that it probably didn’t matter where I put the mug down.
‘Yis, a booook is ’ard to beat when it com’s to propping a teable leg,’ said Ambler dryly.
‘Or skededdlin’ yon dog,’ added Walter.
‘I better be making tracks,’ I said. ‘Lordy only knows where those children have gone, they could be up to naw good.’
Ambler, possibly spurred into action at the thought of me leaving without parting with any more cash, shuffled away back into the hallway and returned clutching a backcan.
I bought it, a beautifully constructed tin can, its wide, rounded body tapering to a funnel-like top, complete with screw-on lid and leather harness to enable it to be worn on the back of the dairyman.
‘Aw remember ga’an wi’ mi mother up t’field, to Paradise yonder,’ Walter said wistfully.
‘We used to drink warm milk out o’ t’backcan lid whilst she milked the coos, dosta remember?’ said Ambler.
I left them talking together in their thick Swa’dale dialect, momentarily lost in their cherished memories.
Back out the house, I sidestepped the goose and made my way through the warren of buildings, tin sheds and outhouses until I was back into the yard. Raven was listening to the radio in the Land Rover, and Clemmie and Nancy were asleep in the back, faces reddened, perfect little rosebud lips pursed, a picture of contentment.
‘Where are t’others?’ I asked.
Raven shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Ambler and Walter now both appeared, Ambler pushing a barrow in which my newly purchased farmyard tools were laid, whilst his brother, who now I could see was profoundly lame, hotched along leaning heavily on a stick. I whistled loudly to summon the rest of my brood, and they appeared, blackened and grinning, from behind a building, Reuben carrying Annas on his shoulders.
‘There’s an anvil over there by t’wall,’ he shouted, letting go of one of Annas’s legs to point out where he was meaning.
‘Used to ’ave Gallowa’s,’ said Ambler.
‘Aye, Dales ponies,’ added Walter.
‘’Ad it for when t’smithy com. You interested in t’anvil?’
Of course I was, and once I had seen the glorious depth of patina that had developed over time, run my hands over its hammer-marked form and seen the tiny dirt-encrusted indentations, I knew that it would be a perfect gift for a husband whose only methodology when it came to repairing anything was to hit it repeatedly and hard.
By the time I walked back to the Land Rover, I could hear wailing. Raven later told me that Walter had peered through the back window and frightened the living daylights out of Clemmie, who’d sleepily opened her eyelids mid-dream and been confronted with an unfamiliar face at close quarters.
Loading the very heavy anvil, which was set on a sleeper, was problematic. Finally, after a lot of grunting and a collective effort by Reuben, the elderly brothers and myself, we managed to get the anvil into the back of the Land Rover. Unloading it at Ravenseat was easier as I just backed the Land Rover up to the sloping fodder gang where we fed the cows and, when the back door was level with the floor, we slowly slid it out. At the children’s insistence, the anvil was wrapped in decorated paper and bound with sellotape – although the shape made it obvious what lay beneath the layers.
Clive liked his gift and swore that he’d keep it forever, though frankly, owing to its sheer weight, he’d have to be pretty determined to actually get rid of it.
The backcan went down to The Firs, where I hung it by its strappings from a nail in the dairy. A wipe down with WD40 had brightened it up and loosened the screw lid on top. It was just the kind of object that I liked, functional but beautifully crafted and made to last. The end-over-end butterchurn that stood alongside it was an unwieldy object but, for the same reasons as the backcan, it had been brought out of the woodshed loft as an item of interest and decoration that was quite at home in the farmhouse dairy.
I was still in need of one object, the hardest, most elusive item on my list, the cheese press. I saw myself maybe, one day, actually making cheeses. But perhaps this is a similar dream to the one where I make my own yarn from wool: the spinning wheel sits hidden behind the settle at Ravenseat, awaiting the day that I have more time to spare.
It took a while, but eventually I found a cheese press when a small farm was put up for sale, the details going online. The owner
had died, and the executors of his will were in the process of clearing out his possessions when they found a cheese press in an outbuilding. I rang the contact number, paid immediately without viewing the item, and organized a courier. I was determined not to miss the opportunity to buy a rare piece of social history. It was an awkward, unwieldy object and only when the transit van pulled up outside The Firs did I really discover the true weight and scale of it. Fortunately, Ken the joiner was in residence, replacing door knobs and putting the finishing touches to the kitchen cupboards, so he was able to give us a hand to unload it and sidle it towards the kitchen. The courier was bemused and stated that it was probably the oddest item he had moved in a while.
‘Looks like an instrument of torture, if you ask me,’ he’d said as I turned the creaking iron wheels on the threaded-iron bars.
‘Looks like it belongs in a museum to me,’ said Ken.
It was incredibly well made, the base beautifully and ergonomically shaped from a thick solid slab of oak. Being a double cheese press it had two iron upright poles on which round oak discs sat beneath cast wheels. These were turned and eventually tightened down upon the wooden moulds in which the cheeses were formed. This would squeeze the liquid from the semi-solid mass. The wooden cheese moulds had been carefully constructed to be an exact fit for the oak discs, and imperial weights suspended on chains provided the necessary force to maintain the correct pressure. All in all, it was a feat of engineering, simple, but as precise and effective even after a hundred and fifty or so years of use. It was as good as new and, with a bit of oil to rid it of the squeak and some furniture wax to revive the wooden base, it became both an item of furniture and a piece of farming history.
Unusually, Clive was impressed when he saw my latest purchase, though less so when he realized that it was down to him and Ken to lift it through the narrow doorway and into the dairy.
‘Do you think that it’s safe?’ he asked. ‘Yer know, folks wi’ kids an’ stuff.’
Literally within moments of me dismissing his worries came the scream that said Violet had attempted to crush Miles’s hand beneath one of the discs.
There was, of course, always going to be the opportunity for mischief with the cheese press but, as far as I could see, any incident would be a very slow and deliberate attempt to injure rather than an instantaneous accident.
‘I think we could make cider with it,’ declared Reuben.
‘If only we had an orchard,’ I reminded him.
‘We’ve got rhubarb, goosegogs and blackcurrants,’ he said.
I imagined the resulting potent liquor and decided that it really was not time to start our own brewery.
We were full of excitement and trepidation in equal measure when, finally, the renovation of The Firs was complete, and our first guests were due to check in. One of the big selling points with the house was that it was pet-friendly. As animal lovers ourselves, we wanted our visitors to be able to bring their pets on holiday too, and it just so happened that our first guests had brought with them an enormous, strapping great dog, the proportions of which had to be seen to be believed. When the party, who had driven all the way from Germany, arrived at Ravenseat to meet us and pick up the keys the children were taken aback at the sheer size of it. Not only was the dog tall but he was broad with it, and had a thick dusky coat and pricked ears.
‘Worra dog!’ shouted one of the builders who was looking down from the scaffolding at the handsome and formidable creature.
‘He’s a Leonberger,’ said Gustav, one of our incoming guests (or, as our first official visitor, a guinea pig depending on how you looked at it). ‘Very friendly boy, aren’t you, Hector.’
He patted the great dog on the head as it looked up adoringly at him. Hector’s partially open mouth was upturned at the corners, giving the impression that he was smiling. Before we’d even begun our introductions to the rest of the party, Pippen had made her presence felt. She will square up to any dog that happens to be passing by and think nothing of curling back her lips and baring her teeth at the biggest, meanest-looking hound imaginable. Despite my protestations, and the rigid but dignified stance of Hector, she morphed from her usual docile, almost sleepy manner, into full attack mode. The children and I stood in the farmyard, mouths agape at Pippen’s sudden show of viciousness. There was a hair-raising moment with Pippen springing into the air, her teeth gnashing and her ears flattened back. She didn’t even come up to Hector’s chest and the big dog stood bemusedly as Pippen raged away. When, finally, he tired of this ineffectual show of territorial dominance he just turned to the side and cocked his leg against the car wheel.
‘Now, we are pet-friendly,’ I reminded my incoming guests, ‘but I must remind you that yer dog must be on a leash at all times when out and about.’
Hector was still wearing his over-animated dog grin and didn’t look like a vicious sort, but looks can be deceiving.
Gustav nodded. ‘Hector likes sheeeeps,’ he said.
Hector was now straining at the leash, having glimpsed the peacock flouncing past.
I took a considered moment to think about what would happen if Hector ran amok amongst the sheep; it was a nightmarish thought. We had, in the past, had a few incidences of sheep worrying, and it was such a traumatic and senseless event that it really needed to be avoided at all costs. Poor Miles had even been through the trauma of having a dog rampage through his beloved flock of chickens. On that occasion, I had screamed at the dog owners, who stood rooted to the spot watching their black Labrador attack the hens. Their response, when I hollered that they should keep their dog on a lead, only served to compound my anger.
‘But he is on the lead, I just let go of it . . .’ came back the pathetic, whining reply, whilst feathers flew, chickens squawked, and Miles tearfully ran back and forth trying to shoo his hens away and grab the dog. I’d struggled to keep my composure and, in the end, after handing the dog owners an empty feed bag in which I demanded that they put the dead bodies, I had to just walk away with a sobbing Miles. Afterwards, I was shaking like a leaf, a combination of anger and fright.
As a contract shepherdess some twenty years ago, I’d had the misfortune of witnessing the aftermath of a dog running loose amongst a herd of cows and calves, but this time the tables were turned and the dog came off worse. A cow’s natural instinct is always going to be to protect her offspring from anything deemed a threat, whether that be a human or canine. We hadn’t witnessed the incident but guessed that the poor dog had been crushed between a wall and a cow’s head then stomped into the ground in a remarkable show of bovine strength from what usually are seen as the most mild and good-natured of animals. To lose a pet dog or farm animals in such violent circumstances is horrible for everyone and, in most cases, entirely avoidable.
Now, as I stood looking at Hector, I knew I had to make my point clear. ‘Yes,’ I said to Gustav, trying to sound nice and not too authoritarian, ‘all dogs must be kept under control when in the countryside.’
‘Right, you’ve seen Ravenseat,’ I said to Gustav, ‘so I’ll take you to The Firs now. You’ll ’ave to follow mi in t’car.’
I looked down towards the packhorse bridge and the picnic tables where I could see Pippen in full-on entertainment mode, executing a few cute moves in an endeavour to be rewarded with morsels of food. Chalky was coming back towards us, across the bridge and into view. She marched purposefully, her wiry brushlike tail erect, curled over at the end. She carried something in her mouth and, as I watched, the reactions of the walkers at the benches told me that all was not well.
I squinted, trying to identify the mysterious, elongated object that protruded from her mouth at either side. Chalky stopped in her tracks, momentarily pausing for a readjustment. She placed her treasured item on the cobbled surface of the bridge then deftly picked it back up and proudly trotted up the farmyard.
‘Your dog?’ asked Gustav.
I nodded, then felt my cheeks colour as I realized that Chalky was carrying
a sheep’s leg in her mouth – and not just a part of its leg, the whole of it from hoof to shank end. Here was me telling people to put their dogs on a lead to avoid any sheep-worrying incidents, and my dog had just walked past with a severed limb in its mouth.
Clive appeared with a face like thunder, while Gustav seemed bemused and Chalky just looked mightily pleased with herself.
‘Yer knaw t’yow that died o’ staggers in t’Lang field, well I covered ’er up wi’ a sheet an’ put ’er out for t’knackers to pick up but summat ’as been at it,’ Clive said, glaring at Chalky. ‘An I knaw who the culprit is.’
‘Aw Chalky . . . you haven’t got a leg to stand on,’ I said.
‘Yes, she has,’ muttered Clive.
Of course, Hector was never an ounce of bother. For all his fearsome size, his demeanour was that of a teddy bear.
I was very pleased when the builders finally left Ravenseat. For nearly a whole year, I’d had to put up with quips and comments coming from above; there was no hiding place. I could not retreat to the privacy of my house, as whichever window I looked out of there seemed to be a builder looking right back at me.
The extensive work undertaken was painstakingly tedious, day after day of picking out the old mortar and replacing it with new, but eventually the job was finished, and we were left in peace, cosy in our now-weatherproof and watertight house. As the work on the farmhouse had progressed, we had started to feel guilty when we saw how much the roof of the cow barn was leaking when it rained.
‘We’ll ’ave to get it repaired afore winter,’ Clive had said, ‘but for now t’weather’s set fine so we’ll let ’em get calved and then lie ’em in.’
It was always best to let the cows stay outside for as long as possible if conditions allowed it. Our small herd of Beef Shorthorns were a native breed that could withstand harsher conditions but, once the ground became soft and the grass stopped growing, they would come inside until spring returned. They would spend their summers at the moor or in the allotments, roaming wherever their fancy took them. We would often lose sight of them for a day or two and then set out to go and find them. It was not a particular worry if they were all missing, but a real sign of trouble would be the absence of one of the tight-knit herd.
