The Emerging

by Tanya Allan

  That’s what he thought it might be. If it was, there was always a chance that something metallic could harm the plough blades.

  He stopped immediately and raised the plough. Just the other day there was something in the papers about a farmer turning over a golden Celtic torc worth many hundreds of thousands. The farmer didn't get it all, but he got enough to stop worrying about foot and mouth and potato blight.

  Having stopped the tractor, he cursed briefly as the engine stalled. He dismounted and ran back to see what he'd uncovered.

  For a moment he couldn't see anything, but then something too regular to be soil or stone caught his eye. Bending down, he grasped the article and pulled it from the sticky earth. On cleaning it with his hands, he discovered he was holding a simple piece of grey metal bent into the shape of a C. It was lighter than it looked.

  It wasn't gold, so that was Jacob’s first disappointment, and he didn't think it was silver either. It was too dull and plain to be lost jewellery, or treasure. Due to the weight, he thought that it looked as if it could be an old bit alloy from an aeroplane, possibly fallen from a German bomber during the war.

  Turning it over in his hands, Jacob tried in vain to see any markings or writing, but there was nothing. He tried to bend it, but it held fast, so that precluded anyone using it as jewellery, for no one could open it. He made his mind up; it was a worthless piece of wartime junk. It looked too new to be anything else.

  He was about to throw it into the tangles of brambles at the edge of the field, but something stayed his hand.

  It could have been the natural instinct not to leave junk around, or perhaps he might have felt that some relic collector might just give him a few quid for it. He wondered what it had been and who made it.

  However, the tractor was a more pressing problem, as he knew that the longer he left it, the harder it would be to restart the darn thing.

  Jacob slung the metal onto the small gap between the seat and the rear mudguard and took the starting handle to the front.

  It took seven or eight swings to get the motor reluctantly spluttering into life. By that time he was sweating and feeling his age. Cursing the antiquity of his machinery and his own body, he remounted and continued to plough.

  By the time he finished and drove back to the farm, he had completely forgotten the semicircle of metal.

  Life as a farmer in the nineteen-fifties was a tough one. The age of mechanisation was just dawning, but most who ran small farms couldn’t afford the latest models and variety of machines that were being pedalled by the manufacturers.

  The industry was flushed with defunct military models, so new ideas based on redundant military vehicles were being brought into life annually. Most were not ideally suited for agrarian work, but the old age of the farm worker was passing at the same time.

  Jacob recalled the high levels of manpower needed at harvest time and other key stages during the farmers’ year. Men were returning from the forces to find that farmers no longer needed them or could no longer afford them and the new machines. Unemployment rose, and hard times were experienced by all.

  Jacob’s tractor kept going to see 1954 out, and the weather over the winter was particularly harsh. He used the old machine to help many people get their cars out of difficulties when the snows came in February, and then again, after the floods, he pulled distressed motorists’ cars from the swirling floods.

  One of these was a very grateful businessman called John Parnell.

  John ran a development company, so he bought land, built whatever he felt was needed and sold the whole lot at a vast profit.

  He was on the way to a crucial meeting with the county council planning office. A big chemical company who wanted to relocate due to an expansion programme were interested in some land he had acquired. John had bought a vast area of agricultural land in the vague hope he could apply for a change of use and render it far more valuable.

  Agricultural land was far cheaper than commercial or residential land. With high unemployment, a lack of effective housing and a desperate need to entice commercial prospects into the area, all county councils were eager to do their bit to solve some of the problems that every region suffered.

  As a result of Jacob’s old tractor, John was able to make his meeting, in which the planning committee approved his change of use, which in turn allowed for his sale to the chemical company.

  In short, Jacob’s old tractor helped make John Parnell a millionaire. John was not ungrateful.

  It was a pleasant April morning. Jacob was up before it was light to milk the small dairy herd, as he did every morning. These days it seemed to be taking longer and was harder for him. He felt weary and slightly depressed. Neither of his children was interested in taking on the farm, so he wondered how much longer he could go on.

  As he returned to the house for breakfast, he saw a large black car sat in front of the house.

  It was vaguely familiar. As he got closer, he saw the chauffeur sitting reading a newspaper in the driver’s seat. He then remembered pulling this car from the floods, with the chauffeur and the well dressed gent in the back.

  Maggie was in the parlour, which was rarely used except for special occasions.

  The well-dressed gent was sitting in his chair by the fire drinking some tea from one of the Sunday-best set.

  “Oh, Jacob, this is Mr Parnell, he says you’ve met before,” Maggie said.

  As Jacob entered, the man stood up. He was still well-dressed, in a suit and tie, with a sleek dark overcoat over the back of the other chair.

  “Mr Morely, you might not remember….,” John started to say.

  “I remember you right enough, and the car. What can I do for you?” Jacob asked, interrupting him.

  John smiled, appreciating the abrupt and matter-of-fact nature of this old farmer.

  “Well, that day was a very important one for me. By pulling me out, you did me a bigger favour than you could possibly know. I felt that there must be someway I could pay back that favour to show my appreciation.”

  Jacob scratched the back of his head.

  “Well, we don’t need for much, do we Maggs?”

  “Not really,” she said. “There is that old tractor; you’ve been saying how much you’d like a new one; haven’t you?”

  “Aye, that’s right enough, but then I’m as knackered as the tractor. There’s no point getting a new tractor if I’m not able to carry on.”

  Maggie fell silent, as her husband’s failing health was a subject that neither of them dared raise.

  John regarded the pair for a moment, taking in the tired décor, the aged furniture and un-modernised farmhouse.

  He had a thought.

  “Tell me, Jacob, how big is this farm of yours?”

  “A little over four hundred acres, but some of that is woodland.”

  John did some sums in his head. He had paid a little over five pounds an acre for some farmland recently, although in a less fertile region.

  “Have you no family that are interested in the business?” he asked.

  Jacob glowered, as if unwilling to even think about the subject.

  “Our son works for a firm of accountants in Oxford. He did his national service and simply said he wanted to give his children a better quality of life,” Maggie said.

  “Hmph; the boy had a great life here. He never wanted for nuthin’!” muttered Jacob.

  “While Cecily met a nice young man at college and they’re now married with a little one on the way. Her husband works with his father in the watch and jewellery business,” Maggie explained.

  “No farmers then?”

  “Hmph!” said Jacob, staring out the window.

  “I was going to offer you a new tractor, but I’d be interested in having a look at the farm and perhaps making you an offer,” said John.

  “Why; you’re no farmer?” said Jacob bluntly.

  John laughed.

  “No, but I know the value of good land and how to make t
he most from it.”

  “Would you farm it?” Jacob persisted.

  “No. As you said, I’m no farmer. But I could probably sell it off and make a profit. I’ll make you a better than fair offer and give you enough to retire and not have to work another day on the land.”

  Jacob’s eyes misted over. He said nothing for a minute or so.

  “My father farmed this land, as did his father and his before him. I dunno if I could live without the farm.”

  “We all have to retire at some point, so perhaps it might be an idea to leave while you still are young enough to enjoy retirement.”

  “What would I do?”

  “What do you enjoy doing?”

  “Farmin’!”

  John found he had nothing to say. This man’s life was his farm; if one removed it then Jacob would probably die, having no purpose left.

  “Then let’s talk tractors!” John said.

  That was how Jacob acquired a brand new Massey Ferguson Tractor. It made him the envy of his few friends and also made his job a lot easier.

  He died of a heart attack three years and four months after John’s visit. Jacob had left the farm and his entire estate to his wife. There was a clause in the will that should his son wish to farm the land then he would receive the farm and half his estate on condition that the farm wasn’t sold within twenty years of Jacob’s death.

  His son, having just been made a partner, wasn’t interested.

  Maggie called John Parnell within a couple of days of the funeral.

  John, now even wealthier, remembered the old man and the farm. He made her an offer that was still more than fair. Having no more money worries, Maggie bought a bungalow close to her daughter and took up full-time granny work. She never wanted to see the farm again.

  That was how John Parnell acquired the Morelys’ farm and whatever contents that Maggie left behind.

  He planned to maximise his investment by selling it off in lots, including the newly renovated farmhouse and outbuildings. It did not preclude a purchaser bidding for everything, but he believed he would get more by splitting it up.

  All remaining contents were to be auctioned. There were quite a few, as Maggie had no desire to keep any of the agricultural equipment, the livestock or indeed, even many of the household furnishings. Her new bungalow had a fitted kitchen and fitted cupboards throughout. Most of the furniture at the farm belonged to Jacob’s grandfather, so was showing its age. She was only too happy to use some of her new-found wealth to buy some new furniture and crockery.

  Autumn was starting to creep in unannounced, as the leaves started to change. It had been a pleasant summer, so there were a few blackberries remaining on some of the bushes less accessible to the rambling seekers.

  It was the first weekend in October 1957, and Alfred Tibbsen, the auctioneer, was early to arrive at the farm. He had made a previous visit to assess the items and to see whether it would be worth moving them to the main auction house.

  There were too many bulky items, so he had made the decision to conduct the auction at the now empty farm house, in the yard, or the barn if wet.

  The livestock formed part of Jacob’s estate, so they had already been sold and the monies due had gone to Maggie. For the remainder, John had made an offer based on the auctioneer’s assessment, which she had accepted.

  “Morning, Mr Parnell,” he said, as John stepped from his big black Daimler.

  “Ah, good morning Mr Tibbsen, looks like the weather will hold,” John said.

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “Has there been much interest?”

  “A fair amount, yes. More for the land and buildings than the contents, but as it’s a nice day, I’m sure we’ll attract a few of the curious. I should think there’ll be some bargains to be had.”

  “Indeed. I feel it’s quite a sad thing, as the Morely family have been farming here for a long time.”

  “I knew Jacob’s father, and a more cantankerous old sod you couldn’t hope to meet,” Alfred said, cheerfully.

  “Jacob wasn’t exactly welcoming,” John pointed out with a smile.

  “No, but he would do anything for anyone if there was a need.”

  “I’m sure,” said John, watching as the first potential customers arrived. Most were local farmers driving dilapidated Land Rovers, but there were a few others. Several estate agents and property speculators appeared, attracted by the possibility of grabbing the house at a bargain. They were to be disappointed.

  John had investigated acquiring change of use for the farm land, but even with his contacts it was almost impossible. The area was dedicated farmland, surrounded by farms, so unless there was a change in policy from both central Government and the Local Authority, there was no hope of building houses or commercial properties this far away from civilisation. His best bet was that several neighbouring farmers would seek to add extra land to their farms by buying a few of the lots of land that were for sale.

  The house and buildings, however, were different. If the land were to be snapped up by neighbours, they wouldn’t want surplus house and dilapidated farm buildings. These would make a nice little profit by being renovated and converted into living accommodation and sold on to London commuters.

  The shortage of capital in circulation would mean that it was unlikely that a single investor would but the lot, but it was possible.

  As predicted, the interest in the land was considerable, so the six lots combined went for more than double what John had originally paid. Admittedly, the land prices were rising almost daily, so he was well pleased.

  The house generated some interest, and went for six thousand pounds to a couple who wanted to move to a bigger house from the city. They had three children and were attracted by the large garden. John was pleased as it was a good thousand more than he had anticipated. There was no doubt that the six hundred pounds he had spent on the renovation had been money well spent.

  The barns and outhouses went to a speculator who did exactly as John suspected. He would renovate and convert into a home, turning several thousand pounds profit in the process.

  Lastly, the contents of the barns and house fell under the hammer.

  Needless to say the newer tractor sold quickly for a reasonable price to one of Jacob’s old friends. The rest of the items went, even if they were somewhat archaic and out-dated. None went for very much, but the old Massey Harris attracted not one bid, even for a single pound.

  At the end of the day, John said goodbye to the auctioneer, and looked round the empty farm. The old tractor seemed to be regarding him with a squint, as the headlights were crooked.

  “I know a good scrap metal dealer; he might just come and take it off your hands, sir,” said Alfred, just prior to leaving. He handed John a small piece of paper with a number written thereon.

  John thanked him and watched as he left. Then he walked over to the old beast, placing one hand on the rusting engine cover.

  “Well, you old bugger, what the hell am I going to do with you?” he asked.

  Always recalling a childhood dream, he clambered onto the metal seat and played with the gear stick and steering wheel. He smiled.

  John had adored tractors as a little boy and always wanted his own. However, he’d been a soldier in the war, in tanks. He’d served in North Africa, in the Eighth Army, and then up through Italy and finally into Germany itself. That had cured him of any desire to be mechanised ever again. He hated even driving himself these days, so employed a chauffeur.

  He looked around, playing with the levers and knobs. Not that there were that many. On glancing down to his left, he saw a small square metal tin; the sort in which a ploughman might keep his sandwiches. To the right, were an old hammer and a semicircular piece of grey metal.

  The tin contained several nuts and bolts, the origins of which had gone to the grave with Jacob. The hammer was rusty and the shaft rotting, so there was little value in either the box or the hammer.

  As for the last bi
t of bent metal, not being a farmer, he put his ignorance down to just that, ignorance. He imagined it was something to do with a coupling for a plough or similar. At any rate, the whole issue was just a lump of scrap metal. He left them all where they were.

  George Findlay looked like a scrap dealer, with a dirty face, a beaten up cloth cap and an old leather jerkin, as worn by the soldiers in the armoured corps.

  He turned up at the farm with an ex-army transporter. John smiled, as he recalled seeing many similar ones transporting tanks to and from his unit.

  George regarded the smooth-looking businessman with shrewd eyes. Both men belonged to different ends of the social spectrum, but a spark of acknowledgement seemed to ignite.

  John noted the jerkin.

  “Tanks?”

  “REME, sir. I was with a heavy recovery unit.” The ‘sir’ came automatically as soon as George heard the other man speak.

  “Where did you serve?”

  “Africa with Monty, and then…”

  “I know, Italy and up through the back door. I was the same. Bit of a bugger, wasn’t it?” John asked, smiling.

  George took his hat off, revealing an almost totally bald head.

  “It had its moments, guv’nor. You?”

  “Dragoons; we started out with Cromwells and then they were replaced by Grants and Shermans.”

  “Phew, those Yank jobs brewed up nicely if hit in the wrong place,” George said. “Mind you, they were easier to work on than a lot of our jobs.”

  “That’s true, but then most tanks we had were liable to blow up. The damn Germans had far better guns and armour. We used to call Shermans the widow-makers. They were fine going forward, but I hated showing my arse to the Hun.”

  “Officer?”

  “I was a major when demobbed.”